The Year of Thwart

2015 has been filled with thwarted plans. It’s one of those things that happened so often, if I chose to ignore its significance, I could be taken for a dimwit. 

Back in April, our farmhouse (an entirely thwarted plan in and of itself) sold, but not when or how we thought. The purchasing of it and living in it the year before was one of the bumpiest, most unpredictable events of my life. The closing was the messiest closing I’d ever been a part of … 

Until I went through the closing of my Grandma’s house with my Mom in November, who, unbeknownst to us, would come to live with us on a permanent basis in August, two weeks before the closing on Orchard House, where we live now. 

So the year brought three closings from Hades, four moves, two unexpected tenants, and a new pacemaker. What I had planned? One move. No closings. No tenants. A pacemaker, maybe. And a finished book. 

I could go on about random, 2015 events, and I will a little (’cause it’s my blog and I’ll cry if I want to). 

Three of our cars broke down within a week or so before all our Christmas company arrived. Two were due to faulty fuel pumps. I don’t know what the chances are for that, but I’m guessing slim. 

One hot day in July, I was riding along in the passenger seat with Ashlee driving, and like hot Starbucks she spits out, “Welp! I’m pregnant!” 

Auggie Fynn sums up my reaction: 

Side note: Pumpkin in the oven was unplanned, but I’ll take another wee baby any day! 

When we closed on Grandma’s house, we got a phone call when we got home that said “Psyche!” You’ll have to come in again and sign all those papers another day. Everything you just signed is null and void. Three times we tried to close. Turns out the fourth time is the real charm. 

I met with an agent at a writer’s conference in May. She’d like to see my book proposal. Truthfully, that is when life got bonkers. 

I had so many plans for my book. Deadlines to meet. Thoughts to finish penning. 

But just weeks later … 

In walked our first tenant – a girl with a troubled relationship with her parents. She was unmistakably homeless. Not one place to lay her head at night. She stayed until October and even though I was more than willing to take her in, the situation proved trying and taxing for both me and my family. 

Then Mom called, in a difficult position of living by herself for the first time in twenty-some years and diagnosed with Parkinson’s three years ago. So, with tenant #1, we traveled six hours away, loaded up Mom and her belongings, and brought her to Orchard House, permanently. 

Mom and I haven’t lived together since I was fifteen. It’s been an adjustment, to say the least. I still have my days where I wonder if I am the right person to give care. 

“Mom, you’re welcome here, but fair warning: it’ll be like the blind leading the blind.” 

I remember telling her that, and it’s proven to be true. If I did the math, there would be more days where she has taken care of me than I have taken care of her. Point is: we are a chronically ill duet, sometimes singing our own sad song so loud we become out of tune with each other’s needs. 

There are more scenarios, but I should be done with my written expansion of what I thought would be, what I planned to be. 

Oh, wait. One last one. My surgery was scheduled for New Year’s Eve day. It didn’t go as planned either. First of all, last time I had a pacer check, I was told I would be good and charged until December 2016. In fact, I went into the appointment planning to ask for a summer time replacement for next year, because December to April are my hardest months as far as my other health issues go, and what’s a couple months early? Instead, she hooked me up to the computer and said, “How ’bout a replacement next week?” 

My mental response:

“Hello? It’s Christmas. I have family in from Maryland. I have plans.” 

My verbal response:

“That’s not really a question, is it?”

“No. Can you stay a minute while I go get the doctor?” 

My mental response:

“You just told me the very life that causes my heart to beat is going to stop soon. GO GET THE DOCTOR, YOU RIDICULOUS NURSE!”

My verbal response:

“Yes, of course.” 

The surgical plan was to go in and replace the battery, which is the large part of the device that does all the thinking, all the decision making as to when I get an electrical zap and when I don’t. From that device, there are two leads – one that gets inserted into the top part of my heart, one into the bottom. One of those leads was twenty-six years old, and when they disconnected the device from it, the sheath surrounding it fell apart. So they had to replace the lead, which is usually a little tricky with me, since I have a history of the leads falling out (due to scar tissue from open heart surgery many  moons ago).  

When I woke up in the recovery room, there was a large clock on the wall before me. It read: 9:16. I knew something didn’t go as planned, because I was due to be in the recovery room earlier than that, and I’ve done enough replacements now to know that if I go longer than expected, something’s is amiss. 

The surgeon, a little old(er) lady with a dictatorial way about her, came in and let me know what gave. 

“Unfortunately, we had to replace a lead, so you’ll need to say the night. How do you feel, dear?” 

In all my writerly eloquence, I said “I feel like crap.” 

“Good. All the more reason for you to stay a while.” 

Alrighty then. 

At least I didn’t whine and cry like Westley from Princess Bride after being tortured and asked the same question. 

So. I’m sorry I don’t have a glowing report for 2015. In many ways, it is glowing. I am so at home at Orchard House, and I am blessed to have a warm, cozy, down to earth home, water that doesn’t make me sick (#farmhouse), and a place for people to come when they’re in dire need or want a reprieve. I have three grandsons who brighten my life more than I can pen who absolutely adore their Marmee and Poppy and love to come roam the acres of Orchard House. I have three kids who I love, who love me, and are all on speaking terms with us (ha! – hey, it’s important to me). Shaun and I have grown closer through the last year, and we have plans to grow closer still in 2016. 

But speaking of plans, any plans …. 

My heart keeps making them, but the Lord keeps establishing my steps. And since those plans keep getting blown up like a terrorist town in Afghanistan under the leadership of George Dubya, perhaps I should take note of the loud message: 

I am not in control. 

But I’m learning to be okay with that. I’m coming to a place where not much surprises me, and the first thought that pops into my head when I receive unexpected news is Proverbs 16:9. My heart can plan, but the Lord determines which way I’m really going. 

That doesn’t mean I don’t plan. I just set some goals the other day and it’s a Biblical principle to plan as if I was Stephen Covey’s own daughter. 

The plans of the diligent lead surely to abundance, but everyone who is hasty comes only to poverty. (Prov. 21:5)

It’s not about failing to plan. It’s about knowing the ultimate Planner, and submitting to His will over mine. 

More and more, when the notes in my planner seem like a joke and my to-do list fails to get marked off, the cry of my heart is Thy will be done. 

It’s about surrendering, and gladly so. It’s about looking at the troubles, and learning to say with thankfulness, “Yeah, but.” Yeah, but look what I do have. So many earthly blessings, and yet, if even those completely disappear, I have all the feels and blessings that come with being an heir of Jesus Christ. I have “every spiritual blessing in the heavenly places.” (Ephesians 1)

And nothing – not even a year of thwart – can take that away.