A Valentines Tale

Inspired by a letter to a friend, this is a recounting of my mischief on Valentines Day.
     Valentines Day actually started in the dark on Thursday night. Coming home at seven, my plans for cleaning were waylaid by the appearance of my darling nephew, who cleverly kept me distracted till eight thirty, when his mother took him home. I blame the lapse on his overwhelming cuteness, helplessness, and general lovableness.
     Nevertheless, he went to his home, and Operation Valentines: Part I began. It was a ruthless cleaning of the upstairs--straightening the living room, cleaning off the dining room, and then spending over an hour on the dishes and the kitchen. I had turned all overhead lights off, with only a small lamp on in the other rooms, and Josh Groban playing. Everyone else was sensibly in bed, but this was my Friday night, the night before my weekend began, and I was up late, plotting and cleaning. Decorating must wait till the morning, but right before bed I put a bright red table cloth over our large table, and a complete lace, white tablecloth over that as a promise for tomorrow. I looked around, blew out the candle I had lit, and went to bed.
     The next morning began early. I knew I had limited time before inhabitants awoke, for one had a place called "work" to be at 6:30, and I wanted to give her some gifts before going.
For I was not doing this entirely from my own imagination; for years my mother had created a delightful tradition of having a small bouquet of flowers and a few chocolates for each child as we grew up. Valentines was a time of free giving, a reminder of the love that stretched from parents to children, from children to parents (though those gifts often had funny stories that went along with them), and a witness to us of our parents' love for each other. But this year I knew she was far too tired.
So I woke at 5:45 and (being of a disposition that caused a former college roommate to exclaim "You pop out of bed like you sleep in a toaster!"), had my boots, keys, and purse within a few minutes, grabbed my father's instrument of transportation (having none of mine own), and went to the grocery store. Getting out the car, I paused, still enjoying the snow that was coming down and making the air within a few feet white. But I had forgotten my coat, and hurried the few feet inside (the other shoppers were few in number at that time of the morning). My sister had protested her tiredness of sugar the night before, so I looked for other means of delighting the taste buds. I found blueberries and an uncut pineapple for an affordable price, and I selected one roll of Rolos to be split among us. Then I went to the flower area (enjoying the smells!) and got two bundles of carnations, white and red. The entire trip was $18. I went back out to the car (falling to my knees on the ice in the process, but God spared flowers and food!), but made it home safely.
     The carnations were just enough to divide between myself, my mother, and my four sisters, and I put them in small, separate vases on the table with a single Rolo on the gold wrapping in front of every vase. My father received three Rolos, as he did not get flowers. :) I took the pink tissue paper the flowers had been wrapped in and folded it into a centerpiece, setting a pink candle on top. My sister who worked came and ate some blueberries before heading out--and I finished the decorations, cut the pineapple, put them both on a white plate, and all was ready.
     By the time the rest of the family was up (late sleepers, they are), I had the ingredients for French Toast ready as well, and we had French Toast, pineapple, blueberries, maple syrup, and powdered sugar. It was lovely. Later that day my mother bought each daughter a much prettier bouquet (they're so lovely--four different colored carnations and baby's breath--mine sits across the room and is so beautiful) and a gift card to Half-Price books. It became a day of cleaning, decorating, giving, and just fellowship with family; it was lovely.

Perplexing Timing

Wednesday I broke down and wept, unable to deny anymore how much I disliked God's gift, my work.
Thursday morning I woke to the phone, where a friend wept over the difficulties of her life and work.
Friday I prayed for us.
Saturday I spoke with a friend whose manager made life impossible, made work purgatory's semblance.
Sunday I heard that those under authority should do all things with a good will, as to the LORD.
I prayed more.
Monday I worked again.

Monday, our temperature outside started at -9 degrees, and inside the heating wasn't working. Monday, three people were out, and I took up to six times the number of calls on one line than I had in a year and half. Monday, we were all so busy few of our projects got done. Monday, we were overworked and frozen, bundled up (literately) messes whose tempers were not allowed to explode.

God, the irony of your timing is pointed. I acknowledge, I failed to appreciate my job as your gift for most of today.

