A friend asked me how I was celebrating my Very Bad Day. How I was doing. Fine, fine, good actually. Thanks for asking.
It reminded me of another Very Bad Day…
Mr. Right was “invited” by the US Army to spend 7 months in another country.
Prior to the big day, we had decided to enroll the boys in school. Instead of homeschooling, we thought maybe we would all benefit from having more people and school chums in our lives.
The morning after Mr. Right flew out, we kept the routine as calm and new normal as possible. Once they were settled into their new classrooms, I drove with purpose to my friend’s house. (The very same friend who asked after my welfare today.)
She had invited me to spend the day with her. I was going to learn to weave a basket. An egg basket. I didn’t collect eggs, why on earth would I need an egg basket? How difficult could this be?
So the day began in her bathroom. The reeds were soaking in the bathtub. Becoming pliable for the art of weaving. I had never woven anything. Oh, I take that back, I wove a paper place mat when I was younger; over, under, over, under.
As the day wore on, my fingers were sore, however, my basket was taking shape. After a couple of decades, I don’t remember the conversation. I hardly remember the day. I remember being bathed in the Grace of Friendship. I can still feel it today. Somehow, she knew I needed to weave a basket. An egg basket that would take all day long. Weaving would use up a lot of brain space. She somehow knew I needed help to make it through one Very Bad Day.
A Very Bad Day slipped by before I even knew it. Today, 23 years later, I celebrated a different Very Bad Day. I used the basket to collect my own eggs.