Phooey on Graduations

     Graduation. For most, the word conjures up feelings of excitement and a sense of accomplishment, the end of one chapter and eager anticipation of the next. Am I in the minority when I admit that I hate the word? Even in high school, I dreaded the day of convocation. I loved school. I never wanted that season to end. I’m one of those creatures of habit who fight change, the ticking of the clock, the page of the calendar being ripped off and thrown away. The thought of my little ones leaving the nest makes me crumble.

     In case you haven’t guessed, I’m still wiping the tears away since my second, Jess, graduated yesterday. She’s such a disobedient young woman. I told her repeatedly, “You are not allowed to grow up!” Alas, she did in spite of my command, and even took joy in the journey to breaking her mother’s heart. 

See how she mocks me with her cake? 

     As I reflect this morning on all the “graduations” in life, I’m making a resolution to try and embrace them. After all, it’s worthless to fight the inevitable. You can’t argue with the old saying “The only certainty in life is change.”

    I’ve found King Solomon’s words to be true. Imagine that. There really is a time to be born and a time to die, a time to plant and a time to uproot, a time to kill and a time to heal, a time to tear down and a time to build, a time to weep and a time to laugh, a time to mourn and a time to dance . . . Get the picture?    

     The good news is if you’re going through a valley right now, a time of grief, tragedy and heartbreak, it will end. The cold, lonely night won’t last forever. Eventually you will feel the sun's warmth, and your joy will return.

     Brace yourself for some bad news: If your life is filled with so much happiness that it's just one big party, that won’t last either. As sure as the sun rises, it also sets. The pain, sadness and confusion are coming. No one can predict the intensity or duration, but something is going to happen. So goes life.

     Anyone else feeling melancholy? Before we sink into a desolate pit of despair, let’s rethink this. I’m a look-at-the-worst-case- scenario type gal. My dad used to say, “Plan for the worst. Then you’ll be prepared if it happens and relieved if it doesn’t.”

     Worst case scenario? Death. I’ve been to several funerals where the bulletin read, “Graduation Celebration for ___________.” What an awesome outlook. Passing from this temporal world and graduating to a perfect, eternal life with our forever-loving Creator. The ultimate commencement.

     One problem: I hate graduations. Remember? (At this point, I have to pause, eat breakfast and figure out how I’m going to finish this post.)

      Thirty minutes later, I return. Sigh . . . There has been no Eureka! moment. Groan . . . The light bulb above my head is still turned off. Whine . . . What to do? What to do? 

     I collapse on the sofa. I hear a quiet voice welling up from within. "Trust Me. Know that I will walk with you through every graduation. I will carry you as I lovingly cradle you against my chest. Don't lose sight of your final graduation when I say, 'Well done, my good and faithful servant.'"

     The best news? There are no graduations in heaven. 

Chronicles of the Agape House: Crabbit Old Woman

         Just like teachers, healthcare workers are told that it’s dangerous to have favorites, but I think it’s inevitable. Surprisingly, my pets seem to be the spunky, “non-compliant” ones. I knew as soon as I met Betty that she fit the bill . . . a defiant and rude priss-pot.

       It was of utmost importance for Betty to maintain her regal appearance at all times.  Her bushy wig was always in place. The staff couldn’t figure out how she kept it in place even when she slept. Her bright red lipstick and painted eyebrows were artistically applied as soon as she woke in the morning, and her ear-rings, matching pennant and necklace were all in place before breakfast.  

     To the naive observer, she appeared relatively well, but she had an aggressive cancer that she labored to keep hidden.  She had a strong opinion about everything and although she was demanding, she was never cruel. That is until she graduated to the dreaded stage of grief-- anger.

     Loudly barking orders from her chair, she didn't mind throwing a hairbrush or cup in your direction to make a point. Nothing we did even came close to pleasing her. In fact, the more we tried to caudle and reassure, the more hostile she became. 

     The staff quickly grew tired of dodging, and then, sweeping up broken glass, so I gave each a copy of the following poem.

Crabbit Old Woman

What do you see nurses, what do you see,                                                     

What are you thinking when you look at me?

