As I mentioned last week, I went home this summer to conduct an estate sale. I was dreading it. I don't do yard sales in the first place, preferring to avoid the hassle by just giving away things we no longer need. I was anxious about setting prices, wondering if things would sell, and unsure if I was emotionally capable of letting go of anything more.
In my head, I kept saying, "I just have to get to Sunday. By this time next week, this will all be done. I just have to get to Sunday." I had already made plans for some fun things we could do Sunday when the work was essentially finished.
It was like a mantra.
Storms came through Thursday night before the sale. As tired as I was, there was no drifting off with the bright flashes of lightening and deep rumbles of thunder.
I started thinking about Sunday again. How nice it would be to have the experience - and the anxiety - behind me. Wouldn't it be great if I could just skip ahead to Sunday? Jump through time to the other side. Avoid the potential pain and just have the satisfaction of completion.
Immediately I was reminded of another Sunday. Easter Sunday. I'd be happy to skip through the pain of Good Friday and the empty silence of Saturday and get to the good stuff. Resurrection. Redemption. Joy instead of sorrow.
But deep down I know that Easter Sunday only has those good things because we have endured Friday and Saturday.
So, while I still clung to the idea of Sunday, to the knowledge that this trial was temporary, I gave up the wish of skipping ahead. I said a prayer, grabbed a tissue, took a deep breath, and plunged in.
And Sunday came.