My Life as a Vagabond

I am a failure on the blogging front. Not that it’s an excuse, but I have been in the process of helping to renovate a house, and moving into said house. The experiences related to the aforementioned have inspired this very post.

I moved back to my parent’s house in the spring while I was in a time of transition. Soon thereafter my cousin, Krystal, decided to buy a home and asked me to live with her, so I stayed put at mom and dad’s through the summer. Krystal closed on her house in September and we spent the rest of the month painting, changing floors, ripping out sinks, filling a pit, and all of the other fun tasks that go along with making a mid-70’s home respectable for twenty-somethings.

On one such renovation-related occasion, Krystal and I had been painting for several hours. All other family and help had abandoned us. We finished a bedroom and moved on to the pantry and utility room closet. The floors were (supposed to be) being put in the next day, so in view of my extremely messy painting skills, we wanted all painting done beforehand. I went to work cutting in at the ceiling of the pantry while Krystal rolled the walls. I was high on a ladder in the dark pantry when Krystal jumped backward out of the small space and spoke a phrase. I heard only one word that mattered: spiders. How I removed myself from the ladder and closet without serious injury will always be a mystery. After spastically shaking my head to make sure there were no arachnid stowaways, I returned to the pantry doorway with Krystal where we beheld not one, not two, but a “herd” of spiders. We knew if we killed just one, the rest would come after us, so we went in search of some tool that could kill several at once. In an empty house, our choices were limited and we returned armed only with Windex. It didn’t work, other than to ruin what painting we had gotten done. Next, we made a desperate phone call to a nearby friend. He wouldn’t help. We gave up on the pantry and decided to paint the utility room closet, but found it in the same shape. So, we went home.

We officially moved in last Friday, sans beds, dishes, working shower, etc. It made for a fun evening. On Saturday, I moved my furniture from my parent’s house, which is about thirty miles away. I followed my dad in my own car and watched for signs of loosening ropes and such. About a quarter of the way, a billowy white mass flew at my windshield. Snow? Manna from heaven? No. It was my perfect-in-every-way Sealy pillow top mattress and box spring flying out, followed closely by the beautiful headboard and footboard of my canopy bed. I swerved to dodge the mattress and pulled over. I didn’t know what to do next. I climbed out of the car and, with hands raised in some warped form of surrender, walked the three or four yards to my mattress. Unsure of protocol in such a situation, I tried to pick it up. I was unsuccessful. My dad and cousin were at my side by this time and picked it up. I began the search for the pieces of my life … err bed. I saw my headboard at a distance and believed it to be unscathed. I rushed toward the grassy place it rested in only to see the main support beam busted in half. It was facedown, so I lifted it and discovered the lustrous dark wood was now slightly distressed and rustic. We reloaded and drove the rest of the way to the new house. I had put on a brave face for my dad during clean up, but cried once I was alone.

Despite my disappointment over the bed, it is just a piece of furniture. My thankfulness over my family and I being safe and healthy far outweigh my chagrin. I am grateful to be in a place where my contentment and peace come from an intangible source. God works in all things, and He works them for the good of those who seek Him. I know this move, this change, is a fresh start of sorts - definitely a new chapter. Maybe, just maybe, a new bed is part of that.