THE MORE THINGS CHANGE...

The sweet-breath-of-spring is blooming.

This is my favorite plant in the yard. It is a special favorite for two reasons:

1.) It blooms at the end of winter, when everything outside still looks dead and gray, and it smells like distilled sunshine. I am so tired of dead and gray. The delicate, sweet-smelling blossoms promise me: "Spring is coming! Hold on!"

2.) This plant is from my friend Donna. Everytime it blooms and envelopes me in its sweetness, I feel like Donna is giving me a long-distance hug.

I took the RAV4 for a drive today. Man, I sure do love this car! Now that I drive a company car for work, the Toyota only gets out on weekends. Big Red and I drove down Yellowhammer Lane, past the 140+-year-old house where I spent all but the first two years of my childhood. The house was built by great-great-granddaddy from yellow poplar milled right there on the property, then passed down to Uncle John and Aunt Lulie, then modernized by my parents. All of my childhood memories of home, save one, are set in that house. My wedding reception was held in that house. I don't know who lives there now.

Big Red and I drove on to Ebenezer Cemetery, to check on the long-dead grandparents and the recently-dead parents. At the cemetery, a white-whiskered man stood at the base of a tree, coon dog at his side, shotgun cradled across his right forearm. He paused from staring up into the tree limbs to glance at me.

"Have you no respect for the dead," I wondered, "following a coon into a cemetery?!" Then I thought: there are probably many folks buried here who, if they could speak, would holler, "Get 'im, Cletus!" I did not stop to walk among the gravestones but kept driving. Cletus had a job to do. I didn't want to interrupt.

After we got back home, I parked Big Red and took a walk back on the farm today, first time in over a month. Mr. Baker has installed a new gate on the road leading back to the pastures. It is nice, swings easily on its hinges, so easy to open. There were lots of new babies - brown and black and cream-colored fuzzballs that snorted and kicked up their heels when I said, "Hello, baby!"

And there were more signs of a farm sinking into increasing neglect: the sinkholes below the old pond are larger now, and there are more of them. Great holes gape in the deteriorating walls of the green barn, which no longer has a single spot of green paint on it.

As I returned home, I stopped in the thicket below Grammy's house and picked a bouquet of volunteer daffodils. They sit like a spot of sunshine on the kitchen table now.

Today was a melancholy day for me. Seems like more and more days are, lately. I don't know if that's because I stay chronically tired, or because I miss my children, or because my work is often sad, or because it's late winter, or because I don't sleep well when the moon is full, or because I often feel lonely, or because I am frickin' tired of being the person responsible for figuring out what's for lunch after church on Sunday, or whatever.

But today was also lovely. The comfortable familiarity of an old frame house, granite headstones, and a path over hills that feel like members of my family.

Warm sunshine, high blue skies, new life exploding with energy across winter-weary fields, golden daffodils nodding on slender stems.

And a hug from Donna, the sweet-breath-of-spring.

SHE PASSED QUIETLY

She passed quietly, like fog in sunlight.

The last time we were together, there was little I could do for her. I could not move her legs and arms to ease the tension of too-tight muscles. I could not massage fragrant lotion gently into her bloated hands and feet.

I washed her face, moistened her lips, and smoothed her hair.

I leaned close to her, held her swollen hands, and prayed aloud that she would know that she was loved, that she would know there are people in the world who care about her, that she would know that Jesus himself loves her so much that he walked through death's door himself, just so that he could be with her right now to show her the way.

As I prayed, tears slipped from her beautiful gray eyes, eyes fixed on a horizon a million miles away.

"Soon," I said. I wiped her tears and brushed a stray strand of hair from her cheek. I kissed her forehead. "I will be back tomorrow."

Tomorrow came...

Her breath was shallow as a sleeping baby's, her skin cool and waxen. The beautiful gray eyes stared into eternity.

She had held on through the night, waiting.

"Good morning." I took her hand and stroked it. "You are not alone. I am here."

She closed her eyes, sighed, and slept.

She passed quietly, like fog in sunlight.

TODAY

I walked back on the farm again today. Everything continues to settle into steady and resolute decline. Fences sagging, gullies deepening, barn collapsing in on itself like the carcass of the dead cow in the creek bed. A somber scene, but for the bright blue sky, crisp winter air, and cheerful scurry of squirrels in the leaf litter beneath the naked silver trees.

Today...

Today, I am thankful for my job.

Hospice care is hard, emotionally, physically, mentally.

