Breathe In, Breathe Out

It was for the most part a typical Tuesday. He showed up just as I was cleaning up breakfast, about to put Bella down for her morning nap.

One of our good friends recently moved into our bonus room. A room at this point that is unused by us, and so an opportunity for her to save for a house purchase, and us to tuck away a bit…perhaps for adoption? We were unable to get the cable box hooked up in the room, so the cable company was sending someone by. Straightforward fix, right?

I showed him the location of things, made a bottle, and settled into the rocker in Bella’s room. He poked his head in to say that he would need to drill a hole through the wall to get the wiring to the box. “Sounds good.”

And then a few minutes later it sounded like a shower had turned on, and he poked his head back in…”umm, I hit a pipe with the drill…”

And within minutes, as I frantically tried to figure out where the main shutoff valve for the house was, there was water pouring. Yes, pouring. As in a midsummer downpour pouring from the second floor bonus room, through the ceiling and down into the first floor hallway that leads to the garage.

Apparently I don’t do well in these sorts of crises. I’m pretty sure my panicked call to my husband included the line, “our house is ruined!” Exaggerate much? But trust me, if you had seen the volume of water accumulating you might have said the same thing.

My husband rushed home from work and quickly got the water turned off. For your information, the main shutoff valve is in a manhole by the street. Way far down so you have to use the irrigation pole to turn it off. I now know where both the valve and the pole are located. This is good information to have. Don’t know where your shutoff valve is? Find it. Tonight.

But back to the flooded house. The water was off, and the downpour shifted to a steady spring rain, and the real battle began.

First, I buried my face in my hands and let out a few sobs. And then I let myself laugh a little bit. Because ridiculously unfortunate events are just that…ridiculous.

The owner of the cable company made a beeline for our house and had restoration people there within an hour. Things would be fixed. It turns out, in fact, the house was not ruined. Even the carpet, though it will need to be restretched, should be ok.

Time and perspective allowed me to examine the situation and name the many graces. Hardly any of our personal belongings were impacted. The greatest volume of water headed towards the garage, not the main living areas of the house. The fact that we got someone from the restoration company to the house so fast meant the damage could be minimized.

I was breathing in grace all around me, and trying desperately to breathe out praise.

But my goodness the latter is a battle. Self-pity fights to strangle out that praise.

The restoration company offered to wash the sopping wet towels on the floor, since I can’t really access my washing machine right now. Grace. But I realize the laundry baskets are full, and suitcases with more laundry from five days away not even emptied yet. And self-pity fights its way to the surface.

I discover the handpainted sign that hung in the hallway, handpainted in Vietnam, gifted from a dear friend, a remnant of a former life…it’s message now smeared and puddled. There will not be another one of those. And suddenly that seeking of grace, that seeking to notice, gets swallowed by self-pity.

Moldings are gone, fans and air blowers, and dehumidifiers are scattered throughout the house and it sounds like a jet engine is running and I groan at the thought of living and working in this for the next days with little ones in tow…in particular a little one who is terrified of said apparatuses. And self-pity swells.

And I think about the fact that on Friday family rolls into town and about twenty people will congregate around tables in my disaster zone of a house and I start to panic about how to make that work and I forget momentarily that hospitality is much more about the state of my heart than the state of my house, and I should be able to prepare my heart regardless of what my house looks like. But self-pity fights to rule the day, and I send a few texts to close friends so that someone can understand and acknowledge just how hard this is.

And I minimize and forget and selfishly ignore all of that grace. The fact that I have a roof over my head in the first place. A house with running water. Such swiftly running water. The fact that the fridge is stocked with food, and I have the means to stock it even fuller so that family can be united around the table. The fact that when disaster struck I was rocking a baby nine months after I thought I’d have to say goodbye.

And so I breathe in grace, and I struggle to breathe out praise.

Because I know. I know so well that this naming and recognizing and acknowledging of grace is the only way to drown out that steady drum of self-pity. But can I be honest? Sometimes I don’t want to drown it out. Oh sometimes I love to cuddle up with self-pity. It feels good in the moment. But I know the fruit that grows from it is sour and bitter. Love, joy, peace, patience, kindness…these do not grow in the soil of self-pity.

And so.

Breathe in, breathe out.

The discipline of grace.