A crabbit old woman, not very wise,

Uncertain of habit, with far-away eyes,

Who dribbles her food and makes not reply

When you say in a loud voice, ‘I do wish you'd try',

Who seems not to notice the things that you do,

And forever is losing a stocking or shoe,

Who, unresisting or not, let's you do as you will,

With bathing and feeding, the long day to fill.

Is that what you're thinking, is that what you see?

Then open your eyes, you're not looking at me.

I'll tell you who I am as I sit here so still,

As I move at your bidding, as I eat at your will.

I'm a small child of ten with a father and mother,

Brothers and sisters who love one another.

A young girl at sixteen with wings on her feet,                             

Dreaming that soon now a lover she'll meet.

A bride soon at twenty - my heart gives a leap

Remembering the vows that I promised to keep.

At twenty-five now I have young of my own,                        

Who need me to build a secure happy home.

A woman of thirty my young grow fast,

Bound to each other with ties that should last.

At forty my young now soon will be gone,

But my man stays beside me to see I don't mourn.

At fifty once more babies play round my knee,

Again we know children, my loved one and me.

Dark days are upon me, my husband is dead.

I look at the future, I shudder with dread,

For my young are all busy rearing young of their own,

And I think of the years and the love I have known.

I'm an old woman now and nature is cruel,

'Tis her jest to make old age look like a fool.

The body it crumbles, grace and vigour depart

And now there's a stone where I once had a heart.

But inside this old carcass a young girl still dwells,

And now and again my battered heart swells,

I remember the joys, I remember the pain,

And I'm loving and living life over again.

I think of the years all too few - gone so fast,

And accept the stark fact that nothing can last.

So open your eyes, Nurses, open and see,

Not a crabbit old woman, look closer - see me.  

     I had read the poem in a geriatric magazine years before. It was written that the poem was found among the possessions of an elderly Irish lady who had died in a nursing home. She was unable to speak but was often seen writing. The poem so impressed her nurse that she sent it to the local newspaper. It has since become famous among health care workers.

     As we continued to treat Betty with respect, we gradually, ever so slowly, witnessed a softer Betty emerge. When she became bed-bound, we hung bird feeders and brightly colored hanging baskets in full bloom by her window. Her last command was to make sure we watered the flowers and kept the bird feeders full.

     Thanks for the life lesson, Betty. Sometimes we have to look deep to find the essence of a person. It may be hidden under layers of hurt or buried in years of stubbornness. But it’s there. All we have to do is be persistent and open our eyes and see.

Chronicles of the Agape House: The Longest Night

    Shortly after opening the Agape House, my nursing assistant called out sick so I had to work the night shift. I’m embarrassed to admit that I was inexcusably short-tempered and rude to our first patient, Jim.  

     Jim was 6’3”, 280 lbs and bed-bound, no small task to change his depends, pajamas and sheets while he remained in the bed. In fact, it was similar to a Houdini trick. This dreaded night was even more difficult as he had diarrhea and the trick had to be mastered many times.

     Blame it on fatigue, about 4:30 in the morning, as I heard the bell, again, I staggered to Jim’s bedside. I tried to keep my voice steady, “No, really it’s okay. It’s not your fault. Roll over to your side please. Your bottom’s really getting red. Let me get you some cream. . . Okay, now for some fresh sheets. . . ” 

     It was a long process, a repetitive routine. Jim must have noticed my annoyance because he began apologizing. I tried to assure him that I didn’t mind. But the truth was, I did mind. And worse, it showed. I thought I would vomit if I had to change one more diaper. Jim sensed this in my touch and in my tone. 

     After tucking him in, as I walked back to the office, hot tears  surfaced. I had never experienced such fatigue. Every muscle ached. My body seemed to scream, “Enough !”  

     My prayer for strength quickly turned to whining, which deteriorated into bellyaching and collapsed into an absolute pity party. Fortunately, I was the only one invited. I have a graduate degree. I’m a professional! Why am I cleaning dirty butts? I’ve been awake for over 24 hours and nobody cares!  Woe is me. . . woe is me. . .  I’m the only one on earth who cares. . . 

   In the middle of my pathetic droning, I remembered a poem I had read years earlier. I was so touched by the poem that I created a pattern and cross-stitched it with the hope of one day hanging it in my office.

