Last week my hard drive crashed. My first response was to hang my head over my cart of cleaning supplies in Wal-Mart and cry. The second was to get angry. At myself.
I tend to be a bit disorganized when it comes to things that feel mundane, less creative. Like going through the stack of mail in the basket on my kitchen counter, filling out ANY kind of form, filing paperwork and yes, backing up my files. It’s why my husband does the laundry. I get bored in the middle of the second load and forget about moving them to the dryer.
I wrestled through the realization that all of my pictures – including the thousands I took on our anniversary trip to the UK – might’ve mattered to me more than I realized. More than God’s providence, if I’m really honest. And I wouldn’t have known that without the opportunity to feel the pain associated with loss.
But it was later in the week, while using my daughter’s old laggy laptop, that I began to resent the circumstance altogether. The length of time just to do a status update on Facebook challenged my sanity, not to mention how long it took me to upload photos and a blog post.
Being out of my comfort zone encroached on my plans and resentment ruled the room. Because instead of seeing it all as a gift – my computer, my time, my camera, writing – I wore the shades of entitlement.
And none of these things are mine, they are all His gifts extended.
After I wipe the smallness from my eyes, grace presents herself in the full retrieval of all I feared lost, thanks to a techie friend.
Over the weekend, I awakened before the sunrise to finish a story I’m working on for publication. Writing in the hours least intrusive to my family. And when I open my files, I realize the story I’d worked on for hours, over several days, vanishes like a ghost.
And all that time I planned for writing, it dissolves like water on sugar in the black hole my words fell in to overnight. We never found it. And I couldn’t cry.
Because the Lord gives and the Lord takes away. I chose to let go, and bless the name of the Lord. And push cinnamon rolls into the oven to woo my kids from slumber.
This day is a gift, one I’m not entitled to have. Glory.
This is #23 in the series 31 Days of Letting Go. You can read the collective here. If you are a writer, I invite you to link up any post you’ve written on the theme of letting go in the comments here on Friday. Subscribe to receive the series in your inbox or feed by adding your address in the side bar under Follow Redemptions Beauty.