A Time to Talk

Apparently there's this whole recovery phase inside of the recovery bubble.  It's the "recovering from a traumatic week while you're working recovery" phase.

My house went to heck. 
And that's okay.

Because messy houses don't matter as much as I thought they did, and -good news -you can pay any number of people to come and clean for you.  There's always 17 year old girls looking to earn a few bucks, and they don't mind doing dishes. 

This past weekend, the Lord sent me an overwhelming answer.  I spent a week calling out to him from my lone and dreary soul, and His answer was direct and beautiful.  His answers aren't always so, and I see the amazing blessing of this weekend for what it is.
Two people I know in real life -people I knew as a kid -have come into my life and have said, "Hey.  Me too."

This weekend has been full of visiting and connecting and authenticity -really so beautiful.  And the house was a mess, but it didn't matter.

There's a Robert Frost poem I love...


A Time to Talk
When a friend calls to me from the road
And slows his horse to a meaning walk,
I don't stand still and look around
On all the hills I haven't hoed,
And shout from where I am, What is it?
No, not as there is a time to talk.
I thrust my hoe in the mellow ground,
Blade-end up and five feet tall,
And plod: I go up to the stone wall
For a friendly visit. 

I love the lines "I don't stand still and look around... on all the hills I haven't hoed."

There's always hills to hoe, always work to be done.  But neighbors matter more.
If there's anything recovery work has taught me, it's how much neighbors matter, how much support means, and how the dishes can go to hell.

How grateful I am after a week of scary loneliness with nothing but my figurative weeds to keep me company... to have two friendly faces stop by and call to me from the road.

Real human connection is priceless.
And vital.
More vital than I ever realized.

 

via