FEEDING THE CAT

I walked next door today to feed the cat, Grammy's gray fuzzball, Miss Kitty.

Two years ago, Grammy was with us, preparing Thanksgiving dinner. Grammy was so happy that Thanksgiving, her counters covered with food and her kitchen filled with family. So happy, so tired, so frail. She stumbled when she walked, leaned long against the counter, her skin deeply jaundiced, but smiling such a big smile the whole long, sweet, exhausting day.

Two years + a week ago, Grammy was gone.

I walked next door today to feed the cat, Grammy's cat.

I've walked next door often over the past 20 years. To use Grammy's washer when my washer was broken, to pick up the leftovers Grammy cleaned out of her fridge but couldn't bear to throw away, to shell pecans or work a jigsaw puzzle together, to check the mail and feed the cat on the rare occasions when Grammy and Granddad went out of town.

During nursing school, I walked next door daily - to use the internet for online classes, to eat caramel corn and watch TV and pretend like some part of my life was "normal," to cry countless tears of frustration and exhaustion. Nursing school was traumatic. Grammy was a good listener.

The last year - the very last year - I walked next door multiple times a day. Granddad was declining. I would get the call: "Are you home? I need help." "Yes, I'll be right over." Dying and death are such peculiar things. Caring for Granddad that last year, Grammy and I cried and laughed and talked much of the ridiculousness of this life.

I walked next door today to feed the cat, Grammy's cat. Grammy has been gone for two years, but the cat is still here and still needs to be fed.

I go an entire day now sometimes without missing Grammy. Other days, I feel her absence keenly, and my chest hurts and the tears start again.

Days like today.

I walked next door today to feed the cat, Grammy's cat, but Grammy wasn't there.

Y'ALL...

Y'all, I woke up Monday morning genuinely looking forward to going in to work. No tight neck muscles, no churning stomach, no clenched teeth...just a quiet smile as I headed out the door under a star-studded sky early Monday morning.

Can we all just pause a moment to appreciate what a HUGE deal this is?

Y'all, for the first time in I-can't-remember-when (at least 5 years!), I do not have to go to work or do a crap-ton of homework on Thanksgiving weekend. Several of the kids and their families are rolling in for the weekend, and I am super excited about cooking turkey, dressing, and all the fixings.

Can we just pause a moment to appreciate the gift of having time - finally - to be human?

Y'all, I am back in yoga class consistently, and I even attended a spin class last night for the first time in over 6 months. It felt wonderful to work up a sweat exerting long-neglected muscles.

Can we pause a moment to appreciate opportunities for self-care?

Y'all, in the past week, I had tea and a catch-up with a sister-friend who has walked this life with me for almost 50 years; I celebrated a major life event with a young friend I watched grow from a toddler to a man; I enjoyed Sabbath with a sister-friend who breathes Jesus all over me every time we are together; and I said goodbye-for-now to another sweet friend who worships now in the presence of her Savior and mine.

Can we pause a moment to savor the goodness of friendship?

It is the Golden Hour. The sun, already low in the western sky, casts a soft amber light across the hayfield outside my window. Early morning and late afternoon - sunrise and sunset - are magical times in the hayfield, simply because of the light.

Y'all...

I have been very, very tired - body and soul - for a long, long time. But today, I feel like I am waking up after a long and troubled sleep.

Today, I feel grateful.

Hopeful.

Awake.

A SOFT NOVEMBER MORNING

It's a soft, gray, mizzly day here at the farm. The air is cool and moist. Crows cackle in the trees behind the house and a soft drip-drip-drip plashes lazily from the roof edge into a rain-soaked trench below.

I could use more mornings like this.

Mom and I are staying home from church this morning. Mom had another one of her crash-&-bounce-back, cheat-death-again episodes yesterday. She is fine today, but she is tired.

Yesterday, we also celebrated the quickly approaching arrival of the newest member of our family. In the span of two weeks, I will have spent a weekend of fervent prayer in the hospital, applied my nursing training to revive an unconscious parent, and attended a baby shower, a wedding, and a funeral. Oh, and I also worked, bought groceries, cooked meals, did laundry, changed bed linens, and all the usual stuff.

It is lovely today to have a pause, a quiet day at home, a sabbath.

It's been a couple of crazy weeks since I last posted here at the blog. I tried to keep my once-weekly commitment - actually have two unfinished drafts from those silent weeks - but, you know, life. Both of my aging parents have commented to me recently - and I agree - "Life is so ridiculous!"

My mind is not clear enough this morning to write a well-thought-out post - am still processing so many emotions and needs and uncertainties - but I want to write something, if only to prevent two silent weeks at the blog from rolling into three. And so...

Today, I am sharing a few things for which I am thankful.

I am thankful I have a job that doesn't leave me completely emotionally and physically exhausted at the end of each day. I am thankful for a reliable car and a paycheck that allows me to put gas in the tank so that I can drive to a hospital two hours away. I am thankful for supportive co-workers, faithful friends, and precious family who check on me and who pray for me when I am anxious.

I am thankful for a son-in-law who loves my sweet daughter so very, very well, and for his gracious, kind, generous parents who love her like their own. My heart is overwhelmed at the goodness of God shown to my family through every single one of the in-laws He has given us.

I am thankful for my nursing education and work experience; thankful that a health crisis triggers a trained response instead of panic; thankful that "head down, feet up" is a reflex and I know how to "use my levers [bones]" to lift and transfer a large, unconscious person.

I am thankful that even though I STILL do not have anything to wear to this wedding on Friday, I know I will be welcomed no matter what I show up wearing, it will be a joyful celebration, and I have already been promised a dance.

And I am thankful for this quiet day at home and a slow, soft morning on the porch swing. (I think of you, Katherine, every time I sit here. Thank you!)

THOU SHALT NOT

A beautiful fall day on a road less traveled.

"What emotions are you not allowed to feel? I want you to take time this week to think about what feelings you have that you have been told or that you have believed you should not feel, and I want you to be honest with yourself. Let's come back and talk about those next week."

That was a tough assignment. I'm a people-pleaser who has a long history of figuring out the expected answer so that I can say and do the "right" thing. An easier assignment would have been: What are you supposed to feel? What would be the culturally/familial/good-Christian-girl response?

I am a life-long servant of Should, fluent in the languages of Ought and Appropriate.

My first challenge was to try to identify what am I not allowed to feel. My experience has been six decades of subtle and not-so-subtle comments and teachings along the lines of "This is the correct feeling, response, opinion, etc....and anything different is unbiblical, sinful, and dishonors God." (And if I've got any of that mess going on in my life, I'd better get it cleaned up before it leaks out and someone finds out about it!)

I remember once, several years ago, when a friend who was processing a heartbreaking personal tragedy - when this friend admitted "I am so angry at God right now!," an acquaintance who overheard her gasped and retorted emphatically, "Oh, don't say that! You should never be angry with God, and you certainly shouldn't say it out loud if you are!"

In the moment, my own grief-clouded mind had a vague recollection that there are multiple scripture passages about things like being angry and sinning not and don't let the sun go down on your anger and such, but still, this person's comment felt so grossly inappropriate, out-of-place, and downright wrong. Didn't God already know my friend's heart, her grief, the tumult of her emotions? Would pretending that she felt differently somehow be "more Christian," more God honoring? Did not David - the man after God's own heart - freely confess his innermost feelings and struggles, and did not God preserve David's outpouring of emotion for the church? What was this acquaintance suggesting? That dishonesty with God and forced self-deception were somehow better than my friend's open and honest outpouring of grief, anger, and distress?

But back to my homework several weeks ago. What am I not allowed to feel? And of that list of taboo emotions, which do I actually feel? Could I be honest with myself? Could I be honest with God?

It was not a fun assignment.

You shall not be angry. You shall not feel hurt. You shall not express thoughts, opinions, or preferences that do not align with those of people in positions of power. You shall not speak out against injustice or express any feelings of distress if doing so might disrupt the peace and tranquility of the status quo.

What I discovered was that so many of the "thou shalt nots" holding my heart hostage were not issued by God at all, but by broken people around me.

Sin - including bondage to man-made "thou shalt nots" - enslaves.

The gospel of Jesus liberates.

Opening up the deep recesses of my guarded heart to the light did not bring more guilt, shame, and wretchedness, as I had expected. On the contrary, it brought freedom, hope, joy...and a deeper sense of how greatly I am loved by my heavenly Father.

