Scars

Just when I thought the wound was healed, scab was gone, with no visible scar, bam! One small comment, one random reference, and the pain comes flooding back without warning, and I am struggling to hold back the tears and to focus on the present, my breath quickens and gets more shallow, and the all-too familiar panic sets in. The speed and sinister ability to snake its way into my heart and my soul, to hijack my emotions and my thoughts, positively astounds and frightens me. It is as if I have no control over what will trigger fears and emotions, and perhaps I do not have any control over those impulses. Intellectually I KNOW why it happens. I have read and studied the wonderful mysteries of the brain: its parts, its functions, the rapidity of its processes, and the way my experiences shape my memories and affect my responses to things, responses that occur in nanoseconds before I am even aware of what is happening. But that does nothing to prepare me for how suddenly I am a quivering mess. 

Yes, that happened today...it started out as a conversation about being Christian in a fallen world, which evolved into how to evangelize to non-believers, first friends, then family. Sharing concern over the heartbreak of knowing loved ones are not believers, how they may not be able to articulate what they believe, we spoke about how we deal with the insecurity, the not-knowing, and how my only recourse sometimes is to pray, to love, to reflect Christ. Next thing I know, the conversation shifted to talking about our family, bringing up memories of family members who are no longer in our lives. Within a fraction of a second, I am sucked back into the vortex of pain and betrayal and hate and vitriol that have characterized my life over the past four years. And as we drive to lunch, my husband purposely exaggerating the curves to thrill our three granddaughters, it takes every ounce of self-control, and frantic, silent prayers for over 30 minutes, to quell the panic and anxiety that have exploded without any notice, pain so searing and hot even the giggling, gleeful screams emanating from the back seat do not snap me out of it.

Absolutely mind-boggling how fast it all happens, how helpless I am, how quickly I succumb to the fear and the panic, evidence that, though I KNOW to lean on Jesus, to give it all to him, to trust Him, I still forget. And I wonder if the scars will ever completely heal and disappear, and not be a source of unexpected, savage pain, and that I will someday finally be able to breathe and not dread that some minuscule thing--a word, a picture, a smell, a sound--will hit that scar and release the pain all over again

I am so broken and lost. Despite all my brave words, my prayers, and my brave face I wear, the only thing holding me together is God's grace. His wonderful, precious, free grace.

Giving Thanks

For me, Thanksgiving has always been synonymous with family; as far back as I can remember, Thanksgiving has been a day for family to travel from near and from far to gather round the table and eat and talk and make memories. When I was little, it was with grandparents and cousins, aunts and uncles, and the kids were always relegated to a small folding table to the side of the big table where the adults sat. Later, after I had gone off on my own, I would always travel back to my dad's house and celebrate with him and my stepmom and my brother, along with some of the same aunts and uncles (a bit older, of course); we would have the same fare, and watch football, and talk and laugh and relive Thanksgivings past. One year I even flew from Cleveland to Cincinnati in my then-boyfriend's plane, arriving at the house just in time for dinner. As the years went by, and I was married, then had children of my own, our house became the gathering point for those memorable turkey dinners--sisters, nieces and nephews, parents, and sometimes even friends would gather round the table and in the living room afterwards, reliving the experiences of Thanksgiving Days past. Even when my family suffered fractured relationships, and some no longer joined us, we continued to gather--my parents, my in-laws, our kids and their kids--we would celebrate that special day, and plan ahead for the following Thanksgiving Day and discuss the details: who would host it, who would come, who would make the pies. Then, in 2018, we celebrated our final Thanksgiving with my parents--just me, my husband, and my brother gathered around my parents, holding hands, and giving thanks for the years past, the memories we shared, and later partaking in a catered turkey dinner picked up from a local restaurant.  Six months later, both my parents and my in-laws had died, gone on to celebrate a heavenly Thanksgiving. The next year, neither my husband nor I could bring ourselves to celebrate the way we had in the past--the pain was too fresh, and the memories only brought tears. Now I sit here on another Thanksgiving Day, remembering all the Novembers I have had, the memories pouring in and cascading through my mind as tears fall down my face. Today we have simple plans, no extravagant, giant turkey in the oven, or myriad of sides, or even the ubiquitous pumpkin and apple pies.  Acoustic praise and worship songs are playing on the TV, Alex is cooking up a double batch of goetta, and I will be planting 150 spring blooming bulbs, and then we will have a simple dinner at Cracker Barrel with my brother. 

Looking back, there are memories and laughter; I can hear the voices of people long gone, see the smiles of loved ones unable to join us, smell the familiar aromas wafting through the house. 

Looking forward, there are memories to be made, laughter and the tears; Thanksgivings will be different, and we will reminisce about the holidays past, but we will have no regrets. 

Looking up, I praise the author of Thanksgiving and all the days, and I am thankful, for every day is a day of thanksgiving, no matter who we are with or where we are or what food we prepare. 

Pinning my hopes

 

Election day: an event holding huge promise for everyone, not just the candidates, an event on which many pinned hopes. Hope that the election results would bring answers and resolution to all our fears: the pandemic, healthcare, the future of our country, riots, unrest, and economic insecurity. Hope that we could once again be one nation, under God, indivisible. Hope that we could return to a time when civil discussions were the norm. Hope for a political and ethical reset. Hope for affirmation of our ideals. Hope for a return to patriotism and respect and kindness and civility. And I secretly hoped for my side to win to achieve some sort of narrative closure and a reaffirmation of the basic good and decency of the American people.  I had not just pinned my hopes on the wrong thing--I had wrong hope, and had placed my trust in princes.

Like many of you, I expected, no prayed, for this election to NOT be a close call, but instead to unify us towards a common goal. But why would I, like my fellow voters, expect, or even hope, that the election would reflect anything other than the stark, irreconcilable differences touted on Facebook, Twitter, CNN, Fox, church pulpits, street protests, and even dinner table conversations? Because I was placing my confidence in earthly systems, and counting on a flawed process to bring America to its knees, to acknowledge that, as a nation, we have abandoned our Christian values and are blatantly ignoring God's law. Ashamedly, I secretly hoped for a landslide to crush the opposition and show them, once and for all, who is boss. So here we are, 48 hours after the last polling station closed, and not just me, not just the country, but the world waits with bated breath on the outcome of this election, as if the outcome will make all our dreams (or nightmares) come true. I hate this waiting, the not knowing, and worst of all, I am mad that things are not going to go my way; even now, it is taking a Herculean effort to NOT turn on the news or go to my browser to ascertain if Arizona has declared a winner or if the Congress' balance of power has shifted right or left. And this scene is being repeated millions of times across the country, with folks stressing out over whether their ballot had all the right answers, thereby validating their choices, their values, and their beliefs; some are even already protesting when there is nothing to protest. 