But today, I am thankful for my job because it is significant. My work has value.

Eternal value.

What a sacred privilege to walk with broken people up to the veil and to hold their hands as they cross through to eternity! What a sacred privilege to weep with those who weep when their loved ones are dying...and then gone. What a sacred privilege to wake up at two o'clock in the morning and pray for patients and their families.

Today, I am thankful for my job.

For the first time in decades, I am not anxious about how to pay for groceries. I can buy gas for my car, and I have healthcare coverage.

Today, I am thankful for my job.

I am learning that I am not alone. I am learning that I can go out into the world and touch lives and be touched by others...and by doing so, I can grow into something new and beautiful and strong.

Today, I am thankful.

GOLDEN HOUR WALK

I walked back on the farm today, first time in longer than I can remember. As I cleared the gate to the back fields, five wooly black calves rocketed away from the creep feeder like banditos caught red-handed in a bank robbery, their heads high and tails stiff.

The erosion levee in the first field used to hold back little more than a puddle. Today, it cradles a full-grown pond.

As I tromped along the ridge above the old pond - the big pond - wood ducks exploded off the water like buckshot out of the end of a gun barrel. Squirrels stampeded through leaf litter, raising enough ruckus to rival a herd of frightened buffalo.

It was the golden hour and the air was brisk. I resolved to hike all the way back to the Three Sisters and to the Giant's Thimble and to Narnia. I have missed these dear friends.

But I was thwarted. The carcass of a month-dead cow blocked the path across my favorite creek crossing. Cows pay the property taxes, and then they die and feed the coyotes, and the farmer who rents the land to run his cows on doesn't even notice that they are missing.

I attempted a different creek crossing but was not wearing boots adequate to ford the deeper water.

So I stood on the near side of the creek and stared long at the Three Sisters, just out of reach, still asleep, just like last time I saw them years ago, dreaming under the gray wool of frostbit broom straw, aglow in the warm light of the golden hour.

Higher boots are on my shopping list. I will be back, and I will kiss my three sweet sisters with my footsteps.

SPACE TO BE HUMAN

Years ago, my oldest son Reuben said to me that it is important to "make space to be human." What he meant, I believe, is that in the busy-ness of life - all the demands, commitments, obligations, things that must be done day-to-day just to stay alive - it is important to make space to do things that bring us joy, things that feed our souls. Things like baking beautiful bread or making music or pausing to enjoy the softness of moss or the loveliness of a sunset.

If I am, by nature, human, why the counsel "make space" to be human?

Because although I am a human, life in this fallen world is so constructed as to squeeze out my very soul. If I don't actively WORK to make space to be human, the busy-ness of life will consume me.

If you have followed this blog for any length of time, you know that I see a therapist. My current therapist, unlike my last, actually gives me assignments. Right now, I am working on setting and maintaining healthy work/personal life boundaries.

It's not going very well.

Technically, my job requires me to work or be available to work from 8:00am to 5:00pm, Mondays through Fridays, with one hour off for lunch. I am also expected to be available to work one night of secondary on-call each week and one weekend of secondary on-call every 5-6 weeks.

Lately, I have consistently worked 10-hour days, and I think the last time I actually took a break for lunch was during onboarding some 9 months ago.

Now, before you make some wrong assumptions, let me be clear: the problem here is not my employer. The problem is me. I have a distorted work ethic based on a wonky mental system of feeling like my worth and security are based on my performance (aka my overachieving/never-say-no warped way of thinking).

I CAN say no.

I CAN send scheduled visits back at the end of the day.

I CAN actually take a break to eat lunch, or to take a walk, or to simply pause and breathe.

But, I DON'T.

With my therapist's blessing, I set a personal goal last month of taking a 30-minute break each day - for at least 2 days a week - to eat lunch or take a walk. Baby steps.

Guess how many days I have taken a lunch break since setting that goal?

Zero.

Here's my list of excuses (because excuses are what they are) for not meeting this goal even one time:

• We're in a busy season at work.
• We are short-staffed.
• The work schedule will be better after we get through this month/after we hire another nurse/after hell freezes over.
• We have staff out sick.
• Work in healthcare, by nature, has ebbs and flows.
• Blah, blah, blah....

You get the picture. (Can any of you relate, Dear Readers?)

The bottom line is: I consistently do NOT make "space to be human," even in the very simple way of pausing in the middle of my day to eat lunch or to step away from work and breathe.

