I finally got in that damned storage unit.
CB and I moved all my things in to a different unit, what I've been wanting for over a year that I've tried to get my family to help me with- especially the ones who also have stuff in there.
But that's a whole 'nother rant.
CB and I did it alone, by grace and mercy of God. You know what I love about the God that I love? He's the kind of guy that has to use unexpected people here on earth as footwork for his good will. For instance, CB and I thought we could move my stuff in to a unit right beside the original one, E46. I just assumed that one would be open and waiting for me like I've been waiting for it. But no, they were all full, supposedly. The owner rode me through the spaces in his Corvette and it just so happened that one was open...in row B. How the hell were two people supposed to move a hoarder's worth of stuff into a unit that was three rows away with just a two-door Ford Focus and a Jeep Liberty?
It reminds me of that story in one of the Anne Lamott books about the guy and the Eskimo. It's something to the effect of: Two men were talking, one was telling how he was stuck on this mountain for days, maybe in a blizzard, and kept asking God for help. "Did he help you?" the other man asked. "No, some damn Eskimo ended up coming along and got me off the mountain."
Turns out that the owner of the storage units was Heaven sent and not only did he let us borrow a dolly, he let us borrow a giant Uhaul for the entire time it took us to get it done. The Uhaul had come from California and someone scraffitied on the side of it, "Love is" but the rest of the sentence had been wiped off.
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