Punctuated By Disappointment

I am a planner. Not in the traditional sense of the word, where I make lists, check them three times over, ensuring every detail is in place. No, my planning happens in my head, where I develop an ultimate vision for the upcoming event or action. I can concoct a vision that is so perfectly constructed, that it probably could never occur in real life. But I expect it to. And I expect it to happen despite me not attending to details and ignoring the mishaps of life. If the dream in my head does not become the reality I expect, I am flooded with a devastating disappointment.

My mother claims I have always been like this. My husband deals everyday with my lofty and ambitious visions that are almost impossible to make happen. When I think of my dream house, I imagine a white farmhouse, sun creating a halo around it, with a huge oak tree in the front yard, a stream meandering in the distance, and not a neighbor in sight. The sun is always, always shining in my dream. Or, if you ask me what my dream occupation is, I would conjure up for you a picture of a college office overrun with woodwork and books, and I am behind a dishevelled desk, busy composing my next masterpiece. The sun is also always shining on me in this vision, with tiny particles of dust dancing in the the rays.

So, you can see where my life has taken a different turn. I do not yet live in the sprawling countryside. I live in a modest neighborhood where I could almost reach out and touch the house next to me. I am not a genius Pulitzer prize winning novelist slash college professor. I am a speech pathologist, and I work with the elderly. I don't write much, except for here. It has not at all turned out the way I had originally thought.

My husband and I celebrated our tenth wedding anniversary this year. I had intended for us to renew our wedding vows on the beach at Maui. I could see it all -- me in a white sundress and all my children in little Hawaiian shirts, and my husband in bare feet. Disappointment number one: that was way too pricey of a trip for a family of five. So, I settled for a weekend in Asheville in a charming Bed and Breakfast. My husband helped me pick out the room, and I made the reservations. I was quickly developing a vision of candlelit dinners and romantic tours of the Biltmore. Without children, mind you. My parents and in-laws had agreed to watch the children for our getaway.

Another disappointment. No one would watch our dogs. The place where we usually kennel them was in the process of changing facilities, and my dogs (not any dogs, they are special needs bassett hounds) had no place to go. So I reluctantly rescheduled the trip to the fall. The leaves in North Carolina would be beautiful then, wouldn't they? And just imagine the fire in our room at the B&B....

So, morning of the big trip, I rolled out of bed to wake my daughter Emma up for school. I could feel her fever as soon as I put my hand on her. The disappointment began to descend, but I pushed it back. She just needs a little medicine for that cough, I thought. So my husband took her to the doctor. When he called me from the doctor's office, and I heard Emma crying in the background, in the dramatic way that only she has, I knew it was over.

It's the flu, Jennifer, Chris said.

That heavy curtain of disappointment fell over me. No intimate dinners. No Biltmore winery. No shopping in little artsy stores. Mommy, Emma said over the phone, I just want you.

What was I to do but postpone the trip again. Chris brought Emma home, face splotched from crying, and I smoothed the hair away from her face, and put her in my bed. I gave her a Popsicle and turned on her favorite cartoons. She fell asleep for a while. During that time, I called the B&B, and rescheduled our weekend for December. I called work and told them I would probably be working this weekend, as usual. I undid all the preparations I had made.

When Emma woke up from her nap, she was cool as she could be. She proclaimed a miraculous recovery. She played the rest of the day. And it was a beautiful day. The sky was blue, like a crayon, and she sat on the ground and watched Chris rake red autumn leaves. She laid her head back and looked up into the impossible blue and traced wispy clouds with her finger.

It was clear to me by one in the afternoon that Chris and I could have probably gone on our trip. I tried to be disappointed the rest of the day.I tried to have a bad attitude, and generally pout because the day had not turned out as I had intended. And for all this pouting and grumpiness, what I managed to miss was Emma's amazement and wonder at being at home on school day, sun all over her face, playing with her dad. And I missed out on Ethan's first attempt at using a rake. I heard it was adorable. I don't know; I was sulking somewhere, not paying attention.

Although I have clothed myself in disappointment many times, and I am sure I will many times in the future, I am trying to look through the disappointment for a silver lining. I used to think life was just punctuated by disappointment; it was the disappointment that made you stop, like a period at the end of a sentence. I am trying to just take a pause instead of stopping completely; it is in the stopping that you miss tiny opportunities that God gives you: the curiosity of a child, the breathtaking colors of the fall sky, the love of your family.

Disappointment perhaps is God's redirection.