Attic Shmattic.

I lack common sense.


I, personally, believe myself to be genius. And always right. Everything I do is wise, and everything I think is original and marvelous.


It's not, though.


Rarely, actually.


When I was a teenager I loved those remodeling shows on TLC. I would cry with the neighbors that had their rooms redone with each other, thinking, "Oh, if I only had $48,000 I could do that myself!"

Everyone needs a movie theater screen in their dining room, it just makes sense! Nothing like watching a great flick with the fine china, kids, this is how we roll in America!

Well, one day as I was watching tv with my toddler brother, at the time, they remodeled an attic into a chic apartment for a man's daughter. She was ecstatic. Naturally, I TOO became ecstatic. Oh my word, I'M someone's daughter. WE have an ATTIC. This must be the good Lord moving me to do something FANTASTIC!

I'm so smart.

So I decided, since it's safety first in our house, to set my toddler brother on the garage floor with a few cars, grab a flashlight, and pull down the attic stairs in order to check out my new living quarters.

My hands were shaking I was so excited. "I'll be 15 going on 30! We'll have parties and movie nights and I won't be scared and maybe there won't be mice or serial killers...." So up the stairs I went.

Funny thing about some attics. Instead of flooring, they just have insulation with what seems like some thin drywall along the top of it. It looks just like a sturdy floor! So crazy.

In my purest moment of innocence, I flashed the light around, saw the coast was clear, and took the first step onto the minuscule layer of support underneath my size 12 feet. I sunk a millimeter.

You see on cartoons that moment when the character stops after running off of a cliff and looks at the camera right before they fall to their "death." I had that moment. If there had been a camera directly in front of me, it would've caught my realization that I was about to fall one story to a concrete grave. I froze, and WHOOSH! Everything caved in and I began to understand gravity.

Joseph.

He was right next to me. Mary was too, but she was keeping her distance.

We had a light-up plastic nativity set, life-size, that we kept in the attic. Joseph was there in my time of trouble, because as I fell I grasped his neck and took him with me. He may be a respectable man in the Bible, but I needed him then, whether he was married or not.

With him under my armpit I slammed into two boards on either side of me, catching me from going completely through. With my legs dangling, I looked down at Quentin. He was still sitting on the floor with his cars. He looked up for a moment. Apparently seeing your sister hanging with the adopted father of Jesus from a rafter and a 6 by 6 foot hole in the ceiling is neither interesting nor of concern to a toddler.

"You ok, Ra-Ra?"

"Why yes, Quentin. Just testing my agility and flexibility. I failed."

:insert moment where inconsiderate brother returns to said playing of cars:

My back was bruised, my stomach was bruised, as well as both sides of my body, from my armpits down to my knees. But I'll never forget my faithful nativity friends. Good people, they are.

Joseph was there the whole time, but I only reached out when I was falling and about to be broken. I could've held onto him beforehand or remained on a sturdier foundation that would've kept me from the pain I had experienced. How often do I wait until I'm broken or falling to reach out to God? He's there, waiting to build a relationship with me, waiting for me to open opportunities for Him to show His love. And usually it's while I'm in the middle of a search to selfishly improve something in my life, when I'm already blessed with what I need, I just choose not to recognize it.

I didn't get my attic apartment, but boy was I newly thankful for the bedroom I had. And the floor inside of it.

Joseph has taught me a lot with his story in the Bible, but he taught me even more between the floorboards of my attic.