The Job I Quit Before I Started. In which I am a bad person. Or, know my limits and my calling.

In my mind- I envisioned- lovingly being the hands and feet of Jesus caring for those closest to meeting Him. The Elderly.(Maybe with a tiny motivation that they’d tell Him what a great person I was.) In a nursing home. I envisioned- reading to them, brushing their hair, listening to their stories and encouraging them that they mattered.

I also thought I’d look pretty hot in a nurses uniform. Even if I was just an “aide.”

I was 18. What can I say?

When I  walked in for my interview, I was startled by the smell. Which is saying something -because since a nose job at 16- I don’t have much of a sense of smell. It was ‘eau d soggy depends and bengay. It had undertones of other things- but I won’t hazard a guess as to what they were.  Breathing through my mouth- I smiled and made it through my interview.

Apparently I was dazzling. (Or, they were desperate.) Because they hired me on the spot. I was given paper work to fill out. I filled it out. Then I was taken on a tour.

The tour was more than I could handle.

I smiled. Thanked the director of the center, and told them I’d see them for training.

I lied. I knew before I walked out, that I was NOT going back.

I never did.

It wasn’t the smell that did it. It wasn’t the messes or, bodily function fails. It wasn’t the neediness of the wonderful people living in the nursing home. It was the dementia. Honestly? It creeped me out.

• The talking without meaning. and maybe without even hearing.
• The moaning that can’t be soothed.
• The awkward and inappropriate statements.
• The disconnected thoughts said aloud.

I had no idea how to respond. I know how to respond to people with mental clarity. (Well to some degree.) But this? No clue.

It was overwhelming- and honestly? It scared me.

I knew I wasn’t that person I thought I’d be. The one to hold their hands and pray for them. The one to feed and tenderly care for them. I. Just. Couldn’t. Do. It.

I was so embarrassed- I just never showed up for the job.

I felt guilty for years. I mean- isn’t caring for widows and orphans and the forgotten and lonely- what Jesus calls us to do? Didn’t Jesus wash feet? (Feet are gross by the way. Just saying.) More than guilty- I felt like a failure.

Here’s the thing: nursing home caregiving is not for everyone.  It’s certainly not for me.

I’m not a failure. I’m a human.

I love kids. I love moms. To serve them? It’s a delight.  Public speaking? Delight. Writing? Total delight. Reaching out to the marginalized? (in other ways.) Delight.

For some people? That would be their nightmare. Their failure. Their job they’d never show up for.

I’ve learned its okay to be who God created ME to be. Not what I want Him to make me be. Or some idea of what a “good Christian” should be. (Ie- a hot in a nurses uniform -angel of nursing home -mercy.)

 

 

 

I am Not: Enough. (And I don’t have to be. Neither do you. You’re welcome.)

Thunk. Gasp. Wheeze. Whistle. Another rock lands on my chest. I wriggle to escape its weight. I draw shallower breaths with more effort. I adjust.

Thunk. Gasp. Wheeze. Whistle.

Repeat.

It happens daily. Countless times most days. No, I’m not being held captive and tortured.

Unless you count being held captive and tortured by myself. And a culture that keeps telling me “I am enough.”

 

the pressure to produce a happy ending.. I don’t have to be a superhero. Neither do you.

I love happy endings. I love stories where people overcome challenges and surprise themselves and others by finding they had it “within them” all along. I love it when broken hearts find new love. I love it when the house gets saved just in the nick of time. I love it when a dream job replaces a lost job.

I love it in fiction. however, I know all too well, that happy endings aren’t always the way real life turns out.

Sucks. I know.

I’m starting to feel like there’s an unspoken expectation to create a happy ending out of the loss of my husband and the 10,000 other things we lost when he died. Maybe it’s just me. Or maybe we have a problem.

When someone is hurting, we often like, share, talk about and forward stories that are inspirational. Stories with happy endings. (Or happy new beginnings.) we often attach a “this made me think of you” sentiment.

We share platitudes with each other that are meant to encourage:

• Live a better story.