I Wonder

You know, Lord, how I serve you

With great emotional fervor

In the limelight.

You know how eagerly I speak for You

At a woman’s club.

You know how I effervesce when I promote

A fellowship group.

You know my genuine enthusiasm

At a Bible study.

But how would I react, I wonder

If you pointed to a basin of water

And asked me to wash the calloused feet

Of a bent and wrinkled woman

Day after Day

Month after month

In a room where nobody saw

And nobody knew.

          Ruth Harms Cakins  

     Sitting at my desk after my disgraceful breakdown, I recalled the poem in detail. A poem about an anonymous servant . . . how ironic that I cross-stitched it with the intention of spotlighting it on the wall of my office. Self-defeating and hypocritical. God must grow weary of my stupidity. As I prayed for forgiveness and sincerely asked God to give me a compassionate attitude, Jim’s bell rang . . .  again.

     This time my voice was lighter and my touch softer as I changed and repositioned him. I made a joke about his derriere favoring a bright red candied apple. He retorted, “Well then kiss my aa. . . ple.”   We both laughed and as I tucked the quilt around him, he touched my hand and whispered, “Thank you.” 

     I kissed his forehead. “No problem, if I am ever as old as dirt like you, I hope someone will be there to clean my aa. . . ple.”  

     He smiled.

     As I checked on other patients, a quiet inner-voice reminded me that it’s not about me. Jim had been a successful engineer. He built bridges and traveled the world. Now, he was helpless, completely dependent. As hard as this was for me, it was clearly far more difficult for him. How challenging it must be for a patient to be courteous when he is slowly losing his pride and dignity. It’s obviously more difficult than being a caregiver.

    I would like to say that through that long night with Jim, I learned my lesson once and for all. But sadly, I’m a slow learner, and so I’m constantly being mashed and put back on the Potter’s wheel. At least I’m a little more pliable for the Master’s hands now.

     Just so you know, Jim remained kind and warm until his passing. He modeled how a strong, respected man should face his last days . . . with grace and dignity, and even a little humor. I still can’t see a candied apple without smiling and remembering sweet Jim.

Praying for Me?

     I didn’t choose hospice, it chose me. Okay, not really, God chose it for me. As a person who cries during sentimental commercials, I knew I could never work around dying people. But, two months into my job as a home health social worker, my manager asked me to see a few hospice patients. Death, pain, grief . . . . What crazy person would choose that?  No, don't think so.

    My manager was persistent because she was short a hospice social worker. Trying to flatter me, she went on about all the reasons I would be great at hospice. All I heard was “yadda, yadda, yadda.”

     Saying no was not an option and I found myself sitting at the table of Joshua, an elderly gentleman. I was crying more than he as he recounted the details of his wife’s seven year battle with Alzheimer’s. Francis lay in a hospital bed, immobile, unable to communicate. Her nails were polished, hair curled and she smelled of floral perfume. Lipstick was smeared on her drawn lips.

     As Joshua glanced at her from the table, he asked, “Isn’t my bride beautiful? I try to keep up her morning ritual.” He chuckled, “Can’t do it as well as her, of course.” His face softened as he continued to stare at her. “Sixty-eight years, it has all gone so fast . . .”

      I listened as Joshua reminisced about the joys and sorrows of a lifetime spent together. He spoke of God’s comfort and grace. He whispered, “Susan, there really is a peace that transcends understanding.” My trembling lip showed my skepticism. He patted my hand in a paternal way as if to reassure me, “God has indeed been faithful.”   

     He rose and went to the stove to stir the soup. Even with his stooped posture, he still towered over me. His movement was slow and deliberate. Curled arthritic hands gripped the pot as he spooned out a small portion for Francis. He asked me to join them for supper, and though I wanted to escape the intense sadness welling in my throat, I couldn’t say no.

     Joshua asked me to help myself, and I did as I watched him place a bib around his bride. He prayed a simple blessing and then patiently coaxed in a small bite. “Come on Francis, open a little for me, please sweetheart, just a few bites . . .”    