On Tuesday night, when it became painfully obvious the election results not only mirrored, but reinforced the division of our country, I noticed my chest was tight, I was irritable, anxious, and wanted above all else to escape from everything related to election results and partisanship. This distressed me emotionally and spiritually, and I struggled to squelch the anxiety and refocus on God and Scripture, so I began to dissect those feelings and thoughts to try to make sense of them. I turned to Scripture and Christian resources, and began to work through it, as uncomfortable and distressing as these feelings can be. I was anxious—election anxiety.

Anxiety, regardless of the genesis of it, is inordinately hard, because anxiety triggers the fight or flight reflex, and the overwhelming desire to master the situation, conquer the anxiety, and above all, be in control. Being a Christian does not preclude the presence of anxiety; sometimes suffering anxiety as a Christian causes even MORE anxiety, because we wrongly interpret God's word on the subject. Casting all our cares on Him, or not being anxious about anything, does not mean we will never be anxious.  We will be anxious, simply because we are humans; in the Psalms, David asked God numerous times to help him with his anxiety and cares (Psalms 13, 23, 30, 91 and 139, to name just a few). Like David, we can cast those fears and anxieties and misgivings on the Lord, and He will help us walk through them. Hopefully, with God's help, I will reflect to others that we trust in God’s sovereignty.

Put not your trust in princes, in a son of man in whom there is not salvation. When his breath departs, he returns to the earth, on that very day his plans perish. (Psalm 146, 3-4)

Family Tree

Have you ever noticed that only the really young and the really old care about the past, the family history,  and what Grandma did for fun when she was little? Our grandkids are constantly peppering us with questions about their parents as little kids and what we did "back then" for fun. The young ask the questions, the old answer them. Now in no way do I consider myself really old (not yet, anyway), but I find myself suddenly engrossed in researching my and my husband's ancestors, and trying to go back as far as I can. I have never really given it much thought before, but suddenly I am in danger of turning into one of those crazy, old, blue-haired aunts that can regurgitate family names, marriages, number of children, and spicy stories five, six, even seven generations back. 

It all started innocently enough--I couldn't sleep, so I decided to organize the basement cedar chest--the one with the scrapbooks, memorabilia, and baby books.  As I was sorting it all into piles--one pile for me, one for Alex, one for each of our children, and a big box for grandchildren's artwork--I came across some things I had not seen in a very long time. One of those items was a handwritten genealogy of my dad's family tree, all the way back to my great-great-grandpa: twelve pages of meticulously documented names, birth and death details, marriages, burial locations, even their professions and nicknames. I sat and stared at it, then began to study it, closely, until finally, I just had to plug all those names and dates and data into an actual family tree so I could see it all spread out in beautiful, magnificent flowchart fashion. Voila, problem solved with the discovery of an extremely user friendly program; I could plug in the data, and it automatically searches existing genealogical data and gives suggestions, sources, dates...in short, everything. After one night I had a family tree that, in some areas, extended all the way back to the 1700s. Mind boggling, seriously mind-boggling the amount, complexity, and detail of the data at our fingertips. A tad bid scary as well. All I did was type in the information of five generations in my dad's family tree, and suddenly, little blue boxes and notifications were popping up next to all the names on my family tree, telling me there were more sources, more data to digest and validate, more details, more, more, more, more.  I was hooked, maniacally digging for more data, more dates, more names, trying to "complete" our family tree, but every time I thought I was finished, yep, more notifications, more little blinking blue boxes, being spit out by computers and the cloud and whatever else generates all this data stored in cyberspace. I would never be finished, some data was just too hard to find (like my husband's ancestors in Spain--I am convinced that Spanish surnames actually are a family tree in and of themselves). 

So I stopped. And then it hit me. One day, 50, 100, or 150 years from now, one of my descendants would ask her grandma what it was like when she was a little girl, and her grandma would talk about life, share memories, and perhaps even show her a family tree with my name in a little white box six generations before the little girl was even born. What would the computer sources have spit out for my name? What little fun details would be listed? What stories could that grandma share about me with my future great-great-great-great-great-great to the nth degree granddaughter? What will I have accomplished, said, demonstrated, or lived that would leave a mark on the world, especially on that little girl's life? Will I be known as someone who loved and followed Jesus? 

All those white boxes and lines on my chart, filled with names and dates and places where they lived--but that is all they are. Boxes, two-dimensional shapes on a screen. The living, breathing people who came before me made a difference, in their lives, their community, my grandparents' and parents' lives, and ultimately mine, because someone in my family tree told me about Jesus, about my heavenly  Father, and because of that, I am now grafted onto the ultimate, eternal family tree. 

Let that be my mission, my passion, my goal in life. Out of the box.

This little light of mine

I’m in Texas visiting my friend this week, my best friend actually, whom I haven’t seen for nearly two years. She has been going through some life changes, life changes that seem to me to be repeats from her past choices. Since January 2019 we’ve been communicating via text and videochats, and while that’s fine for mundane issues or catching up about kids and the job, it is woefully inadequate to discuss life’s deeper issues, and definitely not the channel to discuss divorce, bitter child custody disputes, or the desperate need for God in our lives. I’ve shared my faith before, and hopefully I reflect Christ. All the chats and talks since last year have been fraught with emotion and misperceptions, and everything I said seemed to generate more misunderstanding. So little wonder that I was initially conflicted about traveling and confronting her about the issues that are heavy on her heart; however, I decided, finally, to come and confront the dragon (not my friend—the glaring issues). 

Part of my visit overlapped her weekend custody of her 5-year old, Nora--a precocious little ball of energy and the center of this nearly year-long controversy over who will get to raise her. We had a fun weekend, trying to just have a "normal" fun time at the beach, reading books, watching movies, and the like; it also included me teaching her little ditties and snippets of songs. One that popped in my head the other evening was "this little light of mine, I'm gonna let it shine." 

I had been so worried about what to say, what to do, how to express my love and support and friendship, and it was all in that sweet, simple song from childhood Sunday school. Let my little light shine.