• Write your own happy ending.
• Live your best life.
• Be positive. What you think is what you become.
• When god closes a door, he opens a window
• God has something better for you.

But do they really encourage us?

I’m not feeling it. I’m feeling pressured.

 

The day fear died.

Once upon a time, there was a young boy. He learned about sin. He learned and repentance. He learned about grace. He learned about Jesus. He learned about sin.

Somewhere along the way. That boy started to be afraid.

“What if I forget a sin? What if Jesus comes back and I’m in the middle of sinning? Will he leave me behind? Will I go to hell?”

That little boy once tied his foot to his little brother (or thought about it) because he knew his little brother wasn’t a sinner like him, and if the rapture happened, he thought he’d get pulled up to heaven like a train car, dangling off a bridge….

That little boy grew into a man. He knew he was a sinner. He tried to do all the right things. But he still sinned. He knew and loved Jesus, but, the fear never left him. Some days the fear was crippling. Some days the fear was minimal. But he knew something was just wrong with his perspective of god, and how it made him feel afraid.

He studied scripture. He prayed. He asked god to remove the fear.

He didn’t.

That man got cancer. The little boy part of him believed he deserved it. The man of faith part of him didn’t believe that’s how god works. The man knew about redemption. The man knew Jesus paid the ultimate price on the cross for every sin. Past, present and future.

But the boy stayed afraid.

The man battled. His fear and his cancer.

One very long night. The fear died.

The man became free. The boy stopped fearing.

His begging for Jesus to forgive him… over and over…stopped. He started to talk about going to see Jesus.

He asked how long it would take.

The man/boy who’d been so afraid of dying his whole life, because he was afraid he’d arrive in hell… asked if there was a plug to pull. Because he was ready and he was no longer afraid.

Fear died. Just a few hours before my husband did.

Yup. He’s that boy. That wonderfully perfect imperfect sinner. Saved by grace.

For those few hours, I got to meet him without his constant companion- fear. It’s the most incredible and holy thing I’ve ever experienced.

Fear. For some of us it’s a daily battle.

Maybe fear of the future. (Hello, I’m there.)

Maybe it’s fear of death, loss, sin, letting go, trusting…

Maybe it’s hell.God. Or yourself. Or being good enough, smart enough or doggone it if people like you…( some one will get that. You’re welcome.) maybe it’s People. Failure. Sickness. All. The. Things.

What if we stopped feeding the fear? My hubby fed it daily. And that’s part of what kept it alive. Until he stopped. And he finally trusted- that god is who he says he is. And does what he say he will.

What if, we’re a little like that boy? So afraid that we’re tying ourselves to someone else so we can get into heaven on some train wreck?

I honestly have no idea how my favorite human was finally able to let. It. Go. To trust.

That man was saved his whole life… he just couldn’t quite believe it, until he did.

And it was the most beautiful moment of his entire life. And quite possibly, mine.

Tonight, where ever you are, I hope you find peace. I hope that whatever you’re fearing, you finally are able to let it go. To trust. In God. That he is who he says he is. He does what he says he does. You don’t need the fear. Neither did that boy. Nor, do I.

Dear Jesus, I thank you again for what you did that long night,

 

In which: I’m licensed to drive, but not equipped for where I am.

I love to travel. To me travel is an opportunity to: Meet people. Experience new places, cultures, foods, climates and experiences. Aside from the hassle of it.. I truly- adore it.

But every time I travel, I run into this weird thing. I get a rental car, and because I’m licensed to drive, they just: give me the keys and I drive off. (Except this one time when I only brought a debit card and they oils to give me my rental.. that was a bad travel day. Thank you Jesus for Uber.)

Anyway. They give me keys because Mathews state I’m traveling in accepts my license as evidence that I know what I’m doing.

