Life is like a pot of pasta

Up until four years ago, I always had electric stoves.  Electric stoves are much less scary than gas ones; my first exposure to a gas stove was up at my grandparents' trailer/cabin where you had to click the flint thingy to get the stove to light.  Absolutely terrified me.  Give me the good old red coil with the metal drip pans any day.  The main drawback to the electric stove is, it is really hard to regulate the heat.  I would (daily) put a saucepan on the stove to cook up some pasta, or frozen vegetables, and, I would turn up the heat to get the water boiling.  However, once I put the pasta into the pan, inevitably, the foam would rise.  There would be the great sprint to the stove, the frantic turning of the dial, the nearly futile lifting of the saucepan off the stove, and the inevitable boil over onto the hot burner and into the drip pan.  Instead of if the pan would boil over, it was always more of how much would it boil over.  The mess was the trade-off for the ease and safety of the electric stove.  When we bought our current house, there was a gas stove in the kitchen.  Andrew was adamant that we keep it.  Since he was the cook in the house, I let it go.  I soon discovered that a gas stove is pretty nice.  Since our house was not a trailer/cabin in the middle of the cow farms of northern Minnesota, the stove had an internal flint and I didn't have to click anything.  Another bonus: flame control.  There is significantly less over-boil on a gas stove.  I promise this all has a point, and that point is not that I like having a gas stove.

For the past four months, my emotions have been like a gas stove.  I have been fairly able to contain and control the flame.  Yes, there is a spark, and sometimes a flare, but very rarely is there a boil-over.  I can sense when the sadness, the anger, the fear are getting close to the surface, and I could turn down the heat enough to keep everything in the pan.  The result has been a lot like my cooking: pretty basic and surface-level.  I was never a creative cook because 1) cooking was never my passion, 2) I always ended up having to eat whatever I made (good or bad), and 3) I can eat the same thing every day and not have a problem with that.  There's nothing worse than slaving away to make an elaborate meal, only to discover you don't like it, and now you have 4 days worth of meals you don't like.  I have kept my emotions pretty basic and surface-level out of self-preservation.  I am fully aware that there are layers and facets of grief I haven't even begun to touch.  When the only alone time you have is the 15 minutes to work in the morning, and the 15 minutes home from work in the afternoon, there isn't much space for big feels.  Yes, I cry.  Yes, I get sad in front of my children.   But Mr. M and Little Miss are nearly 5 and nearly 3.  They do not have the capacity to understand big feels coming from Mommy.  They need stability and love.  They need routine and consistency.  They need to know that Mommy is sad, but she's okay.  The problem is, Mommy is not okay.

Lately, my emotions have become more of a pot on the electric stove.  They are harder to control.  I'm tired.  I know, every parent says that, but I am.  I'm still not sleeping through the night, even with prescription sleep medication.  Work is the calmest part of my day.  I teach Kindergarten-2nd graders; 11 different groups a day.  That is the calmest part of my day.  Weekends are brutal.  But it isn't just being tired that makes it so difficult.  It's being alone. 

I still pick up my phone throughout the day to send Andrew a text.  It's less than it was in the beginning, but it's still a stark reminder that he's not there.  Throughout the day, I will have moments in my day that tickle my funny bone, or make me insane.  When I get home, there's no one to share them with.  There's no debriefing my day, or even anyone to ask me about my day.  My children don't care.  They want their chicken nuggets, tator tots, french fries, and ketchup.  Every.  Single.  Day.  (At least I know they're mine!)  When the whining and complaining starts, when Little Miss starts painting the table with ketchup, when Mr. M won't leave me alone, there's no one to tag team with.  I'm in zone defense 24 hours a day.  When there's a sick kid up all night, when someone has a nightmare, when the small people refuse to cooperate; it's all me. 

The real pain comes in not having a partner anymore.  Inside jokes aren't so funny when the other person isn't there anymore.  I don't have someone to talk about my day with, or vent my frustrations.  I don't have a champion in my corner to remind me that I'm not a terrible person, terrible mother, or terrible teacher.  The person who knew me best on this earth and loved me anyway isn't there.  The security of not having to explain myself or defend myself is gone.  I don't have anyone to argue with over Netflix, or someone to go to the movies with.  With COVID-19 raging all around us, I feel this even more acutely.  Emotions are high all over the place; people are stressed.  Fear and cabin fever have us behaving in ways we would never imagine before.  I'm currently quarantined with my children, and the walls feel like they're closing in.  It isn't about help.  Help is great, and many people offer to help and have offered to help.  My wounded heart just can't take much more, and it is being stretched further every day.  Just when I think there is a break on the horizon, it turns out to be the foot of another mountain.  It's getting harder and harder to keep climbing. 

And so, on days like today, the pot boils over and I can't stop it.  I try to turn down the heat, but the burner stays hot.  And it's messy.  With two small children who are firmly in self-centered existence, it doesn't matter if mom is a mess, or if she's sobbing in the kitchen.  The world doesn't slow down or even pause to let mom grieve.  Please don't misunderstand; I don't expect the world to halt and treat me with kid gloves.  I am one hurting person in a world of hurting people.  One of the hazards of being seen as "strong" is that those around me don't know what to do when I'm not, or can't be anymore.  I'm not strong.  I'm a mess.

In my morning reading this morning, the author (Paul David Tripp...fantastic mustache that man has...look him up) was talking about how, as a Christ-follower, if I want to claim his blessings and his promises, I have to also accept his authority and sovereignty.  Ouch.  Can't have one without the other.  If I am going to stand boldly and claim that God works for the good of those who love Him, and that he never gives me more than I can handle, then I also have to stand just as boldly and claim that God allowed Andrew to die, and that was always part of his plan.  And while I may not understand the plan and am in a world of pain right now, God is in control.  I think a lot of people are comfortable claiming the promises, but would really like to skip over the authority and sovereignty part.  I don't know why this is the path God has put me on.  I don't know how it is all going to work out.  I don't understand so many things.  I can't see how my pain is going to become a blessing.  I can only pray that somehow in all of this, people can see Christ.  Tonight, life hurts, but God is still good.  I want to hide in a corner and cry for a year, but God is still here, wiping the tears from my eyes.  I so badly wish that it didn't have to be me on this journey, but it is, and God will be glorified.  I'm still singing. 

"Let go, my soul, and trust in Him,
The waves and wind still know his name.
So, let go, my soul and trust in Him,
It is well,
With my soul,
It is well, it is well with my soul."