     I wondered how many times this routine had been repeated. She made no effort to turn her head or open her mouth. He sat the spoon down. “Well maybe we’ll try later. You just rest.”  He ran the back of his hand down her cheek and kissed her forehead.

     I wiped my tears as he returned to the table. “I pray my sweet Francis will be in heaven soon. Oh, but I will miss her smile . . .” Joshua continued recounting their love story as I tried to eat my soup. The lump in my throat made it impossible to swallow. And as the nausea grew, I tried to discreetly push the soup aside.

     “Are you okay dear?  I’ve rambled on for hours. You must be bored to tears.”

     “No, you’ve just had such a beautiful life together and now . . .” my voice cracked. I tried to exhale but the air escaped as a tearful whimper. 

     Joshua laid his hand over mine. “God never promised it would be easy. He did promise that he would carry us. He does you know, even through this valley of death, I can feel him.” He looked up at the ceiling as if he could see straight through to heaven. “Don’t ever forget, my dear, God carries us through the trial.”  

     I bit my bottom lip and didn’t answer. Joshua patted my hand and we sat in silence for what seemed like hours. Much later, as I stood to leave, he gave me a warm, tight hug. He pulled back, keeping both hands on my shoulders. He looked in my eyes and said emphatically, "Susan, I will be praying for you." His withered lips curved into a half smile, “Often, I might add.”

     Ironic, I thought. I was in my mid-twenties, the prime of my life, going home to a well husband and two healthy children. Why would he feel the need to pray for me?

     He patted my back as he escorted me to the door. “You’re going to make it my dear. You just wait and see.” 

     Then I realized his insight. He saw the fear, the dissipating faith, and as a man who had witnessed incredible tragedy through two wars and suffering the death a child, he knew I was at a crossroad. He had the wisdom to know I needed the prayer more than he.

     I’ve thought of Joshua often over the past twenty years. I don’t think it’s any accident that my first hospice family was one of a profound faith. I know he kept his promise to pray, and while I don’t know what he said to his Father, I know his prayers were answered.

     Has there been a time when you knew God placed the right person in your life to lift you to the Father?  Better yet, have you been that person?  I would love to hear your story. You can share it here or feel free to e-mail me.

     My prayer today is that each reader will be covered in God’s grace and wrapped in His love with the realization that He does, indeed, carry us through the trial.

Wide Open Door

     “When God closes a door, he opens a window.”  I hate that saying. So I searched the web, seeking the origin of such a half-baked remark. Did it really come from the Sound of Music?  

     Yes, I know the intent is to encourage us to see the silver lining. But, really? A door is tall.  It’s easy to walk through. You remain upright as you saunter on through. But a window, it’s small. You probably have to climb, crawl and wiggle to get through it. Doesn’t sound like a logical trade to me.

      Seriously, closing a door and opening a window isn't representative of a loving God. In my opinion the saying should be “When God closes the wrong door He opens the right door” or better yet, “When God closes a window, He opens a door.”  Yes, I definitely like that better.

     A big part of my job as a hospice social worker is reminiscent therapy and facilitating a therapeutic life review (Gotta love the way everything has to sound so clinical). Basically, it’s encouraging my patient to tell his life story from the earliest childhood memory to the present. The goal is to give value to a patient’s life. No one wants to die thinking that it was all pointless and that he didn’t make a difference. So I affirm, validate, and praise. This is the best part of my job, especially when it’s a war veteran. I love thanking him for his sacrifice.

     Usually I can reframe any bad experience or crisis in a positive way, because simply surviving a tragedy takes courage and resilience. Patients often confirm the old saying, “What doesn’t kill you makes you stronger.” It’s been my experience that most can look back at their lives and acknowledge that there was meaning and purpose in spite of life’s heartbreaks.

     But what happens when this isn’t the case? Mark was my most challenging patient,  challenging in that I couldn’t find any “good” in his life. Yes, I know that sounds harsh, but it’s true. He was in and out of detention centers from an early age. He grew into a drug addict, wife beater, and well, a not so pleasant man. His children described him as mean and bitter. How do you reframe that in a positive way?

