Just when I want to be ranting about the fact that the bank denied our home loan because my husband is a 1099'ed employee without two years' history of "self-employment" (and don't get me started on how that term does not truly apply to clergy AAACK) and want to be complaining about how our schedules are severely interrupted by having to travel into town an hour away and how we can't just "go to Walmart" or have someone over for dessert whenever I have a whim -- just when all of that wants to come gushing out of the not-so-well-spring of my heart ...
I get an email that hits me in the gut. "I have breast cancer," writes a friend of mine. A young friend, with five children the same ages as five of mine. And her upcoming messed-up schedules and difficulties with homeschooling and having to stay too many hours in a place not her home come swirling around me and I shut my mouth.
My husband is incessantly humming "Whate'er My God Ordains Is Right" even as we fume at the underwriters. But he's right. And He's right.
I don't know the end from the beginning. "Soli Deo Gloria," quoth Ethan. And "Semper Ubi Sub Ubi."
"Glory to God Alone." And "Always Where Under Where."
I don't know where any of this is taking us. Where the banks will leave us nor where the doctors' opinions will leave her. But I know Who knows.
And I can sleep on that.