Fires and floods. Hyperbolically speaking, the fabric of our week has been spun from such supply.
It started yesterday morning when a trickle and a gurgle tickled my ear and I, washing the dishes of a bread-making morning, stood at the sink, cataloguing the new sound. The rush of moving water, where is that coming from? Dishwasher, no, outside, no, drain, maybe, and then there was water sloshing out from the cabinet onto my feet. A door jerked open fast, and a new card was filed in the mental catalogue: the sound of a busted pipe.
Dishes halted. Piled up instead in disarray all day and night, and we've already talked about the size of the kitchen, haven't we? Aren't many places to pile here. A mish-mash of lunch and dinner and wassail items flung catawampus on any available surface and the undercabinet supplies fan-bathed on the tile floor.
Aaron worked his magic, handyman style,
and I did not work mine, housekeeping style. A full day of subbing, and I was beat. Tread a mile clear of the kitchen today. The mess stayed, and I stayed out. Until a hot cup of tea called my name, and I somehow met a burning mess of vitamins instead. Oh the shame.
Again, an unfamiliar noise was the bloodhound pointing the way. And again, I waited until the situation grew unmistakably problematic. Crackling gave way to popping, and when I saw the orange tint from the kitchen doorway, I thought the teakettle was on fire. How in heaven's name would a teakettle catch on fire? But there was the teakettle, cold and stout, and there was the wrong burner, a bright orange branding iron under the wicker basket of vitamins.
Tonight, we mourn the loss of Vitamin D, Vitamin C, Women's Multi, and Lysine.
I was tempted to feel sorry about the whole firecracker of a week. But then I thought better. How many women in the world would dive at the chance to cook in the kitchen I consider small? How many women would tackle the chance to give their babies clean water, not for a second wondering if the clear stream, welcomed with a flick of the wrist, held parasites and disease?
It would be unholy to look around at this life and not find a thousand and one thankfuls. I could not imagine my lot to be hard or my burden heavy, because it is not. One small pipe broken and one small basket burned, and our house stands not a seam worse for the wear. We are blessed beyond measure, and it is overwhelming when I truly stop to take stock. He doesn't have to give it to us, you know; none of this is ours and yet He gives and we are breathless in the seasons of bounty.
For ending levity, how is this? I was two blocks away from our house on my run today before I realized how funny my running get-ups are in the winter. I dress for running absentmindedly, thinking about the day or what is yet to be done, and I layer on like crazy. The result is only for the refined fashion eye.