I am relocating my thoughts to www.marybunkley.wordpress.com . As much as I love tumblr, wordpress offers more options for your truly.
The other day I got home really late at night. It was raining profusely. And I was upset. No, more than upset. Infuriated. Frustrated. Rankled. Nettled. Irked. Vexed. You get the idea.
So I got out of my car and made it about 5 steps to the center of our dual-purpose backyard/parking lot, and I raised my hands to the heavens. As the rain fell down mixing with my angry tears, I talked to God.
I told Him I was frustrated and angry with Him. I told God that He didn’t know what He was doing. As I stood there, with my hands outstretched. Clothes growing wetter. I spoke my anger. Revealed my disappointment. Raved my discontentment.
I was finally honest. Finally broken. Finally done.
Seems like the closer I get to graduation, the more comfortable I become with my suspended state of quasi-panic. Daily forcing my worries down. Trying to look only at my Lord. Walking a weird line between neurosis and naptime. The balance is difficult and tiring.
Let’s face it. I have no earthly idea where I’ll be living in three months. I suppose I’m going to law school next year, and I’ll likely be in either Texas or Virginia. But after that, your guess is as good as mine. My name is buried in several waitlist, over several thousand miles. Essentially, I’m at the mercy of my God, through an admissions committee’s decision, to determine where I’ll be for the next three years (and— very likely— for the rest of my life).
When I was little, I loved Mr. Gatti’s. The cookies, the games, the pizza, the salad bar (yes, I was a strange child), they were all perfection. For me, one of the most frustratingly fun games was the alligator smashing game. You know the one where you hit the alligators on the head with a mallet? And when you hit them they made an “wwarkkk” sound?
This isn’t one of those blog entries I write after I have everything figured out. This is one of those entries that I write in the deep, deep middle of a profound mess. My dad’s pulmonary embolisms are back. He had them two years ago after surgery on his foot. He defied death that time, and he continues to do so. But that doesn’t mean we are out of the woods yet.
It’s weird, when one your parent’s lives is so fragile. Until my dad’s INR levels (I have no idea what this means) gets above a certain number, the clots in his lungs can still move. If they move, we have about 30 seconds before he leaves us.
I really love the Valley of Vision prayer book. So one day, in a flurry of Christian angst, I wrote my own Valley-esque prayer. Here it is:
I am a perpetual motion machine,
constantly moving in the wrong direction.
I have a couple (understatement) of theories about life. Most of the time, I view these theories as law. And much to the misfortune of my roommates and close friends, I proclaim loudly every time my theory is substantiated and ignore most situations where it isn’t.
Here’s my newest theory. I hypothesize that very few women are actually “boy crazy.” Coming from a reformed, self-proclaimed, and publically humiliated man-junkie, this seems like a stretch. Please, allow me to explain.
Instead of the male-worshipping, over-eager image “boy crazy” girls portray, I think boy-crazed women are just plain selfish.
That’s right. And you know what else. I don’t think they like boys that much.
Allow me to expand.
God isn’t a Chicken. I know, I know. Startling revelation right? Well this hit me today as I was chomping down on a giant plate of breakfast tacos. Suddenly I realized how often we treat God like he’s a chicken. No in the ‘being scared’ sense of the word (although that would be make another great blog topic) but in the ‘laying eggs’ sense of the word.
So let’s unpack this metaphor and see what it means, because, quite frankly, I bet you treated God like he was a chicken at some point today.