More freaking memories. God took the Utah memories, now if only He'd take these pesky recent ones from Olympia.
I love cookbooks. I've collected them since I received a big box of them from my grandma Betty for my 21st birthday. Today Anna showed me a cool recipe in one of Donnie's new cookbooks and I was immediately interested in trolling for more recipes. Then: familiar, dark, and cold dropped in to say hey. I closed my eyes for a moment and found myself face to face with a strong, paralyzing memory:
...sitting on a plastic chair in my driveway a year or so ago, brand new Rachael Ray cookbook in one hand, glass of merlot in the other. It's late afternoon, early twilight, beautifully mild, and Robby is on his way home. I want him to drive up and capture his wife dutifully perusing her cookbook in her earnest attempt to search for new ways to please his palate.
Light is fading and the temperature has dropped a tiny bit, but Robins are still singing their afternoon whirly songs while I run in the house to grab a light sweater. I'm reading each and every recipe in Rachael's big orange book and making mental notes: when I will prepare this and shop for that. I can't wait to create my new delicacies for my prince.
Eventually the event which is the highlight of my day occurs: I hear the familiar diesel sound from Robby's truck making its way up the road. I look up from my book, huge smile creeping across my face, as he rounds the corner into the driveway and pulls straight up to my chair. He returns my smile and I raise my glass to the absolute love of my life. My heart has skipped a few beats...
Today I tried to look at some recipes in another great cookbook. I was not successful. The memory of that beautiful twilight evening haunts me this very moment. I can type this entry, but my arms are heavy, and my heart aches. I want to cry. I want to sob, as once again the familiar cold dark wave crashes over me. I hate this. And while I'm tumbling in this wave, I hate life.
I will turn to God, because I know that Jesus, who knows and named every star, wants to cradle me in His lap. He wants to wrap His arms around me and pluck me from the pounding, crushing wave. All I have to do is turn to Him, stretch out my heavy arms and say Daddy.
As I think of this I can feel a lump forming in my throat. I know from experience that this is the foundational clay that turns into a good cry. As the lump grows I begin to feel tiny burning sensations behind my eyes as tears form. I'll fight them. I've shed my allotted tears this week already, and I don't have the time or the strength to deal with them today.
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