Time To Cry Over Spilled Milk

June 21, 2013

So maybe I have so many things to do with so little time.  Maybe I just needed one thing that I could control, one thing that I could watch mold and curdle and do nothing about it. 

My husband and I just celebrated our 11 year anniversary.  On our date, we talked about how fast time goes by.  How our oldest just turned 6 and how he can navigate an iphone and we’re not sure we could even find the power button.  How our baby isn’t a baby anymore and how he speaks in sentences with long pauses after every two words.  The truth is, there’s not much we can control in life and the truth is, revealing truth is never present when control and manipulation are.  Time and age cannot be controlled, they continue on regardless of what controls we place on them.  What is sad and funny at the same time,  is that I ultimately resorted to a plastic blue baby bottle full of goats milk just to get a tiny taste of control.

Three months ago, my husband had a newborn goat in his herd that struggled to thrive, after exhausting all efforts, the kid did not survive, and the blue baby bottle full of it’s mother’s milk was left in the fridge.  I attempt to keep a emotional distance from livestock, but I still choke up when a tiny helpless one doesn’t make it.  I decided I wasn’t touching the bottle, and that it was staying there in the fridge until my husband washed it out.  I snapped out a notice, something like,  “You need to wash your goat’s bottle out someday!”  But a few weeks passed by and the bottle still stared at me every time I swung open our illuminated ice box.  So, in order to draw attention to the turning milk, I placed the bottle next to the sink, and every time  I washed dishes, I set it to the side and left it as the single unwashed item. After a few weeks of separating and curdling on the counter, I continued my protest, and moved it to the deck.  I placed it in plain view atop our patio table and let it fizz and fester in the sun’s midday heat for how many days you ask?  Still counting.  Two days ago, while he was assembling our new kitchen cabinets, I asked him if he would make sure he found a good spot for the blue bottle.  I wanted to make sure he saved some space in those nice new cabinets for it.  Obviously, he is not too concerned about this putrid cheesy glop that has hung in the background for months.  And as much as I have wanted to toss it, I wanted to dominate and control the situation by proving my point much, much more.

I’ve decided I need to start crying over spilled milk.  I must let it pour out.  If it always stays safe within sight, with time and age it spoils and ruins.   

Pouring out and spilling over allows the bottle to be washed and filled with fresh new milk.  I held it captive, refusing to clean it for so long, I guarantee it’s going in the trash, because who wants to clean THAT!  Only a miracle of God could make that bottle sparkle again and be worthy of holding a bright white refreshment.  Thank goodness our Lord still performs miracles!

Dreams of Perfect Design. She likes to share little snipits and snapshots of her everyday adventures, in hopes that maybe, just maybe, it will impact someone else's life.

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