Realizing my Lack of Trust

Today has been sort of rough. It started out just fine, as I woke up to sunshine and blue skies. I laid in bed for a while and just thought about the blessings in my life, thanking God for all He has done in, through, and for me. Then I started to think about what I needed to get done today, and formulating a list for myself. I got up, let the cat in, and brushed my teeth. I grabbed my Bible and settled in for a little while to see what the Lord might want to show me first thing. I’ve just finished Joshua, and am not quite sure which book to choose next for my devotional reading. I decided to fall back on my old standby, Proverbs. Today is the 31st of January, so I began to leaf through the well-worn (well-loved, I like to think) pages of my trusty New Living Translation. My eyes fell upon the numbers “31” and I began to read. Hmm, this seems different than usual, I thought to myself. My eyes flicked to the top of the page, and I realized I’d stopped one book short of Proverbs and I was actually reading Psalm chapter 31. I started to turn the page to move into the book I had intended to read, but then thought twice about that. You see, the words I had read in just the first verse really drew me in. I don’t have to read Proverbs, I thought. So, against tradition, my eyes fell back upon the 31st chapter of the Psalms and I continued reading. This is a Psalm of rescue, reconciliation, and rest. Certainly three things I am thankful for, and could always use a reminder about.

Fast forward a few hours into my day, past breakfast, a quick cleaning spree, and getting ready for my day. I had printed out a recipe for a new soup I’ve been wanting to try and was all set to start cooking, when an obnoxious racquet begins pulsating through the walls of the house. What on earth?! I opened my door to confirm my suspicions, and was instantly met with a pounding bass line, irritating electronically-created sounds, and the strained vocals of none other than Britney Spears. Okay, now understand that the only person supposedly in the house at the time is my 57 year old father. My first terrified thought was that someone had broken in and, assuming no one was home, decided to crank up the stereo as he (or she) happily loaded all of our earthly possessions into a van parked out front. A quick peek out the window dispelled that theory. No van. I cautiously crept down the stairs, the offending “music” (can you call it that?) growing ever louder as I made my way closer to the source – the protesting speakers. Now, being the street-wise, um, country girl that I am… Scratch that. Okay, so I brought my laundry basket down with me for protection. Hey, it was full of dirty towels! I could have thrown one on the intruder’s head, temporarily blinding him as I threw the basket into his stomach and stomped on his feet… right? As I fantasized about such illogical means of self-defense, I was blindsided by a white object flying at me from the left! It was… a towel.

My dad, seeing my laundry basket and an opportunity for convenience, tossed his towel into my basket as he walked by, whistling along with Britney. You guessed it. No van, no intruder, and no need for an elaborate and brilliantly-executed plan of defense, a la Home Alone.

“What are you listening to?” I quizzically asked my dad.

“Huh?” he shouted back.

“WHAT ARE YOU LISTENING TO?!” I attempted again, not quite completely drown-out by a Jamaican-sounding man and a reggae beat. My dad just smiled, turned the corner, and resumed his whistling. Completely dumfounded, I proceeded to the laundry room to wash my sheets. And my dad’s towel.

After the initial shock of this very strange revelation began to wear off, the realization that the walls in my bedroom are not nearly thick enough started to set in. I put the clean sheets back on my bed, fluffed the pillows, and pulled up my laptop to check on a few things. Turning on my own music did no good, as it simply competed with what was playing downstairs and produced wretchedly clashing rhythms. I really wanted to get started on that soup, but how was I supposed to get in the cooking mood when the whole house was coursing with the lusty sounds of popsters urging me to shake one thing or another? All that was missing was a black light, a bartender, and hundreds of sweaty, oversexed 20-somethings. I was quickly brought back to a time in my life I am not proud of, and wish not to reflect upon. Don’t get me wrong, God and I have sorted through all of these things, and forgiveness and even redemption have taken place as a result. But I am merely human and, unfortunately, as such have the kind of memory that doesn’t mercifully reset itself at the foot of the cross. This is not to say I was suddenly thrown back into that place mentally, spiritually, and emotionally. No, nothing that severe. Just that my attitude began to slip from the morning’s high of sunshine and time spent with my Savior.