Except : there are differences. The signs are different here. Lights have different usages. People: in Colorado you often drive across traffic to get on a freeway. We just plain don’t do that (hardly ever) in Michigan. There are toll roads. We don’t have those. Either. So, while I’m technically licensed to drive, sometimes I have no idea what I’m doing. I screw up. Last night I stopped in a panic because my understanding of how traffic lights work- was wrong. HERE. Where I am now.

It would make a lot more sense if part of your rental was a 10 minutes: here are the rules here, boot camp. Seriously. The world should implement this.

This isn’t my first rodeo here, (go me for an appropriate western dialect analogy!) so every trip I get better. I’m learning the rules and becoming more comfortable each trip. I’m figuring it out as I go.

Sometimes, that’s what we do.

Driving while traveling isn’t the only time I experience this. It happens in so many areas of my life. As a mom, I’ll be honest, I’m driving in new territory. I may be theoretically licensed.. even experienced, but in this place? I’m struggling to read the signs, and keep us all safe. Hmmm mostly from myself. How do you parent adult children? Is that even the right question to ask? How do I single parent a teen boy?

In my faith, I’m driving a new road too. Don’t panic. My faith hasn’t changed. But the driving terrain? Our Christian microculture? Different. I’m single. I’m a christian. I love people. All of them. The world is divided and I’m passionately called to be a minister of reconciliation. One to another and each one to god. I’m not a pastor. I am a leader. And: I’m me.

In my life, I’m preparing to enter the workplace formally for the first time in decades. Newsflash: new place. New rules.

It’s complicated. I’m trying to learn to read the signs, and figure out the traffic lights.

Here. Where I am now.to there,where ever God is taking me.

Aren’t we all?

Here’s the thing. I could just get a driver. Uber works. I could: quit. Stay home. Where it’s safe.i know the rules.

This week when I got to Denver, there was a snow storm. I upgraded my rental to a 4×4. Because: it’s hard enough not to get killed here due to driver error on a good day.

It was what I needed.

One of the things I love about Jesus is this: yup. He takes us off road once in a while. He doesn’t always tell us all the things we’d like to know in order to drive it well. He’s patient as we figure it out. And he upgrades us to a 4×4 of love. And grace. He gives us what we need when we need it. Even when the road is bumpy, and snow covered. All those new unknown places I’m driving in my life? He knows. He’s given me enough to drive here. I’m licensed. I knew w just barely enough. To start the adventure. To drive and figure out the nuance of these new rules as I go.

I’ll be honest, it would feel a lot more comfortable if he’d do this a different way. Like: tell me all the things. Warnings. Meanings. Actually? A gps with turn by turn instruction would be nice.

But I’m called to something more than safety and comfort.

I’m called to followJesus. Where ever he leads.

And not having all those little details? The nuance? It makes me ask for help when I’m driving.

Here in Denver, and in my life. I lean into the wisdom of people who know. I lean into Jesus, I pray, I seek, I ask, I even sometimes listen. Maybe, that’s exactly why it works like this. To keep us connected. To him, and each other.

Maybe you’ve arrived at a place where your feeling under equipped. Like things are foreign, the rules have changed. Because you’re in a new place.

I get it. Me too.

Lean in.

Dear Jesus, I need you more now than ever. Lead guide direct, equip me for this off road adventure that is my life. And lord? Don’t let me go off the rails- I trust you with all of this, amen

 

Even here. When your “breakthrough” leaves you broken.

Confession: I’m not going to see the movie “Breakthrough.”

It is not because I don’t believe with the premise.

I’m not going- because I’ve lived that scene. I begged for a breakthrough. (Not of the icy kind- but the better one that happens in the movie. Life from death.

I sat with my head on my husband’s and without doubt of gods ability to do so- I asked god to spare his life. I asked him raise him from the dead and heal him.

he did not.

I tell myself: he did heal him. He is walking with Jesus in heaven- happier, healthier and more whole than he ever was on earth. And I believe it.

But, that’s not what I asked for. I didn’t ask for a spiritual healing. I didn’t ask for eternity.

I asked for my best friend. I asked for my sons to have their dad. I asked for a miracle.

God said: no.

I have no idea why.

