June was insane. I finished a draft of my third novel by writing every day for thirty days, no excuses, including weekends (I logged about 40,000 words). During ten of those days, my husband was singing in California, leaving me to parent our 12, 13, and 14-year-old on my own (read: forage for brightly colored foods like pop ice and cheese and binge-watch old episodes of House while the kids played too many video games when they should have been sleeping).
(Photo by my son, Ivan)
By the time my husband finally came home in early July my youngest sister and her three kids were already visiting our home to celebrate Independence Day. Then, suddenly, my grandmother passed away, and my middle sister and her three kids drove thirteen hours to join the rest of us during that hard time. The last seven days are a smear of lipstick and tears.
And, to quote Sarah Mclachlan, I’m so tired that I can’t sleep.
A few things come to mind: 1). Life happens in contractions. There’s the normal we get bored of and there’s the pain we resent. 2). We don’t appreciate the respite without the strain in-between, and 3). You can still get a lot of stuff done in chaos, but you’re always glad when you managed to work ahead and can somewhat avoid that I-can’t-feel-my-feet feeling.
And then there’s this. God is always good, even when life isn’t.