my eucharisteo

Last week was bumpy.

I stuck a toe out to test the waters in an area where I used to be competent and confident, but currently lack a lot of self-confidence, and my reservations were ratified. In a bizarrely thoughtless and I think unintentionally unkind sort of way, but rejection is rejection. And hurt hurts.

I shook the wrinkles out of the familiar cloak of self-doubt, shrugged it on and pulled up the hood.

A few days later my husband quietly set a bouquet of flowers on the kitchen countertop. I know he meant it to be encouraging.

But in my melancholy, instead of seeing what he held out as a bright bouquet full hope, life, and love, I felt like I was being handed a crackling parcel of pity. Like he was acknowledging what I was in the process of mourning–the death of a dream. Melodramatic, I know. But in the moment, it’s what I saw because it’s what I felt.

Instead of the 11 upright, beautiful roses, I could only see the drooping, dead one. And I might as well have taken a sharpie and written my name on it.

Does anyone wallow as well (or should I say badly) as I do?

I am so thankful for last year’s BSF class, where studying the acts of the apostles gave me head knowledge that my identity is not in what I do, but in who I am in Christ. For a friend who wrote a book and allowed me to be a part of the process–the  manuscript has blessed me and the book hasn’t even been printed yet! For getting to help another friend write a Bible study (or two…or three…) that have impacted my life and helped me realize that when I feel alone in this new place, Jesus is my friend. For a new friend who sings, “no matter what God loves me” and brings me to tears every time I hear it and believe it a little more in the midst of my doubt. And for my old friends far away that share a history with me and care to continue a deep and lasting friendship into the future. For learning a new term from Ann Voskamp, eucharisteo, and being given the bittersweet opportunity to practice thanksgiving and joy when it’s the farthest thing from what I feel.

For kids who don’t notice my malaise and love me all the more during it. For a husband who brings me flowers even when I feel like a failure and pout like I am four years old.