I’m in an odd place. It’s not a necessarily bad place (though if I were the gloomy type I could see it leading to a depression), and describing it as good seems a bit premature. It’s simply odd. Here’s how it happened:
For the past two years I’ve been writing a book. In order to write said book, I gave up much of my freelance writing jobs. Now, after several trips to Orange, Texas, countless hours sitting across the dining room table from my friend Eddie (for whom I wrote the book), at least three banana cakes and twelve rough drafts, I finished. These days, I still have a few side gigs, but I no longer have the hours upon hours of work to fill my days. It’s good that I wrote the book. It’s good that I finished the book. But being finished puts me in an odd place, looking around me and wondering what’s next.
Then there’s my right arm. It’s a bum. It started early this year as a pain in my shoulder. Then, apparently growing bored with only my upper arm in which to frolic, the pain began to wander. Things are kinda cramped here. You got any extra room somewhere else so I can store my guitar and this nightstand I found on the side of the road? The pain checked out my elbow and liked what it saw. But as with anyone who’s simply never satisfied with what they have, the shoulder and elbow accommodations weren’t enough and Pain spread to my forearm, my hand, my fingers. With that, these days instead of using my right arm to do things like place a dish in the cupboard or pick up a dumbbell, I kinda have to let it dangle to my side until the pain decides to get a job and move out. (After one hundred doctor visits, I finally have a diagnosis (lateral epicondylitis and a strained rotator cuff) and am currently in physical therapy (which costs one million dollars per hour (I swear the first visit was so expensive that I didn’t even tell Benson how much it cost and I have never in my entire marriage hidden a financial expense from my husband)).
And then my cat died.
So there you have it. I’m in an odd place.
The odd place isn’t terrible. I’m not drinking tequila for breakfast and passing my afternoons shooting pool and smoking Winstons. There’s still way more wonderful stuff going on in my life than hard stuff. Besides, one arm makes up less than a quarter of my entire body, leaving me with probably a good 80% with which I can still function. And I’m still walking dogs (good thing I’ve got another arm!), writing book reviews and teaching at church. I’m still married to the kindest man to ever walk the earth besides Jesus. I’m not desolate, people, I’m just in an odd place . . . and sorta sad (as evidenced this past weekend at a women’s retreat when a dear friend asked me how I was doing and I broke down sobbing and ended up telling her that I’m still processing the death of Harold).
While in the odd place, here’s what I’m clinging to: God’s power is made perfect in my weakness. God hasn’t dropped any balls. He’s not slapping his forehead like, “Geez Louise I forgot about Christina!” Even if I never uncover the details of why I am where I am, there’s a purpose.
I’m good with that. I’m trying to be cool with that. And I’m embracing thanksgiving, (the act, not the holiday).
I’d planned to end things here (the post, not my life), but this entry seems a bit sad. Here’s a little something to cheer things up. Look! A dog! In a hat! Hilarious!
PS – I swear I didn’t write this post just to talk about the book (though I’m not above self promotion and may do something like that in the future), but
three people SO MANY have asked about it. I promise I’ll post more details later. Trust me, I’ll need you to buy it so I can pay for this physical therapy.