This has me wondering: Why is it so freakin' hard to "make space to be human"?

Is it only because of pressure from outside, pressures from work and social commitments and family responsibilities, etc? Or is part of the problem from within? Is there something internal, something inside of me, that resists/recoils/rebels at the thought of pausing, breathing, resting...in other words, is there something within me that resists the work of "being human"?

I think there is.

I am afraid to rest.

"Remember the Sabbath day, to keep it holy...."

Remember...to rest.

Is that even safe?

I think not.

Lord, I believe. Help my unbelief.

A SNAPSHOT OF MY HEART

My daughter-in-law sent this photo to our family group message a couple of weeks ago. I love this picture for sooooo many reasons...

I'm doing something I love - reading - with people I love - my grands. In the background are reminders of even more people I love - artwork by three of my kids, the piano where so many of my children made music through the years. You can't see the person taking the picture, my beautiful daughter-in-law, or the people chatting behind me in the kitchen...more people I love.

This picture feels like a little snapshot of my heart.

If you were to ask yourself, "What makes Camille tick?" - or - "What motivates Camille?" - or - "What brings Camille joy?" - well, this picture goes a long way toward answering those questions.

I heard someone say of me recently that the reason I went back to school, got a degree, and took on a full-time job was because I needed the validation that a degree and work could give me in order to feel like I had done something of value with my life. Nothing...nothing...could be further from the truth.

(I may come back and revisit the whole how and why of my nursing journey here in a future post, but for now, let's just say: I went to nursing school because God, and I now work full-time, as opposed to part-time, because healthcare benefits.)

If you've read more than a couple of posts here at the blog (thank you for reading!), you know that I have good days and bad days. Sunny days and days of shadow. Doesn't everyone?

Yesterday was a good day for me. I got a phone call from my granddaughter Lizzy, shopped for birthday and Christmas presents for the grands, and closed out the day spending time with my son Thomas. Thank you, Tom, for the wild ride and good conversation, but thank you mostly just for being you.

Today, I spent time with church family, watched a recorded lecture on the topic of Highly Sensitive People (suddenly I feel soooooo much less like a freak in this world), and wrote letters to friends.

In three short days (they will actually be long days, because work is wild right now), my house will begin to fill with the activity, chatter, and chaos of kids and grandkids gathering for the holidays.

My heart tank is full...and getting fuller.

Today, I am thankful for the good days.

SAFE PLACE

Resting and recharging this beautiful Sunday by spending time with my church family, taking the granddog for a drive, trying a new recipe for autumn sangria...and by writing!

A friend posted on her Facebook timeline recently:

I think the greatest thing that we can offer to someone

is to be their peace, to be their softest and safest space.

After receiving their grudges from the world,

battling their chaotic minds, indecisive sadness, and countless times

questioning their worthiness - they have us -

hugging their sorrows and making them feel like this is their

"genuine home."

- Notebook

A couple of weekends ago, I spent time with my dear friend Jill. Jill has been a "safe place" for me for almost 50 years. In our brief time together, as we talked about I-can't-remember-what, I started crying.

"I'm sorry!" I apologized, wiping away tears. "I cry a lot these days!"

"No worries," Jill assured me. "I'm okay with tears."

I have lived a long, long time in The Land of We Don't Do Big Feelings (especially "heavy" ones like sadness, anger, or frustration). I am a misfit, an imposter, a second-class citizen, often opting not to speak rather than to risk ridicule or rejection by exposing my alien identity with my "accent."

But Jill is "home." She is a true sister in Christ. She doesn't laugh, mock, or belittle my "accent" (aka big feelings), but makes me feel welcomed, loved, and valued. (Maybe Jill is so good at making me feel "at home" because she has Big Feelings, too.)

Lots of seemingly random bits and pieces here on the blog today...but, trust me, they are not unrelated.

Today is Sunday.

Morning worship, study, time with God's people...

Rest, physical and mental...

Throwing the ball for Lefty, trying a new recipe, savoring the Golden Hour as late afternoon sunlight filters across the hayfield outside my window...

Remembering time recently spent in the company of a dear friend...

All these things turn my thoughts to the loveliness of Jesus.

He is faithful, merciful, gracious, kind, good, sufficient, forgiving. He does not mock, ridicule, or belittle.

When he walked on this earth, Jesus welcomed the outcast, touched the unclean, healed the sick, and embraced the broken. "No worries...I'm okay with tears."

Jesus - he is the safest place of all.