I've been out of sorts lately--I don't know what you'd call it. Antsy? Ill at ease? Not myself. Oh, I sleep well enough at night but I have no appetite. I eat only because I think I'll feel worse if I don't. As a matter of fact, I tried attributing this ill-at-ease feeling to improper eating--an evening when "dinner" was a cup of gazpacho and a really really rich dessert; another when it was chips and dip and pesto and cream cheese, followed by one fresh apricot and a smidgen of dark chocolate. Hardly the stuff of sustenance. And then I thought maybe it was this goshawful heat we're all living through. And of course sometimes I thought it was just me. What's wrong with me?
A couple of weeks in church I'd asked the Lord to wash over me the peace that passes all, but the uneasiness didn't go away. It occurs to me that you can't simply pray for the Lord to fix every problem in your life, like the broken taillight bulb and the Pack-and-Play you can't dismantle (I did consider asking his help on that one but now I'm counting on Christian). But today in church, during the meditation period that accompanies communion, when I was pondering my unease, I remembered breakfast with a friend this week. I was telling her a weird dream I'd had, really weird, and it turned out she's into dream interpretation. "That's very significant," she said solemnly. "Your life is changing." "Why?" I asked. "Someone moved the furniture." Well, it was true. In the dream someone removed my beautiful old dining table and replaced it with a cheap, small blonde wood breakfast table.
So this morning it occurred to me that it was up to me, not the Lord, to figure out how my life is changing. It's not that I'm about to hear from the millionaire or meet Prince Charming--I'd have no clue about those things, so I wouldn't have this funny feeling. The small dining table--a shrinking family? Not hardly, with grandchildren appearing almost as rapidly as the offspring of rabbits. A shrinking social life--don't think so. This week, I have dinner plans five nights out of seven (how am I going to write the great American mystery?). So there it is--the question I don't know how to answer. But, Mary, if you're reading this, thanks for making me think.
Somehow I think it has to do with writing, my career, which way I'm headed, and I do feel a little more at peace today, because I've sort of identified it and I have confidence that I can eventually figure it out.
It's just like I'm sure either Christian or I will figure out how to unlock the rails of the darn Pack-and-Play!