So here I am, six full weeks after injuring my foot and I am still using crutches 90% of the time. Perhaps, suggests my Mom, it would have been less time if I hadn’t walked around on the fracture for a solid week before going to the doctor. Perhaps, suggest I, she should shush and leave me be.
Yesterday, I managed, with a lot of padding in my shoe, to hobble around the kitchen sans crutches long enough to bake a batch of molasses cookies and clean up the kitchen afterwards in my usual cookie meditation methods. But this batch had less to do with my desire to bring order from chaos and a lot more to do with stalling. The inspiration for this post came a week ago and I have been stalling about writing it ever since. I was secretly rather pleased with myself yesterday when I sat down with my tea and a warm cookie and noted that it was rather late in the day to start writing. At precisely that moment, I got the following text message: Listen to the whisperings of the Holy Spirit.
No, I am not even kidding. All the times I have joked about how I wish God would just text me suddenly came around to give me a swift kick in the ass. Moral to that story: be careful what you wish for. And yes, I know I’m still stalling.
Last week, I drove my mom to the grocery story and waited in the car with a book for an hour while she picked up a few odds and ends. When she came out with the cart half-full with groceries, I got out of the car to help her load them in the trunk.
Mom: ‘Get your butt back in that car.’
Me: ‘Yes Ma’am.’ I obediently plopped myself back in the car and waited for her.
We got home and I parked with the trunk of my car literally six inches from the back stoop. I open the trunk and reached for a bag to help her unload the groceries onto the stoop.
Mom: ‘And just what do you think you’re doing?’
Me: ‘I’m helping you. I can walk a little bit.’
Mom: ‘Good. Go walk yourself into the house. You’re in my way.’
These are the days that I call her Miss Daisy, because the only right answer is: Yes Ma’am. I was giggling over this with some old friends and one of them said, ‘You’re in my way. Translation: I love you.’ Now anybody who speaks Mommish knows that is precisely the proper translation.
While I laughed about it, it really got to me. Ever since that morning when the bees invaded my quiet prayer time, I have been entirely thrown off my groove. I’m so tired of sitting around with my foot up and doing nothing that I’m twitchy even when I really, really want to be still. I had nice little rhythm to my days, especially my time alone in the mornings. And for five of the last six weeks, I looked at this annoyingly twitchy space I’m in as God’s way of saying, ‘Suck it up, Buttercup.’ Like somehow it was up to me to overcome the twitchyness all by my lonesome so I could be still and pray in the manner in which I had been comfortable. But this last week, the words that kept coming back to me weren’t lines from scripture or the various prayers of my rosary or some other bit of inspirational writing. No, the words that kept coming back are: You’re in my way. So, while I’m a little huffy about it, I’ve stopped trying to be not twitchy. I’ve let myself be this restless mess that I am right now. I baked when I should’ve rested. I set up my fantasy football team when I should’ve been reading. I still went to the beach every morning but I talked to the seagull who sits on my car when I should’ve been talking to God. And somehow all of that was okay because I stopped trying to do what I couldn’t do and I got out of the way and somehow I’m a little less twitchy. I don’t what God is up to right now but something is up and for now I’m okay with letting God do God’s thing because You’re in my way translates to I love you.
That being said, I kinda hope God hurries up because I don’t know how long I can keep this stay-out-of -the-way thing going.