At Least They're Committed

I scrubbed the window through which I can see the mountains from my desk — and made it worse. Instead of the blotchy rain-dust spatters on the glass, there are now misty, horizontal streaks.

And while I was cleaning, it occurred to me that, yes, God does not close the door without opening a window. But the reverse can be true, too. God does not open a window without closing the door.

It’s the yin and the yang. The Lord giveth, the Lord taketh away.

I wonder if maybe the ammonia in the Windex bottle was somehow corrupted? After all, it might have been in here 20 years for all I know.

This might be my last time here. It might not. The drought is terrifying but that’s not why it might be my final stay. I have faith it will rain! Yet, it’s just very likely the end.

“Why do you clean? Why do you wipe the windows? Why do you vacuum?” I ask myself. It’s all for naught, I know. Or maybe I don’t know. I’m a firm believer in connectivity through energy, and lots of love has gone into this 1970 single-wide, converted mobile home. I’m not about to let that slide, even as I say goodbye.

Looking through the streaks, I pray the clouds bring us rain — more water drops and dust — but, please no lightning. I pray often throughout the day that this all works out, even though we didn’t ask for it in the first place.

And as I look again at possible new locations, I am grateful for the window that has opened, but grieving the door as it shuts behind me.