Grand Slam? Please?

grand slamWhen I was in high school, summers were all about loving God and cute boys at Bible camp.  Now that I’m 31, summers seem to be about throwing a wrench in my life.

Last summer, it was work related.

This summer, it’s all about housing.

As you may recall from earlier posts, my beloved roommate Desiree is getting married in August, and while I’m so happy for her and Matt, I’m terribly sad to lose her as a roommate.  She has been a comforter, co-conspirator, and companion, and she’s been by my side since the pre-ERP days.  She has the perfect sense of humor, loves Jesus with her whole heart, and dispenses compassion as if it’s on tap.  This apartment will be so different without her here.  (Thankfully, she’s only moving two buildings over– I can’t complain about that!)

I started the roommate search back in January, when Des and Matt first got engaged, and actually, it was pretty simple.  A new friend agreed to live with me, and that was that.  I moved forward for months with that plan, even re-signed my lease with that friend in the back pocket.

Just last week, she backed out.

So instead of seven months to find a new roommate, I now have six weeks.

I don’t want to slam that friend– she really is lovely– but she did put me in a tight spot.

I’ve already signed the lease.  I can’t afford to live here alone.  I don’t have anywhere to move to even if I did break the lease.  I want to stay.  I’m suuuuuuper picky about whom I’ll live with (after living with Des for six years, how could I not be?).  And in the back of my head, I keep thinking, If you don’t find someone right away and are paying alone, can you really afford to start grad school in January?

Not to mention I felt like a loser getting “dumped” by a potential roommate for a different one.

But here’s the thing …

Joseph on his way to Egypt.  Moses at the Red Sea.  Easter weekend.  Things can look pretty dark, even right before brightness bursts over the scene.

The bases are loaded.  The crowd is watching intently.  I’m so grateful that it’s not my turn in the batting line-up.  It’s His.

It’s always His.

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