"For this very reason make every effort to supplement your faith with virtue, and virtue with knowledge, and knowledge with self-control, and self-control with steadfastness, and steadfastness with godliness, and godliness with brotherly affection, and brotherly affection with love. For these qualities are yours are are increasing, they keep you from being ineffective or unfruitful in the knowledge of our Lord Jesus Christ...for if you practice these qualities you will never fall." (2 Peter 1:5-8, 10

Taking Inventory

Have you ever had to take inventory to ascertain what you have on hand, and what you need to order? I used to assist my dad in his drugstore, counting greeting cards, bottles of aspirin, shampoo, nail files, even helping him enumerate prescription pills. My dad was amazing at this--he could hold up a bottle of pills and guess how many were in it, and 99% of the time, he hit it on the nose. Oh to be that skilled at identifying my own surpluses and deficits. Self-inventory, or finding out who I am, who I am supposed to be, and how God purposed me. Easier said than done, because everything I thought I knew about myself and who I was has been stripped away over the past five years, leaving me confused and unsure of my identity, my worth, and my faith. When you have been told, from infancy through middle age, you are no good, a problem, wrong, and will never amount to anything, you believe it. All of it. Especially when it comes from the lips of the person put on this earth to nurture and love you unconditionally. Yeah, my mom, but I am not going into all that right now.  And yes, my sisters betrayed me, believed her lies, shunned me, and have totally cut me out of their lives and their children's lives. I have written about those dysfunctional relationships ad nauseam, prayed about it, received counseling for it, and shed enough tears to float an armada; none of that changes anything. It happened. It sucked. 

So now what?

Confidence shattered, first I withdrew into myself, began to believe the lies and the distortion of the truth, that I never was, and never would be, good enough--sister, wife, mother, Christian...fill in the blank. Hard to believe I was ever in charge of anything in the military, or a subject matter expert in manpower and personnel, with accolades and awards and promotions one right after the other; hard to believe, because that person seemed so far removed from my current state it was as if I was two distinct people. That "other me" had a job to do, that person had authority, and the trust of her subordinates, peers, and supervisors. That person exuded confidence, self-assurance, and expertise at all jobs--military and civilian: cashier, respiratory therapist, student, waitress, bartender, military member, contractor--that person thrived on challenges. Regardless of the assignment, she never gave in or gave up; that person was a leader, a go-getter, an over-achiever, and, most importantly, respected and loved. Airmen I worked with decades ago still look up to me and credit me for their success. Kids I taught in Sunday school twenty years ago invite me to their weddings. Young women, my daughters included, listen to me, ask my advice, and tell me how articulate I am, that they envy my confidence; for all intents and purposes, to them, to others, to the outside world, I have it all together and have life all figured out. 

In my personal life, nothing could be farther from the truth, especially since 2015. Within the boundaries and disciplines of a well-defined job, sure, but in the nebulous ambiguity of relationships and socialization, I am a mess--insecure, uncertain, ill-equipped, ever questioning my own motives. In other words, I completely lack any confidence in myself, my thoughts, my words, my past, and my effectiveness, and, worse still, I use the yardstick of my estranged family's opinions of me to measure my success...at anything. I mistake the most innocent comment from one of my adult daughters as an accusation, and then I descend into a vortex of self-incrimination. Not a fun place to be, and definitely not healthy--emotionally, physically, mentally, and spiritually. Spiritually--funny I should go there, because that is where I should have started, where I should always be returning...to God, to Jesus, to the Holy Spirit, because only in God can I discover my true identity.  So I jump off this merry-go-round of self-deprecation and self-condemnation, and proceed to determine who I really am, and to take inventory of my strengths, my weaknesses, and my sins--the facets that make me who I am, and that align with the purpose God has in store for me. 

All of us are endowed with natural abilities, which we should develop and use accordingly, for the good of God's creation (although not everyone does that). God has blessed me with intelligence, a propensity for being task focused, awesome organizational skills, and a natural appetite for learning and understanding; I am also sensitive, empathetic, a good listener, and a natural caregiver. On the flip side, however, some of these very same strengths are double-edged swords and, used wrongly, become stumbling blocks and weaknesses. While intelligent, I tend to become impatient when someone does not understand what is apparent to me, and my sharp wit can quickly degrade into sarcasm, or (cringe) passive aggressiveness. And while being highly sensitive alerts me to infinitesimally small changes and levels of discomfort of those around me, it also has the unfortunate reaction of making me uncomfortable and defensive, causing me to withdraw from, or outright avoid, social situations. Likewise, my natural ability to discern the root cause of an issue sometimes elicits anxiety and exacerbates my deep-seated fear of confrontation.

So what do I do with this inventory? It's not like I can order up some more strengths like my dad would order more aspirin, nor can I simply hide my weaknesses; that does not work--trust me, I've tried. Followers of Christ are blessed with abilities, even those abilities we may view as handicaps, to strengthen the faith of others, not for our own gain. The secular, worldly view? We can be whatever we want, we create our own successes, and we deserve to be lauded and appreciated and admired for our achievements. According to Scripture, though, our gifts and our abilities are not earned or deserved, but a matter of grace to be used to serve others, strengthen them, and fulfill God's purpose in our lives and theirs. “I long to see you, that I may impart to you some spiritual gift to strengthen you, that is, that we may be mutually encouraged by each other’s faith, both yours and mine.” (Romans 1:11,12). 

Yes, even our weaknesses point to our Creator and to Christ; in our weakness He is made strong. Throughout this journey of being broken, of having my insides laid wide open, naked and afraid, I have grown closer to God and marvel at how He uses me to fulfill His purpose. Because of, not in spite of, my trials and my weaknesses, I see that same pain and suffering in others, and can share my testimony and point them towards the Gospel. 

"As each has received a gift, employ it for one another (or serve it up to one another) as good stewards of God’s varied grace: whoever speaks, as one who utters oracles of God; whoever renders service, as one who renders it by the strength which God supplies; in order that in everything God may be glorified through Jesus Christ." (1 Peter 4:10,11)

Inventory complete, except for one glaring omission, my most critical strength: chosen, adopted, loved, and cherished child of God, daughter of the King. He covers all my sins, my weaknesses, and values me and loves me for who I am. 

On Depression and Falling Apart

 

Today has been a rough day. And I cannot tell you why it has been a rough day or how this day is any different from yesterday. I have been crying, off and on, all day, since 9:00 this morning; it is 10:30 at night and I still feel like crying. My eyes are red and sore and dry, my head is killing me, and I basically feel like shit. The image above depicts fairly accurately how I feel right now, like pieces of me are being sucked away, sucked into nothingness. I cannot explain it, or rationalize it, or give anyone any concrete reasons for my sadness. Sadness...ha. What an understatement. Well-meaning people would say it is grief over losing my family, or caregiver burnout from watching my brother, or stress over the pandemic, the upcoming election, and the current sociocultural clashes. It is none of that. I am depressed. Deeply depressed. 

