My friend Stacey was over two months ago for tea and snacks when she announced she was heading to France for two weeks by herself. Let me repeat: France. Two weeks. By herself.
Honestly, nothing could have sounded better to me at that moment. A moment where it was all I could do not to scream and throw something at the wall behind which my kids fought and yelled and the TV blared in the other room. A moment where my conversation with Stacey was weighed down by a sense of how far behind I was on some work deadlines and how overwhelmed I was with work left to do still today. A moment when I felt like two weeks alone—in France or, for that matter, the moon—would be the cure for all that ailed me.
So I faced down a choice: Either I could "prefer the given"—as my friend Jennifer had once suggested—in my own life (the noise, the deadlines, and the pressure) and be glad for Stacey. Or I could prefer the gift Stacey got (the adventure, the food, the time to think and write) and seethe with hatred for Stacey and wallow in bitterness for my own life.
Really. That's what it always comes down to. That's our choice.
I went ahead and chose the former. With this choice, I was not only able to stay friends with Stacey, but I was able truly to enjoy her beautiful photos and rejoice with her as I read her posts of her days in Paris and in the south of France.
I still think her trip sounds great—and I do long for some of the scenic peace in which she was able to soul search and pray about where God wanted her and what he wanted her to do—but it's not an opportunity God has given me.