Just a little jot as a nurse…

I just saw the hundredth or so meme on Facebook (yes, my social media is Facebook and I’m cool with how old that makes me) about 2020 being a Terrible, Horrible, No Good, Very Bad year. I laughed, because I get it. I, too, live on this planet. Not only did we start the year with a pandemic, racial tensions have been further exposed and reignited, tragedy after tragedy seems to be the theme of the nightly news, and… icing on the cake really… it’s an election year.

But in all this, I am not losing hope. And my hope is not that a new year will bring better news or racial healing or even justice. My hope is not that humanity will learn from this pandemic that the burden on mothers who work outside the home is completely untenable. My hope is not in a new president. My hope is not in a future event or even present blessings amidst these trials. My hope is in Christ. That He righted every wrong on Calvary, and that we are just living in the middle of a story already written.

This hope gives me room to laugh at the circus that this year has been without becoming cynical. It allows me to anticipate the future with joy without placing my hope there. It allows me to find blessings in the here and now, sometimes even because of the hardships. My greatest desire is for everyone to know this hope. It’s not an easy road but it’s beautiful.

I took my kids for their annual checkups this morning and I found myself telling the doctor that no, I had not yet taken them to a dentist because I still think I can’t afford it. Going to the dentist is something people with money do.

A probably well-meaning person jumped down my throat on Facebook yesterday for saying that I cannot support any organization whose core values include man’s sovereignty over his own life. While I expect opposition to the concept, I did not expect such ignorance surrounding what the belief means. Sovereignty of God means (among other things) that man is accountable to God in all areas. I didn’t expect such blindness to the fact that asserting a persons right to be whoever and however they want to be (regardless of what God says about who we are) is a value statement that runs antithetical to the whole of Scripture.

We are not our own. We belong to God first, second to one another. We cannot simply choose our life’s path based on what works best for “me”. And if this isn’t the daily grind of rubber meets the road Christianity I don’t know what is. We find in the command to love God and love others an infinite lack in our own selves to accomplish anything remotely like the love Jesus showed us. And we find in our desire to do it anyway, however faltering and failing, an infinite grace that carries us and allows God’s love to shine even in our feeblest efforts.

I will be crying over the injustices I’ve heard about for long after everyone has moved on to the next thing. I grew up in neighborhoods where people got pulled over because their car was too nice. I watched the hostility first-hand towards any non-white civilian regardless of how polite he was. The lack of trust of the police runs so deep in these communities. But isn’t the onus always on the person with authority? It’s the police who need to offer the olive branch. Maybe if I went back to the South side now I would see it all differently, but growing up it was indelibly impressed upon me that the police are not the ones we can trust. And I’m white.

I have money now. I grew up “white trash” but my kids won’t know what that’s like. Even with a paycut since the pandemic, we aren’t struggling financially. And I have to acknowledge the privilege of my race in getting the breaks I’ve gotten. A young white female with wide blue eyes walks into an office far from home and says, “I can learn any software you give me quicker and better than anyone you’ve got working here,” and the hiring manager doesn’t scoff. She believes me. Because I look the part. Not because I’ve got the credentials. Most of my job experience was at Burger King. My little office experience was all due to my connections from my very white, affluent church back home.

I don’t believe that people of color are disadvantaged because it conveniently excuses me from feeling offended by their lack of culture. (Yes I said it; I really believe a significant amount of white people want to believe black people in particular “can’t help themselves” because “the poor dears are disadvantaged”.) I believe they’re disadvantaged because I’ve seen it. The lack of expectations. The “different rules” for “the bus kids” at AWANA. The assumption that they’re poor. The complete lack of surprise if a black teen turns up pregnant. All of this, and more. So much more. It isn’t right.

So when I got accused of racism for disagreeing with an organization that at its surface is about equality but truly at its core supports human sovereignty, I wasn’t upset at the accusation. I was upset that there was no understanding, no concept of God as a person with His own supreme values to which we either submit or rebel. As sad as racism makes me, as rife with injustice as I see this sin-sick world, I know that what we are seeing in racism is the result of a systemic problem far greater: the worlds system, opposed to truth.

