The air conditioner buzzed in the window, stopping every once in a while to gurgle its' objection to working so hard that particular afternoon.
It was well near ninety degrees outside, and despite cranking the poor AC up, the heat still radiated through our little living room. I barely noticed.
Trevor and I sat on the thread worn couch- he played solitaire on the laptop... and I worried.
I had spent the past year working occasionally as
a substitute teacher. It hadn't been a great fit for me to be a short-term sub, but job openings were few. I knew I wanted steady, consistent work.
I ended up with two choices: a paraprofessional job at a small school, or an office job at the camp where we lived.
I'd weighed the decision over and over, and finally, on this afternoon, I turned to my husband with a big exasperated sigh.
"I wish God would just tell me what to do!"