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.