And then the red sock...

Well, actually it was red sleeves on an otherwise light blue baby shirt. But the result was the same. In the 20 years or so since laundry became "my job," I have never turned a load of lights pink. Until that day. And that day, it was the final straw. And so I cried. I didn't tear up. I didn't sniff and dab at the corners of my eyes. I sobbed. I sobbed until I was almost sick. I sobbed until my throat muscles ached from exertion. I sobbed until my eyes swelled and stung from tears. I sobbed until I was utterly wrung out -- exhausted.

And then I stopped, and (in my accustomed fashion) began to hyper-analyze what exactly about a load of pink laundry (which, by the way, came clean on a second wash) could send me spiraling into hysteria. So now, almost six months later, I'm looking back -- and forward. I'm seeking God for the order so desperately lacking in my life. And maybe, as I sit here reflecting in these ridiculous hours of the morning, I can share the journey. Why was I there? Why am I here?

The sun will rise and I will face a new day. I pray I will steward it well, but also to submit my shortfall to perfectly sufficient grace.