But there was this.

There were these gifts, things unrealized at the time.
I learned something new, and was given a challenge--something I enjoy.
The time flew faster than it had in weeks.
Most of all, I was able to give help--appreciated help, help that meant something to the recipient--to two people today.

God, I thank you for those gifts. I thank you for that challenge, the wings You gave time, and the help You enabled me to give others, in this Monday of Mondays. God, tomorrow is Tuesday; overshadow me with Your wings, Spirit strengthen me, and God, give me grace to thank you for my work.

Thank you, too, for the irony of your perplexing timing. I do love your sense of humor.

On my Heart

    For two weeks, I've battled with the overwhelming temptation to use Netflix and Youtube as an escape from life. Two night ago, unexpectedly, I sat down before going to bed and prayed for God to give me the truth. My head had been caught in daydreams all day, and my imagination was blending reality with ideas that I shouldn't be thinking, things I do not understand yet, so I sat down and asked God for the truth.
    I did not expect what He gave me. Oh, it was truth, and sitting in its rightful place, it banished from my mind the thoughts I'd been giving free reign. But it was the truth that I had thought I'd gotten over, gotten past--that I still disliked God's gift of a well-paying job with all my heart. I had ceased to loathe it, and now only dreaded it. One step in the right direction, but one step was not enough to bring me back to solid ground. I'd given up thinking about it, praying about it, and evaluating it, telling myself God would change my heart in His time, and as I could not do anything about it, I would forget it--and forgotten, my emotions would cease to be involved, and I would no longer dread God's gift.
    In a sense it worked--I did not dread work anymore. I went, I worked, I came home, and my heart was safely uninvolved. But coming home, I needed distraction. If my heart was not involved with my life, it must be involved in something else. Our hearts really do need something to be passionate about, something to be involved in. I'd chosen TV, but as with any addiction, it was no substitute for the real thing, and demanded more and more time. I'd reached a careful equilibrium, where I gave in to it just enough to give my heart something to daydream about during the long work hours, and little enough to give my conscience no qualm. Until two weeks ago, that is. Then the storm broke loose when I got sick. I was uneasy about how quickly the temptation of watching drama or excitement was so strong it was almost a need. Then, after I painstakingly reapproached that balanced equilibrium, God sat down and showed me my own heart.
    That night, weeping, knowing that I still could not change my heart, my job, that my circumstances and emotional reaction were beyond my control, I asked God to give me a purpose again, one that I was eager to work towards, instead of resembling an iron maiden that closed and captured me. I fell asleep soon after.
    The next morning, a friend called, struggling with the same weight of a painful, unwelcome job and a rebellious, breaking heart. The timing of God's revelation to me about my struggle just before hearing hers gave me some faith to pray for her. The answer to prayer, so quickly, of having a purpose I was eager to work for, to pray for, and to fight for, was even more reassuring. But my heart still cried out for her, unknowning if my praying really was changing her life.
    That was yesterday; I prayed for her often, throughout the long workday, and today, while staying at home, she was often in my thoughts. I realized today (while cleaning a mirror) that God had done much through her call to me that morning. I know, as I wiped down the dust and cleaned the smears, that even then I had a tendency to praise myself for the work I was doing for my family. I have often struggled with a martyr complex, where my sacrifice is intended to glorify myself more than help others. I cannot imagine how much I would have pitied and yet glorified myself if I had been the only one to struggle with my work the way I was--or even if I was the only one I knew of, that still would create the same result. It punched hard that she might be suffering so I would not fall into sin. I know full well that her struggle is for her good as well, that God is working in her life through this, that His wisdom is such I am sure the struggle is not only because of me. But God's grace in having her share that with me is unmistakable.
    So now I pray that God's grace would be strong evident to her, as well, that it would hold and mend her heart, and teach her to live again. I ask this knowing full well that God plans each incident in our lives, from phone calls, jobs, thoughts, and even chores such as cleaning a mirror. So I offer up to God all that is on my heart--my friend, my sin, her struggle, and our lives. God, be glorified, and God, be merciful. Amen.