Oh, man, this? Again? What is it with me?

Psalm 139 (New International Version)
For the director of music. Of
David. A psalm.

O LORD, you have searched me and you know me.

You know when I sit and when I rise; you perceive my thoughts
from afar.
You discern my going out and my lying down; you are familiar
with all my ways.
Before a word is on my tongue you know it
completely, O LORD.

You hem me in—behind and before; you have laid your hand upon
me.
Such knowledge is too wonderful for me, too lofty for me to
attain.
Where can I go from your Spirit? Where can I flee from
your presence?
If I go up to the heavens, you are there; if I make
my bed in the depths, you are there.
If I rise on the wings of the
dawn, if I settle on the far side of the sea,
even there your hand will
guide me, your right hand will hold me fast.

Sometimes being me just wears me out, you know? Yesterday at lunch, I was working on my soon-to-be prize-winning entry essay on being a grown up. And nothing less than earth-shatteringly poignant with a hint of hilarity is going to do. I can see it all in my head. And as I wrote it, I cried. That happens to me a lot, the writing/crying combo. Any "writers" out there? Is that normal? It probably doesn't matter whether it is or not. Anyway, in this essay I'm covering a lot of ground: from making the phone calls in the hospital after my father died to preparing the turkey, my first poultry project ever, for the Christmas after my mother died. And it's really funny how I start out with no idea where I'm headed (other than the vague idea that somebody might find my turkey trauma amusing), I splatter words all over the paper, and then that idea starts to come to me, the idea that really needs to be the focus. I went from thinking I'm writing about the moment when it became clear that I was absolutely all 100% totally on my own in this world (except for the weird, unappetizing, pink-y gross turkey that still needed some of its insides to come out. And the houseful of relatives headed my way to enjoy said turkey. And the friends who'd cook the stupid turkey for me. That's not the point, OK? In my world, moms have the answers to life's most troubling questions: how long to cook the turky, how long to boil an egg, what I should wear to that party and if I have to go, how I should cut my hair...important stuff like that and it's impossible to fill that spot, at least for me. Dad covered every bit of trivia, Mom got the rest of it) to realizing how, thanks to my parents and what they gave me, I might be on my own now but I have everything I need to make it and so I'm going to be OK, no matter how many raw, nude turkeys there are waiting for me. It's a powerful thing to know and as I write, I feel all uplifted and such.

Until I realize that this is the very same lesson I learn over and over and over about God, His love for me, how He teaches me and I don't even know it and how dedicated He is to me even though I remain as easily distracted as ever. And then I just want to bang my head on my desk. Clearly, it is not a good idea to risk any more brain cells.

I want to see Him, touch Him, pick up the phone and call Him, but He's there, I know what I need to know, and now I just have to carry on. It, like preparing turkeys for Christmas dinner, just really is not all that difficult. Sheesh. But you knew that already, right?

Thank you, God, for giving me as many chances as it takes to get it. And for giving me the parents that you did, parents who gave me what I need to make it and to laugh along the way.