Foot. In. Mouth.

Dear friends,

I have a confession to make. Among the laundry list of flaws I ashamedly boast (chronically overbooked, obsessed with diseases I'm not likely to ever contract, unable to watch Lifetime TV without crying, devoid of any remorse for returning library books late), there's one in particular that I've had to do battle with lately. The thing is, I'm Chairman of the Party Planning Committee. The *Pity* Party Planning Committee. (We have branches in all 50 states. Ask me how you, too, can have a Pity Party all your own!)

I've been fighting the urge to throw myself a Pity Party these last few months. When I feel that need cropping up, I fight it with the best of my abilities. I cling to the things I have to be thankful for, like my clearly flawless skin and impeccable social reputation, not to mention my immaculate lawn and perfectly behaved child. (My penchants for giving to charity and ministering to homeless men make my life all the more fulfilling.) You might be asking yourself, "Melanie, with your blinding beauty and enormous heart for saving dolphins born with birth defects, how could you ever find a reason to complain?" The answer to that is simply, "I just made up that entire list." Hard to believe, I know. (You are very gullible, my friend.)

The truth is, I'm not who you think I am. I'm not who I want to be. If you think I'm being modest, think again. (Take a moment to reflect on the previous sentences about my stunning beauty. To my credit, false modesty is not yet a flaw on that laundry list.)

The thing is, folks, this has been a hard time for us. Thankfully, it has not been a senselessly hard time. Those seasons of life are the most difficult; when it seems that God's hand is writing in the sky, but you can't see it for the smog. God is always tender and clear with us, much in the way that a parent is tender with her toddler. "Oh, yes, I know. That ouchies. Doug and Melanie want to have a cookie? Yeah? A cookie make it all better? Here you go. Have a cookie."

(Disclaimer: I know the Lord doesn't talk like a giant, condescending grandmother in the sky. I think I just really wanted a cookie when I wrote that last little bit, so my subconscious made me go there. Moving on.)

I rarely have a doubt that God's hand is actively at work in my life. Over the last few months, as life kicked us repeatedly with her black leather boot, I have kept in mind that my God is healer; however brutal the injuries we incur, God is able to heal us for His glory. I know that truth. I cling to it.

And I thought I was doing well. I could feel myself wanting to boast about my awesome faith. "No, really, we're perfectly fine. Sure we're unemployed and I spent the last three weeks in the hospital. Sure, this pregnancy is high-risk and scary and exhausting. How do we maintain our composure you ask? Well, sit right down and I'll give you a tutorial in being a good Christian, like me."

Thank goodness the Lord smacked those words out of my mouth! It took only one more trial for my feeble house of cards to topple, and I praise God that they did. If it hadn't been for the misery that was about to ensue, who knows how much damage I might have started to bring to my most cherished cause-- the cause of Christ.

My demise came in the form of allergies. Allergies. Not global famine. Not another health crisis (though Lord knows we've had our share). Not family conflict or personal peril. Not even a long check-out line at Safeway.

Allergies. Green, gooey, itchy, disgusting allergies. That's all it took to undo this woman. Made from steel, I am not.

I woke up to one of the worst flair-ups of seasonal allergies I have ever had. In my defense, this was no normal allergy attack. This was a full-on assault on my immune system, ironically waged by my immune system itself. (Talk about mixed feelings! Me vs. Me. Who do I want to win?!) My eyelids were glued shut by extra-strength crusties. My voice sounded like it belonged to a 65-year-old smoker from Atlantic City. My nose made a perfectly charming honking sound when I attempted to inhale nasal spray. I was a papparazzi's delight. You know, if I were famous and all.

Commence the Pity Party montage! Tears! Angry, balled up fists! Tissues littering the bedspread! The stuff of movie magic!

The day dragged on and on. My attitude went downhill with each withdrawal from the tissue box. Finally my husband extracted himself and my two-year-old daughter in order to (escape the crazy person) allow me some alone time.

I was alone. Ironically, I realized, that I only feel alone when my attitude is bad. At that point, I'm such an unattractive person that I'm convinced even the Lord takes a hiatus from our relationship. He never leaves me, even when my health is going haywire and my life is on the fritz. I only feel alone when I can't see around my own ego. It was quiet in my room as I sat (with tissues shoved up my nose) making a half-hearted attempt at reading a book. I didn't want to be alone. I wanted to be having fun with my family.

I threw the covers around like a petulant teenager, lamenting my fate. It felt like I had been alone for hours when Heidi, our dear friend and Fable's surrogate aunt, sheepishly poked her head around the corner. Her grin was enormous. Apparently she didn't notice my horrible attitude or the tissues sticking out of my nose like two badly placed pigtails. "You've got something special in the maaaaail," she sang. "I hope it's an enormous bottle of Benadryyyyl," I sang back.

Now, not a lot could deter me from my Pity Party at that point. I was miserable, but I was doing a good job at my misery and I don't like to be interrupted when I'm on a roll.

But as much as I like misery, I like packages even more. Even packages I'm expecting from Amazon are thrilling to me. And this was no ordinary package. This package clearly contained flowers. (Ironic, no? My allergies were going nuts as I tore the tape off the box.) Not just any flowers. SUNFLOWERS. The box contained sunflowers. I adore sunflowers. They are like gold on a stem. If you're not from Colorado, you simply can't understand the glory of sunflowers. They are the halo of the city, burning golden and bright as the sun sets. They are the crowning jewel of the season.

Flowers. For me. The girl with the sour face and spoiled heart. Can you imagine how I felt when I read the card that came with them? "Sunflowers always have their faces to the sun. I've noticed that you always have your face to the Son, too." Well, isn't that nice? My ego tucked its tail between its legs and limped away. My eyes leaked, this time out of gratitude.

Can you fathom the recoiling my spirit did upon reading that? It was a perfectly timed message, for sure. It was a blow delivered straight to the knees of my pride and sense of entitlement. How I so desperately needed that.

I love, and also sort of hate, the way God lavishes on me. Even when I'm an enormous ball of snot. Literally.

I know there's a more poetic point to drive home, but I wouldn't want to cheapen the lesson by wrapping things up in a trite little package. All I know is, I'm going to go think about this theme in my life. My prayer is that I learn to be a Christian who runs the race with endurance, one who doesn't get sidetracked by something silly, like a runny nose. I'll let you know how that goes. Hopefully, you'll just see it for yourself.

It's good, this life.