     When I first met him, I have to admit, I was intimidated. Big, burley, unkempt and foul- mouthed, I think intimidation was his goal. But over the weeks, as I slowly built his trust, he began telling his story. His journey was one of many closed doors. He didn’t like windows much either. He smirked one day as he told of throwing a chair through a window in a moment of rage.

     Staring into his cold eyes, I realized his life had been a series of closed doors. Crashing a window seemed almost poetic, in a morose kind of way. I gathered my courage and asked if he ever felt trapped. He looked down and mumbled, “Still trapped.” Such an incredibly sad tragedy.

     I was able to share that no one is ever truly trapped. Yes, we can feel imprisoned, like we’re incapable of change. Mistakes and regrets may hold us captive, but by accepting our Creator's unconditional love, we can be freed.

     I would love to say that Mark accepted this agape love, but I’m not sure. He didn’t respond that day and died shortly after. What I do know is that there was an open door and he had the choice to walk through it.

     That’s the awesome thing about God. He opens the door to all, regardless of our past. The ugliness, the hurt, the pain, He washes it all away. You get a fresh, clean start through a wide open door.  Oh, and by the way, on the other side of the door is sustaining Grace and a Joy that’s indescribable. 

Sweet Serenity

     I want to live in Serenity. I hear it’s a peaceful place with rolling hills, quiet streams and plush pastures. There’s one problem; I don’t have a clue how to get there. In spite of this, I begin my journey . . .

     I hike up a mountain, and as I reach the top, pride blossoms. I pause to bask in my accomplishment. Closing my eyes, I lift my chin and savor the warmth of the sun on my cheeks. A cloud dances by and covers my sun. I open my eyes. No, as sweet as it is, this is not Serenity. I continue my journey.

     I cross a river . . .  still searching. Anxiety grows. Rain pelts down as the thunder claps. There is loss. There is sadness. I trudge forward, but Serenity is out of my grasp.

     Then . . .  an intersection. Indecision. Nausea churns in my stomach as I fret over which way to go. I crave to dwell in Serenity, but how do I get there? What if I make the wrong decision? How much will a mistake cost?  Fear engulfs me and the storm still rages. I doubt if Serenity really exists.

      I press forward, but soon I descend into a valley. I look up but the apricot sun sinks into the horizon. As the darkness gradually consumes me, my heart grows cold. I remain still. No desire to move. Apathy paralyzes me. I collapse.

      Then, a tender whisper, “I love you.”  He caresses my cheek. “Quit searching. I am here. Rest. I will take you to Serenity.”  He picks me up and cradles me to his chest. I feel his warmth. Peace consumes me. Joy begins to bubble from within. At last . . .  Serenity is mine.

     The Lord is my shepherd, I lack nothing. He makes me lie down in green pastures, 

he leads me beside quiet waters, he refreshes my soul. Psalm 23:1-3

The Small Stuff

As this year fades into history, I’ve been thinking about my New Year resolution. Unlike past years when I’ve concentrated on three or four, I only have one for 2012. It’s simple and probably sounds cliché. I’m going to live each day as if it were my last. Before you roll your eyes at the piety of my goal, it’s not what you may think.

When I was with an elderly gentleman during his final days, he cautioned me that life goes fast until you’re 30. Then it flies until you’re 50 and in a blink you’re 90. Like so many of my patients, he didn’t have regrets about not “achieving success”.  He said the one thing he would do differently is that he would simply appreciate the small things more and not take everyday joys for granted.

Last week, I was with a young mother who only has a few weeks left. Through tears she said she wishes she had more time to hug her children. She didn’t want time to sail around the world or make a name for herself. She shared that the thing she is going to miss most is her sons’ smiles.

So for me, it’s no longer about a lofty spiritual goal or making an unforgettable memory. Instead of coming up with a list of changes I’m going to make or the great things I want to do for God, I’m simply going to bask in God’s love and grace as I appreciate the little things.

I want to savor the daily routine, what seems mundane. I want to relish the laughter of my children, cherish time with friends and treasure the closeness of my mom, sisters and brother, because life is fragile. Life is short.

In 2012, I‘m going to value the small things as if it's my last day because it’s all the seemingly insignificant stuff that makes this life so amazing.

