Today is the end of summer 2012, and similar to the lame expected teacher assignment, I recently asked my Tuesday morning ladies group to re-cap their summers in a short phrase instead of an essay. Starbucks wasn’t the place for listening to essays anyway, and the piped-in music was distracting. We went around the circle and one said, “Noisy.” In turn, each spoke her piece.
“Historical.” “Growing.” “Busy.” “Crazy.” “Hot.” “Orange.”
I had about two minutes to think before the round-robin ended with me and I volunteered, “Perfect,” hearing God whisper in my ear, “My grace is sufficient for you, for my power is made perfect in weakness.” The ladies nodded their heads, accepting what may have seemed to them a cliché answer while I lingered in thought and they sucked their preferred refreshment through green straws. Christ’s power had been resting on me through this terribly long, quiet and angry time my husband was immobilized flat on his back. Perfect. He had been struck down. Perfect. People were praying. Perfect. I wrote like crazy. Perfect. The sun still rose and sat. Yes, perfect really.
Today is the beginning of fall, and my husband can walk again. My husband is more compassionate. My husband does the dishes. My husband made a chore chart for the kids to pull their weight. Let patience have its perfect work. God, your way is perfect and I am weak, and possibly crazy, busy, noisy, hot, growing and historical too! My skin, however, hasn’t been freakishly orange since the first self-tanners came out in the eighties so I’m hoping to avoid that description until my repeated use of cheap hair coloring kits cast me orange in the gleaming sun. Oh, won’t that be perfect? Yes. Yes it will.