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.