I hate uncertainty. It feels like fingernails on a chalkboard. I don’t deal well with waiting to know the outcome of things, especially when they are out of my control. I get testy, I get uncomfortable, my heart starts racing, I get anxious.
I teeter on the edge of become a wreck; of tumbling into what we like to call “the crazy-head mill.”
Right now, I’m waiting for two decisions to come down the pipe. First, we’re still waiting to get a confirmation from our new roommate. There is a huge, long saga that goes along with this wait — but basically, the woman who we originally wanted can’t move in for a myriad of extenuating circumstances, and now the woman who we’ve decided on had gone m.i.a. and is now possibly looking somewhere else because she hadn’t heard from us by Friday. It boils down to this: if we don’t find someone to move in for June 1st, the three of us have got to go somewhere else because we can’t afford our beautiful house without a fourth person, even if our landlord is renting this space to us for far below market value.
Secondly, my church is planning a trip to Turkey in the fall. I’ve signed up, I’m interested, I’m willing. And yet I cannot seem to connect with the woman leading the trip. After leaving two messages this weekend, I finally went to the evening service and literally tracked her down just to say “hello.” The bottom line here: she still hasn’t decided, and probably won’t for another two weeks. Which means two more weeks of waiting. This I suppose would not be so bad, but last week she sent only a few people an article about how three publishers were stabbed to death for printing Bibles in the city where we’d be traveling to. Her sending the email to me made me get ahead of myself and think that I was already on the team, so meeting her tonight deflated my balloon a bit.