I needed to get out. Well, one of the things on today’s list was to wash my car. After all, it’s completely filthy and I can barely see from the glare of that lovely sunshine filtering through the layers of road grime caked upon my windshield. I happily grabbed my keys, poured a few ounces of carwash soap into a bucket, and lifted the handle of the water faucet to create a nice, warm, sudsy bath for my car. I pushed the handle back down, and lifted it again. I swiveled it side to side. Nothing. Hmm, dad must have shut off the water to the outside faucet for the cold winter months. Okay, no problem. I’d just fill up inside. In the mean time, I decided to connect the hose and pull my car into the driveway. I unscrewed the Styrofoam cover from the hose faucet and turned the nozzle. Again, nothing. With a deep sigh, I decided to search out my hip-hop father for advice on how to turn the water back on.

After thoroughly searching each and every room in the house, twice, I gave up. About that time, mom walked into my room and excitedly explained to my cat that she brought him a treat. Wheat grass, his favorite. Not three minutes after setting the grass on the ground for my cat to devour, I narrowly missed putting my sock-clad foot into a steaming pile of grass-vomit. Yuck. I cleaned up the mess and began packing things to get out of the house ASAP. On my way into the next room to grab my laptop bag, I again had to dodge a slimy green puddle of feline gastric juices. Double yuck. Thanks, mom.

By this point in my day, I’m pretty sure I had a very black cloud hovering just a few feet above my head. As a last-ditch effort to clean my highly neglected car, I thought I’d grab two buckets and do a sort of sponge bath type carwash. I glanced at the counter where I’d left the bucket with the carwash soap, but it wasn’t there.

“Mom, where’s the blue bucket that was right here?”

“Oh, dad’s using it to wash the windows.”

“But I had carwash soap in there.”

“I wonder if he knew that?” I certainly wasn’t going to stick around to find out. I quickly marched across the courtyard to my car, thunderclouds and all.

“How long are you going to be out?” my mom called after me.

“I don’t know. I’ve gotta get out of here. I can’t handle this anymore,” I snapped back, referring to the horrendous music still blaring from the stereo. Mom said something about me possibly running over to take care of my brother’s dog later on, but I was barely listening at that point. I was quite focused on being anywhere but there.

Speaking of my neglected car, I was about 1800 miles overdue to get my tires rotated. I decided to suck it up and drive to Costco to get it taken care of. Once there, I was told the attendant would call me when my car was ready, in 45 minutes to an hour. I spent about 51 minutes amusing myself by browsing aisles filled with things I cannot imagine anyone thinking they need to buy. A sanitizing light wand? Really? My phone finally began to ring, and the helpful man on the other end told me there was no way they could rotate my tires because the back two are completely burned out. My car was pulled up to the curb, and I walked over to check out how bad my tires really were. After all, I just bought them last year. It’s not like I’m Mario Andretti or anything! I mean, aren’t tires supposed to last at least a few years? I looked down, and my rear tires were almost completely flat. Excuse me?

“Um, do you think I could get some air in those? They’re kinda flat,” I sweetly inquired of the attendant with a smile.

“Oh. Sure. Just pull back around.”

After maneuvering around the stampede of SUV’s swerving every which way throughout the parking lot, I made my way back around to the tire shop, where the young man graciously checked and filled my tires. He told me I should really rotate my tires at least every six to eight thousand miles. I bit my tongue and refrained from telling him I had bought these tires no more than eight thousand miles ago and had them rotated four thousand miles ago. C’est la vie, right?

Thunder clouds rumbling, I sped back to the freeway, contemplating the $400 plus I would have to shell out for a new set of tires in the all-too-near future.

Deciding today would inevitably be a total bust anyway, I headed straight for one of my favorite hideouts, Peet’s Coffee & Tea. I commandeered the entire corner with the only known power outlet in the lobby and set up shop.

One pumpkin muffin, one small double-shot vanilla latte, several Bible verses, and many hours later, I am finally returning to the soothing state of mind I experienced at the very beginning of my day. Why, oh why do I allow the minor annoyances of this life to seep through my skin and into my heart and soul? Why is it so difficult for me to cling tightly to what God promises and is so faithful to deliver on? When will I learn to wait on the Lord and allow Him to lift me up on wings like eagles, soaring high above the filth of the world below?

But I am trusting you, O Lord,
Saying, “You are my God!”
My future is in your hands.
-Psalm 31:14-15