God knows my heart. Why should I be hesitant to share freely with him all of my feelings and struggles? He already knows, and he can handle anything I bring him...even those things considered forbidden or taboo. He is so good, so faithful, so compassionate, so gentle, so incredibly kind.

CONVERSATIONS THAT TURN QUICKLY TO CHRIST

Blessed to talk with the youngest son! He weathered Hurricane Milton safely and was thankful for a day of sunshine and cooler temperatures yesterday. Conversation touched several topics, but I want to share two of those topics here.

Youngest Son bought a street bike several months ago and he is absolutely loving it. As we talked yesterday, he commented that one thing he enjoys about riding the bike is the amount of concentration, awareness, and continuous adaptability it demands. He explained that the mental focus required when he rides his bike actually provides mental rest "from all the other things" that otherwise occupy his thoughts.

My old boss at the hospital lab once told me the same thing about riding horses. "If you go for a run to de-stress, all the frustrations and worries of work still make their way into your head. But when you're riding horses, it requires just enough concentration and focus to push all those other thoughts out so that you can mentally rest for a while."

This got me to thinking about rest. We need physical rest, and we all know that getting enough rest for our bodies is hard work in today's go-go-go culture. But we also need rest for our minds.

I feel like my brain NEVER turns off. I have lain awake at night, physically exhausted and desperately desiring sleep, with my mind running a hundred miles a minute trying to untangle some Gordian Knot that could absolutely wait until morning. I've screamed silently in the darkness to my squirrel-on-speed brain, "Just shut up and go to sleep already?!"

(I know folks who seem not to have this problem of a brain with no "off" switch, and I've regarded them enviously at times, thinking how peaceful it must be to have a clear, white, static-free screen between their ears. How quiet, how calm. I cannot even imagine.)

If a naturally keyed-up brain isn't enough of an obstacle to mental rest, there are also text messages, emails, podcasts, social media scrolling, music at the coffee shop/Walmart/the grocery store, traffic lights, and blinking lights from our devices even after the house goes dark to help keep those neurons firing, firing, firing.

Yes, physical rest is hard work; but for some of us, mental rest is even harder.

And then there is soul rest, which is perhaps the hardest of all...and which brings me to the second topic of conversation that I wanted to share. Youngest Son said something to the effect of (and Ben, please correct me if I get this wrong - I can edit this post!): When Christians are together, why does conversation not turn more naturally and consistently to Christ and the Gospel?

I mean, think about it: what do we talk about when we get together? We talk about our kids, jobs, projects we are working on at home, favorite sports teams, the weather in -----, vacation plans, the price of eggs and cheese this week at the grocery store, movies, car problems, recipes for holiday appetizers, frustrations with relatives, FaceBook memes, and Aunt Bertha's recovery from recent knee surgery.

Oh, sure, we may throw in a spiritual reference - "Please pray for Aunt Bertha" or "Thank God we didn't have any damage from the storm" - but God, faith, and spiritual matters are not usually the central topic of conversation.

This got me to thinking about conversations I've had over the past week. If I counted correctly, only three of those conversations were about faith in any significant way. To be honest, I am not a big conversationalist, but, still...only three?!

And here's how I think that relates to soul rest: If I am not talking to myself often (without ceasing) about Jesus, his love for me, and his work on my behalf, and if I am not excited to talk to others about how much Jesus loves sinners, and if I am not curious about how Jesus is working in the hearts and souls of the people around me, if I am not eager to hear how Christ is growing and challenging and sustaining my brothers and sisters each day - then how am I ever going to find soul rest, because the Gospel IS soul rest, and I need to be hearing it and speaking it and wrestling with its implications alongside others every chance I can.

Lord, forgive me for all my idle words. Quicken my stony heart. Heal my blind eyes so that I can see Gospel needs. Open my deaf ears so that I can hear Gospel opportunities. Loosen my mute tongue, so that I speak often and freely of you and your glorious grace. Lord, please, turn my conversations quickly and joyfully to Jesus, because I and the people around me desperately need the rest that only my beautiful Savior can give.

A LITTLE WINDOW INTO MY WORLD

A Happy Place

I saw a post on Facebook recently where an interviewer asked individuals what they were learning in therapy. Participants' one-word answers included: Accountability; Empathy; Resilience; Patience.

Foregoing the one-word stipulation, here's my go at answering the question.

Things I am learning in therapy:

I am developing a larger emotional vocabulary.

Other people's emotional regulation is not my responsibility; my own emotional regulation is my responsibility.

Being assertive does not equal aggression, insubordination, or manipulation.

I cannot change others; I can work on changing me.

Being honest about my hurts, weaknesses, fears, and failures is hard, but it is also one of the first steps toward moving past them.

* * * * *

Switching topics, what are some things I am changing in my life?

Recent changes to my day-to-day:

Biggest change is undoubtedly the new job: work is much less stressful, I am loving learning new things, and staff actually take a break for lunch together each day. (How weird is that in the nursing profession?!)

I have reduced my caffeine intake from half a pot of coffee in the morning and a super-size Diet Coke in the afternoon to 2 cups of coffee or tea per day. I've also added a "green drink" to my morning routine.

Alcohol consumption has been slashed to practically zero. This physically hurt the first week; today, no longer craving the daily bourbon or gin-&-tonic. (Thank you, Jesus!)

Mom and I are eating our evening meal earlier in the day (before 5:00 pm), and portions for me are significantly smaller.

I am sleeping at least 8 hours each night, even when I have to be up at 4:00 in the morning. It is  wonderful to be free from the shrieking night-time on-call alarm.

Aiming to do yoga twice a week, walking at least twice a week. So far, so good!

Y'all, I bought new scrubs for the new job and, this past week, I ordered a few items of fall clothing for myself without overthinking it and without feeling guilty. That is huge. (In the past, I would consider a purchase for several weeks or months, often talking myself out of the purchase altogether or feeling guilty for buying something for myself if I went through with the purchase.)

* * * * *

What about writing?

I am not writing as much or as consistently as I'd like, but I am also not beating myself up about that. On days that I can write, I am thankful. On days that I am not able to write, I shrug it off and tell myself, "Oh, well. Maybe tomorrow."

I'm trying to post once a week consistently here at the blog. Sometimes, however, it is a struggle to come up with ideas to write about. Suggestions?

I am also working on another fiction manuscript. It is a story I feel compelled to write, an exorcism of sorts. I am not especially fond of the story line, and working on the project - because of difficult themes within the story - often makes me angry. I'm struggling with the resolve to "just be angry and get it done!" so that I can move on to pleasanter projects. Prayers appreciated!

* * * * *

What about YOU, Dear Reader?

What are you learning about yourself? about others?

What positive changes have you made recently in your daily routine?

What hobbies or passions do you desire to pursue? How are you making those things happen?

I've given you a little window into my world today: I would love to have a little window into yours!

IT IS GOOD TO BE IN THE HOUSE OF THE LORD

It is so, so good to be in the house of the Lord this morning.

Gratitude as I drove to church this morning:

• I am thankful for my new job. I have wonderful coworkers, I enjoy the work, and the schedule is a huge improvement.
• I have learned so much over the past 5-6 years: completed a difficult college degree; became comfortable with a plethora of practical nursing skills (still so many to learn); bought a car and car insurance for the first time ever in my life; learned how to take care of grown-up paperwork like my advanced directive, durable power of attorney, and will; started saving for retirement (a little late to the game at age 60, but at least it's a start).
• I have been privileged to work with and to care for some of the most beautiful people in the world; have fallen in love way too fast and grieved deeply.

Concerns as I drove to church this morning:

• Will I be provided for and taken care of when I am no longer able to work? Will I have a place to live when I am old?
• When I can no longer care for myself and must depend on others for my care, will I be a blessing or a burden?
• Will family still be present and active in my life when I get old, or will I be tucked away in a corner somewhere and forgotten?
• Is there anybody besides me thinking about these things today on my behalf for the future?

Most Sunday mornings, I drop Mom off at Sunday school class, then head to a cozy parlor for 45-minutes of writing time. This Sunday, however, the parlor is locked. I am sitting in the foyer outside the sanctuary to write.

I settled onto a hard bench with my Bible, laptop, and tea, a chaotic turmoil of thoughts and concerns roiling inside my head.

It's a bit noisy here in the foyer: the music team is going over songs for morning worship, and heavy traffic roars by outside the front door.

Lord, are you here? Can you hear me above the music, the traffic, the noisy thoughts inside my head?

Eyes closed, deep inhale. Hold it. Slow exhale.

