My shoulder hurt from my suitcase purse as Mom calls it. I went to Starbucks to force myself to write. I was walking home because my brain was a puddle of mud.
I’m leaving a job that’s been home for 9 ½ years. I should be excited about the new job, but it’s unknown. Will the longer days mean I won’t make dinner, or work out with my husband, or have time to write?
Future’s fear has me clutching any semblance of control. I should write, but I’m too distracted hemming my pants, de-junking my apartment, and finishing Christmas shopping before my start date.
But it’s not just the new job. My mud brain is on social overload. Thanksgiving and Christmas would be beautiful ideas—alone in a convent (or maybe with a couple people). But countless social gatherings drain the blood out of me.
Mentally and emotionally lifeless, I want to run and hide from the thought of a whole new social scene at a new job.
Walking home from Starbucks I hope the crisp air will clear my head. But the mud puddle remains. I don’t know how I feel. I don’t know if I’m excited about the new job or terrified. I don’t know if I’m tired after 10 hours of sleep or if I’m just socially drained. I don’t know if I’m discouraged about my writing or scared of the unseen future.
Mostly it all collides into dirty water. I can’t pull the mud apart to understand it. Looking down for no particular reason, I see a wreath. That’s odd. Its generous greens, pinecones, and holly are leaning against a phone pole.
“FREE. Merry Christmas!” the sticky note says. That’s sweet. I pick up the wreath without thinking and keep walking.
“I’ll always provide for you in the moment, Mary,” God says. It was like when he put mud on the blind man’s eyes. I smiled, and things became clearer. I walked home hoping the endorphins would clear my head, trying to convince myself I should be happy in my circumstances. God took the time to smile at me.
I still can’t see the future. I’m not sure whether I’ll have the energy to endure the holidays, take care of my household responsibilities, spend time with my husband, and write when I’m gone 12 hours a day.
But God has always provided for me in the past, and he’ll always give me what I need in the future. Overwhelmed by what normal people love—new opportunity and family gatherings—God reached out to care for me.
I fear the future because I can’t see it, but God is already there. God has already taken care of every point in my future.