“Great faith isn’t the ability to believe long and far into the misty future. It’s simply taking God at His word and taking the next step.”
~Joni Eareckson Tada
Sunday 12, December 2010.
I did so want to attend the service at Flanborough Baptist Church this morning. I had predicted the night before that when it would be time to get up, I would rather sleep; such was the case. At 8:30 a.m., I turned the persistent alarm off for good then did something I’m not sure I have ever done before -- I pulled the covers right over my head and I stayed like that for the next four hours! Evidently, I was not going to face the world before I was ready! I’m in my bed, cozy with my coffee, looking out at a dreary world. There is a light mist of rain keeping everything damp. I may go out later regardless and spite it.
During my walk, I was full to the brim of loving Christ, being thankful and content. There was a huge contrast between my mood and the weather, though! It was overcast and damp, but not at all chilly. I plodded through mucky paths, splashing mud just about everywhere! I felt like Elizabeth Bennett traipsing across the countryside through mud and dirt bound for Netherfield to visit her ailing sister Jane. I can hear Mrs. Hurst’s disapproving voice now, “I hope you saw her petticoat, six inches deep in mud, I’m absolutely certain!” It may have been track pants instead of a petticoat but it was equal to the number of inches deep in mud! Truthfully, I’m not keen walking through slop, but overall I did not mind the condition of the ground because I was walking with a purpose.
A delicate mist had settled over the fields on the horizon. I had to go out and greet it. Before I romanticize too strongly I will address the real facts of fog. It is cold, drab, muggy, spooky and damp. BUT I am a mix of Anglo-Saxon and Celtic blood, so to me it is alluring, mysterious, dazing, clandestine and smokey with passion. To me, this mist was delicious and romantic. I was excited from my fleece hood to my muddy hiking boots. The apple trees have been showered in rain enhancing a pretty reddish tone in the bark. Unlike yesterday, the trees were joyfully entreating me to dance with them. I sang the chorus of the Revelation Song aloud as I walked,
“Holy, Holy, Holy is the Lord God Almighty;
The one who is and is to come.
With all creation, I sing:
Praise to the King of Kings!
You are my everything
And I will adore You!”
The raindrops dangling on the tips of the leaves were like a string of pearls. I was quite contented and I felt the presence of Jesus with me strongly.
I had taken a gravel path between two neighbouring farm houses to get to the main road. I guessed which one was Anita’s. It was a beautiful home with a luxurious exterior. I mentioned the professional landscape before. Deep red brick, more than one tourette, it looked a like a miniature castle. The structure was evidently aged, but all the windows were brand new. It gave the house an odd look. It was like running into someone with a fake tan who’s just had their teeth bleached! A few minutes from Drummond House, I caught a whiff of something burning and sweet. It was so strange to smell mulled spices on the main road. “So beautiful!” I couldn’t help but exclaim out loud. I turned the corner and there was the house. I grow fonder of it everyday!
Wet, muddy, sweaty and out of breath, I couldn’t wait to strip off my yucky track pants and jump into the shower! I will now document the first con to this country-living. The water supply comes from a well, so a foul smell emits from the faucet everytime you run the tap. The first time I washed my hands in this place, I thought that I had released a silent-but-deadly without realizing it! I was so embarrassed at the thought of someone coming into the bathroom after me, I cannot tell you! The tub and shower are spanking new. It has a good hot water pressure, but unfortunately the bathing water comes from the same source. My spa-like shower turned sour within five minutes. I’m told the proper name for this odour is sulfur. I’d say it’s more like hog shit (and yes, I know what that smells like from experience)! Sorry, I describe things as they really are! Sometimes I express it eloquently and sometimes I’m as common as the streets. This stuff was rank! It totally overpowered my sweet smelling shampoo made with olives, avacados and shea. Little did I know that my relaxing shower was about to turn even more revolting.
My words will be brief because I can already feel my stomach turning. In the house, there is a routine to be followed after a shower. You take a squeegy head and try to get rid of the moisture on the tiles and the tub. The practicality of this procedure is not as simple as it sounds, but I was making do until I encountered a problem. While shampooing, I had loosened quite a tangle of hair. Instead of following my better judgment and flicking it into the toilet, I let it drop and float towards the drain to be retrieved later. First of all, let me make it abundantly clear that hairs in the bathroom and I are not sympatico. Not in this life! Not even if they belong to me. Secondly, in the same way one cannot hook a few strands of spaghetti without tugging the whole pile of noodles, one cannot grab a few long strands of hair from the surface of a shower drain without dragging up the ones that have slipped down before them. UGH!
Dear reader, please tell me that you have had the same experience before, so that I don’t have to expand on the stringy goopy horrors that came up out of that drain! There I was on my hands and knees, between tub and toilet, gagging and crying wishing that I could keep my eyes closed and get this over with! For those brief moments, I hated this house, I hated being here and I hated everybody in it. Sad to think, but that was the first time I had actually broken down and cried since I’ve been here. Such a simple cleaning chore had me so emotionally exhausted, I wanted to spend the rest of the evening in bed and forgo supper. Maybe that’s why I have been so numb. I once heard an analogy comparing the structure of the female psyche to a bowl of fish hooks. You can’t pull on one hook without linking the whole sordid mess of them. Dealing with the reasons and emotions that lead to me coming to Drummond House is like that incident in the shower. If I start, one thought will release all the other garbage I've been repressing in order to survive. It is disgusting and repulsive and I would rather leave it to rot out-of-sight in the dark recesses of the sewer!
In an type-A frenzy, I cleaned up the bathroom, wished I could go on strike against bathing ever again, and started to blow dry my hair. I quickly shut the dryer off as I thought of the loose hairs being blown about the room. I swooped up my belongings into my arms and retreated my room. I decided to dry my hair there, that way any hair would blend into the rug. I would be able to vacuum it up later without every having to be aware of it! Denial? Anybody?
Some time has gone by. I’m snuggled back in bed watching a downpour of snowflakes bounce off my window pane. I just finished my devotions -- I am so loved by God! That’s all I have to say.
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