This past week, the doorway got opened up, the kitchen hood vent went in, the ceiling insulation went in, and we bought our new appliances!
- opening the kitchen/dining room passthrough window tomorrow
- installing cabinets on Friday
- installing appliances on Saturday
- My husband and I need to order countertops and decide on flooring
So you might get some good pictures next week.
In the meantime, I’ll tell you, my husband and I have been having some pretty intense talks with God lately. But before I tell you how mine went, I have to tell you a story about my son. (Bear with the length of this post.)
Yesterday my son, who is 5, got the tiniest, most pathetic sliver in his finger. It was so tiny and sunk so shallowly that I probably could have wiped it out of his skin with a tissue, but he wouldn’t let me touch it. We sat on the hallway floor near a bright window for at least 20 minutes, me holding some tweezers and talking him down while he sat 3 feet away protecting his sliver finger from me like a prized possession.
“It’s going to hurt!” he sobbed.
“It already hurts,” I said. “You might as well let me take it out so it STOPS hurting.”
“How long will it take?”
“Less than a second, but you can’t move.”
“But it’ll hurt!” he sobbed again.
“That’s why you have to be brave,” I said.
“Yes, you can.”
And it kept going like this for an annoyingly long time. (Just so you know, I tried tackling him first but that had way worse results than the patience tactic.) Finally, I got him to stick his hand out and hold still, with obvious reluctance, and I popped the sliver out in half a second. He then smiled and went on his merry way.
Why do kids make things so much worse for themselves?
This past week I took in some really great media (a live sermon, a political radio broadcast, a tv show, and a friend’s novel) but the end result was me getting pissed at God last night for not making a better world. The logic went like this:
“If God is so good and so all-knowing and so powerful and so able to create anything, then why didn’t he think to create a world without all the crap? Without fear. Without cruelty and abuse. Without corruption and violence? Why didn’t God create a world where Jesus didn’t HAVE TO save everyone? Why didn’t God create a world that included free will WITHOUT a fall? Why didn’t God just not create the snake? I assume that God could have, but just didn’t. God, in his ‘all-wisdom’ thought it would be better this way, with the loss and the heartache and the sacrifice. God’s a glory-hog.
“And (the rant continued in my head) don’t just pull the Job argument and say that I wasn’t there so I don’t know, because that’s a copout. And don’t just roll your eyes saying this is just a stereotypical ‘problem of pain’ or ‘problem of evil’ because it’s not. I’m asking why you didn’t do better? IT WAS YOUR JOB TO DO BETTER!”
And I cried into my pillow on my way to sleep because I couldn’t trust that God had the world’s back. Of course, deep down I knew that this wasn’t purely altruistic; I had a specific instance in mind.
At least a year ago, maybe two at this point, our house got broken into. The person took our computers, my purse with my id, my credit card, $200 in cash. But what bothered me wasn’t the stuff that was taken, it was the thought that there were two small children asleep upstairs, and this person who was roaming around our house uninvited looking through our things might not have just been a thief. So now every night I check and double check the locks on each downstairs door. I check the locks on every window, even the third floor. I look behind the shower curtain, and under the beds, and in the closets, and behind the bathroom door. And sometimes, if it takes me too long between one place and another, I have to start all over again because, “what if someone slipped past without me noticing?” I know God loves us dearly, but I also know that God (and we) are not always best served by everything going well.
So I imagine the kidnapping of my children. I imagine the death of my husband.
“It hurts!” I sob.
“You might as well trust me so that it STOPS hurting.”
“How long will it take?”
“Less than a second, but you have to believe me.”
“But it’ll hurt!” I sob again.
“That’s why you have to be brave.”
“I CAN’T!” I scream in my head.
“Yes, you can.”
And I realize that I am the same as my 5-year-old son, and that God has my back even if it’s going to hurt, and that God is a far more patient parent that I will ever be.