The Post Where We Jump Plum Off Of The Train Like We Were Stunt Men. Or Women. Whatever.

So I don’t think it comes as much of a surprise to any of y’all that I am a bit… how do I say it in English? High maintenance.  Unless you’re new to Jedi Mama, Inc., and THEN you might think that I’m just a bit quirky.

The kind of quirky that doesn’t involve Hubs continually saying, “WHOA, NANCY!  REIGN HER IN AND CALM IT DOWN!  THE PLANET IS STILL SPINNING!”

Hubs  is the balancing weight to my lifestyle.  I’m Type A Plus Three, and Hubs is Type S.  And Type S is quite a long ways away from the A Plus 3.  The kitchen junk drawer will push Hubs over the edge if he can’t open it THE VERY FIRST TIME and also EASILY.  If a lone Phillips screwdriver is wedged in there sideways, and Hubs can only get the drawer out two inches without shoving his fingers in there to dislodge the offending tool, he’ll snap.  And then he’ll yank the entire drawer out, dump ALL of its contents onto the floor, lasso a black cloud of ugly words and pull it right over the top of his head, and then he’ll sort through the mess and organize things nicely, even though he knows in the depth of his soul that the kitchen junk drawer is not something I take seriously, so I’ll just mess it up again in a matter of days by throwing random items in there all willy-nilly.  Also… slow drivers in front of Hubs will take him to a place where he wishes he had a loud speaker system strapped to the side of his truck so that he could boldly announce for the community to hear, “You!  Little old lady with the cardigan sweater driving her Buick Electra at a solid 18 miles per hour in a 40!  Pull the bleepity-bleep over.  Your slowness is making my head throb beyond what a good Excedrin can handle!”

Other than those two things, Hubs is Type S.  Everything else in this world (EVERYTHING!) is water off of a duck’s back to him, but the junk drawer and elderly drivers make him wish that he had more feet to kick things with.  Thankfully, his Type S personality balances me out most of the time, because Hubs simply never worries about things.  Ever.

This morning, Theresa and I were talking (as we are prone to do, because if there’s one thing the two of us can do, it’s burn up the batteries in our iPhones), and she was telling me that her daughter was in the emergency room all night, because of some stomach pains that were enough to drop her down to the floor with tears.  And Theresa said, “The abdominal X-ray scares me a bit, because there’s SOMETHING there, which the doctor said is PROBABLY some fluid build-up, and they’ll check it out more with further tests, but all I can think is the single word TUMOR.”

Oh yes, ma’am.  Just as Theresa and I held hands together at high school graduation, and on our first day of college, and when we got married, I was right beside her on this one.

Because for the last week, the boy had been complaining about a pain in his shoulder.  And it wasn’t just any old, run-of-the-mill, ordinary pain that an eleven year old boy experiences after he has spent hours throwing a football at the cute neighbor boy as he rode through the cul de sac on a motorized scooter.  With as many times as the boy threw the ball at the cute neighbor boy, trying to knock him off his scooter in the name of Fun Games Boys Invent To Play That Could Lead To Massive Head Trauma, my shoulder would have disintegrated into ash.  Ash, people!  (It’s because my shoulder doesn’t know any exercise greater than carrying a fully-loaded laundry basket up and down the stairs.)  So this is what I assumed had happened with the boy’s first complaint — muscle pain, as it relates to trying to hit his neighbor in the head and dislodge him from his scooter one thousand and fourteen times.  And then the complaints became more and more, and the boy began waking up in the middle of the night, crying for me to rub Icy Hot into his shoulder blade.  He wore so much Icy Hot this past week, he smelled like a nursing home.  When this had gone on for a solid week, and the pain in his shoulder seemed even worse than when it first started, I immediately thought TUMOR.

And I told this to Hubs.  And Hubs said, “Honey, you always crawl into the worst-case-scenario car on the train FIRST.  You never start with an easier car for your first jump.  You ALWAYS run and jump and land, feet first, in the train’s car that has the worst possible news as an outcome.  It must be exhausting being you.”

He has no idea.

And then Hubs made some more small talk about how I should learn to trust a bit more, because even though he watches strange reality shows with our son that make me roll my eyes into the clear back of my head, Hubs has himself some wisdom to bestow sometimes.  And Hubs is one of my favorite people ever.

I’ve been mulling that over a lot this week — what Hubs said about trusting — because do y’all know what?  Well, I took the boy to the chiropractor on Monday afternoon.  Dr. H announced that YES and INDEED!  The boy’s back was ridiculously out of place, and his shoulder blade was wedged clear the heck over in territory where it should not have been.  Dr. H did some popping and some crunching and some manipulating, and a $15-copay later, we left his office.  And on Tuesday morning, the boy woke up and said, “Mom!  My shoulder is so much better!  I almost feel normal again with it!  It barely even hurts now!”

And that phrase was a definite balm to my soul.

So that’s what has been on my mind a lot for the past two days — that I don’t trust God with the small things in my life very well, because I like to be the one driving.  I like to be the one who gets to put on the blinker and turn the steering wheel and adjust the radio knobs when I want to.  What I forget is that God is still every bit as powerful today as he was when He split the Red Sea in half.  And He still knows my name.  And He still wants me to trust Him to drive.

Because the honest truth is that I’m not a very good driver, according to Hubs.  Although (and this is a rabbit trail) I backed down a LENGTHY driveway the other day, while Hubs was my passenger.  And I backed up completely straight.  And I didn’t bump the garbage cans or a tree behind me.  And when we emerged onto the main road a bit later, Hubs said, “You actually impressed me with your backing skills today, and it takes A LOT to impress me with driving, because I’m pretty much the best driver I know.  In fact, usually other drivers simply IRRITATE me, because they drive too slowly.”

Yes.  Yes, we know this to be the case, because PLEASE ASK HUBS WHO WAS PULLED OVER THIS PAST SATURDAY FOR DOING 49 IN A 40?  And don’t let him tell you, “I was passing the little blue-haired lady in the Buick Electra,” because that wasn’t the case.  Hubs was picking up some speed on a hill, people.  And now we’re going to be a bit poorer for his NASCAR foot.

No matter.  We’re also poorer because I had a manicure this morning, so… CALLING IT NICE AND EVEN!

But another thing?

Even if the health outcome for my boy hadn’t been something as easy as an adjustment at the chiropractor’s office, I still have to remember that whatever happens to my son has to go through God FIRST, and that it’ll only get to the boy if God has already approved it for something better.  And jumping into the train’s worst-case scenario car years ahead of time isn’t going to do me a lick of good.

I just need to trust more.

But I do need to jump JUST ONE MORE TIME into the Worst Possible Outcome car, because I have to grab Theresa’s hand and yank her back out with me and reassure her that God is so much bigger than a questionable area on a CT scan, which is probably a spot where some fluid has built up.

And He’s so much bigger than the pain a little boy has had in his shoulder for a solid week.

And even if all of my Googling on WebMD that produced buckets of articles entitled YOUR SON MAY HAVE THE CURSE OF DEATH RIDING SHOTGUN ON HIS SHOULDER BLADE come true… Well… God is even big enough to handle THAT.

And I just hope that Theresa and I are big enough to trust Him with it all.

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