Lord, I am anxious - again - about the future. What's next?

Breathe in, breathe out.

And then, rolling through the sanctuary doors, Adam's sweet voice:

"Thro' many dangers, toils and snares, I have already come; 'tis grace has brought me safe thus far, and grace will lead me home.

"The Lord has promised good to me, his Word my hope secures; he will my shield and portion be, as long as life endures.

"And when this flesh and heart shall fail, and  mortal life shall cease, I shall possess within the veil a life of joy and peace."

Yes, He hears even above the noise, and He calms my fears.

* * * * *

I was glad when they said to me, "Let us go to the house of the LORD!" Psalm 122:1

One thing have I asked of the LORD, that will I seek after: that I may dwell in the house of the LORD all the days of my life, to gaze upon the beauty of the LORD and to meditate in his temple. Psalm 27:4

Surely goodness and mercy shall follow me all the days of my life, and I shall dwell in the house of the LORD forever. Psalm 23:6

NOW I LAY ME DOWN TO SLEEP

NOW I LAY ME DOWN TO SLEEP

-originally posted September 25, 2015

As I am prone to do at this 50-something, menopausal stage of my life, I awoke in the wee hours of the morning one day this week and simply could not go back to sleep. This happens so frequently now that I have made wee-morning my regular time to pray for my children and for my church family. This particular morning, however, my mind turned to other things...

For some reason, as I lay awake in the darkness, memories of other times when I had lain awake in bed, praying, came to mind. Memories I hadn't visited in ages.

I recalled one of my most comforting childhood memories:  that of being tucked into bed at night by my dad or my mom.

Tired at the end of a long day of work or play, full from a good dinner and freshly bathed, I would climb into bed and burrow under the blankets. Dad would flip off the lights and come sit on the end of the bed, smelling deliciously of coffee and cigarette smoke and perhaps cowness or tractor exhaust or, if he had eaten lunch at Olympia that day, of garlic. We would talk a little bit, and then he would tell me it was time to say my bedtime prayers.

"Now I lay me down to sleep..."

I would pray, and then sometimes he would pray, too. That very simple children's prayer worked like a magic incantation, ushering me from wakefulness to the drowsy shadowland of almost-asleep.

"Amen."

A goodnight kiss, and then..."'Night, 'night. Sleep tight. Sweet dreams," as Daddy left the room.

I can't think of anything more comforting than slipping off to sleep with my last conscious thought being that my Father was right there with me.

* * *

And another memory came to mind...

I was a teenager, and my bed at the time was a fold-out couch in the dining room - the dining room, because it was a room the family didn't use every day and therefore had less traffic. (I am not sure, but I think maybe my regular room and bed had been given to a relative or guest who staying with us for an extended period.) At any rate, I often read my Bible in bed at the end of the day and would leave it on the arm of the couch when I turned out the lights.

Mom and Dad no longer came to tuck me in and say bedtime prayers - I was too big for that - but my heavenly Father still met with me to talk and pray before ushering me off to sleep. Sometimes, I would wake up in the middle of the night, worried about an upcoming test at school or frightened by a bad dream, and I would feel around in the dark until I found my Bible. Pulling it close to me in bed, I would be comforted knowing that Yes, God was still close, still keeping watch.

I didn't think that small black leather-bound book was a magic charm or some kind of lucky amulet; no, it was a physical reminder - something I could touch with my hands - of the invisible presence of God.

"I pray the Lord my soul to keep..."

* * *

As I lay awake that morning earlier this week, remembering these scenes from my youth, it struck me that night after night, year after year, for as long as I can remember, God has faithfully met me in the gray twilight before sleep, and in the scary darkness of my fears and anxieties, and now, in the wee-morning wakefulness of middle-age.

Every night when I burrow under the blankets, He is there and waiting to talk. When I wake up and the sky is black and the stars are as bright as ice, He is still there, awake and listening and waiting to talk.

For over fifty years - how many nights of sleep? how many nights of sleeplessness? - God has been awake and present and listening and ready to meet with me.

A passage from Psalm 121 also came to mind in the wee-dark hours that particular morning:   "...he who keeps you will not slumber. Behold, he who keeps Israel will neither slumber nor sleep. The LORD is your keeper..." As I recalled those memories from my childhood and considered these verses from Psalms, I was brought to tears, overwhelmed by the incredible faithfulness of God.

Fifty+ years of nights for me, and He has never slumbered, never slept.

Every single night, my Father is awake, still watching, still protecting, still listening, still comforting.

All through the night.

COUNTING BLESSINGS

She may look janky, but she's a trooper!

Change makes me anxious.

I am facing big changes in the weeks ahead. I am super excited...and very nervous.

To counter rising anxiety, it helps me to recall God's faithfulness, provision, and protection in the past. Remembering God's past faithfulness gives me assurance and confidence for the future. Today, before the start of tomorrow's big new adventure, I am looking back.

God's provision for me on this nursing journey:

A father-in-law who let me use his farm truck so that I could get a job and drive to work.

A lab director who gambled on a completely inexperienced new-hire, trained me, encouraged me to do more...then accommodated my work schedule so that I could.

The friend in the library who challenged me to "think about it, instead of telling me why you can't." You unlocked the door to Possibility.

A daughter who chauffeured me to school my first year of classes and who was my biggest cheerleader through some really rough places, a young woman who set an incredible example of hard work, determination, resilience, and grace.

A son and daughter-in-law who generously covered a portion of my school fees and a mother-in-law who helped me pay for my text books. Nursing textbooks are crazy expensive.

The little red Yaris, a gift from my sister and her husband so that I could have my own transportation to school and clinicals.

Best. Nursing. Classmates. Ever. Shared trauma forges bonds.

Soul sisters who prayed for me, cried with me, and exhorted me to lean hard into Jesus.

Hospital coworkers who told me often "You can do this" and who shared their wealth of wisdom and experience with the kindness and generosity of true care-givers.

A pastor and worship team that fed my exhausted soul each Sunday and gave me strength to stumble through one more week.

A son and daughter-in-law who shared pizza and took me out on the lake when I needed to step away and breathe.

The generous friend who gave me three hard 10-hour days to "help get back on top of this house," which had degenerated into absolute nastiness due to school-term neglect.

Parents who prayed for me, a step-mother who mentored me, siblings and kids who encouraged me every step of the way.

The multiple strangers who changed flat tires in the rain, paid for my food in the McDonald's drive-thru, and hugged me when I broke down crying for no apparent reason in the produce section at Walmart.

Fantastic coworkers during long night shifts on med-surg and protection driving home, asleep.

New opportunities, and two Patient Care Administrators who set the Gold Standard for nursing PCA.

Precious patients who shared their hearts and lives with me during the tenderest season. What a blessing and a privilege to approach the Throne alongside these beautiful souls.

And now...

A new door opens.

A new adventure awaits.

Yes, I'm anxious, but I am going to be okay. I know God will be with me and He will faithfully guide and keep me...like He always has before.

THANK YOU

Over a decade ago, a friend gave me a copy of Ann Voskamp's book One Thousand Gifts: A Dare to Live Fully Right Where You Are. Thus began my journey of recording daily small gifts to develop and strengthen the discipline of gratitude.

As I engaged with Ann's book all those years ago, I wrote this: "Ann began a study of prayers of thankfulness in Scripture. What she found surprised her. Prayers of sincere gratitude were often recorded in the midst of - or just preceding - great trial or distress. This puzzled her. Ann's study - and her resolution to fill a notebook with '1,000 gifts' - led her to discover that she had been understanding joy backwards. She had thought that joy came first, that true gratitude and thankfulness to God were based on, were the fruit of, his tangible blessings in this world. On the contrary, Ann found that it is thankfulness that produces joy." (You can read an ancient post about "One Thousand Gifts" HERE.)

Fast forward, oh, five or six years. Another friend gifted me blank journal and challenged me to "write down five things each day you are thankful for." I already had a "thankful notebook," so I decided to use the new journal to record instances of the clear hand of God in my daily life.

Things like a flat tire on a busy four-lane highway, a prayer for help, and the immediate arrival of a family member - "I thought that looked like you!" - who cheerfully changed the tire in less than 15 minutes.

Things like a fearful plea that God would get me safely to my destination on my first-ever solo international flight, which required changing planes in a foreign country - and the young man who sat in front of me on the airplane leaving Chicago, who, after brief conversation, exclaimed, "Oh, I am going to Kigali, too! We have the same connecting flight in Brussels. Stay with me, Auntie, and I will get you exactly where you need to be!" His name was Immanuel.

