Home made malt loaf from the bread-maker I bought for a tenner in the charity shop down the road (we still have no cooker), with home made red grapefruit marmalade (courtesy of my very lovely sister-in-law), eaten while sitting in our new back garden in the late summer sun. That was yesterday. Today, jacket potatoes are piled in the halogen oven and rice pudding burbles gently in the slow cooker. Little by little, one box, one ladle, one pan, one wooden cross, one picture, one book, one breath, one life-beat at a time, this higgledy house becomes ours.
There’s not a lot of blogging to be had, now that I’m also nearing the end of my Open University module. I have my final assessment due in a fortnight and due to the move I’m slightly behind (that and a marvellously ill-timed accident involving my laptop – I’m currently using Frank’s tablet). Slow and steady wins the race, as FlyLady says. She’s right.
I talk to God as I empty boxes, making this place home, making His place home. I sing praises when flashbacks, still unrelenting, haunt me. The more the past leers up at me, trying to seize and tear down the present, the more I sing and worship my Creator, the One who Made All Things Good. They say our battles are not against things earthly, but spiritual. How true. Abba Anthony spent 20 years in the desert quelling the ‘demons’ that plagued him and as far as I know he hadn’t had a traumatic existence prior. We shouldn’t be surprised when we too have to fight these battles within ourselves over and over. But the victory is already won; this is why we sing.
I shouldn’t be surprised, I suppose, that the flashbacks have intensified. Sometimes it takes being in a ‘safe’ place for your head to be able to process trauma. These traumas have been put on hold for years, so I really shouldn’t be surprised. Also, I am learning how to live step by step, day by day, breath by breath, surrendering everything to Christ. By some miracle I am still standing. I am functioning. This is grace.