I am SO STINKIN' TIGHT FISTED with my life. I hold onto it, white knuckles, gritting teeth and locked knees. I even have that look in the eye...you know, thevolumes-communicating staredown your momma gives you. If you don't remember that look from your mom, it's probably because it was given right before all memory of it was slapped out of your head. She gave you the look. You didn't heed the look. You got the look slapped upside your noggin.

Back to tight fisted. I'm a control freak really. I like to be the one to determine the whens and wheres and hows of life in my world. I think if I learned that He has a better plan for me than I have for myself, well, I'd be a whole lot less stressed.

As it is, I hate displacement. I think I can pretty much say I own this space: Displacement. Out of all the craziness of the past year, it might leave the biggest mark. I was in a particular grand mood the other evening...I'd heard news of being displaced yet again. My first reaction was GRIPEY. My normal brand of girpeyness tends I'm gripey, it tends to be humorous. I'm sardonic and full of biting, witty quips. But this particular streak, not so funny. I just wanted to sit down and cry. And when I got to a party with friends, I did just that. And maybe that was the particularly funny part of the gripeyness. I mean, consider: At a friend's party, on his front steps, crying by myself while everyone else is laughing inside. Ok. Maybe a little more slit-your-wrist sad, but my aftermath finds me laughing at the mental picture.

All to say, without wallowing anymore in the pits of self-pity, as I look back my moments of despair and pain, while legitimate, are not necessarily God-glorifying.