I'm not ready to be one of those people who, after years of struggle with sins, faults, foibles, and various weaknesses of character has finally given in, gotten an "I'm not perfect, just forgiven" bumper sticker and slapped it right above the hollow, silver fish on my car.
But something has got to give.
This morning I had just hung up the phone because my daughter's diaper needed to be changed and she wasn't taking it lying down. After that was finished, I realized I had four minutes to get to Caleb's 10:00 a.m. Spanish class which I had completely forgotten about. Now, I got up before 7:00 a.m. this morning thinking, "Caleb has Spanish today." I reminded myself in written form in both my pocket book calendar, and my organizer calendar (I just bought these on Thursday of last week. They are really cheap in September!) At 9:00 a.m. I thought, "I need to get the kids dressed because Caleb has Spanish." Somewhere between about 9:20 and 9:40 I forgot. I was distracted by a couple of phone calls I received.
Eric said it would not be okay to paint the walls of our greatroom in green colored chalk board paint so that I could write in milk jug sized letters my schedule for the day. And with that, so goes my last "get it together" idea I had.
Where can I find one of those bumper stickers?
Sometimes when I really feel God's grace, I know its okay. Some of us are just going to have to rely on others a little more than we think is our right. Putting a positive spin on all of this allows me to view these moments as reminders of his grace. I'm reminded often because on a remarkably regular basis I commit careless, irresponsible acts and remarkably and regularly everything turns out okay.
When I was in high school and locked my keys in the car three times in one week, my parents still acknowledged me as their daughter.
As a sophomore at Texas A&M, I made preparations to leave one weekend to visit my parents who lived in Athens. Preparations basically amounted to dumping my dirty laundry into my suitcase and grabbing my backpack. After dragging my suitcase down the three flights of stairs in my dorm and lugging it across three parking lots to my car, I hopped in my car threw the backpack in the back seat and left my suitcase sitting alone in the parking lot. Some sweet soul searched through all of my laundry to find for my phone number so he could tell me he had all my dirty clothes. He didn't take any of them.
Two weekends ago as I was finishing up some shopping on Main Street in Grapevine, I ran into a friend from my church. She asked what I was up to, and I was going to lie and just say, "nothing much." In reality, I was ten seconds away from going into total panic.
I had lost my keys.
I had retraced my steps and was just entering the last possible place they could have been when I ran into her. Also, it had just dawned on me that the spare set was safely locked in the console of my car.
For some reason, no, actually, I felt a nudge--one that said, "Tell the truth." So I fessed up, and she replied, "Oh, I just turned in a set of keys to the cashier." And there they were. On the cashier's desk.
I thought I would outgrow my carelessness. flightyness. disorganization. Whatever you want to call it. But I'm thirty . . . one. I can't blame it on pregnancy. Or a new baby. I still have a few years before I can cite old age.
Do I try another system? Buy another organizer? The times when I've really kept myself organized? That is all I do! Life ceases to be worth living. Organization, when I do it like I think it should be done, never becomes a means to an end. It is the end.
In the end it comes down to faith. If I am following Christ, if I am seeking Him first he makes a way. Really that is all I know. I don't know if these "moments" are his will, or if he can simply make the best out of them. Such discernment involves a theological understanding that I do not possess. But either way is fine with me.
On that note, it's getting late, and if I don't fold the laundry soon public safety officials are going to invade my house and set off explosives to keep us from being buried alive by an uncontrolled avalanche of gym socks. Hey! At least they are clean.