Ah, Fiddly-dee

I’ve been vacillating between writing and death-by-chocolate all day, so I figured I’d better write. The thin wedge of hope and humor I’ve been clinging to is getting narrower every minute, and today when I sat down here I was actually sobbing. It’s the first day of the third week Scott’s been out of work. He’s trying; he’s applied all over the place; but for the first time in his life he’s been unable to find a job. He’s trying to keep a positive attitude - he’s out every day searching, exploring possible avenues and options - but he’s awfully quiet. He has a stress rash on his face. I’ve been quiet, too, and though I’m minus the rash, whenever I glance in the mirror I think, “Who is that fretful woman?” This trusting God thing gets more challenging every time. At the bottom of all this - despite my tears and fears - is an honest-to-goodness, solid peace, but my veneer is cracking and I don’t feel so pretty anymore.

The only thing that keeps me going is that I hear - in my spirit - the Lord assuring me, “Everything’s going to be okay…” I hear this message a dozen times a day, at the oddest times, so I know it’s not me and besides - good grief; even if it was just me it would still be hopeful. I’m waiting and listening… If I have to get an income-producing job I will, but - as I’ve said before - once Scott gets a job it’s not necessary. We’re trying to simplify, not add more pressure. Of course, what we’re going through is pressure, but it’s a different kind. I’ve worked outside my home before, and the house falls all to hell when I do. And my home is where my heart is.

[note: “My home is where my heart is” reminds me of the comment I left this morning on a new emigo’s blog. Check out Jay Gatsby. Leave him lots of comments, and maybe he’ll write back.]

@ Happily, we had a great time with Van on Sunday. He came home and sat on the couch and hung out with us, just quietly talking about this and that. Scott barbequed chicken and we had lunch together. I said something to him about how I realized Friday night that we just can’t go back to the way things were and he looked at me, puzzled. “I don’t know…” he said, and at that moment I saw how much he wishes we could… I saw that he’s not so independent of us that he never wants to return home, or to the traditions we’ve established. He still loves our yearly holiday pilgrimage to Fuddruckers and a movie. Things have shifted and changed hues, but no new species has emerged. He’s still the same boy inside the man, thank God.

@ My work on Martin has been slow, but steady. It’s a keen pleasure to tighten up all of that loose narrative and wandering dialogue, and to see the story emerge sharp and clear. It’s not such a meandering path anymore. I have a ton of revising to do before getting on with the story, but that’s okay; I’m just delighted to be working on it every day.

@ I think I’ll spend some time on the Nordic Track. My labs hate it; they yelp at it and try to bite the sliders as they move back and forth. I’d love to know what they’re thinking in their little raisin brains: if they believe they’re protecting me from some big, hairless mammal that hisses.

@ Also, I need to assure those of you who’ve written me actual letters that I love and appreciate you and will write you letters in return soon. I’m just feeling squished and like I don’t have a lot to contribute right now. I hope you understand. All of you make up my community and without you I’d be too lonely for words. And that’s a terrible state to find oneself in. I love you all! xo