I know all the right things to say and believe: that God has a plan. That God knows what’s best. That God’s promise of eternal life is so much greater than what we experience on this earth. I know that an end to suffering is a gift…I believe all of those things.

Yet- the brutal reality is: God said no.

I don’t know why. I do not know why one woman’s prayers result in a breakthrough and another woman’s prayers result in brokenness.

I do not know why sometimes God answers with: “No.”

I do know this: even though I rejoice for others when their prayers are answered with the results they beg for, I also feel a pang of sadness for myself. (By pang, I mean a chefs knife like stab to the heart… that kind of pang.) I feel it when others ring that “treatment is over” bell at the cancer center. I feel it when I see that someone reach that coveted 5 year cancer free mark. I feel it when people praise God for good reports after a scare. “Thank you Jesus, it’s not cancer.”

I rejoice for them. And I weep for me. I’m a fairly selfish person like that. So ) much of Christianity says (and implies that to feel disappointed and angry with God is sin. That to rejoice with others with a pang of sadness for ourselves is wrong.

I disagree. I think it’s: human.

Here’s the thing: you can’t think your way out of loss or grief. I’m still disappointed. Angry. Hurting. Sad. and yes- I sometimes feel jealous of others breakthroughs.

We don’t make movies about that.

We make movies and tell stories with happy endings. The widow (Or widower) who finds new hope and love after loss is a hallmark movie staple. The amazing career you never expected to be part of your life after losing a job you thought you loved? Gold. The lottery win or deal made that saves the house from foreclosure just in the nick of time? Bestseller. The superhero rescue. The reconciled and better than ever marriage. A tv show ready to air. The learning to walk again after a stroke, inspirational. We tell the stories of someone leaving a slum to rise to fame…. and we thank God. Because we love happy endings and we think god wins when they happen. They give us hope.

But what about those not so happy endings? The deaths. Miscarriages, infertility, divorce, chronic illness, pain, suffering, starvation, those who die a martyrs death? persecution? is God in those stories?

I think yes.

I don’t think I’m alone in this. I think I’m honest about it. The conflicted feelings. Rejoicing through tears feels a lot like losing your mind.

 

Dear Mom Still Waiting in Line to see Santa:

I know. It’s on the “list.” The list of things that must be done between laundry loads, diaper changers and toddler tantrums. I know you picked just the right outfits. I know you are armed with enough toys, snacks and wipes to save a village of wolf raised children from starvation, death by boredom and smothering in the mysterious substance all young children produce with their fingers.(  At my house we call it: mystery goo. The gunk left behind on every surface by children under 10.  I believe it’s produced in glands that disappear right around puberty when the other glands kick into overdrive.) I know you’re watching the clock and praying Santa doesn’t need another “break” while you stand in the line of mom-torture.

I know your hands are sweaty because the signs say “no photography” but your pictures are always better than the ones the 14 year old behind Santa cam takes, and your camera is both charged and has a memory card in it. I probably know this because I’ve been sipping a late’ with my feet up for an hour, watching you check the battery and sd card between swiping mystery goo, the inevitable Christmas snot fest and promising everything from mcdonalds to ponies based on your escalating desperation for a “good” picture with Santa. I know you’re conflicted about taking the pics, I also know how much the santa cam charges. It’s insane. I’ve been there. 3 children’s worth. 

I also know late’ sippers who watch the santa line are 1 of 3 things: creepy, judgey or weepy. I fit the latter category. I promise. And I’ve got your back against the others. You don’t know this, but I’m cheering you on and praying that between boogers and poops and bribes you find a moment or two to savor all that isn’t torture about this time. 

The look of wonder at an indoor scene that looks like a broadway production. (Sheesh, I grew up with just: santa on a fake throne. There were no animated creatures or movie themes to help distract us. Which is probably why our parents all drank and smoked.) I hope you see the joy in your child’s eyes every time they move a step closer to santa. I hope you see the moms and dads around you. They’re All with you in this.  They’re also just as stressed and rushed as you are. Yup. Even that perfect chick who’s outfit matches, who’s hair is styled, and who’s make up is perfect with the kid reading a book in his britax stroller. You’re in this together. Run out of wipes or goldfish crackers? They’re there for you. 

