It is 1:22 am CST on February 18th. I am currently writing a blog entry from my very dark and chilly living room. I am actually writing this on Word because if the power goes out, my words will not be lost (to me and whoever else reads these things). I am writing because I cannot sleep. I am exhausted, but I cannot find rest. Rest comes in the wee hours of the morning just as the Pk's begin to rustle. I've been fortunate that during Texas SnowApocalpyse 2021, the Curate has been home. We have traded off duties with the kids so that each of us can get a little work done whilst also feeding and managing 5 kids under the age of 10 while also making sure pipes don't freeze, obsessively checking weather reports, checking in on friends, and neighbors, and remembering to sometimes eat and drink something other than strong coffee.
This week has been a journey, and it's Thursday, people. I've never felt so simultaneously drained and amped as I have since 2am CST on Monday, February 15th. That is the moment our power went out...for the first of many times. I must be very transparent and say that we have been very fortunate to have intermittent power (sometimes very long stretches without) since this whole fiasco began. It was interesting to see the Curate, and I fall immediately into what we lovingly refer to as "mountain mode." This is the mode in which you immediately assess and act. You begin thinking about the various ways things could go and mitigating as much risk as possible, and getting pretty crafty on your journey. You get into a rhythm of checking, assessing, acting, feeding, clothing, checking, shoveling, assessing, acting, and so on and so forth. You are in a constant state of preparation. The power goes on; it goes off. You get a text from family far away. You send a text to people who live across town, in the next town over, halfway across the state. You dig out your winter garb cause, after all, you live in South(ish) Texas, and winter isn't really a thing here normally, and certainly, you have never needed to winter boots in the almost 4 years you've lived here, and why can I only find one of each glove??? You take the kids out to play in the snow, but you are diligently watching the clock because they don't have the right gear, and the temp is near 0. Nightfall is nearing, and you are increasing bedding on your kids who are so warm-blooded, but you know that nighttime will be a bit of a challenge thermally, so you just put on the blankets and make it seem fun. You make a dinner that is honestly a mishmash of stuff from your pantry because if the power totally goes, you'll need to eat this stuff. You finally get everyone off to bed, and although you are DOG TIRED, you cannot sleep because what if the power doesn't cycle back on? What if you bust a pipe? What if this lingers on? What if there is some sort of medical emergency? Did you put up the windshield wipers on the suburban to stop them from freezing right to the windshield? Cause that's the car with 4wd and the only way you are getting out of your subdivision. And then you decide to pray because a lot of prayer helps sometimes. Then you get bogged down in the prayer and thinking about how freaking lucky you are and how much worse it could be, and then the baby wakes up, so you stumble through the darkness, and luckily he just needs a quick diaper change and then back to bed. You lay down again and just stare into the void that is the darkness, always being on high alert to the sound of the house waking up again when the power cycles back on. You realize soon that you've become Pavloved to the sound of electricity. And when it cuts out, you begin to have a visceral experience. You keep running scenarios over and over in your head. Kids warm and safe. Pets up next. The curate and I can always bundle up more. Oh crap, we are out of bread. How did that happen? But we have crackers and bagels so the kids can eat those. Maybe I should go recheck the taps? And before you know it, the sun is rising, and the kids are hungry for breakfast. And the Curate willingly and without so much as a hint of hesitation or irritation gets up and tells you to sleep for an hour or three and proceeds to take on the burden of the day. You literally fall into your bed, and then before you know it, you're up to do it again.
The generosity of people in our community and in our own personal community of people is amazing. This experience has taught me another batch of lessons about practicality, humanity, and the grit that I know I have. I am so thankful for parishioners whom I have never met in person who reached out, even when they are faring far worse than we are, to see if we need anything. To friends halfway across both sides of this country asking what they can do/send/buy. To clergy spouses who can relate to the stress of watching your spouse worry about both of their flocks. To the kindest of baggers at the HEB who look as frazzled as anyone but stop to make eye contact and tell you to be safe. Texas is a lot of things. Some of them good. Some of them bad but the people, by enlarge, are amazing. Texas, one of my children, is a born and so far bred Texan, and while California will always be in my heart, and Nevada will always be our home, you are dear to me in a way I cannot even fully explain. Your people are strong. They are resilient. And even though they are exhausted, they will continue on and will grab a bottle of water for you, too, cause they were going that way anyway. Texas, the stars at night are truly big and bright deep in the heart of Texas. Thank you.
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