Monday was a bit of a bad day. Tropical Storm Debby hit us. On that note, who is in charge of picking out these names? Wherever those people are, they are having a bit of a chuckle. Debby? Really? Debby is a name that conjured up images of mom jeans and freshly baked pies. Destruction and chaos - not so much. Storms should be manly, powerfully named. Tropical Storm Roman Maximus Centaur? I'll take it. But Hurricane Susie or Tropical Storm Roger? C'mon people. As a species, we're smashing sub-atomic particles together in a lab under the ground in Europe and we can't think of more appropriate names for damage causing storms? Ridiculous.
Back to Monday. What with all the flooding caused by (sigh) Debby, our 70's septic system just shrugged its shoulders and stopped trying. When my husband flushed the toilet that morning, it overflowed. The bath rugs soon gave off the acidic tang of urine. At 6 am. So there we were, trapped in our house in a deluge of rain with three kids 6 and under. We went to Walmart around noon so we could all go to the bathroom and I can't say that it was much of an improvement over squatting in the yard. It was at Walmart the I noticed the black shorts I wore that day felt a little different. Upon further inspection, I noted that they were maternity shorts. MATERNITY SHORTS, PEOPLE. The worst part is, I didn't even notice for about 4 hours. So I'm standing in Walmart wearing maternity shorts while my womb is decidedly empty and has been for, oh, over a year. I may or may not have eaten 3 cake cookies that afternoon to calm my distress. In my defense, they had no panel. No panel, I swear!
Monday afternoon came the plumber, who dug around in the yard for a couple hours and declared there was nothing he could do. The septic guys came at 4 and pumped it out. Sigh of relief. An hour later, the toilets overflowed again. Right before youth group. Pouring rain, roads flooded, toilets clogged. We whispered to each other that perhaps we should have canceled group that night.
As is always the case, I'm so glad we didn't. The middle school age group is...interesting. They still have the sweetness of being a kid paired with the volatility of being a teen. Right on the cusp of figuring out who they are, it is a privilege to be a part of their lives at this pivotal time. Matt and I raced around playing freeze tag and balloon volleyball, our joints audibly creaking. We get to have so much fun with them, this group of kids. Youth ministry is one of those things you initially get into for others. God puts a call over your life and you do it. Maybe happily or maybe stomping your feet like a toddler all the way. Fine, I'll do it for them, to better their lives. And in the end, whether it's youth ministry or soup kitchens or third world missions, it's you who is changed for the better. Youth ministry challenges me to keep my walk with God real, to lay my struggles before others, to get in better shape so I can cream them in tag.
Monday evening we made the decision to pack up and head to my parents, whose plumbing was intact. We left at 10:30 that night, with three fussy kids, in a downpour. It was like the Exodus, fleeing our homeland with a plague of frogs spread out on the roads before us. In the midst of driving 50 mph on I-10, tailing Matt's car as close as I can so he can guide the way, I thanked God for youth group. For pulling me back to Him at the end of a bad day. Amid the cake cookies and the Justin Beiber haircuts and the raucous games, He is there.
No comments:
Post a Comment