Katie with her cousin, Ali

Master Untangler

I had to complete a task that I'd been dreading for weeks. It was a tedious job that would require keen eyes, steady hands and tons of concentration. I finally decided that I could procrastinate no longer, so I tackled the mammoth challenge.

Okay, maybe mammoth is a bit of an exaggeration. I mean, the ball of necklaces could fit in one hand. Allow me to explain. We moved a couple of months ago and my daughter, whom I love dearly (just for the record), packed her jewelry in a container with no thought of the consequences. She had varying lengths of silver chains, each with their own charm-keys, crosses, penguins (don't ask), as well as a few chords with pendants. I had no way to tell how many there were. All I knew is that it was a blob of . . . of . . . sheer frustration!!

I know, moms, I could have made her untangle the mess herself . . . but . . . Okay, I have no answer. The bottom line is I decided it was my job to free the bound jewelry.

At first, I decided to shake the mass and  pull a couple of the dangling chains, hoping they would all magically fall apart. No such luck. I then pulled tighter on one that looked like it was rebelling against the pack. This only angered the ball and the others clung tighter. As I sat, trying to decide whether or not to throw it in the trash, I came up with a plan.

Magnifying glass and needle in hand, I formulated my strategy. Each chain was slightly different. I would choose one, slowly trace it's path, untangling it along the way until I freed each one individually. I knew it could take hours, but there was no other way. 

As I went about the meticulous chore, there were times I wanted to change my focus and choose another chain but I stayed the course. When the first necklace was freed, I gained confidence. Five minutes later, a second was rescued and so it went. I discovered that the job got exponentially easier with each release.

Sigh . . . With pride, I lined the twelve necklaces on the table to present them to my daughter.

I opened my Bible for morning time with my Father and  glanced over at my proud accomplishment. I remembered my desperate prayer the day before. I felt like there was a tight ball in my stomach, a mass of stress, tension, regret, fear . . . I smiled as a quiet, still voice reminded me that the Master Untangler is at work.

His vision is perfect, His hands ever-steady as He loosens what needs to be released, tugs at the perfect time and creates something beautiful from a mess. He won't give up until all is free . . . so neither will I.

My Daddy's Loving Legacy

The year was 1970 and I was three. As the sun crept into the horizon and the house became quiet, I skipped to my most favorite spot, baby doll in tow.  I climbed into my dad's comfy recliner. He scooched  over and wrapped his arm around me. I giggled, cooing to my doll as he watched a John Wayne movie. It was a night-time ritual for years. The old recliner formed to our bodies. It was a perfect fit . . . a safe sanctuary. I never wanted to grow up.  

As a child, there's no better feeling than snuggling with your daddy, your protector and provider. It saddens me that many don't have happy childhood memories. It's heartbreaking to know that some have difficulty accepting the love and grace of their heavenly Father because they've never experienced it from their earthly one.  I am eternally grateful that my dad modeled God's compassionate love in such a  profound way that I had no difficulty understanding  God's agape love.

Today my dad would have turned 73 so  I thought I would share his legacy. Well, a tiny bit of his legacy, to tell his whole story would easily fill a book. My daddy grew up in poverty, had little education, yet built a successful business through hard work and dedication. He constantly found ways to show his wife and children how much he adored us. 

When I was a child and got a boo-boo, he never said, "don't cry" or "chin up". Instead, he held me and whispered, "I wish I had a magic wand and could take this pain out of you and put it into me." As I looked into his eyes, I knew it was true. I always felt his deep, sacrificial love. 

When I was a sophomore in college and told him I decided to major in psychology, he bought me a huge trophy that  read, "Susan Dulin: Best Psychology Student in the World."  Whenever I doubted myself, I looked at the trophy on my desk. Knowing he believed in me gave me confidence. That was the type of daddy he was . . . always affirming, my biggest cheerleader.

I don't want to romanticize his memory, he wasn't a perfect man. But he had a passion for life. I think he was the happiest when he was racing cars with my brother or riding horses with my sister. His eyes sparkled when he surprised my mom with breakfast in bed or bought her a new car. On Valentine's day, he didn't just send my mom roses, he gave flowers to me and my sisters as well. He looked for ways to pamper us, to show us his love.

