Trust

I've had a rather eventful 24 hours or so.  In a good way, and a different way... I hate to use "bad" just because it's so extreme and uses such a broad stroke.  We'll start with the good stuff.

We've known for a while now that Ryan is getting to the age where he'll lose baby teeth.  For me, I can remember the first few times being a bit scary.  Once I had one loose but not ready and one that was ready  but I was scared to pull it.  Not a fan of pain and blood... especially not bloody pain.  So I wouldn't let Mama touch it.

I had just turned six.  Nanny and Grandad came in from Heavener to OKC to help us move into a much better apartment.  As a treat to their (at the time) only grandkid, they took Mama and I to Frontier City.  I wanted to ride the bumper cars. Like a big girl, thank you very much.  They tried to talk me out of doing it by myself.  Tried to convince me to let Grandad ride with me.  Nothing doing!  I'm a big girl, I'll ride like one.

Here's where I have to say that my Mama was great at letting me make decisions, then helping me with the consequences of said decisions.  I wasn't in harm's way (not really) and I was tall enough by the ride standards.

Anyway, I was on the bumper cars in big-girl bliss for all of thirty seconds before *BAM*... of course, I got hit.  Head-on.  Immediately I was removed from the ride because as my face hit the steering wheel, it knocked out my two front teeth.

Fast forward nearly thirty years, and I'm doing my best to explain to Ryan (when it comes to mind) that his teeth will get loose and fall out, that it won't hurt, all that good stuff.  But we were still worried.  We can't measure what's in his head.  Unlike me, he's not just hearing and being stubborn, he might really not understand.  We were honestly dreading it with every fiber of our being.  We were afraid he'd swallow it. Choke.  Get scared and traumatized at the the blood and, well, his tooth FALLING OUT OF HIS HEAD!  AACK!

Last night as I was working on a nightgown for Maelynn, I hear from the back room Ryan come to his Daddy at the kitchen table and say matter of factly "It's broken."  Eric immediately assumed he'd broken something (as did I) until Ryan held out his hand.  A little front lower tooth lay in his puffy little boy hand.  His face had a bit of a bloody shmeer on it, but it did not upset him at all!!!  I can't help but think all that talk made it through, and he trusted us that it was all okay.

After some quick rejoicing and picture-taking, we went about our Sunday night.  He'd been melting down about wanting to go outside, but both Eric and I had things we needed to do inside, and it was getting late.

The rest of the evening went off pretty easy other than the occasional fuss, but we're used to fussing.  This morning, soon as I got Ryan off to school in his snuggle-toothed glory, I began laundry.  It looked cloudy, and I really wanted to get diapers washed and dried on the line before it began to rain.  So after the diapers washed, I headed outside with the kids.  Richie and Mae were being so sweet.  I've learned to enjoy hanging the diapers out by letting the littles play, and when I'm through I'll often mess around in the yard or play with them.  This time, I was almost ready to hang the last diaper when I noticed a tiny branch of a rather large weedish, brushy thing that was blocking part of where I needed the last diaper cover to hang.

I could have taken a minute to get the proper tool.  I could have taken a minute to remember what I learned about these things from my Dad, Grandad, Mom, Nanny...  even the Food Network for cryin' out loud... but no.  I pulled out my pocket knife, held the branch, and cut TOWARD me, slashing the underside of my upper left forearm pretty deep.

So I spent the whole morning in the small emergency room here in town, getting my four stitches.  Yeah, just four.  And I will admit my chickenness; I will even show you my feathers and say that yes, I puked after looking to see if I needed stitches.  Eric left school after I called and said "I need stitches" and came to pick me up and take me to get sewn up.  The guy did a good job, so did the nurses, and thanks to lidocaine I didn't feel a thing.   But I have to say it doesn't feel good.

The thing that feels the worst is the fact that I knew better.  I'd had it explained to me multiple times in my life, I knew what to do.  But in my haste I ignored conventional wisdom and did by-golly what I wanted.  Even worse?  I do that all the time.  I know what God requires of me; I've studied the word enough to have a good idea of how I'm supposed to be.  But for some reason (see Genesis 2 for the reason) I can't stop doing things I know aren't meant for my good, the good of my relationships, and even my own heart.  I like to think I'm among the first one to praise God's sovereignty, and the need to trust that He knows best.

And yet I still ignore what I know to be true and blast through things in my own bull-headed way.

I know this could have been much, much worse.  I could have made it to the layer of muscle (yay for fat for once in my life), I could have cut tendons, nerves, and could have wound up losing function of my hand for a while or even for good.  I'm thankful for a host of things this morning, including but not limited to Eric being able to come and take me to ER, ER doc and nurses who were kind and compassionate, and hey... even that I threw up at home instead of on the ER folks or in the van!

Now to learn to trust like my amazing seven year old, who blew us all away in the way he handled losing his first tooth.  I'm proud of you, buddy.  Even more than you realize, and not just for the tooth.  For trusting us and inspiring me every day to trust God more.

And if you'll excuse me, said lidocaine is wearing off and I need to stop typing!

Thanks be to God.