It won't be perfect, but it'll be mine.

The computer at work died. Or is presently dead so yesterday I wrote out receipts by hand. The workers came in from the heat, the family came in for a birthday, the office colleagues came in to order the special and I asked my co-worker to make a Bloody Mary because I never feel like I can make that drink. We had a late rush and I didn't get home until 3pm. The boys were already at the pool by then. They came home dripping and went straight to the freezer for an icy pop. We called them, 'Otter Pops' when I was a kid.

I looked at my husband last night and asked if we were frittering our summer away. I scrolled through the pictures on my phone and it looked like we've had lots of fun over the past couple of months. I looked at my list  of things to do I keep rolling over to the next day's list of things to do and wondered what I'll achieve before the wind turns cold. It's anyone's guess.

We got a call yesterday about sweet corn. We got a bag full of cucumbers, onions and zucchini. It's a glorious time to live in Nebraska. And here I am belly aching about nothing and whether or not we're making the most of it. I'm wondering if we're making the most of it while the good Lord brings neighbors to our door with warm Rhubarb cake. We get homegrown veggies and an invitation to pick corn. I get on my bike to go for milk and pass two friends on their morning walks. I walk in the door to see the boy with the messy hair wrapped up in a blanket lounging on this free Thursday morning where we don't have to be anywhere in particular. 

The band is going to be in the town parade. We plan on how to decorate our flatbed trailer that will be pulled by a tractor. The band gets together and plays the best set ever in Jessica's living room and I am given the gift again because the Lord withholds nothing from sinners and saints alike. He showers His love and patience and goodness, He smiles when we smile resting in the beauty of His creation. And even though I've experienced blessings and richness over and again, my vision blurs and worry and despair still manage to grab hold. 

I tell myself, "Stop trying to write a story that isn't your's. Stop wishing for something you can't see so much that you ignore what's right in front you. You're not a kid anymore. We ain't kids no more. That means we don't wait for Christmas morning so much that we don't see the beauty of Christmas Eve. Take it in. If your present is a cup of coffee on a cluttered table beside a bay window in need of dusting, then write that. Don't write the champagne flute and high heel shoes that are nowhere to be seen." 

That's what I'm gonna do. I bought the wood, I'm gonna build the planter. It won't be perfect, but it'll be mine.