I cry over nothing

I cry over everything

I want to stop crying and that makes me cry even more

I am mad at myself for crying, for being weak

I am a Christian, a daughter of the King, and I still cry

I cry because I should know better than to cry

I should be calling on God

I cry because I call on God and I do not feel His presence

I cry even more

I want it to end, and I cry because I don't know if it will ever end

Depressed. Yes, you can say I am depressed.

I am surrounded by a huge, black void, a void that is sucking my soul out of my body. I say things I don't mean and hurt people I love, I withdraw into myself and have to force myself to get out of bed or go anywhere, and answering the phone is a monumental challenge--putting myself out there is debilitating, and exhausting. Many times, no, most times, I put on a happy face and smile, but the tears are always there, waiting to leak out as soon as someone asks me what is wrong. 

My only solace? Reading Genesis, specifically the narrative of creation. The garden of Eden was everything anyone could ever dream of; it was paradise. Man convened daily with God, without pain or sorrow or fear or death or sickness or work. But now? Yeah, ask anyone, even a non-Christian, and he will tell you we ain't in Eden anymore; we are surrounded with pain, heartbreak, and fear. So why does that give me comfort? Because I know that the craving, the awareness, the longing for a better world, a perfect world, one without fear and disappointment, is in my heart for a reason: to prod me to continue to yearn for that perfection, and to take comfort in that. This less-than-perfect existence of mine, this horrible depression, this pervasive sadness...it is all a reminder that perfection did once exist for mankind, and we will live it again. 

Something I read recently really struck a resonant chord: 

"We must remember that we are in a love story. And we will never appreciate or even desire the hope of our True Love if lesser loves don't disappoint. The piercing angst of disappointment in everything on this side of eternity creates a discontent with this world and pushes us to long for God Himself - and for the place where we will finally walk in the garden with Him again. Where we will finally have peace and security and eyes that no longer leak tears ... and hearts that are no longer broken? All of these places of longing and disappointment in our lives? They aren't proof that God is withholding good things from us. They're His way of leading us Home." (Lysa TerKeursrt, Proverbs 31 ministries)

I cannot say it any better than that. Sure, I am still broken, depressed, and sad to my very core. In a strange way, though, that helps me see more clearly how much better my eternal life will be, and makes me ever so joyful to know I am among the chosen.

Dealing with Social Anxiety

Last weekend my husband decided to have a social gathering for Labor Day; he went all out making slow-cooked pulled pork, his famous baked beans, and cole slaw; he then invited some neighbors and friends. When he initially told me about it the week before, I was on board, and let him take over the planning and inviting. But, when the day of the party arrived, I began to panic, feeling those all too familiar sensations: rapid heart rate, eyes welling up with tears, irritability, and an irresistible urge to run away, to escape, to avoid the event completely. It wasn't that I don't like company--I do--but in small, manageable numbers...like two. He had invited not one couple, not two, but three couples; not only did I not know one of the couples, all three couples also did not know each other, and there were some pretty strong outspoken personalities in the group, so of course I was concerned about everyone getting along and desperately wanted no one to say anything gauche. I was torn between being a helper, a wife, and a hostess, and giving in to my fear and anxiety. Needless to say, the closer the clock ticked to 4:00 pm, the more anxious I got, the more I simply wanted to do anything to avoid the impending social gathering. I could claim I had a  debilitating migraine, or perhaps I could just drive around for a few hours. Crying, irrational, and not sure what to do, I grabbed my gardening hat and tools and went to my one place of solace--my garden--where I weeded and watered and prayed and cried, all the while feeling ashamed for feeling so anxious. 

The couple I had never met arrived first...bearing trays of food and a vase of flowers, and wearing masks. They hailed me as I was bent over some particularly stubborn weeds...and I knew I had to suck it up and become the consummate host. I introduced myself, thanked them for the beautiful flowers, and ushered them into our home. I was stuck. The next three hours were a blur (yes, I realize that is an overused cliche, but they really were a blur). The food was wonderful, my husband worked his butt off (no pun intended), we ate outside, everyone got to know each other the way humans have gotten acquainted over the centuries: over good food. Everyone was talking to each other, folks laughed and listened, and believe it or not, yes I was talking as well; I just do not have a very good recollection of what the heck I talked about.  That is common for me in social situations--I panic ahead of time, and then during it I have some sort of out of body experience, like I am watching myself flounder. Next, the after effect of my social anxiety kicks in: I try to play back the videotape that is in my head, trying to recreate the afternoon, to ascertain if I did anything or said anything stupid or insensitive or hurtful. Did I laugh too hard or too long? Did I talk too much? Too little? Did I pay equal attention to all our guests? What about Alex? Shouldn't I have helped him more? Should I have put a tablecloth on the spare table we put on the back deck? In my effort to get to know the new couple, was I rude to my neighbors or my friends that I did know? Did anyone think it odd that my husband did all the food preparation and planning and all I did was move chairs around? Could anyone tell I was nervous? Or that I had cried less than ten minutes before they arrived? 

Are you exhausted yet? 

This is what I deal with for most social situations--not all, mind you, but most. Big gatherings where I can remain fairly anonymous are safe, as our small, intimate encounters with folks that I know, but going to my husband's work-related soirées was exhausting and beyond stressful. Speaking or teaching in front of groups, even extemporaneously, does not trigger any anxiety, but having to meet a new person at a coffee shop makes me want to run for the hills. Running a fundraiser attended by hundreds of people may exhaust me, but it doesn't scare me, yet cold-calling or visiting potential donors or participants and asking for donations is so frightening I would rather go buy all the raffle prizes myself and send emails and texts. Even more puzzling? I served in the military for 22 years, then as a military contractor for another decade, and for most of that was a subject matter expert, trainer, teacher, supervisor and mentor. Panic attacks and anxiety were always there; I just pushed them back or hid behind my characteristic defense mechanisms of sarcasm, humor, and wit (and, I am ashamed to say, sometimes with passive-aggressive comments). Since I've retired, though, I am far more aware (PAINFULLY aware!) of who I am as a highly sensitive person; I recognize that I do have social anxiety--as folks are apt to say in the vernacular of the day: it is what it is.

