rainbows and butterflies

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We all like to think we welcome change breezily. Maybe some do. I haven’t always this time, I admit.

My overriding feelings toward my latest job change are dedication and enthusiasm. But that’s not always my sentiment in the little in between moments of exasperation, at least not here in the beginning.

Five months ago, I moved jobs and homes within months of each other. I found myself feeling as if I was trying to walk upright in an earthquake. It was unsettling, as earthquakes are. I swung erratically from exhilaration to crankiness. I became spontaneously irritable. Snappy at people who didn’t deserve it. Restless.

This isn’t me, I thought. And worried that it was now. I pushed the feeling down and it welled up again.

But slowly it eased, like sand through fingertips. I felt my color returning. I felt nice again. Happy.

But here I am, forcing myself to reshape to a new reality once more. I already feel the impatience and desperation rising up in me. Here we go, round two.

Daily frustrations intensify it. Today, as I walked across the courtyard from my office to the copy machine for the third time after realizing I needed yet something else, I let a thought I don’t really buy into invade my mind. What have I done?

As I thumbed through paperwork to find mismatching numbers and missing pages, as I’m bombarded by incessant texts and emails and phone calls with questions and more questions and problems, as I pieced together numbers as if I’m trying to force three different puzzles into one picture, a scream tugged on my vocal chords just below the surface of my smile.

It’s all magnified by a recent resurfacing of some old stuff I thought I was done with a year ago. But apparently, it was just hibernating. God is digging a little deeper this time. The surface healing was less painful. Now we’re getting into the atriums and ventricles and arteries of my heart.

On Sunday, emotional and physical exhaustion from the past week were so heavy on me I felt like slipping from the row of chairs at church and onto the floor. Instead, I got up and found the keys on the keyboard through the fogginess.

Today, I took a deep breath and hummed the song that never fails to soothe me. I know that you are for me. I know that you will never forsake me in my weaknesses….

The truth is, this is all temporary and normal. I know that. I think back to my first three weeks in Austria, plunging into a culture and language I didn’t understand  in an echoey empty dormitory while it rained every day. The only thing that kept me there after waking up every morning with a sense of dread was the thought, This will get better. It did. It became one of the best years of my life.

This is so much easier than that. And that same thought is the truth I hold to this time. I tell myself what we tell all of our trip participants: It’s not about me.

God didn’t promise this would be all butterflies and rainbows.


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