Ten+ years after reading One Thousand Gifts, I no longer log small gifts daily into a spiral notebook, and that first journal documenting God's interventions and provision is tucked between other journals on a shelf. Thankfulness today has become much more a way of thinking than an exercise with pen and paper.

I am a morning person, typically waking long before my alarm sounds as the sky fades from black to deep indigo. Used to, my first thought of the day was worry as cares of the coming day crashed in on me before my eyes were even fully open. Nowadays, my first thought is usually, "Thank you."

Thank you, Father, for the glittering morning star.

Thank you for light rising on the eastern horizon.

Thank you for this quiet moment before the day begins.

Thank you for the Carolina Wren singing outside my window.

"Thank you" has become a morning routine, a habit. It's just what happens when I wake up.

And for that, I am so very thankful indeed.

* * * * *

"Thank you" - these are literally the first words that pop into my mind when I wake up most mornings. (Oh, to be clear, I will have much less pleasant thoughts as the day progresses, but the day really does typically start with "Thank you.")

About a month ago, something very weird happened: I woke to an entirely different thought. Thank you has become so "normal" that when this different phrase popped into my slowly waking mind, it startled me.

I blinked. I looked around the room, wondering if someone else had spoken, but no one was there. I took a deep breath and closed my eyes.

Again, clear as wren song: "I love you."

I hardly dared to breathe. Who had spoken? Where had this come from?

I never figured out if "I love you" was spoken from my heart to God - I do love him - or if it was spoken from my Father to me, but I eventually decided to settle on the latter. Perhaps it was both.

Thank you, Father. Thank you.

JOY!

 

JOY!

Sunday, August 11, 2024

Take a few seconds to clear your mind and think about your work, whatever it is that you do all day to keep the house operating, kids fed and clothed, bills paid, and life rolling from one day to the next.

For just a moment, consider your typical work day. What thoughts come to mind? What emotions? Do words like joy, pleasure, and enjoyment pop into your head?

I don't know about you, but when I think about my typical work day, muscles in my neck tighten, my teeth clench, and my stomach churns. Words that come immediately to mind are words like "stress," "exhaustion," "frustration," "inadequacy," and "grief."

Don't get me wrong. I love what I do. I believe it has eternal Kingdom value. I care about my patients and feel privileged to be part of their journey. I have a fantastic team of coworkers. The pay and benefits are good.

So why the neck spasms, teeth-grinding, and digestive issues?

Well, I am trying to figure that out.

* * * * *

You know how you can read a passage of Scripture multiple times, and then on your umpteenth read-through, something completely new jumps off the page at you?

As I struggled with the disparity between how my mind and heart feel about work vs. how my body and emotions feel about work, I found myself reading in Ecclesiastes in this year's read-through-the-Bible.

I have read Ecclesiastes probably a dozen times. Nothing new here, right?

Wrong. There is always something new.

"There is nothing better for a person than that he should eat and drink and find enjoyment in his toil. This also, I saw, is from the hand of God, for apart from him who can eat or who can have enjoyment?" (Ecclesiastes 2:24-25, ESV, emphasis added)

"I perceived that there is nothing better for them than to be joyful and to do good as long as they live; also that everyone should eat and drink and take pleasure in his toil - this is God's gift to man." (Ecclesiastes 3:12-13)

"So I saw that there is nothing better than that a man should rejoice in his work, for that is his lot." (Ecclesiastes 3:22a)

I am going to be perfectly honest: I cannot remember the last time I woke up on a Monday morning feeling joyful about the week ahead.

Chewing this piece of gristle, trying to figure out what's going on inside my head and my heart, I have decided that either (1) my heart is not in the right place, and I desperately need God to change my heart - or - (2) I am not doing the job that God actually wants me to do and I need the Holy Spirit to help me understand what that job is. I am sure there are other possibilities - (3), (4), (5),... - but these are the two I've come up with so far.

So for now, I am praying - and wise sisters are praying for me - that God will change my heart and that He will show me clearly what it is He wants me to do and where it is He wants me to be.

Because I am longing for joy in my labor. And apart from God, who can have enjoyment?

* * * * *

Sunday, September 1, 2024

I typed the first part of this post three weeks ago, then set it aside. Today, I pulled the post back out to reconsider, edit, and potentially share my thoughts. Can I tell you what has happened in the intervening three weeks?

First, three days after writing Part 1 of this post, I received a completely unexpected text from the nursing administrator at a local clinic: "We have an opening...Are you interested in the position?...We want you to apply...Can you come in one day next week to talk?"

The following week, I met the administrator, toured the facility, talked to other staff, prayed, and said, "Yes." As I climbed into my car after our meeting, I felt light-headed, giddy, positively joyful. I felt like a mountain had rolled off my shoulders. I start the new job in a couple of weeks, and I can't remember the last time I have been so excited to begin something new.

Second thing that happened: last weekend, I attended a retreat with dear, dear friends. We ate, we laughed, we cried, we prayed, we walked, we talked, and we poured out the burdens of our hearts to one another. We are all in seasons of transition, growth, change, and struggle. We all deeply desire the presence and direction of God in our respective journeys, and to know the joy, peace, and deep soul rest that comes from close fellowship with Him.

How often over the past several months have I prayed for Jesus to please give me joy, rest, peace? Too many times to count! But last weekend, in the sweet and safe fellowship of dear sisters in Christ, a light came on: Jesus doesn't give us joy, rest, peace - like medicine pulled off a shelf and dispensed in appropriate doses at needful times. Rather, Jesus IS our joy, rest, peace.

To paraphrase a point from Pastor Bill's sermon this morning, Joy/rest/peace is not a feeling: Joy/rest/peace is a person, and his name is Jesus.

I have been earnestly desiring and praying for the wrong thing. In my weariness, anxiousness, and disquiet, I have been praying for God to give me rest, peace, and joy - but what I really need is more of Him.

Jesus says in John 15: "I am the true vine, and my Father is the vinedresser...Abide in me, and I in you. As the branch cannot bear fruit by itself, unless it abides in the vine, neither can you, unless you abide in me. I am the vine; you are the branches. Whoever abides in me and I in him, he it is that bears much fruit...As the Father has loved me, so have I loved you. Abide in my love...these things I have spoken to you, that my joy may be in you, and that your joy may be full." (John 15:1, 4-5, 9, 11; ESV)

Jesus, I have longed for the gift, rather than the Giver. Forgive me. Thank you, thank you, thank you, for patiently and tenderly loving me anyway, for meeting my needs in spite of my sinful heart, for ever-&-always drawing me back to you. Thank you, Jesus, for faithful friends who consistently shepherd me closer to you. Thank you for Scripture, which speaks of you on every page. Thank you, Jesus, for being my rest, my hope, my joy, my peace. Help me, Jesus, to abide in you.

SPAMMED!

If you have ever participated in a community clean-up project, you - like me - have probably been amazed at the amount of trash people throw out of their vehicles when they drive down the road. Soda and beer cans, McDonald's bags crammed with greasy sandwich boxes and crumpled napkins, soggy disposable diapers, empty cigarette packages, whole bags of household garbage, discarded tires, broken furniture, abandoned trailers...you name it, and it's probably lying in a roadside ditch somewhere.

Well, think of a blog like a house standing on the side of a busy [internet] highway. You'd be amazed at the trash that gets tossed into my little front yard by passers-by.

Several years ago, when I was writing more and posting much more frequently, way back before nursing school ate my soul and effectively shut down all writing, traffic here at the blog was considerably higher. It had grown from a handful of weekly visitors, most of whom I knew personally, to several hundred visitors a day. I loved writing here at the blog, and I especially loved interacting with people who left comments: it made me feel connected to a much bigger world than my tiny corner of a hayfield.

But then something dreadful happened. An Unknown Visitor stopped by and effectively emptied a small landfill's worth of garbage onto my tiny little blog.

I was stunned. Dismayed. Bewildered. Hurt. Who on earth did this? And, WHY?!

I also felt ever-so-slightly flattered, like I had made it one step closer to the big leagues of blogging.

I learned a great deal from that early spamming experience and felt stronger for it.

(You can read about my first ever spam-dump experience here: BLOG ON!)

But in the craziness of raising and launching kids and getting my first steady paying job and going back to school and diving headlong into the life-consuming world of healthcare in modern America and a several-years break from writing, I forgot all about that long-ago introduction to blog spamming.

