After nearly three weeks away (first out of the country, then out of my state), I’m back home. The first thing I did when I came through the door yesterday was to pet the dogs –I hesitate to admit how much I missed them–and to sniff the air. Our house smelled stale, like mold, kind-of. But the friend who cared for our two dogs and Russian tortoise while we were away had cleaned the place, bless her, and changed the sheets. She was even trying to prepare chicken for us before we stopped her. It definitely wasn’t her causing the smell.
I’m always anxious right up to the time I catch a plane somewhere. Not-so-deep-down, I believe that if I don’t prepare for every domestic eventuality, heading off each maybe with typed lists and Martha Stewart efficiency, things will go horribly wrong while I’m away, and I’ll pay for them in the end. Every, single time I leave.
But, so far, things have been OK when I’ve returned. Sometimes even better than OK. I know that God is teaching me how to trust him, one tarmac at a time, though I’m in the slow group when it comes to these kinds of lessons.
Because, in the end, there is so much that is out of my hands. I (purposely) forget that as queen of my little domain. It’s only when I leave that I’m reminded how fragile, how miraculous, the everyday workings of life really are. So then it’s pure, blinky-eyed luxury to walk back through the door and find that my home world kept turning without my managing it, even if the air is slightly funky.
I’m tucking these travel revelations away to chew on later, and, like some desert animal, I’ll call them up when I need them again.
But I plan to set off one of those mold bombs, too, just in case.