There are times… Times when it all falls down around your ears. Not in the real, earth shattering way. Not in the horrible phone call kind of way, or in the car wreck way, or in the life altering medical diagnosis kind of way. Those things happen too, but that’s not what I mean. I mean, just life. When day to day life just seems to unravel. Yes. These kinds of days happen. I’m convinced they happen to us all. And do not, do not, do not, do not. Do not ever tell me that God doesn’t have a sense of humor. He is the greatest storyteller of all. He is the storyteller, and we are the material. I don’t really mean that God gives us bizarre lives so we have stories to tell at parties. (But maybe so HE has stories to tell at parties? hmmm… There’s an idea.) And I’m not saying that these things happen for God’s own amusement… But I’m not saying they don’t. Because you can’t make this stuff up. Real life, friends. Real life. It’s way funnier than fiction. And a joyful heart can see these bumps in the road for the pearls that they are. The stories we can tell as our children get older. The stories we all know, that we can all laugh about together. The stories that are our families. Those stories have the power to make us all feel a little more connected to each-other, don’t they?
For example. A couple of weeks ago, I said this, and this is a direct quote. “I thought baking two cakes for the Cub Scout carnival and getting the boys all ready for their valentine parties would be doable. Completely doable. By Saturday, I thought it would be challenging, but still fine. By Sunday morning, I knew I was in for a long day, but I could still totally do it. By 4:00, I hate myself. I hate you. I hate Valentine’s Day. I hate the sound of children’s laughter. I hate everyone who has ever, or will ever be a part of the Boy Scouts of America. Valentine’s Day is stupid. You’re all dead to me. All of you.” Yes. That’s where I was the day before the Cub Scout Carnival, a week of elementary school valentine parties, and a five year old’s birthday party. I was mentally drained by motherhood and suburban housewife life. I was stretched too thin between bedtimes, and volunteering at the school, and swimming lessons, and violin recitals, and never-ending laundry piles, and picky eaters, and politics I can’t control, and unfulfilled artistic dreams for myself, and a dirty minivan, and out of state family drama, and, and, AND. I felt sorry for myself then, and I feel sorry for my self now. But, I come from strong stock, and I can totally handle the suburbs. I pulled my big girl pants on and I got it done. Cake, check. Because I’m awesome. The boys were thrilled. The cake they had helped me make was, I don’t mind bragging on myself a little here, a total show stopper. It was a “should have been a prop in a movie” kind of beautiful cake. But then…. oh, then. then… Then, the next morning, I took my four little boys to school, like I always do, no big deal. Just another Monday. When I got home, my husband met me in the driveway, he took my hand and started leading me into the house. “You need to see something.” What, did he buy me flowers? Diamonds? A pony? Yes. Finally, a pony. Nope, and nope. No. Not a pony. He led me into the house to show me my beautiful (past tense, beautiful) quadruple layer, home-made for cub scouts with love, cookies and cream, ultra lightning babe, super mom cake. With a giant dog bite taken out of the side. Yes. That’s right. While I had been driving my dirty minivan full of picky eaters to school, my naughty goldendoodle Oliver had taken a huge godlendoodle sized bite out of the side of our Cub Scout Carnival cake. The cake that was going to win a blue ribbon first prize. He chomped it. With his giant, stupid, slobbery, furry dog face. Just… chomped it. I might have said a bad word. Okay, I definitely did. I totally did. A big one. A big bad word. But then… I found my camera. I took pictures of it. I took pictures of the dog. I took pictures of the chomped cake. I petted Oliver’s stupid naughty head, and scratched behind his stupid naughty ears. Because… You know what? Life is brutal. It’s hard. Sometimes it kicks you right in the Cub Scouts. But it’s also…. really darn funny. It’s magical. It’s vibrant, and melodious, and unexpected. Every day I am breathing is a precious gift. So. We took that cake (that once beautiful, but now disgusting) cake to the Cub Scout Carnival. We changed categories, and we entered our confectionary delight into the contest. Instead of “The Best Cake” first place blue ribbon I was sure we were going to win… We came home with a third place ribbon in the “Grossest Cake” category. (Yes. there was a “grossest cake” category. Because, boys.) The cake titled, ‘The Dog Ate my Cake’ tasted amazing, once we brought it home and hacked off the dog-bitten portion. And that’s life, right? Isn’t that what a joyful life looks like? You hack off the parts the stupid dog drooled all over, and you enjoy the darn cake. Because living a joyful life isn’t always about the big moments. It isn’t always about the best moments. Sometimes it’s about the in-between moments. The moments where you have to eat around the dog slobber to get to the good parts. Try it. Eat the cake you make. It isn’t perfect. But it’s delicious.