To stand with an organization that buys into the world’s system and its greatest lie: that we can be the captains of our own destiny, is in the end to support the continuation of injustice. There has to be a better way.

I will make it a point to get my kids enrolled in activities with people of varying social status and skin color. The one “pro” on my pro-con list of public school vs homeschool is that public school will afford my kids the chance to make friends with people who actually cannot afford to see a dentist, not just people who think they can’t. As a mother of young kids my most important mission is to teach them justice, empathy, kindness. A generation raised on this and exposed to different values, cultures, and ideas will simply not be racist. What we’ve been missing is the acknowledgment of differences. Prior generations of white people (and some more privileged non-white people) thought we could erase the past and just move forward “color blind”. I think we know better now.

But more than anything I can do to teach, I must obey the ancient teachings and never forget:

“…as those who have been chosen of God, holy and beloved, put on a heart of compassion, kindness, humility, gentleness and patience; bearing with one another, and forgiving each other, whoever has a complaint against anyone; just as the Lord forgave you, so also should you. Beyond all these things put on love, which is the perfect bond of unity.”
‭‭Colossians‬ ‭3:12-14‬ ‭NASB‬‬
https://www.bible.com/100/col.3.12-14.nasb

Or, well, your kids toys.

This is truly a magical thing. It takes maybe an hour to set up and saves countless hours of cleanup frustrations and the most awful thing in the world for a child: boredom.

I got this idea from Happy You Happy Family, a blog that just overall contains tons of useful information and perspectives.

Here is the post:

https://happyyouhappyfamily.com/toy-rotation/

I do not label the bins. I also have no idea if I’ve got the categories right. But I spent maybe an hour taking this (some toys not pictured)

and creating this

So the kids can enjoy their toys like this

And when they put up their toys, (yes this is all of them that they can have in the playroom at a time) they can look like this:

I’ve been missing the organization and my kids have been missing their toys!

Now you with the kids — go! Do it!!

This virus, however it’s affecting us, is affecting ALL of us, and in that sense we are all in this together.

A couple nights ago I hopped onto a Zoom Bible study, apologized that I would probably miss a good bit since Littlefoot had to have Mommy put him to bed, and came back half an hour later totally lost.

After rushing to get to a study that was happening my own home, the lesson finally slowed down and we were sharing what’s going on in our lives. The leader and many others in the group seemed to assume that “we are all home right now” and “time has slowed down” for everyone. I didn’t want to be a dissenting voice but I couldn’t help but muse that my life has far from slowed down; I’m trying to compress an already compressed 32 hour workweek into 15 hours. I’m chasing tiny feet from 9am till 7pm and later, trying to make sure my mom gets something to eat every once in a while, trying not to lose my patience with my brother who doesn’t quite understand that what’s important to him is kinda low on the priority list most of the time, fielding phone calls with requests for reports and random information from work (thankfully not as often as my husband does, but that’s why the kids are mine from 9-7 rather than attempting a more equitable arrangement).

I probably just said a few things that need explanation. Yes, I live with my mom and brother. I don’t share much about my living arrangement because it’s usually not pertinent. But in this case, it’s very pertinent.

If I were separated from my mom during this quarantine, my mom might have died. A few weeks ago, as I was trying to make my weekly run to work to get the necessary things done there, Love called and asked if we had any gas medicine at the house. I didn’t know, and I was surprised he was calling me — wouldn’t my mom know? She’s usually the keeper of the medicines; she knows what we have and what should work for just about every ailment.

“It’s for your mom,” he said.

So I turned around and stopped by a pharmacy to pick some up and bring it home, where I found my mom in about as much pain as I’d ever seen her . . . and I’ve seen my mom pain a lot. She has fibromyalgia. Pain is a constant for her. Unfortunately, but maybe fortunately, that’s made seeing her in pain not much of a shock for me. I tried to make her comfortable, adjusted a heating pad, and asked her to breathe deeply and moan through the pain in case it was gas; moaning relaxes the muscles. After a few minutes, we both agreed that going the ER was best. I drove her there and dropped her off — and that’s probably a story for another post about the most surreal aspect of this pandemic I have experienced to date.