I also hope you know this: eventually, this line will end. You’ll get your overpriced but precious pictures. You will survive and the kids will pass out in their car seats due to a goldfish coma on the way home. That little bit of spit up or pee left behind on santa? No worries, there’s a tide pen hidden in his beard, and the red velvet is actually teflon. Santa knows more than just who’s been bad or good. He’s got Mrs claus packing his bag for goodness sake! 

Finally, I hope you know that not only will the line end, but someday, much sooner than you think and you won’t know until it’s past- your days in the santa line will end too. Maybe you’ll get a year of pseudo protest as a warning. “Mom, I don’t want to wait for santa! The line is too long. I’ll email him.” And then, it’s over. Pictures with Santa become sweet memories. (It’s a little like labor and child birth, somehow we forget the pain.) 

Eventually, they go to the mall on their own. To shop for you. (Or cvs for last minute gift cards… whatever. Older kids are like that.) then, you’ll join me, the judgers who want to feel better about themselves by judging you’re parenting in the santa line up. (Which, if you ask me is a little like judging someone’s parenting in a war zone. Some circumstances are simply about survival. Duh.) and the creepy ones. You’ll stand guard against creeps with a late in hand and tears in your eyes. Not because you didn’t know this season of life would pass so fast. 

It does.

It will.

So dear mom in the santa line- if you’re desperately seeking refuge in the distraction of the internets, you’re safe here. I know it’s stressful. I know it’s torture. And I know it’s precious. I’m with you. All of us moms who’ve been there are. And we just want you to savor it like that one hot cup of coffee you last had 2 years ago. It was probably between poopy diaper changes and tantrums and laundry loads as well. Which is when the very sweetest parts of mom life always happen.

You are loved. You got this. Carry on. Ps: while the kids sleep in the car on the way home? Hit the drive through for a hot coffee and drive around looking at lights. You’ve earned it. 

Ps: always buy the cheapest photo package and ask to take your own pics. Puhleeze. Santa isn’t a jerk. Just, you know, don’t bring your own makeup crew and backdrop. There are other moms behind you trying to survive the line. Merry Christmas- from one mom to another- ;) 

Oh- and to the mom who doesn’t do santa? We’re with you too. Different doesn’t have to separate us;) happy whatever you celebrate, too!

 

Nervously, bravely me. On a plane. Without snakes.

It’s not the flight I’m nervous about. It’s not even (for once) me, that I’m nervous about. (I tend to be afraid I’ll screw up. Say something dumb. Forget something…whatever, At this point I’ve messed up enough times to know: I’ll survive and people can be pretty gracious when you just own your stuff.)

This time it’s not me stuff that’s got my drawers in a bunch.

It’s: other stuff.

Cancer stuff.(I hate cancer.)
Side effect stuff. (I’m reserving the right to hate chemo. If it doesn’t work. If it works…. I just hate the side effects.)
Kid stuff. (Kids are complicated. Mothering is hard. Always.
Dog stuff. (We’re really good at turning dogs into wild animals that attack Amazon boxes. )
House stuff. (I’m a mom. There’s always house stuff. This week it’s the norm + prep for a new roof. That should be fun. See also: Wild dogs)
Stuff.

Pretty much, it all comes down to stuff I can’t control. The cancer is still there even if I’m in the same room with my husband. So are the side effects. I can’t stop them. Kid stuff happens whether I’m home or not. The dogs will make a mess and eat things they shouldn’t. They’d do the same, if I were home.

The house is as clean as I could clean it without making myself insane or injured. Laundry is in ikea bags on my bed. Clean and folded… There are pork chops in the freezer and veggies and quinoa for dinner. I packed lunches and put out school clothes for my middle schooler. (I also told him to have a good trip, 3 times this morning. Hint: he’s not going anywhere. I am. His response: “Are you trying to send me off to the army? I thought I was going to school?” Nope. Not the army mr middle school. Just school and a mom on overload.

