Back to real life

Two weeks ago I felt strong, I felt like I could do this. I could find a place to move to, I could pack up everything, with help from friends who offered of course, and I could take care of all the regular everyday things as well.

That was before this baby head became engaged in my pelvis and started pressing against everything down there. That was before I cam up against, over and over again, “Well, there was nothing wrong with your rental application per say… we just had a stronger applicant, and the number of small children was a concern.”

Because a 3 bedroom single family house is so much less appropriate for a family of almost 6 than a 2 bedroom apartment which is where we currently live? I swear, I have heard, “how will you fit that many people into this tiny space?” far too many times this month. I should show them pictures of how we fit into half the space now.

I am reminded suddenly that most people think of 4 children as a large family. I’m running into a form of discrimination I’ve never encountered before. I want to tell them about the orphanage where 10-20 children sleep together in one room. I want to show them the farmhouse my dad grew up in with 11 siblings. I want to shake them and say, “Just because other let their kids trash houses and color all over doesn’t mean I’m one of them.”

I don’t feel strong anymore. I feel tired and defeated and ready to quit. I tell myself that really our place isn’t that small compared to all the people we know living in 3rd world countries in huts. They would be ecstatic to have what we have. I tell myself that we can stay here another year, with the $100 rent increase and no space for Aaron to store tools or do any shop work and no space for the boy at all in a room with sisters. We don’t “need” anything more, and we don’t, and I am good at being content.

My mother thinks I am quitting too soon. I should “contend” for a new home. I should pack in faith expecting that a place will suddenly present itself before the end of the month, “in the zero hour.”

Today I feel like just dragging my weary self up and getting to work on the regular everyday things requires all the contending ability I’ve got. Mailing packages, printing fliers, showing up at the thingy tomorrow so The Charis Project has a presence at the city wide Abolitionists Breakfast, (local people who combat human trafficking) since Aaron will be on a plane. These feel like my own personal mountains to climb, if I never even look at a cardboard box.

Some days just putting away the laundry feels like an act of faith. I think any weary mama can relate.

So I will get up now and put away the laundry, and get to work, and give what my kids need today. We’ll see if there’s anything left over for “faith packing.” I have my doubts.