I feel like I’m in the middle of writing a story. When everything is jumbled up and so many things are yet unknown and all the known pieces are lying there in disarray.
We leave in less than three weeks, my sister and I. We have our bikes, most of our clothes, the promise of a euro phone from our brother. We have paychecks coming in, counted on. We have beeswax, two pounds of it, in hand, waiting to be melted, mixed with paraffin, painted on as-yet-unmade panniers, and heated back to melting point, facilitating its absorption into the canvas. Thus waterproofing, or at least making water resistant, our bicycle bags.
Pieces, lying in disarray.
Today we drove four hours to buy the wax. After hours and hours of trying to salvage what we thought would give us pounds of the stuff but turned out to be too old, too wrong stuff.
I’m sure we’ll run into more of this—more wrong turns, mistakes, efforts yielding little visible results. I am trusting that this is faithfulness in small things. Trusting that even through the efforts toward nothing, or very little, some character is built, something is learned, some good thing comes of it.
It’s frustrating to be in this middle place—and a middle place before even beginning. We put pieces together every day, some small piece here, some larger section of pieces there. Soon we will cut actual pieces of fabric and sew them together, another piece, fitted together.
Frustrating, but good. I love this frustration. This working out of what goes where—the putting in place the narrative, the line, the link, the thread that connects the beginning and the end.