My own little 'faltering preface'

I am SO on my C-Minus Game that I couldn't even manage to post this on the right day. So it starts out, "It's Sunday evening..." and it's NOT. It's Monday morning. (sigh) However, I read the most encouraging thing today, posted by a Facebook friend: "A person does not need to be anything other or greater than his own little faltering preface — in the confidence that at some point in eternity God will surely bring order out of the individual's divided and piecemeal tale and write an emphatic postscript." — Joakim Garth

It’s Sunday evening. I should be sorting socks. When I’m really playing my “A Game,” that’s what I do between supper and bed on Sundays. But I am not on my “A Game.” I’m not even sure I’m on my “B Game.” My psyche is a little threadbare these days — more like a C Minus.

But blogging might help. I hope blogging helps. I miss blogging. And I’m genuinely touched that my brother-in-law Scott, a faithful A-Town reader, kindly complained about my dearth of posts of late. I’m sorry. And inspired. So here goes: A stream-of-consciousness explanation of my extreme busyness these days, and a moment’s thought to how I might regain control of my schedule and my assorted socks.

My organization’s final fundraising event of the year occurred over the weekend. (Whew!) Plus, we’re about 80 percent settled into our new place. My memory’s foggy. Did I mention our move before my latest hiatus? Yes, the pregnancy center recently relocated — landed a sweet lease: Five times the space for less rent. Pretty amazing, huh? There are “strings attached” — we have to pay our own utilities, shovel our own sidewalks, and manage security of the premises in ways we never had to worry about before. But for the elbow room and exposure the new site affords, it’s worth every extra ounce of toil.

Speaking of toil, I just had one of those “Where’d s/he learn that?!” moments with the children. Reuben and Lucy were sharing chips and salsa in the dining room. The spicy snack somehow inspired my son to bust out with the Albion Alma Mater: “Albion, may thy sons ne’er forget thee and to thy name we ever will be loyal / And through all our days, we will sing thy praise — in times of vict’ry and in times of toil / We’ll cheer for Albion and our song will re-echo, as high above the sea our colors fly / One-two-three great big cheers for thee, dear old Albion!” (Yes, I typed out those lyrics from memory, but no, I don’t recall teaching them to the kids, who typically shush me when I croon corny tunes such as that one.)

Tom is kicking me off the computer, so I am abbreviating my insights this go-’round. It’s a start. Some wise person once said that the hard part’s to begin, but for me, it’s persistence that’s problematic. Perhaps if I perceive it as starting over repeatedly, I won’t feel so discouraged about my various unfinished projects or inconsistent track records. They’re in stages of completion — that’s it! As am I, as am I.