So while I may appear to be poised, in control, exuding confidence, and handling all matters of social nuances with ease, nothing could be farther from the truth. My self-assured exterior is a facade, masking my fear that others won't like me or believe me or listen to me. But I'm getting better...with the help of friends, counselors, my very understanding and patient husband, and the Holy Spirit; I know how I see myself, how I view my shortcomings and abilities. And I hold that view up to God's truth, and let His grace wash over me. 

And if you are also like me, do not lose hope. You are not alone.

Measuring Up

Remember those growth charts parents would hang in their children's rooms? The ones with giraffes or other cute animals on them? We would measure our children as they grew, marking the chart or the wall or even a yardstick, with milestones reached each birthday. Some families created measuring walls or posts that now serve as bittersweet mementos of the past, growing up, and simpler times. Grandparents aren't any different--we love to measure and record the growth of all our grandkids. Since we live in a log home, and have exposed beams and posts throughout, we have set aside three posts--one for each of our children's families--to mark the progress from infancy to adulthood.  With kids (and grandkids) scattered around the US and India, not all of them can visit at the same frequency, resulting in some kids having more marks than others. But that's okay--we still love marking their growth, and we marvel at how quickly each one is shooting towards adulthood. I even bought myself a wood burner so I can permanently etch a line for each measured occasion. 

But I digress (as I am prone to do). Human beings love to measure things--weight, height, age, bank account, calories, sporting scores, mileage, you name it, we measure it. We may not always like the results of our measurements, but at least they are concrete numbers, and definable. Even better, we can track progress, set goals, and measure (there is that M word again) achievements and set backs. And that is often how I have gone through life...checking my progress, taking notes, evaluating how I am measuring up. How old am I? What did I score on my promotion exam? How much do I weigh (yikes!)? How much should I budget for my next vacation? Do I have enough in my account to cover a home repair? How many miles until we get to the grandkids'? 

So many questions, so little time...and I am an overachiever, perfectionist, with ridiculously high expectations for myself; regardless of the task or goal, I typically set the bar so high that it is humanly impossible for anyone to meet them, even superhero me.

All these numbers and measurements appeal to my sense of orderliness and things being in the right place, nice and neat and easy to decipher, and easy to ascertain corrective actions, what I am doing right, and what I am doing wrong...in other words, I can measure my room for improvement and correct my course accordingly. Cut my calories, increase my exercise, save more money, spend less money, study harder, drive faster...measure again. Whew! On track now. 

But, how do I measure my sanctification? How do I know if I am measuring up to Christ? Meeting God's expectations? Accomplishing what I should be accomplishing, fulfilling my purpose in life, in line with His will? I see myself as flawed and sinful and inadequate, and I panic. A lot. Worse yet, I continue to see myself as certain people in my life have painted me--you know, the ones who sued me, betrayed me, and shunned me. They were family, so they must know me better than anyone else, right? So I push myself, trying to measure up to my own unachievable, unrealistic expectations, to prove I am NOT that person they see me as, that I am worthy and good and, well, salvageable. And when others tell me I am good and decent and honest and, not only loved, but LOVEABLE, I shake my head and don't believe them. I keep pushing, keep straining to be perfect, to prove myself, to be, after all, like Christ. Measuring every single word, each and every breath, holding myself against the standard of God's own son. 

Until lately. Not only has my husband told me I am too tough on myself, that I hold myself to an impossible standard, and that I am blind to all I have accomplished, but a dear, dear friend laid it all out for me in a letter the other night. She reminded me I am human, that moving mountains is above my pay grade, and that I will NEVER meet the standard I am straining to meet. Nor should I even try, because, as she so poetically and succinctly put it:

"When we come to the unscalable wall, He is reaching down, gripping our forearms, and pulling us up and over. When we are belly-crawling through the mud, He is in front of us and on either side of us and cheering us on. He expects us not to handle all the details of this imperfect world, but to lean on Him as we do our imperfect job. Give up trying to measure up to Christ. You're wasting your time and it's hurting your spirit."

A major ah-ha moment. Life in Christ, growing in grace, as the title of my blog says, is NOT about measuring up to my standards, let along the standards and expectations of anyone else...including those who love me and those who do not. My sole purpose is to put my faith and trust in Jesus Christ, and seek HIM at every turn, and, instead of measuring my growth or progress or successes or failures, to fall on my knees and give thanks for the immeasurable, beautiful, boundless love He has for His children, for the grace that covers every manner of "not measuring up." God measures me against the cross, His Son's shed blood, and the conquered grave. Nothing, and I mean NOTHING, I do or say or think or hope will ever measure up to that, nor does it have to.

And that leads to the final and pivotal issue I face (and fight and fuss and fluster over) on a daily basis: how others see me. I want to be loved and good and perfect and worthy and understood and respected, and most of all, I want to reflect Christ in all I do. But my past haunts me, and I still see myself as those misguided, toxic, and mean-spirited souls portrayed me; the mirror they held in front of my face was not unlike those fun house mirrors at amusement parks, distorting my image to the point of being unrecognizable (and impossible to love). For some time, I remained trapped in that fun house of mirrors, surrounded by derisive laughter. Until I broke free, and shattered the glass. And began to see myself as God sees me, a new creation, covered in the grace of His beloved son. At least half of the time that is how I see myself--admittedly, at times I get sucked back into that funhouse and cannot fathom why friends see good in me. 

Good thing I am blessed with people who love me, who see me as God sees me, and who love me...maybe not as much as my Father loves me, but enough to help me believe them when they say I am loved and beautiful and fearfully and wonderfully made. After all, I am still growing and, as Paul says in Philippians: 

"Therefore, my beloved, as you have always obeyed, so now, not only as in my presence but much more in my absence, work out your own salvation with fear and trembling," (Phil 2:12)

Will I ever measure up? No. "All have sinned and come short of the glory of God" (Rom 3:23). 

Nor do I need to.

When you care to send the very best?

Has the digital age brought about the demise of greeting cards? Is it really that gauche or antiquated or wasteful or silly to spend a few minutes to pick out a card, sign it, and mail it? Or are we back to the "save a tree, save the earth" rhetoric? What if I buy a card made of recycled paper, designed by the blind, with proceeds going to starving children in South America? Is it okay then? Regardless, I love getting cards, picking out cards, making cards. I even participate in helping make cards for the shut-ins in nursing homes and hospices and assisted living facilities here in our little town; when I started and wanted to know what kind of card to make, the organizer told me, "Make it a visit in an envelope." Those folks cherish their cards, read and reread them, and hang them in their rooms. If I was a shut-in, that'd be me.