Since then she’s come back home, minus an appendix, unable to lift more than ten pounds, and weak. That’s been the hardest thing for us to navigate: how to build her back up to any sort of normal activity level after not just this appendectomy but a knee surgery a month prior.

As for living with my brother, he has special needs but he’s not a child. And you either know what that’s like or you don’t. And even if you know what it’s like, if you’re smart you’ll know that you can’t know exactly what it’s like. Throw in the fact that living with him is a newish development and you can see how I might have gained a few extra gray hairs these past two months.

So, my days are fuller than they’ve ever been. This time here, writing about this, has been the most time I’ve gotten to myself in weeks and it’s under the guise of getting caught up on work. Which I do need to get caught up on; I’m behind on so many things. But those things can wait. I need this.

(Um, feel free to just skip this paragraph entirely; leaving it here for those who know me a bit better and get a kick out of seeing my little wheels spinning.)

I also need a plan for handling all of this much better than I have been, but I’m working on it. Just taking this time right now is a step in the right direction. I can’t let the noise of others needs drown out the pure and simple fact that I do have my own needs. One of those needs is time alone, and time to write. I used to get time alone at work, in the mornings before the rest of the sleepyheads made their way in. I adore mornings, when those mornings are relaxed and I’m not rushing to get things done. Maybe working in the mornings isn’t the best plan. Maybe quiet time, some coffee, and working on Wednesday evenings and Saturdays is best. Get an hour or so in the mornings if I can, after I’ve had time to just BE. Compressing the time even further, but it’s just temporary until my mom is back on her feet. We’ve already talked about a plan to help her slowly build up her endurance. And then, just taking work calls if they come in and handling things as I absolutely have to. With that work pressure off, I need to put my energy into better housekeeping routines so laundry does pile up and bathrooms don’t get scary. And I also need to plan more things for the kids. Rotate toys every couple days since they’re home more. Pare it down to just about 10 toys in the room at a time, and keep it fresh by rotating them in the mornings before they get up. I could alternate toy rotation day with shower day — meaning, I would shower more than once a week.

Sorry about that little detour. Back to the blog post . . .

We’re not all going through the same thingS, but we are all going through the same THING – this virus. I know I can’t be the first person to point this out, but it seems to be a recurring theme in my life, as someone who has been dealt a fairly odd hand of trails, that it’s better to extend the open hand of “I may not know what you’re going through, but I care,” than the determined clasp of, “I know exactly what you’re going through.”

As I wrap this up at 2am after a long text message conversation with my brother, I’ve lost a lot of the motivation I had this morning. But I know that joy comes in the morning, so I’m holding out for that. It’s gonna be alright. We will get through this, whatever it looks like for you or me.

I don’t write about stuff I’ve been through with any sort of detail, if at all, because even reading other people’s experiences is, as people like to say “triggering”.

Maybe one day I’ll be able to write about my past to comfort and encourage others. Right now, I prefer to dwell on the miraculous present.

Ten years ago I would have never imagined the life I have now, not in my wildest dreams. My problems are almost all because of extraordinary blessings. I can’t complain even a little bit without acknowledging this.

So how did I end up here, writing this? A helpful Facebook post, offering a hotline number, led me to a Facebook page and a blog post that left me feeling some strange need to process . . . But I can’t. I have tried before. It doesn’t help; it leaves me feeling stuck in a past I can’t undo and wondering what those I write about must think of me.

Hurting people hurt people. I truly believe that, and because of that I can’t think of any way to talk about past hurts that would do anything other than cause more pain.

It frustrates me that things that should just be helpful end up sending me down a little detour in my mind like this. Why shouldn’t I share that hotline? It’s a good thing to share; we never know what people are really dealing with at home. Not unless they tell us. And why would anyone tell us if we never open that door?

I like to think I’m open, and I know I would never tell someone they couldn’t talk to me about anything— but why can’t I let my own guard down? I can, maybe. Just not on a blog.