Today, as I remember him, I choose not to dwell on the years when Alzheimer's slowly stole his memories, changing his personality, hiding his smile. I choose to remember who he truly was. A beautiful man, strong and vibrant, dimpled smile, caring eyes and compassionate heart. He loved spoiling his children and would do anything to see us laugh. What an awesome example of my heavenly Father.


If you didn't receive this type of love from your dad, know that God, your heavenly Father, loves you beyond measure. He wants to shelter you, protect you and give you wonderful gifts. He loves to hear you laugh. He wants you to know and experience him. To top it off, He's preparing an awesome home just for you. It's as easy as accepting His son, His ultimate gift to you.

Too Much To Bear?

     For as long as I can remember, I've heard, "God won't give you more than you can bear." I think this may be the greatest misconception, the most misquoted scripture in the Bible. It's taken from 1 Corinthians 10:13, but it says ". . . he will not let you be tempted beyond what you can bear."  It says nothing about daily struggles and crises. Facing sin and overcoming temptation is different than coping with life's heartbreaks.

     There have been many times that God has given me more than I can bear. And working with hospice, I am continually aware of patients and families who have more than they can bear. They face a raging storm that they can't withstand alone.

What about the lady who is caring for her mother with end-stage Alzheimer's and finds out her husband has a glioblastoma, an aggressive, malignant brain tumor? Or the man whose son is dying of leukemia just months after his wife was killed in a car wreck? Do you think they feel they have been given more than they can bear? Single moms, bankrupted businessmen, broken marriages . . . more than they can bear? I think so.

     Thankfully, I've got some good news. God never intended us to bear our stress, our problems, our heartbreaks. David understood this as he wrote, "Praise be to the Lord, to God our Savior, who daily bears our burdens." Psalm 68:10. Jesus, himself, implores us to give him our worries. "Take my yoke upon you and learn from me, for I am gentle and humble in heart, and you will find rest for your souls. For my yoke is easy and my burden is light." Matthew 11:29-30.  

     My prayer isn't for strength to make it through the trial but

strength to give it to God and trust him to handle things for me. Isn't that what a loving father does? 

 Whatever you are facing today, I encourage you to trust God. Don't waste your energy trying to muster enough strength to face your crisis alone. Give it to your Father. Let him carry your burden . . . let him carry you.

    

 Before long, you will discover that He has carried you through the storm. He will give you rest. He will give you peace. He will give you joy. Soon you will find that you are free . . . free of your burden, free from the pain. Free to dance and enjoy His presence.

He Made It!

Just a quick follow-up to "Through His Eyes". My friend has been released from his broken body and is now perfect and whole with a strong voice and smooth skin.  He fought the good fight (and what a battle it was), kept his faith (that inspired us all) and finished his race (in first place, I might add). I'm celebrating with his family. . . Oh, happy day!

How Green is Your Grass?

“The grass is always greener on the other side.”  The well-known English proverb is true, literally. I won’t try to explain it, primarily because I don’t fully understand how the optical illusion works; but, turns out, our brains perceive grass at a distance as being more vibrant than the grass under our feet.  

That’s fascinating, but what’s more interesting is how true it is in other areas of our lives. Why is it that we often value what’s just out of reach more than what we already have?  I’m certainly not against having dreams, goals . . . a vision. That’s not the point I’m pondering.

I’m wondering about the discontented person who is always searching for the next best thing. What causes a person to have the wander lust, to even walk away from God, from faith?  Why do the long arms of restlessness wrap around some, wooing them with empty promises?

Maybe it’s not just that the grass over the next hill seems greener, maybe it’s because the grass in their own yard is dried up, crunchy, and dead. I don’t know about you, but I want to ensure I do everything in my power to keep my hubby and children so blissfully content in their own backyard that they are never tempted to stray.

So, what kills our beautiful lawn? Weeds? Lack of rain? Smoldering sun? All of the above?                                           

Weeds may be those irritating naggings. "Did you clean your room?" "You’re late!" "When are you coming home?" Of course, these aren't said in a concerned or even neutral voice. It’s that grading, whiney or demanding voice that drives our teens away. Then there’s the drought . . .  the pouting, silent treatment that drives good husbands to drink. Finally, the blazing sun, not sweet, warming sunbeams, but the unrelenting heat bearing down that melts self-confidence.  

