Some days the pressure is just too much. Nineteen months and counting. Nineteen months of rejection letters, revised resumes, watching our savings dwindle to zero, depending on odd jobs and the church to help us as money runs low.
People have done unbelievably kind things for us. A friend sent my kids new bike helmets and Easter treats, little care packages arrive in the mail, brightening my day, anonymous friends have dropped cashiers checks off on our doormat- generosity that I’m unable to even thank them for… We have been richly blessed by this trial- I can see that already, and it’s not even over.
There are some days, days when the kids are crabby, days when we didn’t perhaps get enough sleep, days when maybe my hormones are insane, days when a new bill comes in, or the sink explodes- those are the days I feel like I’m in a pressure cooker, and I need a release or I might die.
Those are the days where David and I become adversaries instead of companions trying to row the same flimsy boat. Those are the days where yelling overtakes the house, followed by unsettled wars of quiet. Those are the days tears spill down cheeks and eyes cut at each other in anger.
How are we? Fine. We’re going to survive. I stand alone in the garage doorway as my husband goes out to lick his wounds, and I retreat into the rapidly warming July house, to do the same. Mine wounds are bigger. No, mine are. You hurt me worse, no YOU hurt me worse. The pressure cooker rattles on. Eventually it’s too much and the steam finds tiny fissures and escapes with a scalding scream. Steam burns are the worse.
I smile and nod, like Tom Seleck. How am I? Shoulder shrug, nod, “Fine.”