My pride is injured. My reliance on my identity as a technical writer (and a valuable one, too) is shaken. My days are slower and quieter.
In fact, I used to look down on people in my position. At wives (not yet mothers) who would stay home instead of working. Perhaps it was our culture, our society of feminism that had seeped into my mind, perhaps it was just my nature. “No,” I assured myself haughtily, “I will never be like them. I will be productive. I will be significant. I will be useful.”
And here I am, my thoughts coming back around to nip at my heels. The same scorned position has become my own.
And for weeks, I have been a giant rubber band ball of sinful feelings. I think I hated how God had “abandoned” me. He dragged me up to this forsaken city with its rusty union jobs and specialized medical offices. Sure, it was going splendidly for my husband, but me? What about me, God, what about me?
How good I am at complaining.
In fact, I blush as I look back on my recent posts. I did not lie when I wrote them, though. I’ve been angry, bored, depressed, hopeless, ranging from ranting and raging at my husband, because, well, he’s there, to dissolving into a salty puddle of bitter tears.
I am useless and worthless here, and it’s not my fault. No! It’s God’s, it’s God who brought us here, who plopped us in this horrible, jobless place. I don’t want to live here, I never wanted to live here, I never wanted to leave my lovely job in Pittsburgh, I never wanted any of this.
But God wanted me here.
I still have no clue why. And I still feel the squeeze of these emotions on my heart. I feel the stress and anger begin to boil in my veins.
However, despite this rut, this ditch of despondency, God continues to send blessings.
He looks upon His fretful, thrashing child and blesses her.
He watches her break into angry tears and gives her husband a promotion and a raise.
He sees her toss a pillow at her husband’s head, taking her bitterness against Himself out on the poor man, and gives her husband a spirit of forgiveness and patience.
He closes doors to jobs she wanted, and, while she snatches her running shoes and “angry runs” around the local park, He continues to provide hot water she will need when she returns.
He waits for her to stop ignoring the root of her recent outbursts and despair and, in the meantime, provides enough grace to cover all her sins.
I am such a fickle, ungrateful human.
So, from now on, I will strive to say, “Praise God from Whom all blessings flow,” and say it genuinely while facing my demons of bitterness, anger, and gloominess.