I’m okay. After writing this, anyway, I can say that. Funny how it doesn’t take much, just a few minutes and a few words. Maybe we can do this small thing for each other? Just a few words, a few minutes, and we can walk away feeling lighter.

A Prayer of David.

This isn’t a shocking revelation to me, but something I am learning over and over again in every relationship: the only way to experience the communion Christ longs for us to have is to set them free. We have to stop trying to punish people. Yes, he hurt you. Yes, she slighted you. Yes, you were overlooked. And if you hurt or slighted overlooked someone wouldn’t you want to be forgiven? Maybe you would never do that. Oh, yes; the argument of the Pharisee — “Thank the Lord I am not like that sinner.”  Just give it up already. Lay down that burden; none of us are good enough. I could write paragraphs on that theme but I’ll leave you to read the words of Jesus Himself: Luke 18:9-14

So I’m not astounded that this song would say to set them free; what amazes me is how many times I’ve heard this song and never heard that lyric before. What else am I missing?

I thought of this song today and realized that it’s not a convicting song at all. If I feel convicted about not showing more mercy, I don’t need more judgment; I need more mercy!

That’s all my tired brain can do for now. Sharing this because it’s a good song, might delete commentary later

I have to wonder if I only write because it selfishly allows me to process, to gain perspective. And if so, why post that crap for all the world to see? Why share it with anyone at all?

Because I think I’m not the only one tired of reading the “five easy steps” and the “one thing you must do” blog posts. I write and share because I can’t be the only one who goes through this. And I am tired of the sunny side. Does God have a plan? YES. Is all this life nothing to be compared with what will be revealed in glory? YES. Do we need to constantly remind ourselves of these anchoring truths? YES.

But we have lost the art of lament. We have become uncomfortable with dwelling. We want to push-push-push, forget the “bad”, focus on the “good”. We go so far as to think that it’s a sin to think anything that isn’t good, pure, right, etc. Rather than ask ourselves why our soul is downcast, we try to cram as much truth down our throats as we can muster and we think that our mental health will be changed by how loudly we proclaim its goodness.

The truth will set you free. The truth is meaningless without context.

During small group, a year or so ago, longer, someone brought up how they knew people that helped one another in some way as an example of community. We were all impressed with it, the obvious sacrifice involved but also the clear mutual blessing. After hearing this, one person in the group said, “So…  how does that happen? Does it just sort of naturally come about?”

I’ve thought about that question dozens of times since. It seems to highlight the most glaring problem we have with “one-anothering” each other. We think opportunities are just going to jump in our laps and it’s going to be natural and easy.

Even in that moment I wanted to jump up and answer: OF COURSE NOT! But like the spineless person I am, I kept quiet, because this is a respected member of our group and no one else seemed to disagree. “Hmm,” was the collective response. “Gee I do wonder how community actually happens.”

I’ll tell you. It happens when we stop saying “yes” to every church event (out of guilt) and start saying yes to the quiet pleas of “Well, I don’t want to be a bother…” It starts by less yelling at our kids because they’re making us late to church and more treating our family like the precious gift they are. (I am super guilty of this one.) It starts with ruthlessly weeding out the distractions and purposefully seeking activities that honor God.

And how it starts it how it happens. Persevere. It’s not easy. It’s very hard. It’s so much easier to pull out our big bag of excuses: small children, long hours at work, “not really good at that”… Of course there’s the fan favorite: “I’m busy”.

I have used all of these excuses. And they all suck. And I’m writing this because today is the tipping point. I’m not going to use those excuses anymore. I am going to MAKE time.

Join me?

I’ve been going to a church for several years now that emphasizes in every way possible that God is the only Person who truly matters. It feels strange to write that, like I should jump up and clarify what that statement doesn’t mean. And that is why I started this post, because I’m seeing so many places more than I ever have that even professing Christians don’t hold a truly “high view” of God. And I see more and more in myself how my old nature is constantly at war with this notion that God is supreme. I see it in my anger, my sadness, and even the things that bring me peace and comfort. Emotions are this wonderful God-given barometer of our loyalty, our desires, our faith. And I don’t have any more time now to write, but I want to post this because somebody needs to know tonight that their feelings aren’t wrong; their hurts don’t make them impossible to love; and the ugly anger they want to just hide from is exactly what they need to drive them to the Rock that is their refuge and strength. A high view of God doesn’t mean woe for us; it is His kindness that leads us to repentance. We are not worthy but He is. 

