Things have been a little trying over here lately. I hate to use the word stressful because I promised myself I had let my ole worrywart persona go, but I’d be lying if I said I wasn’t more than mildly concerned for a second. Initially came the feeling of anxiety, quickly followed by the voice of reason.
“Haha. No need to get upset,” it sang. “You know God’s got this!”
Of course, He does, I’d chuckle to myself, and then I’d do my right best to walk forward in that belief. Well, if you know anything about life you know that believing something, telling yourself the truth, and abiding in that afterwards is the true test. So, even as my heart was proclaiming that God was in control, I still found myself feeling bummed. You know how you’ll have that underlying feeling of melancholy? Or perhaps it’s better described as a trigger-finger feeling. It’s like you’re on the edge, on pins and needles, like you’re expecting the worst to happen, and you’re readying yourself to jump into action. I guess that’s how I found myself feeling. It’s like I was sitting on the end of the bed waiting for a knock at the door, wringing my mental fingers, despite the fact that my Father told me I had plenty of time to get ready before company came.
After a year of renting our home, the time had come for our renters to move on. The thought of losing them saddened me. It meant I had to face the anxiety of paying a large mortgage in a vacant home. It meant the decision of whether to rent again or sell. It meant the hassle of going back on the market, the frustration of paying for electric I wasn’t there to use, or yard maintenance I couldn’t even enjoy. It meant things like unexpected repair costs and trying to reconfigure our budget, for only God knew how long, and of course, the anxiety that is waiting. Waiting for someone else to fall in love with our home like we had once done. The spirit of truth told me it was taken care of, but the fleshy thorn of worry made me feel on edge regardless.
Today we walked back to our enormous truck. It was a huge, black dually (six tires total) 4×4, complete with an engine that could haul 21,000 pounds! Good thing, too, since it’s what we used to pull our traveling home. There’s one thing about moving your house from here to there. You need dependable tires. It’s not just vehicle damage you worry a blowout could bring, but the possible damage it could have on the fifth wheel you’re pulling behind you. We had just left an auto shop, and the gorgeous, deep tread, front wheels gleamed like the best-sought treasure. Wow, they were really good looking. Seeing them made me realize how much we had needed ones that weren’t slick like a seal.
“It was a bit more than I thought it would be,” my husband commented, head down, trying to hide his frustration.
“How much more?” I asked.
“The quote I told you wasn’t labor or mounting and balancing included like I thought,” he answered.
I tried to push down the knot of concern in my throat as we drove back towards home on our brand new, pricey tires. I did mental math in silence.
That’s all the overtime I pulled.
We still need to pay to have the yard work done and floors cleaned.
Mortgage is due next paycheck.
Then the truck payment.
We’ll need to get gas…
I tabulated debits versus credits in my head, cursing the stale housing market of a small southern town.
“Can we go eat,” my eldest asked in a whine. “I’m hungry!”
“No,” my husband and I chimed in unison.
We drove in silence, my brain having a mental pep talk with my nerves.
It’s going to be ok. It’s going to be ok.
“They’re really good tires,” my husband finally said. “We got the best, safest tires, with a great tread rating.”