Until last week.

Thankfully, this time, I already had safe-guards in place to make cleanup easier. After an initial flush of dismay, I had the blog tidied and back up running within minutes.

And now, I would like to write a few words to my Unknown and unfriendly visitor:

Thank you. As I type this post today, I am smiling - because of you - because your attempt at hijacking my humble little blog is confirmation that I. AM. BACK. And it sure feels good.

Your spam-a-wham also let's me know the blog is getting out, and people are reading it. This is so incredibly encouraging.

Sad guest, I am sorry that you don't know how to play nicely. You obviously have issues you need to work through. Maybe you should considering counseling, or perhaps start a blog of your own.

In the meantime, I'll be over here writing.

BLOG ON!

BOUNDARIES

Good fences make good neighbors.

According to dictionary.com, this familiar saying means: "Good neighbors respect one another's property. Good farmers, for example, maintain their fences in order to keep their livestock from wandering onto neighboring farms."

Perhaps a contemporary rendition of the above adage would be: Healthy boundaries make healthy relationships.

I am really crappy at setting and maintaining healthy boundaries. I frequently feel torn between two options: taking care of the people around me or taking care of myself. I know in my head that I need to take care of myself in order to be able to take care of  others, but I often feel like I'm in an either-or, crisis situation, like choosing to help one must come at the cost of harming the other.

I hate conflict. 

I hate lose-lose situations.

I hate making decisions when choosing A comes at the expense of not choosing B.

Among the various assignments my therapist has given me over the past couple of months, two in particular are: (1) look for opportunities to practice being more assertive and (2) determine what your boundaries are and try to stick to them.

"I know this is going to be really hard for you at first," she acknowledged, "but it will get easier with practice. I promise."

I am a people pleaser. I want to make everyone happy.

Sometimes, that simply isn't possible.

I was put in the difficult position recently of having to choose between honoring my personal boundaries - boundaries essential for my own physical and mental well-being - or compromising my boundaries for someone else's benefit. To be more precise, I wasn't just "put in a difficult position" - I was actively pressured to violate my boundaries. To make things even more challenging and stressful, the other person involved was someone I truly care for. I felt like I was forced into a choice between hurting myself or hurting a friend.

* * *

We are going to pause here to take a detour. Before I tell you the outcome of my dilemma - and the choice I made - I want to describe the tumult of emotions this situation elicited in me.

I felt anxious, stressed, frustrated. Do I choose A or do I choose B? A or B? What's it gonna be, Camille? Make a decision, Camille. You need to decide what you're going to do, NOW!

I felt sad and I felt guilty. Sad because either choice would result in hurting someone I cared about. Guilty because no matter what I decided, it would be WRONG.

I felt afraid. Whatever I decided, what would others think? Would they be critical? Would they talk bad about me? Would there be negative push-back?

I felt angry. I was angry that I been put in this situation at all, angry that I was being forced to make a decision that should have never been put to me in the first place. Angry that phrases like "team player" and "it's part of the job" and "Well, somebody's gotta do it!" had been carelessly lobbed my direction and impacted like nuclear warheads.

I appealed for an outside opinion, for a hearing from an impartial court. I messaged my therapist. I messaged three women whose wisdom I deeply respect.

No response.

I cried. Had a full-blown, snot-nosed fall-apart.

Please, God, what am I supposed to do?!

Still no replies.

God was going to make me fight this battle on my own.

* * *

Detour over.

I chose A.

I chose to honor my personal boundaries.

I chose to say, "No, I will not ----. I am truly sorry this makes things harder for ----, but, as much as I want to help, that is not my problem."

And then, I threw up.

* * *

The Rest of the Story

Afterward, I felt emotionally and physically like a limp, dirty, stinking dishrag.

But I also felt incredibly calm.

And - I don't really know how to put this - I felt strangely solid. Like I was more of a real person than I had been in a long, long time.

Ding!

Too late to influence my decision, I received a reply from one of the Wise Women I had texted. I touched the screen on my car's console, and Siri read aloud:

"Hold your boundaries. Have the humility to respect your boundaries and needs and recognize when you can't fix an insufficient system even though its failures have real impact. Self sacrifice to the point of burnout may make today easier for ---, but it's a pattern that is just gonna feed into and prolong an unhealthy situation...the more you do to [make up for deficiencies in the system], the more it helps push the need for actual change down the road."

God had not left me to fight that battle alone at all. He had been there the whole time, watching his frail child struggle to use new muscles, like a father watching a toddler take her very first legs-trembling steps. Once that scary first step had been taken, He rushed in to say, "You did it! Good work!"

I took a deep breath. I could truly say, "It is well with my soul."

My therapist assures me this will get easier with practice. I sure hope she's right.

TRADING "TO DO" FOR "DONE"

Cave kayaking was on my friend Margo's To-Do list. Mark it Done!

Okay, I am one of those people who likes making lists of things I need or want to do (because lists help me to actually remember what it is I need/want to do) and then marking things off said list.

Laundry. Groceries. Pay bills. Strikethroughs make me ridiculously happy.

A completed To-Do list gives me a sense of accomplishment. Chronic to-do lists -  lists of things that never get done, like clean out the attic, thin the daylilies, finish upstairs bedrooms - make me feel discouraged and incompetent.

One of my daughters recently reminded me of the value of taking time to reflect on meaningful accomplishments that never even make the to-do list, things like: I bathed and fed all my kids today. I made eye contact with each of my children and listened to them info-dump. I refilled my prescription on time.

This got me to thinking: What if instead of starting each day with a To-Do list, I waited until the end of each day and made a Done list? There are a bazillion things I did NOT do today - and I could feel bad about that - or I could focus instead of what I DID do.

Today's DONE List:

• I ate a healthy breakfast.
• I drank plenty of water.
• I made a pitcher of fruit tea for my mom's dominoes group tomorrow.
• I deleted a bunch of junk from email.
• I listened attentively as a dementia patient discussed recent health issues.
• I hauled a bag of trash to the bin out next to the highway.
• I put away my laundry.
• I listened to a podcast while driving between home visits.
• I taught a caregiver how to change a dressing.
• I sat on the porch swing and fed the mosquitos.

I kind of like the positive twist of reflecting at the end of the day on what I did do, instead of what I did not do.

What about you? What is something on your Done List today?

WHOSE STORY IS IT?

As I slowly recover from the soul-sucking trauma of nursing school and struggle to figure out how to function as a 21st-century adult female - with full-time job demands, concerns for adult children, responsibilities of caring for an elderly parent, social commitments, etc. - I am also trying to resurrect at least some semblance of consistent writing. There are so many stories to tell!

A couple months ago, I committed to writing here at the blog once a week on Sundays. Weekly blog posts have proven hit-or-miss, but thankfully, this small effort at consistent writing seems to be knocking rust off the machine and greasing the gears.

In late May, the idea for a new book budded.

I need to detour down a bunny trail here to give you a glimpse into my rabbity brain. I love to write. Writing helps me process and make sense of life and the world around me, and often - because God is very kind - writing enables me to connect with other people. This is a precious, precious gift, because connecting with other people is a challenge for this severe introvert.

Sharing thoughts and experiences here at the blog is pretty easy, when I have the time and I am not so completely exhausted that my day-to-day consists of waking sleep. Writing a story is very different. Story writing requires consistent, disciplined, focused time submerged in a story idea that captures my attention and holds my imagination.

I have been praying for a spark! - a captivating idea for a story - for months. Late May, God answered that prayer. With my brain buzzing with excitement, I sat down at the keyboard and began to write.

Chapter One...

Forget Stephen King's writerly advice: 1000 words a day x 100 days = first/rough draft. I am grateful for 400-500 words a day, two or three days a week. My engines are slow. I'm okay with that - I'm just glad they are running again.

Six chapters into this new story, I sat studying the main character one evening this past week, wondering where she would take me next. I like her. I care about her. I hope she will make it from the difficult place she is now to some place more solid, more joyful, more life-giving.

Contemplating this new character, I asked myself a familiar question: "Whose story are you telling, Camille? Her story? Or yours?"

All the characters in the fiction I've written before are, well, fictional. They no doubt contain bits and pieces of individuals I have encountered over the years, plus larger chunks of myself, but the characters are not real people. Their stories may resonate with my story, but their stories are not the same as mine. Still, so much of myself is poured into these characters, how could they not think and sound and act at least a little like me?

