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.

NEXT TIME, BRAID THE HAIR

It was a Saturday morning back when I was in nursing school, and I was packing up to head to my 12-hour shift at the hospital lab. Minutes before time to leave, my granddaughter Lizzy came downstairs.

Lizzy's family was living with us while they worked on getting a home they had recently bought ready to live in. Over the weeks that we lived under one roof, Lizzy and I developed a morning ritual. While I drank coffee and read my Bible early mornings before school or work, Lizzy joined me with a cup of hot tea and toast. 

These were such sweet mornings together. We chatted and shared our thoughts with one another. And I braided Lizzy's hair.

But on the very last morning, the morning of the day her family was finally moving into their new house, Lizzy slept late. And so, by the time she made it downstairs, it was already time for me to hop in the car and leave for work.

I quickly fixed Lizzy a cup of hot tea and a piece of buttered toast. "Can you braid my hair, Vivi?" she asked.

It broke my heart to tell her no. "I'm sorry, Lizzy, but I can't. I have to go to work, and I'm already leaving a little late." I hugged her, then drove to work with a very heavy heart. I clocked in only seconds before the time clock clicked 7:01.

I walked into the lab break room, hung my jacket in a locker, and pushed my lunch bag into the fridge. Ragan, one of the techs, was already in the break room, starting a pot of coffee.

At Ragan's "Good morning," I lost it. I came completely unglued and sobbed.

"Good grief!" Ragan turned to me with wide eyes. "What on earth is wrong? Sit down!" She pointed empathically at a chair. "Tell me what is going on!"

And so between sobs, I told Ragan that today, my daughter and her family were moving and that when I got home this evening after today's shift, the house would be empty and quiet and unbearably sad. "And Lizzy wanted me to braid her hair, and I didn't have time because I was going to be late for work, and when I get home, she will be gone, and...." More tears.

Ragan listened until all my words and tears were spent. Reaching across the table, she took my hands, looked me in the eyes, and softly said, "Camille, next time, braid the hair. Work can wait. We will manage without you until you get here."

* * * * *

I finished nursing school and went from 18-hour school days and 12-hour weekend work days to a Monday-Friday job that, while incredibly stressful, actually pays pretty well.

My first year as a full-time nurse, I decided I wanted a real, honest-to-goodness vacation. At the beach. Where I could sit and stare at the surf and cry if I wanted and let the rhythm of the waves against the shore pull all the stress out of my neck and shoulders. So I rented a beach house, and I invited all the kids to come if they wanted and could make it. If they couldn't come, that was okay, too.

Several of the kids came, and we all agreed that it was such a good holiday that we needed to do it again.

This week, a year later, we are back at the beach again.

Early morning walks to search for sea shells washed up overnight. Aunties and Uncles milling about the kitchen preparing meals together, cousins building sand castles and splashing in the waves. Tea parties, jigsaw puzzles, and picnics on the porch. Good wine, good conversation, beautiful sunsets, and cool moonlight walks.

And lots and lots of braiding hair.

My heart is overflowing.