Coffee, Locusts & Mental Real Estate

I’m sitting on the deck this morning with coffee, a candle and my phone propped up on its little stand because apparently this is who I am now.

I hear birds. Traffic. Crickets. Probably frogs.

And locusts.

It took my brain a minute to come up with the word locusts. I got as far as “those little insects that make the freaky-freaky-freaky-freaky sound,” which honestly was a perfectly adequate description.

It’s a good morning. Humid, but not hot. Maybe a little cool, although certainly not crisp. I am very much looking forward to crisp-morning season.

Everyone else is still asleep. Sarah has already left for work, and I’m meeting Mandie for coffee later this morning.

Tomorrow is closing day at Hyfield.

Technically Josh and Christina are closing on it, but John and I will be on the deed too, so it really does feel like ours. All of ours.

I think about that place constantly.

I think about gardens and trails and family dinners and places for grandchildren to sleep. I think about projects that haven’t even been invented yet. I think about creating the kind of space where people can come and stay and make a mess and spread out a little.

Maybe that last part is because there are currently a lot of people living in my house.

Here’s the strange thing: I want them here.

And I also want my house back.

Both things are completely true.

Someday, when the house is quiet again, I know I’m going to miss the noise and the shoes and the stuff and the children appearing out of nowhere needing something. I’ll probably sit in my beautifully clean house and wonder why nobody is bothering me.

Apparently I want my cake and I want to eat it too.

Preferably without crumbs on the floor.

I’ve also been wondering why I’m not getting as much done lately as I think I should.

There is certainly no shortage of things I could be doing. My yard needs work. I need to mow. The garden beds need attention. The patio needs polymeric sand this fall. And judging by the number of spiders currently sharing the deck with me, I have questions for the pest-control people.

But I think I’ve underestimated how much mental real estate life can occupy.

There has been a lot to carry this summer. Some of it exciting. Some of it frightening. Some of it simply the normal business of loving people.

Maybe that counts as doing something too.

Today will probably be coffee with Mandie, yardwork, mowing and perhaps pulling a few things out of the garden beds and planting something new.

I probably won’t get much work done on the blog.

And tomorrow there will be Hyfield.

There are so many things I imagine for that place, but one of the biggest is simply room.

Room for people.

Room for grandchildren.

Room for crafts and muddy shoes and gardens and dinners and whatever else God decides to put there.

I don’t know exactly what Hyfield will become.

For once, I don’t think I need to.

I believe God opened this door, and I’m content to walk through it and find out.

This morning, though, I’m just sitting here.

Coffee. Candle. Birds. Locusts. Too many spiders.

And an ordinary life that, when I stop long enough to notice it, doesn’t feel very ordinary at all.

Thank you, Jesus, for every day, every breath and every beautiful soul you’ve placed in my life.

Even, apparently, the spiders.