After the 9-5, the bedtime cuddles, the dishes, and the glass of wine all I have is ten minutes here so I’m just going to write what comes.

I’m coming to terms with the fact that we are all some degree deceived. It’s easy to see in others, so hard to see in oneself. But I wonder if that tendency to have a blind spot about 5’9″ and 180, 190, 200? pounds (I don’t own a scale; don’t judge) isn’t also maybe part of the plan. Maybe God allows us to be a little self-blind so that we have to rely on others to help us, and we have to humble ourselves to the observations of others whose flaws we see more clearly than they do. And on the cycle of inter-dependence goes; we only grow if we’re growing together.

Six more minutes.

I also realized just this week that I truly have to rely on the wisdom of God in order to outwit my enemy. I have this foolish way of believing the best about people, and I open myself up to all sorts of problems when I believe that every misunderstanding can be resolved by appealing to the “good intentions” of others.

And with two minutes left, I have another realization from probably a couple months ago now: all time is the Lord’s. I tend to get overwhelmed with the fleeting nature of time and it can lead to despair when I consider how I’ve wasted time. I’ve been known to berate myself for spending an hour watching TV because I can’t get that time back. And while it is true that we are to be good stewards of the time God has given us, I was taking it to the point of believing I could somehow keep God from loving me if I wasted enough time.

And that’s it, folks. 10pm. Goodnight.

Foolish Foundmercy; did I think that, being helpless as I was to save myself, that I would be able to continue on in my own strength?

While I was yet dead, Christ made me alive with Him. And that God-made-alive power doesn’t quit. God will never take a look at me and say, “Ok! Great! You’ve “graduated”; you don’t need Me anymore! Good luck on all your future endeavours!” He made me to need Him. And of all times, living in this broken world with this rotting body, this is the time I need Him most.

When I get selfish, I need Him. When my anger rises against the demands and pressures of life, I need Him. When that anger turns ferociously inward and threatens to consume me, I need Him.

I read an article recently… Maybe it wasn’t that recent? Anyway, I read an article at some point in the past that talked about how becoming a mom is largely about “making room”.  It was a sweet article and focused primarily on the sweeter aspects of motherhood, or maybe it just framed it all in a sweet way.

I’ve also read a lot of things lately that talk about the tension between self-care and self sacrifice as a mother. Of course the things I read don’t actually say that’s what they’re about. The commenters on the Facebook posts don’t explicitly state that they are either fighting for themselves, their children, or the truth with their comments. “Parents who put their kids to bed early to get some ‘me time’ are utterly selfish!” “Parents who  keep their kids up late are not being good parents because they’re not putting their kids needs before the needs of everyone else!” (And shades of subtlety in between.)  The joking Memes about how mothers don’t have time to shower or that they’re hiding from their kids all the time don’t state their motives either, and they don’t have to.

The truth is, it’s not just motherhood that prompts us to “make room”. What the author of that article so sweetly described is what it means to love — to truly love — anybody.

If you truly love your husband, you will see the state of the bathroom sink in the morning (hair, hair, everywhere) and still kiss him goodbye as he leaves for work. You will receive his imperfect self, his imperfect responses when you have it in your head exactly what the “right answer” is, and you will forgive the hurt of disappointment — not always because he deserves it (although many times he does), but because you are making room for him to be his doesn’t-think-like-you-do self.

If you love your friends, you will make room for them challenge you. You’ll make room in your heart for them to impact you and bless you.

If you love your children, you will make room in your schedule for their particular needs. You’ll make room in the midnight hours for them to cry out with a fever. You make room in ways that no other human will ask you to make room — rearranging your house, your budget, your priorities.