What if we commit, as wives and mothers, to nourish our lawns? Heap on that manure!  Scratch that, let’s call it fertilizer. We don’t want to be accused of being full of poo. Seriously, let’s commit  to  compliment, hug, affirm and gush until our kids roll their eyes and our hubbies beg us to stop. If we put our energy into keeping our own grass green and plush, maybe the grass on the other side won’t look so great after all.

As a final thought, I’m going to concentrate on the One who leads me and my family by the still waters and teaches us not only to stay in our own yard, but to lie down and rest in green pastures. How could any of us ever want to leave?

My But's Too Big

I’ve been thinking about my buts lately. Notice I said “but” not “butt”. I’ll save the latter for another day.   When I was a teen, my best friend and I begged her dad to let us go on a little road trip. She had a convincing argument and every time he interjected with a reason that it was not a good idea, she retorted, “but Daddy . . .” Finally, in exasperation, he yelled, “Enough! The only butt in this conversation is for whipping.” I couldn’t help but laugh. My friend didn’t think it was too funny, seems he had used the line countless times throughout her childhood. But I digress, back to my buts. Here’s what my big buts look like. “I would love to start my second novel, BUT life is too busy right now.” “I want to serve in my church, BUT Sunday is my one day off.” “I wish I could exercise more and eat less, BUT it’s just so hard." (For the full effect you have to imagine me saying this in an irritating, whiney voice.) I’m sure there’s more, but that’s enough to focus on for today. I’m committing to take my big but to God and see what He wants me do. I’ve got a feeling that with him in the picture, my but is not as big as I think. In fact, as I write, I just decided to give myself  7 days to get rid of my big but. Have any buts you need to get rid of? By the way, there are some buts I’m thankful for, especially this one, the greatest but in the universe.  “For God so loved the world that he gave his one and only Son, that whoever believes in him shall not perish BUT have eternal life.” John 3:16

Got Legacy?

Last weekend, I took my daughter and her best friend to Charleston. One of our favorite things is visiting old cemeteries. I know it may seem morbid, but the ones in Charleston are awesome. As we stood, reading epitaphs from the 1700’s, one caught my eye. It had the standard name, date of birth and death and then simply read “Beloved Aunt of Edward.” I laughed, wondering if Edward was the author of the eloquent epitaph. I mean, really? Is that all she was known for? But then again, if she wasn’t married, had no children of her own and poured her life into Edward, maybe she would have wanted this to be her legacy.  Who am I to judge? Perhaps it was a wonderful and fulfilling life. Over the years, I’ve attended numerous conferences about grief counseling. It never fails. We always have to write our own epitaph and obituary . . .  my favorite group activity . . . NOT!! The first time I had to do this, I was in my mid -twenties and was horrified. The epitaph . . . not so bad, but to be expected to write the full obituary including place and year of death, cause of death, who was present and then the eulogy. That’s morbid, even for me! I can’t remember what I wrote then. I wish I would have saved it, but I know each time I was forced to participate in such a morose activity, I got a little more comfortable with it. And, of course, that’s the point. To be a good grief counselor one has to be comfortable with one’s own mortality. Now that I’m older and bolder (maybe a little more defiant), I refuse to write about the details of my death. I know that’s in God’s hands, and it’s pointless to imagine all the possible scenarios. What I do like to focus on is the legacy, my "dash".    Years ago, I read a beautiful poem, The Dash by Linda Ellis.The gist of the poem is that the year of birth and death doesn’t matter. It’s what we do with the dash between that counts. Some days, I imagine my epitaph might read, “A bit of a slug, horrible cook, mediocre friend, pretty good mom . . . “ Thankfully, I’m reminded that my identity, my legacy, shouldn’t be about me at all. Ever heard Big Daddy’s Weave’s song "Audience of One"? Love the line, “And as the love song of my life is played, I have one desire, to bring glory to your name.” Isn’t it freeing to know nothing else matters? I think I want my epitaph to simply read, “Daughter of God, Covered in Grace, Finally at home with Him.”