I feel like I'm always writing on here when I'm sad, but whatever. I write when I'm happy, too. And today I feel happy. Sam is napping, so I've had the house to myself. I've made healthy-ish brownies, listened to the Speaking of Faith podcast, straightened the house. Maybe some will judge me for straightening my house on Sunday, but I feel like it's been a physical manifestion of a much-needed spiritual straightening. So at least my rationalization is fancy and metaphorical.
I've been thinking I need to write down my little miracles, my humble gratitudes, etc. So here I am.
Yesterday I was sad. More than sad. I've had my bummer teaching days, but this was more like the heavy, aching depression that I experienced last year, and have been fighting off for months. I don't know how to describe it if you haven't felt it. Nothing was wrong: Sam and I went to an incredible performance in Cambridge (see other blog), we had a ward Christmas brunch, the kitties were cute and our house is cozy and the semester is ending and we love each other. And yet, sad. It's like being tired, but through every bit of you--like every cell, every atom of you is lifeless, weighed down, slow. It's awful. Really really awful.
So I went to bed at 5:30pm. I woke up a few times, once to eat, a few times to sit quietly with Sam while he worked on his computer. But mostly I slept. And every time I woke up, I would think of having to go to church today, and feel incapable of going. Not like being there would be a problem, but getting there would be impossible. I couldn't imagine doing the simplest tasks: put on my shoes, brush my teeth, feed myself breakfast, drive there. I always go to church. It fills me up for the next week. I know I need it, even if I don't want to get there. But I really didn't think I was going to make it. Thinking if I'd ever been ill, I was ill yesterday, I had pretty much decided to stay home.
I woke up this morning with plenty of time to get ready, but I still felt rotten, so I went back to bed. And I prayed this little prayer, my head still on the pillow, that if He wanted me there, He would get me out of bed somehow. I'll be honest: I didn't think He could do it. But sure enough, at 8:06, at nearly the last moment I could wake up to make it on time for the sacrament, my phone rang. Half asleep, I was sure God himself was calling me. And He sort of was, because it was my miracle: my visiting teach-ee, who doesn't own a car, had overslept. It takes her an hour to get to church by train, and she wouldn't have made it unless I got up right then, threw my clothes on, and gave her a ride.
She's never called me before for a ride, although I've offered. She's this totally with-it sort of law student, so it's not like she's a chronic over-sleeper. Of all days, of all things, of all moments.
He loves me. I remember. And I need church. I remember.
Nothing amazing happened in my meetings. I was just there, where I needed to be. There was this moment during Sunday School, where I looked around and saw all of these lovely people bending over their scriptures, their hands raising with insights and thoughts and spirit. And I thought, that's all I'm here for, to participate, to take part. It was enough to renew me, at least for now. What a blessing.