thoughts on fighting
I had all these honorable intentions of posting up the recipe to my new creation for Blackberry Mint Julep cupcakes this past weekend.
And then Friday, I found out that I lost my internship.
The owner of the bakery, for some reason that wasn’t shared with me, decided he didn’t want interns this summer. After my paperwork for school was already filled out. And I had paid for the internship course. And had worked for a week. In the middle of the night. I received an embarrassed call from the manager to tell me the news, along with his apologies, and am now left trying to figure out what to do next.
And then on Saturday, my mother and I got into a car accident.
One more foot farther into the intersection and both of us could have been killed. We were heading through a green light in an intersection up the street from my sister Johanna’s house and were struck on the front left side by a truck going probably about 50 mph through a red light. Thank God, he struck us about a foot from my mother’s door and aside from being a little sore, both of us are fine. His truck flipped, landed on its cab hood, and somehow, miraculously, the guy crawled out and took off running. We later found out it wasn’t his car and that there were open alcohol bottles in the truck. I am so grateful that everyone is okay, but it shook me up.
So I went to my parents’ and made us a frittatta. Heading to the kitchen is all I know to do when things are shaken.
My mom joked me that we have to stop getting into these life-threatening situations together.
It made me think back to our first one — August 28, 1984. The night my mother went into labor with me, two and a half months before I was due. My mother doesn’t remember much of what happened that night or into the morning of August 29th, when I was brought into the world at 2 lbs. 4 oz. My father spent his time in the waiting room, trying to grapple with the fact that the doctors told him he may lose both his wife and unborn child and be left to raise two young daughters on his own. My sisters were only 6 and 4 and didn’t really understand what was going on. They weren’t allowed to see me until I was two months old, when I was finally able to exist outside of an incubator and tubes, and could go home.
Sometimes, as I am walking forward in this season in my life, “living out my dreams,” I need to be shaken by suffering. I need to be reminded of the fragility of life and the ways that pain shapes who we are. I need to be reminded that God is my lifesource and that His mercies for me are new every morning.
We have today. That’s all. That’s it.
Fight for it.