Topography of the Mind

Apparently the old saw “If you can’t say anything nice…” applies to blogging, too. So I haven’t blogged. I feel guilty about unloading all my angst on the hapless half-dozen who might cruise by here.

Or maybe I’m just cautious about provoking my computer. Because when my computer gets mad at me, he does really brutal things in retaliation. We have kind of a toxic relationship. I have a call into an abuse victims’ hotline.

[Nice computer. Good boy!]

As almost anyone who knows me could have predicted, my previous wave of positivity washed up on the shore and slunk back out to sea, leaving a lot of spiny and disgusting creatures rotting on the beach. Maybe it was the unwelcome revelation that my hubby could be without work until January. Or later. Maybe it was the laundry scattered all over the house, the dirty dishes overflowing the sink, the toys flung hither and yon and the mound of crap on my desk. Maybe it’s the strange clicking noise my knee makes as I’m walking down the stairs.

I haven’t felt like doing anything but wallowing. And I haven’t felt like sharing my wallow because the present outlook is much too breezy for a public martyrdom. (You feel less guilty when you wallow in private. Then you can hose off the mud before you leave the house.)

Here’s what we know:

The Dragonslayer is still a free agent. The calls coming in bode ill for my plans for new living room curtains.

Richland, Washington? Ewww, rain.

Pittsburgh? Ewww, snow.

San Antonio? Ewww, scorpions.

Illinois? Ewww,  socialists. And snow.

You see, we don’t really do cold weather. Or Yankee accents. Or big, poisonous bugs.

Ring-ring. Hello, this is Reality calling… Is the lady of the house, at home?

Yes, yes. When it comes down to it, if the alternative is financial ruin, we choose bugs. Grudgingly.

I remember a show on Discovery Channel about the Battle of Antietam, the single bloodiest day in the history of America warfare. One of the factors leading to Antietam’s high casualty rate was a topographical quirk of the battlefield. The gist of it was this: the Rebel forces held the top of a slope as the Union troops were approaching from below. The Yankees were getting slaughtered in droves — until they reached a point where the slope dipped into a hollow. Once in the hollow, the Yankees had complete cover until they emerged, virtually on top of the Rebel lines, where they unleashed their own hellfire and damnation and all but annihilated the opposition.

I don’t know why I told that story…

Oh, wait. The point was that I see some parallels to my mental topography right now. (Not exact parallels. I’m hankering to avoid annihilation, for example.) I have full faith and confidence in God’s ability to live up to His promises. Eventually. But I also know there’s a whole battlefield out there that I can’t see. And it’s driving me crazy.

Hey, uh, Lord, if you would please, um, maybe later today… You know, when you have the time… If you could just maybe, um, fill me in on what you were planning to — No? Okay, no problem. I understand. It’s fine. Completely fine. I trust you. Maybe tomorrow?

Uncertainty was never my thing. I mean, I can adjust to whatever-it-is if I just know whatever it is.  And right now, there’s nothing for me to do but sit in my hidey-hole and wait.


Our guest teacher at church this morning was a Palestinian-born former Muslin who helped found what I’m guessing is the only evangelical seminary that exists in the Middle East, all in the face of tremendous opposition. After giving us his testimony and a brief overview of the challenges facing a Christian seminary in the heart of the Islamic world, he spoke on the subject of doubt.

Okay, yes, I’m guessing he probably knows a thing or two about the subject.

Peter stood on the waves of the sea— with Christ at his elbow — and doubted. The Apostles — men who’d seen Him heal the blind, raise the dead and cast out demons — stood before the Risen Christ and doubted.

Sometimes I’d rather doubt. Or pout. Or both. It’s easier to act like a brat than trust God is sovereign. Especially when I make excuses: Well, if the Risen Christ showed up at my doorstep, I would be a lot less likely to doubt than those idiotic Apostles…

Whatever helps you sleep at night, sweetheart.

I can chafe or I can trust.  Trying this again… Wish me luck.

About The Chatelaine

The Dragonslayer's Wife. Mother of two Knights of The Realm. Keeper of the castle. Dame of The Order of Goldfish. Empress of Errands. Mistress of Leftovers. Writer betimes. Luckiest woman in the world.
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