This Morning for maybe the 100th time I had to wash my big white blanket because there were several orange stains. Apparently its extremely fun to spit 10 ml of orange medicine at 5 am. Apparently I don’t understand whats fun anymore. I’ll allow my children to one day re-count this story at our Thanksgiving Dinner table.
- you learn early-on living on the mission field that White is not the ideal option.
- Such White items will never be white again if you so choose to make the decision to purchase White items. I.E. BIG WHITE BLANKETS
This blanket has been through many seasons of my life. Stomach Flu, Jaw Surgery, break-ups, sleepovers, first jobs,, moving to Uganda, moving to Ghana and finally Motherhood.
There are stains that have been washed out, bleached out and prayed out. However their is still faint resemblance of each time their was a tear, puke, soda spill or now even the occasional toddler night time pee and medicine explosion.
This blanket is a lot like my heart. Each season has stained me in different ways. The vomit from bad street meat, the soda from laughing so hard talking with best friends, blood from that time I accidentally punched myself trying to catch a rat, and the massive amount of tears both joyful and in grieving.
Tears from leaving my friends and family in the US, tears from painful loss of each small life, tears from just wanting a decent cup of coffee or eating something other than rice.
Tears from laughter, Tears from encouraging letters, Tears from Truth, Tears of hope.
But…the biggest stain I have on my heart is the orange dirt of Africa. From the times i’ve been too lazy to wash my feet or from the massive amount of wind from a huge thunderstorm blowing dust in. The dirt from the massive amounts of fake Jollof rice my daughters and I have made outside. I’m pretty sure my white blanket would be considered a rusty orange if you had 20/20 vision. The orange stain is never ending.
My heart is about the same way these days stained pretty orange in all the best ways. Its stained from the deepest of lows the highest of highs. Its stained from the seasons of the known and unknown. It is stained from the muddy African roads to the little muddy hands I get to call my own. I’ll continue to receive these stains with an open heart and a not so white blanket.
The more stains I collect, The more life I have lived.