You see, we grew up sending and receiving greeting cards to mark special occasions and  express thanks, sympathy, congratulations. Our parents never forgot a birthday, anniversary, or Christmas, many times tucking cash or even checks in those cards. We raised our kids to write thank you notes for Christmas and birthday gifts before the wrapping paper even made it to the trash bin. As our kids grew older, we sent birthday cards, notes, and yes, we were now the ones to tuck cash and checks (and later, gift cards and iTunes cards) into the envelopes; gifts were always accompanied by a personalized card, neatly tucked under the ribbon, and at family gatherings everyone would sit and listen to the gift recipient reading each and every card before opening the gift. Prior to big holidays (Christmas, Mother's Day, and Father's Day), I would make a list of folks for whom we had to buy cards; we would spend lots of time in the greeting card aisles finding cards with just the right sentiment for each member of the family at Christmas, buying cards far in advance of everyone's birthdays so we would have them on hand and get them in the mail on time.

Yesterday was my husband's birthday--his 55th, as a matter of fact. Last month we celebrated our anniversary, Father's Day, and my birthday. Guess how many cards we received for all of these occasions, not counting the ones from each other and from our church? Yeah, not many. And yes, we adore the phone calls, the videos, and the live video chats--we would not trade those for the world! But there is just something about checking the mail and seeing a colored, hand addressed envelope with your name on it, and even better are those precious handmade, handwritten cards and notes from children and grandchildren. When we do receive them, they are proudly displayed in a prominent location for days, many times getting moved to the laundry room to hang with the grandkids' artwork. And the VERY special ones? We wrap them up and put them in the keepsake box.

Our parents loved receiving cards; when we called to wish them Merry Christmas or Happy whatever-day, they would thank us for the card, and comment on how pretty or heartfelt the card was, and it warmed my heart. My dad especially loved cards, and he would proudly display each and every one on the TV in the living room, picking them up several times and re-reading them; he would wait expectantly for a card from each of his children, then grandchildren, at those special occasions.  And if one of his children did not send a card, he was crestfallen. After my dad died, I found a huge box on the top shelf of their spare closet; in it was every single greeting card my dad had received from his wife, children, and grandchildren. I cried as I looked through the box and spied cards I had sent over the years, and, realizing how much they meant to him, I was so glad I spent so much time selecting each and every one. After Alex's mom died, he retrieved boxes upon boxes filled with thousands, yes thousands, of cards and letters and postcards, some in English and some in Spanish. After almost two years of poring over each and every one, he has finally succeeded in sorting them out, sending only a fraction of them off to various family members.

All of our parents died in the last three years; maybe it is the newness of not receiving that familiar card with that instantly recognizable scrawl that makes it so disappointing when the mailbox is empty. This past Christmas was especially difficult, as it was the first one without our parents; both Alex and I could not even bring ourselves to celebrate our birthdays and anniversary last year--they just seemed hollow without the well wishes of our parents.  Maybe as time goes on, we won't miss those cards so much. Maybe we will get used to FaceBook posts and video chats as the new means of heralding another special occasion. Admittedly, I have my own box of memories, and although I'm a tad more selective in what I have saved over the years--not saving every card like Dad--there are a still a substantial amount of cards and notes from children, grandchildren, and of course from the love of my life. And I am not alone; Alex has a military duffel full of letters I wrote him during his long deployment during Desert Storm--every single letter I wrote. As we get older though, we are adding fewer and fewer keepsakes to my memory box because we just are not receiving as many tangible, physical things; videos and phone calls and FaceBook posts cannot be placed in a box or slipped into a photo album. Hmmm....perhaps I will start just printing them off so as to not have decades not represented by memories and cards.

I know, the pragmatists out there will shake their fingers at me and tell me to live in the present. "You're making lots of memories," they'd shout, and the majority of those memories are intangible; cards are only paper and ink after all. Nevertheless, the romantic in me retorts there is just something about a box of things--buttons, stacks of cards tied with ribbon, old report cards, scout badges, even baby teeth--things you can touch and feel and read and laugh and cry over. After all, when we go on to that great beyond, and our children and grandchildren find our keepsakes and cards and letters we've gathered over the decades,  how they will react? Will they cry? Laugh? Put everything in their own memory boxes?

Hopefully, just hopefully, each of them will know and see and feel how much they were loved. How much they ARE loved.

Frustrated

Me and David, 1959

Being the guardian of my brother is hands down the most frustrating, exasperating job I have ever had; although I know more now than I knew three years ago when he moved in with us, I feel completely inadequate to handle life as we now know it. I cannot even really explain what our life is like 24/7, because no one would believe it. I thought I had seen it all, that the trials and surprises and difficulties were over, that we (Alex and I) could finally get on with our retirement, and enjoy our lives and each other. If you follow this blog, you know the story; if you don't know, well, here's the Readers' Digest Version: Crazy mother, depression, estranged siblings, false charges, lawsuit, caregiving of and then deaths of all parents, culminating in caregiving of mentally handicapped older brother. In four years. And we figured we could handle the last one. We cannot. It is a Herculean effort that has me on my knees and in my Bible on good days, and in tears and not sleeping the rest of the days. I have felt my psyche and my soul slipping away as I try in vain to tackle this insurmountable task of caring for my brother in our home, while still trying to retain some sense of normalcy as a wife, a mom, a nana, and a sister. Instead, all those other roles are subjugated to the role of caregiver. A caregiver who does not have any hope of conforming her brother to her ideas of how to act in her home, or to understand the rules of proper adult social behavior. I was not trained for this, my husband was not trained for this, and we are at an impasse. Each day is a new horror, a new realization that no matter what we say or do or demonstrate, it is all lost on my brother. It is as if we are speaking a foreign language to someone who cannot hear, or trying to adapt a wild thing from another culture to live in our home and comply with social mores that he will never comprehend.  Like some crazy, mutated version of Jungle Book.

