You, know, sometimes you realize you are in a situation, one you never, ever expected, and wonder, “Dear God, why me?”

I had one of those very, ummm, interesting incidences a few months back. At the time, I thought, this story is completely bloggable but I wasn’t sure how to put it to protect the guilty. Or whatever. But I’ve done some thinking and now I’m sure I can safely share this story.

But I’m warning you…it’s crazy!

I have a very good friend who is recently divorced. Now, I’m certainly not a big fan of divorce but what this girl was going through was rough.

One of the reasons she was getting the divorce was due to drug use by her husband. Admittedly, this girl had participated in this with her husband before, but was trying to change her life. Her husband found her new way of thinking as boring and often claimed she was “not any fun” since her change of heart. This is just part of the reason the divorce took place, but I’m sharing this part because it comes up as a big part of this story.

While this couple was separated, my friend would sometimes stop by her old home to collect things of hers or her boys. Her husband knew she had a key and this didn’t seem to be a problem at all.

One day, while my husband and I were actually getting ready to go to a Spiritual Discipline conference at a neighboring church, I receive a phone call.

The phone call is from my friend, who is in tears. Sobbing. She wants to know if my kids are home. Hmmmm…

I tell her they are actually loading up in their grandparents vehicle at the time. She was going to babysit for us to go to the conference.

Still crying she asks, “Can I come over? I’ve done something stupid and I don’t know what to do now!”

I assure her that she can come and we will help the best we can. All sorts of things are going through my mind. I have a feeling it’s bad, but as good an imagination as I have, I couldn’t figure out what could have my friend so upset.

My kids pull out and my husband comes in. I inform him that my friend is stopping by and that she’s upset. We are pondering what could be going on when she pulls up in the drive.

She walks in my house apologizing, hoping we don’t get into trouble. I’m beginning to get nervous, but I pretty much trust this friend. Then she begins…

She went by her old house to pick up a few things. She needed to go to the bathroom and when she gets there she sees this on the counter…

And she opens her purse and pulls out a plastic bag of white powder.

I’m dumb and innocent (in some ways) and ask what is that?

“Meth” my friend and husband say at the same time.

This is when I’m asking that question to God, about why me. I’m sitting here looking at a bag, I’m guessing is a large amount of drugs, sitting right there on my coffee table in my living room. It’s holding around two cups of white powder.

She then bursts into explanations. “I saw it and freaked. I grabbed it thinking I’d bring it to the police, and then while driving away I thought, Oh my gosh, I’ve got drugs in my car! I couldn’t decide what to do. I almost brought it back, but then I just couldn’t think so I called you guys…”

Well, since I haven’t a clue what to say I ask, “Ummm, is that a lot?”

My friend, who has a drug history, says all the drugs she’s seen in her entire life didn’t add up to that much. Then she bursts into tears, apologizing and asking what she should do. Should she bring it to the police, should she return it to his house? More tears.

My husband, who is a rock, let me tell you, takes control.

He calms my friend down. He tells her we will call the police from our house, explain the situation. They may yell at us but we are reporting what happened. It will be okay.

And that’s what he did.

Funny thing is, I’m sitting here wondering how long I must keep illegal drugs in my house before an officer gets here. Josh kept getting redirected over and over again as to who he should be calling. It took an hour for an officer to get here.

But my friend had finally calmed down. I get her to eat something.

Then the officer pulls up.

My husband explains the story, and as predicted, he yells at my friend. But after he chews her out really good, he turns nice-cop on us and tells us what to do.

He takes the offending bag off my coffee table (thankyouthankyou) and shows sincere astonishment at the amount in the bag. He claims this could be one of the biggest drug busts in awhile (yay! from my house!). He has my friend follow him to the police station in her car to give a report.

I offer to go pick her kids up from daycare and deliver them to her parents. I tell them the story and utterly shock them. They offer to meet me halfway to pick up her kids so that my husband and I can still make our conference.

I drive up to the meeting place, and lo and behold, there is my friend waiting to get her kids. I was shocked, thinking she would be tied up at the police station for awhile. She gets out of the car laughing, telling me I’d forgotten my cell phone and she couldn’t get me on the phone.

She had followed the officer to the police station. They had run a quick test on the contents of the bag…the offending white powder was nothing but epson salt.

Alas, there still have been no illegal drugs in my house! Of which I am greatly relieved!

When my husband and I were married we were the owners of one set of sheets that fit our bed.

One set.

There’s really nothing quite like being terribly exhausted, having stayed up way too late, and walking to your bedroom, giddy with the thought of crashing into the depths of your pillows and mattress for a few hours of unconscious bliss, only to remember when you see your naked bed that your sheets are still in the washing machine and you have forty minutes until they will be dried.

Ack!

So, when Grandma Mary (my husband’s lovely, wonderful grandmother) offered us a bag of old sheets, I happily accepted. Inside the bag were two sets of rather dated looking sheets. One had green and aqua stripes and one had pinkish and blue stripes. Both would have looked great in a 70′s bedroom. I couldn’t get too excited about them, although I was grateful.

I truly thought, when I first set my eyes upon them, that they would work great for emergencies (like sheets needing to be changed in the middle of the night, thank you babies, or when I was a dunce and forgot to finish, or start, the laundry).

But then, something crazy happened. I slept on them.

And oh! The unbelievable softness. The wonderful feeling of those old sheets. They. are. perfect. There are no other words to describe them.

More often than not, the sheets (and yes, more than one set now) that match my bedroom, the ones in the colors I like, sit folded in the window seat cabinet, in case of emergencies.

The sheets you will find on my bed look dated. They look old. They look out-of-style. They are worn.

And they totally rock!

Since my sheets no longer match my comforter, I also didn’t feel so bad kicking it to the side and covering our bed with a blanket an older lady quilted for me when I was just a baby. It’s a yellow, Sunbonnet Sue patterned quilt. The fabric is worn so that the batting is sticking out in places.

I adore it.

And then, there’s the jeans.

You see, I’m a blue jeans girl if ever there was one. I love a good pair of blue jeans. And I have nice, grown-up, tailored jeans to wear. But what pair are you most likely to find me in?

The oldest pair in my closet. With fabric so worn in places it will soon not be there. A frayed hem. Paint splatters!

I bought these jeans several years ago, actually in my pre-Rebekah and much skinnier days. I accidentally bought them quite a bit large (which is lucky because that means I can still wear them). I bought them to wear on a mission trip I was taking to Mexico, where we would be hanging drywall in a church building. I wore them again on a second mission trip where we painted a church.

They are in a sorry condition.

And I love them.

What items do you have that you cannot bear to part with, in spite of their complete worn out state? I’d love to hear your stories!

Guess how I’m spending my summer?

Obviously roasting my poor, pallid, not used to sunshine skin!

Yeeeeee-ouuuch!

That’s what I get for spending not one, but two days at the pool. And for being of Irish heritage. Yes. My shoulders, nose and the tops of my thighs are tender to the touch and a lovely (or not) shade of dark rose.

Add that to beginning to work out on Saturday, and I’m one tired, achy, sore chic.

And we have beach plans for Saturday. Maybe I’ll be healed by then. And buy some better sunscreen.

Ah summer-what power you have to make us suffer and like it!
~Russell Baker