And as you make room, you realize that eventually you have to surrender the walls that surround your heart, because they take up too much room for the amount of space you need.

I’ve been reading all these things lately that show me how a parent, a mother, can embrace what God is trying to do or reject it.

No other human being will ask you to give as much of yourself as your children. But God asks for even more. He will rearrange your entire life. He will ask you to stay up late, get up early, give when you think you don’t have the money, time, or energy. He will turn your priorities on their head. He will turn grey to black-and-white, and things that used to seem clear will gain complexity you can no longer explain.

In all things, God will challenge your attempts to fill your heart with lesser things.

People talk about how motherhood is a sacred calling. This role gets elevated and with that comes the errors of sainthood and martyrdom. Being a mother is extremely rewarding. I feel as though my slightest efforts are met with showers of grace. I don’t wonder for long if I’m on the right track; while I always feel like the long road ahead is like a tunnel barely lit, the next step (once I take that step in faith) is bathed in light.

But I cannot make the mistake of thinking that motherhood is unique. It is tempting to feel like the relationship I have with my kids is more rewarding than others. The truth is, the only reason it may feel that way is because the enormity of the responsibility draws me to seek God in the midst of it, in a way I have not let another relationship do.

Marriage can be that crucible for some. I’ve let marriage refine me to a degree. However, nothing has humbled me more than my children, and I think the majority experience motherhood in this way.

The complete irony of gospel living is that the things that humble us are the things that we end up holding most dear. The things that push the limits of our hearts’ capacity and challenge our (perceived) authority are what bring us back to our right place in this universe: on our knees, open-handed, and empty.

. . . Are you willing to make room?

I went to a marriage conference and I learned how to hate.

I learned to hate my sin more.

And I made a little thing for my lock screen on my third hand (my phone):

I’m learning. It’s so hard. But I’m learning.

Few things give me the courage to keep writing anymore. So much more tells me to keep silent, to hide, to modify my words so that they’re not so dark.

Andrew Peterson reminds me that sometimes penning words to life’s sorrows is exactly what we need. No disclaimers, no “but God”, no drowning the sorrow in cliches — however true those cliches may be.

I saw something once, maybe a cartoon, about how anger tends to trickle down from a boss, to a manager, to an employee, to his kids, to the poor family dog, who turns around and bites the kid. At least the dog is honest in his venting.

How many times do I vent my anger to the people who deserve it least?

I came here to talk about how I’m tired, how I can’t seem to keep all the plates spinning, and how often I fail to even try.

But then I remembered that line in that song O Lord, I am furrowed like the field, torn open like the dirt. And by the grace of God I turned my desire to vent into a prayer that leaked onto my cheeks and christened the paperwork I’m supposed to be working on.

And now I’m just writing to say that life is good, even if it’s hard sometimes. And the quicker can I get over the idea that I’m supposed to be completely selfless and incapable of anger, the better. Foolish Foundmercy; did I think that, being helpless as I was to save myself, that I would be able to continue on in my own strength?

I don’t need people to tell me I’m fine as I am; I need people to remind me that while I was yet dead, Christ made me alive with Him. And that God-made-alive power doesn’t quit. God will never take a look at me and say, “Ok! Great! You’ve “graduated”; you don’t need Me anymore! Good luck on all your future endeavours!” He made me to need Him. And of all times, living in this broken world with this rotting body, this is the time I need Him most.

When I get selfish, I need Him. When my anger rises against the demands and pressures of life, I need Him. When that anger turns ferociously inward and threatens to consume me, I need Him.

And when people tell me I’m too hard on myself, that I need to love myself more, I don’t need to vindicate myself and throw the Book at them, asking “where does the Bible say ‘love thyself’?” When I do that, what am I doing except taking my ungodly, unrighteous anger and dressing it up as Biblical? And who was it that Jesus rebuked most sternly? Oh, right. Those people who dressed up their sins — those “whitewashed tombs”.

So let me end this before I go too far down the rabbit holes of my mind.

Time to get back to work.

(Began July 17, 2019 and Finished July 19, 2019)