one of those weeks

I hate those weeks.

And this one was one of those, especially at work. That week where I didn't really do anything right. Where every beginner's or careless mistake I've made in the past six months came to a boiling head all at once, in the midst of massive hearing and trial preparations that had to be done on top of reorganizing my entire system. Where I worked my ass off and stayed till almost seven o'clock each night and came away feeling like I was rowing against the current and getting nowhere.

Grr.

Top it off with my worries over Simon and the now-glorious migraine pressing down on my skull and it's been great.

But there were a few perks. Like realizing that from time to time that I enjoy the fracturing stress. I was running around finding this and copying that and answering phones and talking to annoying clients and I realized, This is just like theater. Like production week, where the mics are broken and the sound system blows and we run out of man-blush and people are sleeping through their call times. Which made me, in spite of everything, grin. I can get a lot done under pressure. It's the gift of the procrastinator.

And God has always been unreasonably good to me in those times when nothing ought to work out. But a lot of it does. And I tend to be clever, and tenacious, in yanking solutions out of thin air when there isn't any other choice. I got by this week mostly on sheer stubbornness and ridiculous amounts of grace.

And slept eleven hours last night.

I'm exhausted. But since I can't seem to get caught up on the backlog of stacks of papers that need filing, and that one damn letter that never seems to get written, I'm heading into work for a few hours this afternoon, where I can slough around unshowered in a sweatshirt and jeans and ignore the phones and make a huge mess and put it all back together without being at anyone's beck and call. Of course, it's my job to be at everyone's beck and call, and when I'm caught up I don't mind a bit, but at the moment there are things that I desperately need to get done, and I DON'T want to walk in Monday morning to the same chaos I walked out on Friday night.

Screw the headache. Screw the exhaustion. I don't have any plans anyway, and when you're single your job is the one visible thing that gives your life daily meaning, right? And my bosses have been so good to me, and done so much for me, that working hard is the one thing I can do to repay them.

I won't deny that it's a form of self-flagellation. Sometimes the hardest thing about being a Christian is the utter, irrefutable dependence on God's grace. It goes against the human grain. What? My sins, my debts, my flaws, my mistakes are all forgiven? Just like that? (Not that that -- the brutal death of the incarnate God -- is simple. But we can't do anything; He already did it.) And there's nothing I can do to make any of it better myself?

Nope. And sometimes it drives a person crazy. Because we want to fix it, we want to make up for it. We want to atone. But we can't, and like it or not, there it is, the grace on which we stand, and we can't add a single act or deed to it. We can't tip the balance one way or the other. And it's such an incredible gift, we feel guilty for having to accept it continually and unconditionally. Like every day being handed something expensive and amazing that we did nothing for -- a house, a brand-new car, a whole new season's wardrobe from designer outfitters, a four-carat diamond necklace, a state-of-the-art, gleaming grand piano, a fur coat, a pedicure, a gorgeous garden, when you're, at worst, mean, dirty and derelict, and at best just average or mostly decent, and you're looking the giver in the face with your hands loaded with things you didn't even ask for, and saying, But what can I do? And getting, Nothing, I love you, this is for you, as an answer.

And the only thing you can give in return is gratitude, and striving to live a better life, and reaching out in kindness and protectiveness to others. Passing on the jewels, as it were: "He has shown you, O man, what is good. And what does the Lord require of you? To act justly, and to love mercy, and to walk humbly with your God."

Maybe that's the root of my feverish ambition to get the office organized this weekend. Gratitude, and a chance, not to rectify my mistakes, but to clean up some of the mess they left behind, and to prevent them from happening again, since I've been so absolutely, unquestioningly forgiven.

And there's a certain satisfaction in hard labor. You feel it has a purpose. That you're doing something -- cleaning the house you've been given, polishing the necklace, tuning the piano, weeding the garden -- and not just sitting still. You can't earn it, you can't give it back, but you can keep it beautiful, small as the ways might be.