So I wrestled with that question - "Whose story are you telling?" - and I wondered: "God, is there a point to this? Is this really a story worth telling? Does anybody even need or want to hear this story?" (I went back to God because I truly believe the story idea came from him in the first place and because, whether it did or not, he is almost always the first one I run to with questions. God doesn't always answer my questions in ways I understand, but I know he hears them all and I know he cares.)

The next morning in my daily Bible reading, I read Acts 2, the account of the coming of the Holy Spirit at Pentecost. The people gathered in Acts 2 began to "speak in other tongues, as the Spirit gave them utterance." Verse 6 tells us that "at this sound the multitude came together, and they were bewildered, because each one was hearing them speak in his own language" (emphasis added). The conclusion of this massive outpouring of the Holy Spirit: "there were added that day about three thousand souls [who believed]" (verse 41).

I have been told multiple times over the course of my 60 years that I over-spiritualize everything. And frequently, I over-personalize things, too. Well, there it is. Thankfully, God knows me and he knows how to communicate with me. He does not dismiss my questions; he answers them in ways that speak to my over-spiritualizing, over-personalizing heart.

I read the first half of Acts 2 again, and then I read it a third time. I felt like God was saying, "Camille, I have given you a distinct voice, a particular life experience, a language that will speak to the heart of someone else who does not know me yet. Press ahead."

Whose story am I telling? I am telling my story, and the story of a fictional character named Marietta Louise Mosby, and the story of a person I have never met, and ultimately, God's story.

Because every story is God's story.

And so, I will press ahead, 500 words at a time.

BEAUTIFUL BOUQUET

The blackberry lily is one of my favorite flowers in the yard because it reminds me of my friend Donna (who gave me the first seeds) and because it does fun, beautiful things all summer long. It also reseeds itself, coming back year after year, which is very attractive since I am a poor gardener.

The first tender leaf blades poking up out of the ground each spring promise summer is near. Then tiny vibrant blossoms, about the size of a half dollar, pop out on delicate stems. As the blossoms wilt, they fold into swirly-curlicues that remind me of the fancy spun-sugar lollipops you see at carnivals and in vacation-destination gas stations. Finally, the seed pods swell and mature: they look exactly like ripe blackberries.

Throughout its entire growth cycle, this little flower is a jewel.

Sort of like long-time friends.

If I remember correctly, Donna and I met in 1997, when my twins were two years old. That means we've been friends for almost 30 years now. Wow! We've experienced the best and worst of life together these 20+ years, and in every season, Donna has consistently encouraged me, challenged me, walked with me in faith, and made my world a more beautiful place.

And there are others - old friends, and even older friends (Jill, dear sister, our friendship is positively paleolithic!) - who through the years have made the happy times happier and the hard times softer, who brought light to dark places and who, on sunny days, reflected the light to absolute brilliance.

It is a treasure to have friends who have known me and walked with me through many seasons of life and who still greet me with welcoming smiles and warm embraces despite all my mess. God has been very, very good to me.

But back to the blackberry lily...

Almost every blooming plant in my yard was a gift from someone dear or was purchased because it reminded me of someone dear.

The compound daylilies by the front steps: fibrous roots were scavenged from a roadside gully by my son Nathaniel when he was a small boy, because he knew how much I loved the flowers.

The fragrant pink roses at two corners of my house: started by my sister Suzanne from cuttings off her own rosebush, a very special rose because it had been my grandmother's.

The purple coneflower: Jane Chase taught me how to care for a newborn and treated my first angry breast infection with tea made from the dried leaves of Echinacea.

The fabulous hydrangea behind the house and the glamorous black petunia on the porch: treasures from Helen.

The scruffy hazel bush with its whimsical, fancy-pants seed casings: a gift from Reuben.

The towering cedar tree in the back yard: the younger kids helped transplant the tree from back on the farm when it was just a whip, to remind me of my first grandchild, the one I have not yet met.

If you have followed this blog for any length of time, you know the writer is chronically tired, overly introspective, and frequently battling demons of one sort or another. Yes, I tend to be heavy. But today...

Today, surrounded by flowers and trees and growing things and reminded of the beautiful people God has placed in my life, I am simply thankful.

FOR TRUTH AND HEALING

In a class I took a couple of years ago, the instructor encouraged students to create superhero avatars to represent themselves. Not being gifted in the area of visual arts, I asked my kids how they would represent me.

One of my daughters sent me this picture of "Integra."

I. Love. It.

* * * * *

We have all probably encountered motivational sayings that go something like this: "Picture the person you want to be, and then do what it takes to become that person."

On a very good day - when I had enough sleep the night before and the sun is shining and I am able to mentally step away from the emotional heaviness brooding in my house - on a very good day, I can almost imagine that person.

Almost.

She lives confidently, communicates effectively, loves well, manages her time productively, visits her children and grandchildren often, makes a good income with benefits and saves for retirement, writes consistently (instead of just talking about wanting to write), exercises regularly, eats healthfully, can engage in intelligent conversation, and....(long gasping inhale)...she gets regular haircuts, her joints don't hurt, and her pants are not too tight.

It is difficult for me to picture that person for a even few fleeting seconds at a time. It is harder still to imagine ever getting remotely close to being that person.

Perhaps I will meet her one day in Glory.

* * * * *

I was born an advocate. I am no Atticus Finch, but a Mama Bear comes out in me when I feel like the vulnerable or people I love are threatened. Maybe this passion springs from my feeling so weak and vulnerable myself. 

As a child, I advocated for every stray dog and cat that wandered onto our farm, for tadpoles in the barnyard water trough, and for the unwelcomed birds nesting on porch pillars.

As a school girl, I advocated for misfits and outcasts among my classmates. School can be such a cruel place.

As a young wife, I advocated for my husband. As a mother, I advocated for my children. As a caregiver, I advocate for my Mom. As a nurse, I advocate for patients.

One person I did not learn to advocate for, however, was myself.

Almost always, it seemed like there were others whose needs were much greater than mine. Repeatedly, nascent attempts at self-advocacy were rebuffed as selfish, inopportune, insubordinate, or unbiblical. If I asked for help, I was being demanding or un-submissive. If I was weak and stumbling, I needed to "pull myself together" or "get over it."

Whatever the reason, the skill of self-advocacy is something I never developed, at least not very well.

* * * * *

"Picture the person you want to be, and then do what it takes to become that person."

I want to be a person who loves people where they are, who isn't threatened by differences or uncomfortable realities, who celebrates life in all its diversity, who advocates for the vulnerable, who champions integrity, and who promotes healing...for others and for myself.

And so, I am trying to make peace with the person I am, to appreciate her strengths and gifts while being honest about her weaknesses and shortcomings, to acknowledge her wounds and promote her healing, to give her room and grace to breathe and grow and to simply be.

Truth and healing.

Integra.

FAIL!

Lessons I struggle to understand:

Life is not a contest.

Life is not a test.

Due to my own strange internal wiring, outside influences, and life experiences, I have lived my entire life conscious that I was being "graded." Every action, every decision, every feeling, every response - judged, scored, and ranked like I was a competitive gymnast.

On top of the consciousness that I am constantly being graded is an acute feeling that "good" or "good enough" is not acceptable: anything less than "best" is a failing grade.

And on top of those two nasties, I am also a chronic people-pleaser. I really want others to be happy with me. A teacher, an employer, my spouse, my children, my parents, the driver next to me on the 4-lane, the produce clerk at Kroger...every single relationship and interaction is tangled with spoken and unspoken expectations of "acceptable" and "unsatisfactory."

Y'all, this is a sorry way to live. Do you better understand now what I mean when I say there is no quiet space in my life? And why I am always tired?

But things are beginning to change. (Baby steps, Camille.)

I am beginning to understand that my preference for comedies or psychologically complex movies vs. another person's preference for crime thrillers or action movies is not a matter of character weakness or moral frailty. It's just a preference. And it's okay. Really.

I am learning that having a perspective or opinion about current events, politics, worship styles, etc., that does not line up precisely with someone else's opinion is not an act of insubordination, rebellion, or apostasy. It's just a personal opinion. And that's okay. Really.

I am not naïve. I do know that others I encounter will continue to score, judge, rank, and critique...but I am beginning to understand, very slowly, that that is their problem, not mine. As for me, my every thought, preference, or action is not going to be graded, ranked, ridiculed, and stamped FAIL! by a sadistic celestial Trunchbull.

Lord, I believe. Help my unbelief.

MAKING SPACE

When visiting one of my kids recently, my heart smiled to find this... 

