Crazy Okay

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Inside my head, I’m crazy okay. Ridiculous. How thoughts can be chill in the middle of everything happening all at once. This week, submitting another proposal, prepping my talks for camp next week, packing the last few boxes, ready to load the Big Blue Box on the driveway outside. Every evening I connect Bluetooth, GOAT playlist on shuffle, Nils’ 170+ soul-care songs. Yesterday we chatted on speaker phone while I made dinner, me telling Nils how I’d exhausted his list, Spotify kicking in with one of its own, not nearly as good. “You listened to ALL 170?!” Well, maybe. I’ve packed a lot of boxes.

Twenty-three years on Orchid Street. Five kids and one dog, not counting husband. Making piles of whose-is-whose, and what’s-going-where. And all things considered, I’m crazy okay.

The crazy comes out in physical manifestations of involuntary responses. I’ve become a horrible passenger, backseat driver. Startling and gasping at minor infractions, perceived or otherwise. Knee-jerk reacting, hands flailing, husband claiming injury by fingernails to forearm flesh. Borderline madness, and I make it a matter of prayer one morning, ask God for healing. Which is when it hits me. This might be a warning-light on the proverbial dashboard. Perhaps I’m not as chill as I think.

The Jeep is back, parked on the street, after round-two of post-deer maintenance. A month or so ago, coming home from the lake at dusk, we knew to watch out. Previous trips successfully skirting the occasional herd. Unpredictable creatures. Hard to say who hit whom, Jeep faring better than Doe. Two weeks on a body-shop wait list, one week haggling insurance, mending seeable damage. Two days back in our possession, me saying from the start, something’s not quite right. A trip to the airport, Luke barely making it back to Andover, back into garage, the old girl’s steaming like mad, hissing something awful. Next day Kyle’s halfway back to the body shop, calling a for a tow. Radiator, of course. Back home again now.

Flashing lights on a dashboard. A previous pastor liked to remind us at staff meetings. Heed the warnings. A nerve in my neck, seizing up for the second time this week, debilitating for a few seconds, but I shake it off, get back to work. A jaw achy from nighttime clenching. But inside my head, I’m crazy okay.

The dog knows something’s up. You can see the skepticism in her body language, head down, tail drooping, watching her people scramble about, filling boxes. Man’s best friend is savvy enough to know changes are brewing. That, and she’s somehow managed to mangle her paw just this week, no idea how it happened. Jimmy’s scheduled today for his required doctor’s visit—pre-college/pre-soccer. Might as well throw in a trip to the vet, load up the Jeep for a swing through Goodwill.

But I’m crazy okay. We’re almost there; we’re going to make it. Just a few more boxes, and some heavy lifting. And then, Sunday, I’ll pack my own bags into the Rogue, leaving Jeep behind for hauling trailer loads of everything we’re taking with us to Grammy’s and Brian’s and the shed at the lake. The guys will finish out their final days on Orchid Street minus Mom. Crazy timing, to be sure, for my week at camp. But I’m feeling ready. Excited even.

I put finishing touches on a week’s worth of camp talks, telling nine- to eleven-year-olds God is the Hero of Your Story—and there’s no doubt I’d be sunk if He wasn’t. No other way to explain this crazy feeling that all of this is perfect timing, a perfect plan, His perfect provision, and when it’s all said and done this whole family, including the dog–will be CRAZY OKAY.

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