Wise Women Don't End Up With Broken Wisemen

Wisemen, a shepherd, and Mary, oh my!

I hate having to learn lessons the hard way. So why do I keep doing it that way? I guess just 'cause I'm human, dang it.

I'd love to say it all started with a wet washcloth, but that would be shifting the blame. Still, it kinda did.  My mom left a wet washcloth hanging on a hook on my bathroom wall. I mean, isn't that why there would be hooks on one's bathroom wall?  So, no biggie . . . except my bathroom walls are covered in fabric, and that wet washcloth left a big ol' water stain right in the middle of the wall. Recovering the wall is not an option (I swore I'd never do that job again), so if you know anything about my decorating style, you know I am going to “fix it” by simply hanging something “new” over the spot—a little task I decided to take care of early Sunday morning right after St. Michael whisked the parentals off to Hobby Airport to catch their crack-of-dawn flight back to North Carolina.  

Yeah, despite the fact that my coffee was freshly poured, and the casita was dark and quiet—the perfect time to plump the pillows and cozy into the couch and share my morning coffee with Papa—I found saying not, "Good morning, Sweet, Precious Papa-God," but "First, let me straighten up the Texas room [what we call our guest room] . . . oh, and let's hang something over this water spot . . . “ 

(Of course, Papa was saying What's this “let's,” little girl?  I'd rather you just sit and enjoy some time with me, soaking up my presence . . .  But, no, I was bound and determined to do “just one more quick thing.”) 

Having no hammer in sight has never for one moment stopped one of my DIY projects—I simply began pounding a nail into the bathroom wall, just above the offending water spot, with the butt-end of a screw driver. (Yes, sisters, this is how I roll.) After approximately seventeen quick, stabbing jabs into the nail head, C R A S H !

Why, oh, why, did it not occur to me that my pounding on the wall might set anything resting on the above wall shelf sailing off said shelf like Thelma and Louise went flying off that cliff? (And, sadly, with the same results.)

There on the floor lay two wisemen  parts of two wisemen, a shepherd, and, alas, Mary, too (not to mention a Fiesta plate that had rested on the shelf as well.  Another hint to my decorating style: more is always more).   

Needless to say, I was heartsick.  Though Baby Jesus had landed safely in a basket directly below the shelf, a major portion of one of my favorite nativity scenes lay in shards, slivers, and various chunky pieces across the bathroom floor. Ugh! 

I picked up the majority of the pieces and then allowed myself to admit that had I been listening and snuggling with Papa on the couch instead of scurrying around playing Martha-on-crack, everything would still be intact—wisemen, shepherd, Mary, Fiestaware plate. And my heart wouldn't be thumping to the beat of woulda, coulda, and shoulda.

After gingerly picking up and depositing the broken pieces of my mishap on top of one of the what-can-I-cover-that-spot-with candidates, I humbly retrieved my coffee cup from the bathroom counter and made my way to the couch for some peace and solitude, and—dare I say—repentance.

Too late.

Just as eyes closed for retreat into prayer, 

the back door flew open, and St. Michael was there. 

He went straight to the kitchen and started puttering around, 

snatching what little peace there was to be found.

As humans, sometimes we just plain ol' miss the moment. 

During the upcoming busy-ness of this Christmas season, here's hoping you don't miss yours. I'm hoping to do better next time, myself.

Still learning,

Pamm