We were sitting on the living room floor, underneath the fan turned on high (we will make it without the AC this month, we will make it), and Aaron knew I did not want an answer. He rubbed my back as the ugly cry began. You know the one. Please tell me you know it. :) Mine sounds like a high pitched animal squeal, followed by a minute or two of silence as I gasp in air, eyes pinched shut, and then the squeal begins again. (I'm glad new mornings help me see the humor in it.)
It's been a hard year. I've picked my way through most of it, and enough hope always crept through the cracks to begin another day, another week. I thought things would slow down, give a little, trickle off before we packed our bags and flew away. Yesterday I realized they weren't going to, and it all felt like too much, you know? The whole hard year, one big lump, bearing down on me, bowling me over.
"I can't," I sobbed. "I can't have anyone else over for dinner. I can't have anyone else stay overnight. I can't go to any more functions. I can't have any more one-on-ones. I can't work the seven days I have left."
I've mentioned it here before: the tension I feel with our life, how it tends to suffocate a soul that breathes best in silence. I have no idea if it is a legitimate thing to be an introvert, or if it's an excuse I use. That's something I am praying about, and I have no conclusion yet. But I do know that I wear out more quickly than my sweet husband, who finds energy from being around others. Mostly, time with people feels like a exhausting work-out session to me, especially this year. Is it because I was working 25 hours a week on top of K-Life? Is it because my sister moved across the ocean, taking along one of my safe places?
I don't know.
Today, at the request of Aaron, I'm taking the day off. I'm canceling the two meetings I had with girls, and I'm not going to K-Life tonight. Work can't be cancelled, but that's the only thing I have to do today.
Part of me hates taking a day like this. It makes me feel weak, fragile, like I don't have it all together.
Yet. I am supposed to be weak.
How quickly I forget.
Today, I'm plunking down my lawnchair at the campground of the weak. I'm checking into the hotel of Not on Top of It. I'm asking to understand once more the secret of His life for mine, His victory for my defeat, His strength for my weakness.
"He gives us the victory through our Lord Jesus Christ." -1 Corinthians 15:57
Oh thank goodness for that, because I sure enough can't find it on my own.