I did what I could to make things easy. But I can’t control what happens once the wheels on this plane leave the ground. Oops they just did. I’m no longer in control.

The truth is: I couldn’t control those things prior to take off, either.

Funny how much control we think we have, until we realize we don’t.

So, here I am, on a cramped, delayed flight to Louisville. (Can’t control that either… There’s a theme here somewhere.)

I left my husband -who’s hair started falling out yesterday due to chemo, 3 psychotic dogs, a slightly anxious middle schooler who called home for diarrhea meds before I even boarded my flight with 2 college boys to hold down the fort. I am THAT: woman, wife, mom.

There are emergency #’s and contingency plans. But, still. It’s hard.

Why am I doing it?

Because God has uniquely designed me to serve him, by loving moms. One of the ways I get to do that is through MOPS International. This week is #MomCon. MomCon is when we gather together as Moms and leaders to remember why we do what we do, and to worship and be together.

After a lot of praying and watching ( my husband… To make sure he’s really ok.) and asking…. My husband and I decided that I should go.

Even if it’s hard.

Being brave- isn’t about things being easy, being brave isn’t about not being afraid. Being brave is feeling the fear and trusting God is bigger- then doing the thing you need to do.

So…. This is me. Nervously, bravely on a plane. Heading to MomCon. To go and do what I’m called to. Because I believe God called me knowing everything that would happen leading up to this moment.

God isn’t surprised by cancer. Or “stuff” issues. God carries us through them.

As he’s carrying me, now.

The MOPS theme this year is “be you, bravely”

funny how God’s already giving me opportunities to grow more brave…. Isn’t it? It’s almost as if he knew or something…..

Praying for you, as I’m flying over the clouds. Are you nervously bravely doing something today? Tell me what it is in the comment section… I can’t wait to hear!

And if you’re heading to #MomCon I’ll see you soon! I’ll. slightly nervous but trusting brunette with a prostate cancer awareness blue streak in my hair… Say hi! I have chocolate:)

 

Of Turtles and Trust and Trusting again- Even Here..

Click to read- and don’t forget the blog has moved! 

 

A nest among thorns- in which cancer follows where ever we run, yet God is present, even here.

6 days. From around 6 a.m. – until….well, when ever the heck I finally stopped. I nested. Everything in my heart said: “this will be our escape. Our place of peace. Where we’ll enjoy the grace that is living away from all the mess and stress that is life. ”

I made it beautiful. It was sold furnished- all I had to do was a surface makeover to make it ours. It’s As cute a tiny respite as I’ve ever dreamed of having. A dream come true. Our own little cottage on a lake.

I even have a desk. A real writing spot.

And this: I can’t even believe it…..

. I h

Just about the time I stopped furiously working- the wall of safety I thought I was building was once again hit by the wrecking ball of cancer. I did not want cancer to show its face here. Not here.

But, it did. Another bad report. More treatments ahead. More fear. More struggle. Lots of tears. Lots of prayers.

Cancer doesn’t respect boundaries. Cancer doesn’t take a vacation. It follows you and surrounds you wherever you are. Even here. In my favorite places ever.

As I was wallowing in the mess of emotion that is tied up in cancer I remembered a picture a dear friend sent me, this one:

This is how I feel right now. In our nest of peace trusting. But also- surrounded by thorns and cacti needles.

I’m choosing to trust the one who’s holding our little nest- even here. In a place I’d never choose to nest. Cancer. Stress. Fear. Pain. Living in this nest isn’t as safe or comfortable as other places we’ve nested. The thorns reach out to tear at us every time we move. They hurt. We heal.

We do the next thing. We take the next step. Over and over.

If you’re feeling the same, I pray you find rest and nourishment for your soul. The nest may be surrounded by thorns- but it’s still being held by one who loves you. Even there.

Here’s my prayer today:blessed be your name