Love in a Bag of Socks

Do you ever feel like the whole universe is against you, and everything that can go wrong is going wrong, and WHY ME?? And all that? And then, there is just this moment right in the middle when you suddenly realize that God is still in control and He still loves you, and it’s going to be ok.


My story begins with socks. Let’s talk about socks. 


Yesterday, Monday morning, as I’m trying to herd a bunch of kids out the door to school, the recurring theme I’m hearing from each child walking down the steps is, I’M OUT OF SOCKS!! I NEED SOCKS!! 


Oh no. I forgot to do laundry this Saturday and it sounds like the kids aren’t going to make it to my next laundry day on Tuesday. I direct all the kids to go hunt out my Odd Sock Basket and just find anything that will fit. And if they find some that are kind of the same color or style, that would be great. I mentally add to my TO DO list, wash socks tonight. Which kind of makes me shudder cause that means I will need to go and gather laundry from all the bedrooms upstairs and try and find socks and it’s going to be complicated. Also complicated is the fact that it is Monday, the one day I go to a homeschooling co-op and teach piano lessons and my little boys attend preschool. Andy and I are also supposed to meet some friends of ours at a restaurant this evening. Hmm. Sock washing is not going to be an easy task. 


The day is busy. I finish at co-op and then take my tired little boys to the eyeglass place to pick up some replacement glasses we’d ordered. While I’m at the eyeglass place I get a call from the school asking me to come for an emergency meeting. I load up my boys who are starting to get fussy now and we rush over to the school. Have the meeting, during which my three year old loses it completely and goes into full-meltdown mode. We quickly finish the meeting then I have to run out to the car with the screaming three year old and the four year old so we can get in the car and quickly get into the end of the car line to pick up the kids. Three year old has gone insane by this time and I am ignoring all looks from other parents while I bodily carry him to the car while he makes as much noise as possible. I am stepping off the curb and somehow mess it up completely and turn my ankle, almost dropping the screaming child. I am now standing there gasping in pain, trying not to swear too loudly, three year old is still screaming and I don’t know how I’m going to walk the rest of the way to the car. 


A teacher who was getting into her car witnesses the whole thing and she gets out of her car and grabs hold of the screaming child and helps me walk him to the car while I limp along. By the time I get to the car, the initial pain has worn off, and I can move my ankle around. Ok. This is going to be alright. I get in the car, buckle the writhing child (I don’t know what happened, I have never had this particular child meltdown in such a spectacular manner), and drive over to pick up my kids. 


The next couple hours are filled with talking to kids, dealing with some annoying mail, and trying to get supper cooked so I can feed the kids and go out with my husband. While I’m cooking supper I suddenly realize that I never washed the stupid socks. I ponder how expensive it would be to just go to the store and buy new socks. It seems like it might be the only solution. Ok, I don’t have time to think about this problem. I continue to limp along while I get the meal served. My ankle feels sore, but not enough to slow me down. 


We run out the door, just making it to the restaurant in time. I limp carefully to our booth, the ankle is noticeable, but still not bad. 


And then suddenly, it’s bad. I’m just sitting there quietly in my seat and my ankle announces it’s presence, loud and clear. I AM HERE, I AM HERE, I AM HERE. 


I shift in my seat, trying to find a better position. Nothing seems to be working. We chat and order our food. My face is starting to look strained, my husband asks what’s wrong. I whisper that my ankle is hurting. He lets me put my foot up in his lap. It doesn’t help. 


As the evening progresses, my pain level goes from a 2 to a full blown 10. We cut the evening short and my husband and the husband of the other couple help me hobble out of the restaurant. By now I am employing my lamaze-breathing methods to deal with the pain. I can’t wait to just get home and put my foot up with some ice. 


Unfortunately, elevating, icing, and dosing up with a bunch of ibuprofen does nothing to ease the pain. I’m now crying. 


You have to understand, I have an extremely high tolerance for pain. This is off the charts. 


My husband finally says, that’s it, I’m taking you to the hospital. And the whole time, I’m thinking, Why me? I have so much to do. I cannot afford to be out of commission. Everyone is depending on me. And I still haven’t washed the socks. And now I can’t even go to the store to buy socks. And all the kids will be going to school tomorrow sock-less. 


We pull up to the hospital and Andy gets out to find a wheelchair. He stops and I hear him open the trunk of the car. The trunk opens and closes and then he walks over to my door, opens the door and dumps a bag in my lap, then heads off again. I look at the bag, puzzled, and open it up. 


It’s full of socks. Kids’ socks. Different sizes. And I remember about a month ago, my husband telling me there was a bag of socks in his car, he didn’t know where they came from, did I want them? And I said yes, but never followed through and they had just been sitting in his car. 


I burst into tears. This time just because I’m feeling overwhelmed with love. 


It’s ok. God’s got this. He sees me. He knows. It’s love in a bag of socks. 


(P.S. Ankle isn’t broken, just a bad sprain, and I got a boot to help me hobble around.)


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