Thump. Slide. Sizzle. Cough.

Thump. Slide. Crackle. Hiss. 

Noises from our woodstove filled the air around me as I rubbed another cloud of smoke from my watery eyes. Another headache was soon to set in that was sure to last all morning, but without much thought I trekked back to the shed for another armful of wood. 

It was a cold Saturday morning, and I was completely out of my normal routine, my comfort zone, and my element, but to my surprise I was loving it.

Thursday evening a call we were hoping for, but not expecting, came through on Mr. Wonderful’s phone. He pulled me aside and whispered the words so Blessing couldn’t hear. “She got in.”

“What?” I breathed, heart thudding still. 

“Someone cancelled. She’s off the waitlist. They want to know if we can still go.”

Several weeks ago our daughter, Blessing, discovered that a Tolkien’s Middleearth Retreat was being hosted by Hillsdale College. A weekend long series of fireside lectures at a cozy log cabin resort is the stuff her dreams (and mine) are made of, so we encouraged her to look in to it. Unfortunately, with limited spots available, the event was already full, so all we could do was join the waitlist. 

We knew all along that her chances of getting in were small, but undeterred, Blessing faithfully prayed, checked her email, and stayed in charmingly-bulldoggish, close contact with the event coordinator. 

With our high hopes all but lost, none of us could believe it when the call actually came, and while we were momentarily thrown, of course our answer was, “Yes!”

I will not rabbit trail too far into expressing how green with envy I was that I would not be the parent accompanying her. I will say that if you had cut me, in that moment, my blood would have run emerald, however with Red still nursing around the clock, my attendance was out of the question. Which meant two things, rather starkly:

1. Mr. Wonderful would go and soak up the lectures I could literally drown myself in.
2. I would be in charge of the stove.

Cue inward dread.

Starting that night I went with Mr. Wonderful to do the bedtime fill. He and Blessing would have to leave the next day by midafternoon which meant I had only two chances to learn the ropes and get ‘comfortable’ with the chore of stocking both of our stoves with wood to insure that neither our home, office, or weld shop would run out of heat. (Comfortable being a relative term associated with me stacking heavy pieces of wood into the gaping mouth of a blazing inferno.)

Luckily, for me, Uncle Snizz, our proven and trusted neighbor, friend, and shop manager would be right up the road, willing and able to help me if the need should arise. 

When he closed up our office Friday evening, Snizz all but begged me to let him take care of it so that I wouldn’t have to. 

“I’ll be glad to, Jen,” he said. “I was planning on it anyway. You won’t have to worry about a thing.”

My gosh, that offer was tempting. Something akin to Eve and the Garden. 

But…

For some odd reason, which surprises no one more than me, I found myself telling him, No.

“Let me try,” I told him. “I think I can do it. I don’t want to do it. But I think I need to try.”

And here’s why. 

When the call came that Blessing’s dream was coming true, I should have felt one thing and one thing only: Pure, consuming joy for her. And yet the very first thing I felt was pure, consuming dread over the blasted stove.

This should never be. And here was my chance to change.

All my life I have struggled with an underlying sense and fear that I can’t handle things. It has made so many things in my life both big and small more problematic than it should. (Interstate driving and using a pressure cooker being two of my biggies) I have also always lived with people who can and will rescue me, keeping me safe from harm but also limiting my ability to trust myself. To see and prove what I can do. 

I’m afraid it has taken me more years than it should to figure out that the more I can try, and learn, and do for myself, the better. 

I do not need or desire to be Wonder Woman. But I do need to know that whatever ‘It’ is, I can handle it. I need to prove myself to myself in any way I can so more and more the internal message will change.

I CAN handle it. 

Because of The One who handles me. 

Can it really be that simple?

One chunk of wood after another, tossed, albeit it inexpertly, into the stove, makes me think maybe it can.