...and this...

...lying about the house. Whether is it's playing music, painting, baking bread, writing, drawing, blending spices for smoked meat, sewing costumes, or designing farm plans, when I catch glimpses of my kids engaging in creative work, I feel like the world is a better place, like I can breathe a little deeper. When they are creating, they are reflecting something of the beauty and delightfulness of their Creator God.

One of my prayers for my (now adult) children is: "Lord, please give them space to create." I pray this because creative work requires time, thought, mental and physical energy, and the demands of life easily strangle creativity.

Life in this broken world is hard for every single one of us. It is exhausting. The demands on our time are never-ending. Whether you work 8-, 10-, or 12-hour days, there is always more that needs to be done, more that our consciences or our families or our employers or our churches tell us should be done.

If you have read this blog more than a few times, you have undoubtedly recognized a common theme to many of my posts: I. Am. Tired.

I run hard all day, then come home to pull in a different harness every evening. As I explained to my boss recently, "There is no quiet space in my life. Zero."

CAN WE PLEASE JUST TAKE A BREAK FROM ALL THE INCESSANT DEMANDS?!

One of the many things I miss deeply in all this work-work-work is space to write. It occurred to me recently: I pray regularly for God to give my children space for creative work. Why don't I pray the same prayer for myself?

And so I started praying for God to provide consistent space in my schedule for me to write. Through the very practical advice of my therapist LeCretia, God answered that prayer and gave me a tiny window in which to write: 9:45-10:30 every Sunday morning.

This small gift of time was enough to reignite the engines and get rusty gears turning again. But once the creative juices began flowing, I quickly realized that 45 minutes each week was not going to be enough.

"Lord, I need more time to write," I prayed.

Again, He answered: "Well, then, make time."

Make time. Yeah, right, like that is even possible. I've been banging my head against this one for a couple of months now.

I have a thick skull.

After months of head-banging, a new thought began growing inside my slow mind: perhaps what God is telling me is not so much "Make time" as "Trust me."

God gives me - and you - 24 hours each day, 168 hours each week. If God is telling me to "make time" to write (and if I don't have a time turner, like Hermione Granger), then He must be telling me to spend less time someplace else.

That means giving up something that I think is essential, 'cause I ain't got no free time at present. Whether it's giving up full-time work as a nurse (and the benefits that go with full-time employment) or giving up full-time responsibility for Mom-care, that thought terrifies me.

In fact, it seems downright impossible.

And so my prayer has morphed from "God, please give me time and space to write" - to - "Lord, please give me faith to trust you and courage to act."

Because I understand now that making space to write is going to demand a leap of faith.

SABBATH

Gary came and mowed the field around the house Friday. Saturday, he raked hay into windrows, and by evening he was rolling bales.

A newly mown and baled hayfield looks so neat and tidy. And it smells delicious, like freshly baked bread.

A dear friend gave me a porch swing as a house-warming gift when my family first moved into this house-in-the-hayfield. For almost 25 years, I have sat and swayed in this swing, watching the hay grow, the seasons change, the bustle of traffic on the highway and the ebb and flow of vehicles down the long gravel driveway that we share with the house next door.

This porch has witnessed a lot of laughter, music, tears, long conversations lasting deep into the night. It has absorbed two-and-a-half decades of popsicle drips, beer-bottle sweat, and dog slobber. It has hosted family dinners, church gatherings, weddings, graduation parties, and after-funeral pot-lucks.

Pheobes come back every year to nest atop the posts lining the porch. This morning as I sit here on the swing and write, mama bird eyes me warily while she warms her second clutch of eggs. This evening, a clever brown toad will hop up the front steps to feast on insects drawn to the light streaming from the kitchen windows, while a flat green tree frog will climb right up the windows themselves.

As I sit here and sway, sipping tea and listening to the birds and enjoying the morning breeze, it is strange and somehow deeply calming to think that I have traveled almost 25 laps around the sun while sitting in this very same spot.

* * * * *

In healthcare, we preach a lot - and are preached to a lot - about good nutrition, regular exercise, sleep hygiene, stress management. In nursing school, we were exhorted to be "good examples" of healthy lifestyle choices for our patients.

Yeah, right.

In January, determined to better in my pursuit of healthy lifestyle choices, I resolved to take at least a 15-minute break every workday to mentally and physically step away from work - maybe walk one lap around a local park, or just pull off the road, roll down the car windows, and admire the beauty of a lake - in an attempt to better mange job-related stress. Should be easy, right? Six months later, I can count on one hand the number of times I actually took that break.

I am doing better about packing healthy lunches and making fewer corn-dog-&-tots runs to Sonic, but I eat that healthy lunch on the fly, racing from one patient's home to the next. I am intentional about drinking more water, but I still drink way too much caffeine.

I actually like to exercise - and I absolutely love yoga - so you'd think regular exercise would be a fairly easy habit to maintain. But the yoga mat and gym clothes camped out in the back seat of my work vehicle haven't been touched in a month: they are held hostage by long days and never-ending demands.

BUT TODAY...

Today, I have a couple of hours of rest from the stress of work (provided the on-call alarm on my phone doesn't shriek) and from the demands of my household (only two more loads of laundry to finish and one bed that needs clean sheets).

Today, I am swaying in the porch swing (Thank you, Katherine!), bathed by a cool fresh breeze, listening to the sweet, sweet music of birdsong, inhaling deeply the smell of freshly baked bread.

* * * * *

Thank you, thank you, thank you for asking, Lahrue - your checking in means so much. It's been a rough several weeks, but I am fighting to come up for air.

BROKEN AND BEAUTIFUL

Out of curiosity this morning - I'll get to the reason later - I Googled "total depravity vs. utter depravity." Let me just say, as an at-least-fifth-generation Calvinist, Professor Google does not always provide trustworthy information!

Whether you are contemplating the people around you or the world in which we live, it doesn't take more than 5 minutes of honest observation to realize that everyone and every thing is broken. It also does not take long to realize that there is, alongside the broken, much that is right and good - what Jerram Barrs calls "echoes of Eden" and what Yours Truly refers to as "fingerprints of God" - in the people, places, and circumstances we encounter.

My tiny patient, who is a frail dried husk of tissue-thin skin stretched over protruding bone, who would as soon bite my head off as tell me her name, she has more courage and strength of will than any fairy-tale knight or big-screen super hero ever created. I tell her at least once a week, "I want to be more like you when I grow up."

The man lying in his bed day after day, fighting intense chronic pain as his bones are eaten away by an invisible tormentor - he might have been something of a hellion in his youth, but today, he smiles through his pain when I visit him, and says "Thank you. I appreciate you so much."

It is weird - and beautiful - how death gives strength to the weak and softens the mighty.

Totally broken/fallen/depraved does not equal broken/fallen/depraved to the uttermost.

[Aside - Speaking as someone who once struggled desperately to categorize everyone and everything into categories of black or white, good or bad: If you find yourself also struggling with this tendency, nothing in life is that simple. Beware the compulsion to embrace or promote your own or someone else's person/cause/experience/insight/whatever as Perfectly Good or The Ultimate Evil.]

Anywho, I ran away from home yesterday afternoon, away from the exhausting demands of work and away from the heavy neediness that is the one constant when I get off work and away from the weekend routine of painful chasm and silence to a place where my head and my heart can find quiet and rest. Even in this sweet haven, however, I did not sleep well last night - coffee too late in the day yesterday, to help me push through the end of the work week - but lying awake through the wee hours, I felt loved and safe.

I woke up this morning in our big, beautiful, broken world to birdsong and the soft drip-drip-drip of last night's rain falling from a forest of green leaves, to strong black coffee and waffles and gentle people who handle my heart tenderly.

My life is a total mess. It. Is. So. Broken.

But it is not utterly broken. 

It is also so incredibly beautiful.

Thank you, Lord, for birdsong, spring rain, the riot of green outside my window, and rest.

* * * * *

"We are all broken...that's how the light gets in." - Hemingway

A HALF-TALENT GIRL

"For it will be like a man going on a journey, who called his servants and entrusted to them his property. To one he gave five talents, to another two, to another one, to each according to his ability." Matthew 25:14-15a, ESV

I am a half-talent girl who has spent her entire life trying to spin a 10-talent return on God's investment. Like, if I don't win the stock market lottery, God's going to be disappointed and angry with me.

I work to be the best Christian, mom, daughter, employee, etc., I can, all the while worrying about the innumerable things I'm not even touching, like visiting shut ins (I know a bunch of them), participating in church activities, and writing.

