In between the plumber knocking on the window and Isaac putting another crack in his hiney and one phone call from one desperate pastor, pacing the floor in his warehouse, I raise high my white flag this morning.
I fly it with exuberance and I throw the other hand in the air, just for good measure, to wave at Jesus.
A smile plays on my lips and in my mind’s eye, I see myself bowing low, a sort of curtsy, in a field of green splendor with a clean blue sky behind me, my white flag competing with the one cloud floating overhead.
Movie-esque, if that is even a word.
The plumber bangs his gloved knuckles on the window again and I’m snapped back into my reality.
And that reality is ankle-deep, stinky sludge, constant drizzle, dark, cloud-filled skies, 6 crabby kids, 1 burdened hubby who has forgotten he’s supposed to be counting his gifts today, and 1 church with no place to call home…except my home.
So, I wave my flag, my torn bandana left over from last year’s pirate costume tied to a stick left over my Jesse Tree, and I stand in my brown, poopy covered yard and I bow. But this is no curtsy, mind you. It is a big ‘ole, lay on your face sort of bow, and I plead for some relief.
And the God who hears and cares and loves, well, He sees me, in all of my poop covered glory, and He’s been waiting for me to wave that white flag for over a year now.
So I do the only thing I can do.
I pick myself up off the ground, shake the mud from my flag and smile, a full on cheesy grin.
And I stick my flag in a pot of dead flowers, on my front porch, to just remind me.
I’m sure to forget…probably by tomorrow.