And it is not merely the diminished mental capacity or behavioral issues we must face--he is also scarred (and still scared!) by the abuse he suffered at the hands of his (and my) biological mother. I, at least, can work it out through prayer and counseling and reason, but he is imprisoned in a world of torture and abuse that to him, never ended. So the behaviors, the coping mechanisms he learned as a toddler--lying, hiding things, obsessive compulsiveness, inability to cry, anxiety, cussing and yelling at inanimate objects, insomnia--these behaviors continue, and grow more embedded in his personality year after year, until they are habitual and automatic. And unchangeable. We see it in full display when we ask simple questions and he shifts his eyes and makes up a story, and will stick with that story regardless of reality staring him in the face. We have tried, God we have TRIED, to help him see we are not my mother, we are not going to punish him; we have tried millions of times to teach him the value of truth, and the safety there is in knowing and sharing truth. And, most of all, we have  spent countless, exhausting, emotional hours upon hours impressing upon him how much we love him and care for him and have his best interest at heart. All to no avail. I am so lost, so defeated, so darn, yes, frustrated in my inability to reach him. My failure to prove I love him, to have him see and feel and experience our love. And yes, of course, the selfish human desire (no, need) to be appreciated for what we are doing, that is always there, lurking in the background, demanding attention for our efforts. Mostly, though, I am frustrated in the loneliness I feel, the sheer overwhelming frustration in not being able to explain why I feel this way to outsiders, and I am angry  at my dead parents for not having prepared us better for this task. We are not psychologists or social workers or therapists or mental health professionals; we have no degrees or training or even an online course in special education and special needs challenges. We are merely a married couple with grown kids and a desire to help and to love and to take care of our family. It is not enough. Yes, through Christ I can do all things, but the method I use to accomplish those things may not be the method I thought we would use. 

And you know what makes it so infuriatingly harder? Two things--folks telling us what great people we are for caring for our brother despite his challenges, and folks who only have to interface with David for short periods of time telling us what a joy he is, how blessed we are to take care of him, and how lucky he is to have us as his family. Yeah, both those viewpoints only serve to make us feel even more trapped and more inadequate than before, and when we try to explain, to provide anecdotes and vignettes of what our days are like now, we get one of two looks: the "deer in the headlight" or the "shocked yet benevolent" look. Alex and I could relate a zillion examples and reasons why our situation is so untenable, yet when we tell folks the stories, they either sound inane and silly (even funny), or so outlandish as to not even closely resemble the truth. So how do we communicate the exhaustion, the stress, the utter monotony of living with an adult who ignores common rules and social values, has no personal space, or sense of right or wrong? An adult who cannot really clean himself or take care of brushing his teeth or wipe his butt or remember to wash his hands? A 68-year old man who talks to himself and feeds himself and dresses himself but who becomes catatonic when asked a simple question or has to go through the TSA checkpoint at an airport? A man who merely says what he thinks you want to hear because he just repeats phrases and responses he has learned from his parents for the past 50 plus years? An adult living with us in our home who truly lives in his own world where his rules and his beliefs are paramount, who moves things around or throws things out or sneaks down in the middle of the night to binge on whatever food he can find? An adult who will perseverate on a hangnail or an imaginary injury for days, but who cannot or will not or just plain doesn't understand the need to let us know he has been peeing blood for two weeks and probably has a severe infection? The daily litanies we repeat are obeyed (sort of)--brush your teeth, wash your hands, here are your pills, chew your food, tell us what is hurting--but they will never be learned. Then there are the safety issues--picking up snakes (thank God it was not venomous), eating food from the trash, walking across the street without looking, carrying too many things down steps, picking up broken glass, walking backwards up stone steps. We are always on our toes, trying to prevent the next emergency. Most of all--David is 24/7, no breaks, no quick trips to the store without him, no date nights, no 30 minute walks while I leave him at home. Every minute, every day, 365 days a year. 

Yes, we love him. Yes, we will take care of him always. Yes, we know he is made in the image of God and that God has a purpose for him as well. He is my brother. We promised we would care for him. We know God has a plan for us. We just want to know where it all fits together. So, we asked. We prayed. We waited. And asked and prayed some more. For God to close doors and open others. Friends prayed. Family prayed. 

God answered prayers, as He always does. In His time. And I am trying my hardest to trust His answer, and to not become frustrated.

Black and White

Black and white. "Here it is...in black and white." A phrase that can mean several things... an obvious answer,  or something reliable and credible, or seeing things only in absolute terms. Sadly, what is happening in our country right now (again) is none of those things. On the surface, it appears to be about black versus white, black lives vs white lives, black injustice vs white privilege, black subjugation vs white dominance. In reality, though, events this week are not that easily explained. Or understood. Or solved. For the past 8 days, I have been on the brink of tears, feeling them well up inside me and my heart aching until my eyes are near brimming before I take a deep breath and pray and push them back down. Because if I was to give in to the feeling, let the tears fall, there would be no end to them, and the hopelessness of the situation would drown me. So I pray some more, read articles, watch news videos, and skim posts on social media to get a sense of the battle we face. An age old battle, since the beginning of creation, with eternal consequences. 

Black and white. Sin. Evil. Light. Darkness. In its most basic, age old form: hatred of a group of humans because they are different. Genocides. Gendercides. Ethnic cleansing. Apartheid. Racism. Any time one human presumes superiority over another human, we have evil.  In its most basic form. So much hate, Lord, so much injustice, so much pain. Cities under siege, people hating each other, taking sides, destroying lives and property and futures. Social media sites exploding with videos, live feeds, posts, debates, photos, news updates, and so much self-serving, hate-filled rhetoric and ugliness. The implicit made explicit. I read posts, try to answer, to reason, to express my heart, but I, too, am lost as to how to make sense of it all, and it shows. In my struggle to find the right words, to try to speak calm and love and peace, inevitably I only succeed in irritating someone or being misunderstood and am subjected to retorts and accusations that, I am ashamed to say, I sometimes answer in a less than loving manner. My daughters are distraught and want answers to why this is happening, and for once, I fail as a mom--I have no answers, no reasons, no prescription for fixing this, no trite explanations for why people are doing what they are doing. There is no simple answer. Yes, sin is the root cause of all evil and sadness and suffering in this world. But identifying that sin is the answer and the cause of it all does not make any of it magically go away. 

Black and white. And in some feeble attempt to make sense of it all, to do something, some elements of music industry organized a collective action, Blackout Tuesday, to protest racism and police brutality. The action, organized in response to recent killings of unarmed black men, is taking place today, June 2, 2020--my 65th birthday. Not only are businesses taking part encouraged to abstain from releasing music and other business operations--now social media users are posting blank, black squares in lieu of cover and profile photos. But, like other groupthink efforts, folks seem to just be following blindly in an effort to be viewed as sympathetic and supportive of racial injustice; even I considered, for a nanosecond, joining this non-movement. Because it is only cosmetic, and does not solve anything. It neither promotes love nor heals the hate, the rift we have--it reduces the underlying disease to a slogan, a saying, a hashtag, without offering a cure or even a bandaid. 