It. Is. Killing. Me.

I have read the above passage, heard it read, heard it preached more times than I can count. But as so often happens, God's Word hit me in a fresh way this week.

Hearing the Parable of the Talents read again, I initially felt that familiar cold wave of inadequacy. The curse of the buried talent. "I am sorry, God. I'm trying so hard. I am sorry."

But then, almost immediately, something "clicked" in my brain. "[He gave] to each according to his ability."

God is the giver, and God knows my ability.

If All This Talent Investing is killing me, then maybe I'm trying to invest the resources and opportunities God has given me in ways that He never intended. Worse yet, maybe I'm trying to invest "talents" He never entrusted to me in the first place. 

God is the giver, God knows the servant, and God himself produces the return on his investment.

I. Can. Rest.

* * * * *

Because God is good - and because He knows I struggle to rest in his great goodness - we sang this song at church this morning, right after I wrote the above post. Rest, believer...and rejoice!

A WEAK LINK

"If you post assignments before seven o'clock Saturday evening, I will do my best to complete them before 8:00 Monday morning. If you wait to post assignments until Sunday afternoon or evening, I can tell you now that I will most definitely not complete them by Monday morning."

I am fairly certain - although I have no hard proof - this statement cost me a letter grade that semester.

Nursing school was rough. Monday through Friday, days typically started at 5:00am, and I often did not collapse into bed until midnight or later. Saturdays, I worked a 12-hour shift at the hospital. Sundays, church, and then homework and studying until late into the night. The routine was brutal for someone whose functional ability is seriously compromised by multiple nights of less than 6 or 7 hours of sleep. (God, can you remind me why this nursing thing? Do you not know that nurses are not allowed to sleep?)

Somewhere in the trauma of nursing school, I had a come-to-Jesus moment. I committed to fight for my Sundays, even if it cost me a letter grade...or a degree.

God commands us to set aside one day in seven to worship and rest. To pause and remember - by the physical and mental act of rest - that He is our provider and our king. As I struggled through nursing classes and clinicals, I needed that weekly recalibration desperately.

For one particular class, one particular instructor, my resolution to "honor the Sabbath" (which for me was a Sunday) was interpreted as an act of war. This teacher frequently posted last-minute assignments on the weekend and then demanded they be completed and turned in before our first class Monday morning.

I felt like David facing Goliath.

I passed that class and graduated from nursing school BY THE GRACE OF GOD. Now, two years later, I work at a job I love, caring for people in a most tender season of life.

I am truly blessed.

And yet...

Like a heavy, dark cloud that swells and subsides, spreads and withdraws, then uncoils yet again to stretch horizon to horizon...here is the battle for the Sabbath. The battle for rest and trust and faith.

I worked five 10-hour days this week, without lunch breaks, stopping only to pee. I'm not complaining...I've learned this kind of schedule is pretty normal for the nursing profession. I'm actually one of the lucky ones: I work days, and I love what I do.

Saturday, I was up before 6:00, tackling laundry, grocery shopping, changing bed linens, paying bills, balancing my checkbook...you know, all the things-that-need-to-be-done to continue functioning for another week.

Today, finally, Sunday - and rest.

Awake again before 6:00, the first thought on my mind this morning was, "I have five more IDG notes to complete." These notes are preparation for a team meeting next week. Each note takes roughly 30 minutes to complete. Between driving to patient homes, checking vitals, requesting med refills, attending staff meetings, etc., I managed to complete seven of my 12 notes by Friday evening. I have five left to complete before tomorrow morning at 5:30, when a new work week begins.

But today is Sunday. My one day in seven. Sabbath rest.

I woke to a battle. I can complete those five notes today, or I can rest, put work down for one whole day, turn off the devices, and step away from the endless paperwork.

If I choose rest, I face a second battle: Do I fret about the consequences of insisting "Enough. Today is a day of rest." - OR - Do I put work down not only physically, but also mentally and emotionally? Can I resolve not to worry about the consequences, and truly rest?

WHY is rest so hard for me? It looks so easy for some people! I suspect it's because I am a people-pleaser. I want to be All That and Then Some - for my family, for my friends, for my employer, for my coworkers, for my patients, for my neighbors, for myself.

I think to myself, "Other nurses work seven days a week, logging 60, 70, 80 hours. Why can't I? What's wrong with me?!"

I am old enough to know that life is not a pissing contest. I know this with my head, but my heart clings to a lie.

I feel like a weak link, a defective part, the wimpy kid on the middle-school dodge ball team.

You want to know the truth?

I AM the wimpy kid. (I still get a thrill of terror up my spine when I remember Kathleen Barbee powering a red rubber ball across the middle-school gym toward me. That girl could launch a dodge ball with the force of a cannon!)

I am the wimpy kid.

And I need rest.

I will have to deal with the consequences tomorrow.

Jesus, please, please, please, take away this performance-driven, man-fearing heart and give me a quiet, God-fearing heart instead.

FIGHTING FOR REST IN THE BATTLE

I am fresh back from a week long holiday at the beach with my kids and grandkids. What a sweet gift of rest for this weary woman! I slept, ate good food, held little hands and jumped in the surf, read bedtime stories, and caught up a bit on several of the amazing adults who call me Mom.

Now, back to the real world. I'm not particularly looking forward to going back to work tomorrow (already checked my schedule for next week and it looks hairy), but at least I'm going back rested.

The week away from my routine daily grind gave me time, mental space, and the opportunity to seek wise counsel as I begin thinking through a couple of gnarly issues I need to address in my life. I did not come back with firm solutions to any of these problems, but I do have a plan for tackling a few of these issues going forward.

Baby steps.

I am praying that I can maintain momentum to make needed, gradual changes before regular life grinds me back down to physical, mental, and emotional exhaustion.

One area needing work: I want to get back to writing like I did years ago before nursing school ate my soul. I know doing this will require a significant time commitment. But from where can I glean a consistent chunk of time for creative work? Up at 5:30am, usually out of the house by 6:40 to see patients, go all day without stopping, then home around 5:00pm or 6:00 or 7:30, to step straight into the harness of Mom duty before eventually collapsing into bed drained and weary.

Obviously, no one can add to the 24-hours God gives us each day. That means something has to give. I need to work, I need to care for my Mom, and I need to write (read "rest"). It's a puzzle. Please pray for me as I try to figure things out in the weeks ahead!

In unrelated news - but not really unrelated, to my way of thinking, because I truly believe everything is connected -

I have a habit of cleaning out my phone at the end of each week, deleting text messages and voice mails that I know I will not need to refer back to. It's my digital version of tidying my desk at the end of the work week. Thursday night before the beach trip, I paused in my packing to complete this ritual.

Although I rarely go back and listen to old voice mails, I always save the most recent recordings from family members. The earliest saved message on my phone, dated 4/14/22, is from my stepmom, Melva. Thursday night, for the first time in 2 years, I listened to Melva's message again.

Melva was in the hospital; I had called to check how things were going; she missed the call, and I left a message; she messaged me back. "Hi, I got your message. Wanted to call and let you know how I'm doing. I've had a really good day today. I stood and walked to the bathroom myself, with someone there to help me of course..."

Melva died shortly after that call. I lost two other members of my immediate family that same year, but Melva's death was the hardest. She was young. Cancer hit sudden and hard and took her down incredibly fast. There was almost no time to process what was happening.

"I've had a really good day today. I stood and walked to the bathroom by myself..." All the way to the end, Melva was positive, encouraging, kind, grateful.

And in other unrelated news -

I talked with my brother David yesterday. Three years my senior, David had a stroke several years ago and is now bedbound and dependent on others for his care.

When I asked how he was doing, David replied, "I'm doing pretty good, all things considered. I try to focus on all the good things in my life every day. I like to watch the birds in the tree outside my window and to see families walking around the neighborhood. I have a wife who loves me and takes such good care of me. And I have all the time I need to pray for people I love, like you, Camille."

David went on to add that, yes, there are difficulties and challenges in his life, and that it's very easy and a great temptation in the midst of hardship to focus on all that is broken and "not right" and to lose sight of all that is good. So, he makes it a daily practice to name the good things.

Every time I talk with David, I feel like sunshine breaks through dark clouds in my head.

So today, in the pause before Monday morning and the giants I must face, God encourages me through Melva and David, two weak vessels who faced and continue to face terrible giants with hearts that fought and continue to fight for joy and gratitude.