The box on the porch contained my life. Mom went into my room, scooped up all my stuff and threw it into this huge box. Half a lifetime later and I’m still not certain why. I missed that lesson somehow. Still it was a brutal invasion of me and my privacy.
I have always been picky about my stuff. I’m certain it’s a control thing. As a teen I hated it when my sister borrowed my records. I have issues.
My wife and I misplaced the lids to my cycling water bottles. I was going to go riding this morning and couldn’t find them. In my mind I blamed my wife. I realized too I may have put them in the wrong place. I felt myself begin to freak out.
It's about control. Everything in life should be in its perfect place. My trials should all be of size that I can handle. My finances should manageable. My friends shouldn’t get sick with cancer. People should do what’s right (that is, the way I want them to act).
The wife located another water bottle to use. Not my favorite but workable. It still held Gatorade. My ride was still wonderful.
So I would pray with St. Francis,
O Divine Master, grant that I may not so much seek
to be consoled as to console;
to be understood as to understand;
to be loved as to love.
For it is in giving that we receive;
it is in pardoning that we are pardoned;
and it is in dying that we are born to eternal life. Amen
Picture courtesy Ragnar 1984
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