Black and white. So what do we do? What do I do? What is my purpose in this? To reflect Christ, yes. To love his image bearers--all of them. To show the way, to see peace, to show the light of the gospel. But when? How? How can we rebuild? How do we heal?  How do we make sense of it all? And when, God? When will we all be reconciled not just to You, but to our fellow man? How long must we tear each other apart? Where is your purpose in all of this suffering and hatred? Separated from each other, and separated from You. 

Black and white. We don't heal by hurting others. We don't rebuild by tearing down. We don't reconcile by hating others. We don't heal by disrespecting others. We don't heal by focusing only on differences, but by realizing that, despite differences, we are all image bearers of our Creator. For this, for this, Jesus died...to reconcile a helpless, hopeless people to God and to each other. For God is neither black nor white, or red or brown or yellow; God is not a color. God is LOVE. Infinitesimal love for every single one of His creations. And while we are not God, we are made in HIS image, and should reflect HIS love, HIS beauty, HIS grace. God is love, and He is light. Light defeats darkness--even in a world full of darkness, all one needs to do is shine one small light to dispel some of the darkness.

Therefore be imitators of God, as beloved children. And walk in love, as Christ loved us and gave himself up for us, a fragrant offering and sacrifice to God. (Ephesians 5:1-2)

There is neither Jew nor Greek, there is neither slave[g] nor free, there is no male and female, for you are all one in Christ Jesus. (Galatians 3:28)

Caught up in the madness

To mask or not to mask...that is the question. Well, one of the questions, anyway, and the way someone answers gets that person pegged as silly or thoughtless, fearful or realistic, overreacting or callous. Where someone stands right now on whether everything should open, or the genesis of the coronavirus, or the role of government during a crisis--these are all litmus tests for how we view each other right now. Conspiracy theories abound more now than ever before, primarily because the world is so connected, and information, especially MISinformation, goes viral (pardon the pun) in milliseconds. And, being human, folks latch onto any explanation whether it makes sense or not because, well, we need to blame someone or something for this, don't we? So we are divided into camps, the Stay At Homes pitted against the Reopen It Alls, with little to no respect, or even empathy, for why the other "side" thinks the way they do. And so we rant and vent on social media, splattering posts with emojis and ALL CAPS to make sure everyone knows where we stand. We judge people we see in public as on our side or not on our side simply based on whether they wear a mask, and we shake our heads or roll our eyes. The line has been drawn.

Three months ago, most media platforms (in the US, at least) were inundated with posts, memes, and shared news blasts concerning presidential politics and likely candidates for this November's election. Then, COVID-19 took over the world, and all media platforms with it. Sure, there is the occasional surge about media blips, but they are quickly drowned out by the uproar over the decisions being made at federal, state, and local levels to not only beat the virus, but to prevent economic collapse (while still preserving their elected positions, of course). Everyone, it seems, is caught up in the madness.  

Including me. 

And I have to stop and think and remind myself I am a Christian, (seriously, sometimes I have a response formed in my head, or even typed out, and I see that smack on the forehead "what was I thinking?" emoji in my mind). C'mon, I am to emulate Christ, not the world. My go to resource for encouragement and validation is the Bible, not FaceBook.  I should commit these two verses to memory, and tape copies of them to my laptop: “Let us not pass judgment on one another any longer, but rather decide never to put a stumbling block or hindrance in the way of a brother”? (Romans 14:13) and “Be careful, however, that your freedom does not become a stumbling block to the weak.”  (1 Corinthians 8:9)

Alas, humility and self-sacrifice does not come naturally to me, or human beings in general. So I get caught up in the madness of being tossed about, torn between selfish desires and love for my neighbor. I want to go to the gym, get back to church, make plans for vacations, hear that my daughter and family can get a flight out of India, get my brother back to his routine, and be able to find the good brand of toilet paper. Anger, fear, confusion, depression, sadness--being a Christian does not eliminate these emotions. But, being a Christian DOES mean we have an explanation for it all. God is sovereign, God is good, and God is using all things for His purposes for those that believe in him. 

Yes, I am in this world, but not of this world--but too often there is a dichotomy  between who I am and who I present. I am supposed to be salt, and light. Sometimes I may not reflect that, sometimes I am less than patient, less than humble, and less than accepting. And for that, I beg forgiveness. 

Lord help me live this every day:  

Do nothing from selfish ambition or conceit, but in humility count others more significant than yourselves. (Phil 2:2-3)

Without rain, gardens cannot grow

Today as I was doing my morning walk around my gardens, and marveling at the green and the growth and the beauty of it all, I was struck by how the recent rain and uncharacteristically cooler weather have caused things to practically shoot up overnight. And I was overwhelmed with the beauty of God's creation, and his unfathomable purpose and methods, and I wished out loud that I would stay here forever and never leave, so I could absorb this beauty and this wonder. I felt His presence around me, as if He was holding me in his arms and carrying me around the yard, pointing out a new shoot here, a budding plant there, a tiny warbler singing above me. It brought me to tears. And to a realization that we require not just sunshine and balmy weather to grow and to appreciate and be thankful for our blessings from God. We also need times of rest and refreshment, like the cooler days and the seemingly incessant rain, to help us grow, and reach up to heaven.

The past four years, not just the past 8 weeks, have humbled me and taught me so much about myself, about life, and about God. Through startlingly brilliant and glorious times of joy, as well as through dark periods of seemingly unending grief and pain, interspersed with grey moments of uncertainty, God has brought me, carrying me, holding me, cradling me, and teaching me to look up to Him, always, to trust Him, and to be refreshed. Like the gardens outside, I need rest and rain to grow, and not just refreshment from sources I seek out, but refreshment from above. Take my gardens--I can fertilize them with compost, water them with sprinklers daily, and pull weeds and thin the seedlings to optimize growth. Sunny days make them grow, and bloom, and thrive; cloudy days and rain, though, provide much needed nourishment and rest.

“For as the rain and the snow come down from heaven,

And do not return there without watering the earth

And making it bear and sprout,

And furnishing seed to the sower and bread to the eater;

So will My word be which goes forth from My mouth;

It will not return to Me empty,

Without accomplishing what I desire,

And without succeeding in the matter for which I sent it.

(Isaiah 55:10-11)