Packageless Pansy

This lily is from my own backyard.

“Learn from the way the wild flowers grow.  They do not work or spin.  But I tell you that not even Solomon in all his splendor was clothed like one of them.” 

-Matthew 6:28-29

I am impatient!  No, terse is the correct word.  I have been waiting for what seems like months for a package.   I ordered some clothing from a website and the promised shipping date has changed twice!   Here at home we have had. . .  

Well, let me tell you the story.

            On a typical day bright and sunny, not suspecting a thing, my dear mother was started the grill for this new recipe I was going to try for dinner.   Several minutes later a brother asks,

“Mom, is the grill supposed to be smoking?”

Mom replies with an uhmm, I’m busy right now.

            “Um, Mom the grill is on FIRE! You might want to see this!”

Mom rushes to the grill and does the worst thing possible besides pouring oil all over the fire.  She opens the lid.

            Whoooosh

The grill is now ablaze; orange flames lick the racks clean of any morsels that were fixated on the metal. Heat protrudes from every angle, with enough passion to singe the eyebrows of any curious siblings that may or may not have been standing within a five feet radius.

            “CALL THE FIRE DEPARTMENT!!!” Yells mom as she slams the lid shut. 

(At this point in the chaos she calls for my capable younger sister, and for the sake of privacy lets rename her Jenny. Jenny's a good name. Now where were we? Oh yes, mom is yelling.)

“JENNY! Get water!”

While my brothers are running around laughing and pointing at the fire, Jenny knows what to do.  Jenny grabs two ice-cream buckets (in our house that’s gallon sized.) and drops one under a running sink and dashes to the bathroom and turns the handle for the bath.   At this point, I walk out on the deck, leaving my comfort of youtube and e-mails to assess the situation. 

            “CALL YOUR FATHER, CALL HIM!” mom was yelling and signaling to a brother handing him her cell phone.  Her spray bottle wasn’t even tickling the fire monster that had burst forth from our grill.  Another brother had dumped our drawers of potholders and had prongs in oven mitted hands, how he though this would help I have no clue.  The littlest one was prancing from person to person shrieking 

“The grill’s on fire!”

I swear, sometimes if I wasn’t here, nothing would get done.

            "ALRIGHT! We’re forming a line. You (pointing to the nearest brother), grab the buckets from Jenny.  You, help mom in putting out the fire.  You, stay off the deck and keep buckets coming.  And Jenny, fill them up from the bath."

I glanced at mom as saw that she intended to call the fire department, the bomb squad, and the N.O.A.H. services until this fire got out. 

“Mom, we don’t need a fire department, it’s under control.”

Mom stared at my flame happy brother pouring water all over the knobs, lid, burners (pretty sure your not supposed to do that), and grease pan.  And watched as the fire shrank in fear and steam hissed from the spot leaving a trail of soot.  Hey, at least he turned the gas off.   After calling dad and finding out he was on his way home.  Mom joined our fire brigade.

 It seemed like hours, but I bet it wasn’t even five minutes.  The fire was out, the grill was soaked and scalding vapor rose to the deck’s ceiling.  Chunks of chard ashes mixed with pools of water, and became greasy black slough and leaked through the floorboards to the patio below.  Thus the end of our once envied commercial series char-broil grill.  (And dinner wasn’t forthcoming either.)

The Grill in it's former glory.  And I don't remember why I took this?

What does all this have to do with my shocking lack of spiritual fruit?  

The insurance paid for the repairs on our grill, dishwasher, and stove (those are two stories for another time).  Every few days we have gotten packages, huge table sized, and little cereal bowl sized.  And all the while, my hopes are being dashed daily, in wait for the dresses I ordered.  Even today we got what makes package number seven for the handyman, with strict orders not to open them until he returns.  Why oh why did I order over Labor Day?

God Speed to you and all your packages,