Staring at the Wall

It's 4:15 AM. I wake up from a dream about how President Trump is keeping me from moving into my house on time by hoarding all the candy-canes for himself. Or a dream about how I want to see my husband, but something always gets in the way. Or a dream about how I've planned a trip but can't find my passport and always miss my train.

But it's 4:15. I'm still tired. This time, I tell myself, I'll be able to fall back asleep.

It's 4:37. I'm not asleep. I check my phone, checking to see if we've had a direct deposit from all that overtime Clark's been working. The direct deposit isn't there. I check social media to see if anything is new. Nothing is new. I put my phone back and close my eyes. 

It's 5:16. Nadine is up earlier than she should be, and because all the kids share a room, she wakes up Jonas before he is ready. Jonas asks me to make breakfast. I say I'll make pancakes. He says he doesn't want pancakes in that grating, whiny voice. He forgets to say please. 

It's 5:44. The pancakes are ready. Jonas complains because they are plain, without chocolate chips or blueberries. I say it's too early for me to make breakfast anyway and he should just be happy he has food. Nadine takes her pancakes and sticks them into her milk cup instead of eating them. 

It's 6:26. Tennyson wakes up. I tell the kids to get their chores done. Jonas pretends he does not hear. Tennyson starts unloading the dishwasher, but somehow ends up downstairs building a new boat out of legos. I tell Jonas to get dressed. I tell Tennyson to finish the dishes.

It's 7:31. The dishes are not done. Jonas is still not wearing pants. Nadine has not eaten her pancake/milk creation. She dumped it on the carpet under the table. Clark gets home from work and goes downstairs to take off his uniform. I remind Tennyson he has work to do.

The dishes remain undone until I do them.

Nadine always finds another crayon or marker and another wall to decorate.

I spend a half hour washing it off.

Mommy, I'm hungry.

Jonas and Tennyson fight over legos. Jonas bites Tennyson on the stomach. Tennyson cries and hits Jonas on the head. 

I retreat. I play the piano and ignore it. I find something to watch on my laptop. I fold laundry in the basement with the door closed. 

There is always cereal on the floor being ground into the carpet.

Mommy, I'm hungry. Where's the remote?

The toilet is somehow always not flushed. 

The shoes are not on the shelf where they should be.

We're out of milk again. 

Is it dinner time yet? What are we having? But I hate soup. No, I won't eat it. I don't like it. 

Today, I drove to the gym without any music on. Or audiobook. Or radio. I drove in silence for twenty minutes.

When I got there, I sat in my car for five minutes and I stared at nothing. 

I went in, I said hello, I did my warm up, and I started the workout. Twenty-four minutes later, I finished the workout. I did the stretches.

And somebody asked me, "Julie, what are you baking for Christmas this year?"

"Nothing." I answered.

"Why not?" They asked.

I mumbled something about not having anybody to really bake for or any events coming up. 

Why not? Because I'll have to clean the dishes after. Because I don't feel any joy in making cookies or cakes like I used to. Because I really don't have anywhere to take it. Because the phrase "bake someone happy" doesn't seem to mean what it used to. Because I don't see people and talk to them and hear their feedback. I don't know that they have a birthday coming up. I don't have kids to bake for in Sunday School. I didn't know they just had surgery or that their kid was sick last week. I don't know if they hate mint or if chocolate chip is their favorite flavor. Somehow, baking blind feels like an invasion of their privacy. 

And suddenly, the enormity of the futility just welled up inside me. What's the point of doing anything at all? I feel like I'm not the same person anymore. I'm irritated when people say that joy isn't canceled, because it seems like my joy has been. I feel like every day is an exercise in staring at the abyss, staring at the wall, seeing the Crayola shadows that the washcloth somehow missed, and feeling like the cup can't be filled because mine is full of holes.

I reached for my shoes
and put my sweater on, prepared to leave. And then: "Julie, you look sad."

We talked. I tried to explain the sheer weight of all the little things that seem to be leeching happiness away from me, but I still hold it in -- mostly. And then I got into my car. I stared out at the dark sky, and I sobbed. I cried with a grief I feel like I am not entitled to. And then, I drove home. 

What is to be done?

Waking up, I suppose, and somehow doing it all again tomorrow. 

The Theory of Relativity

Now, this will come as a surprise to no one, but I used to be a very sensitive and emotional child.

I had some reasons. I still do have have reasons -- everyone does.

But I really did struggle to come to grips with the enormity of my feelings, which were often melancholy and detached from the general happy-go-lucky demeanor you might expect from a kid. 

As a result, I struggled to make friends. I was either too intense with people, or I was too reserved. I never was able to strike that social balance that seemed so important. I would languish in the deep puddles of my own reflections, which made me great at understanding poetry and writing papers, but not so great at inviting other kids to my birthday party. 

My parents might have been concerned with my generally morose and weepy self. I remember for Christmas one year when I was in Junior High, I received a book called Happiness: Finders, Keepers, by Mary Ellen Edmunds. 

The book is lovely, and the author gives a lot of examples of how you can be happy on a day-to-day basis, even when you might be facing extreme adversity. 

One of the things she wrote was her own personal Theory of Relativity.

There was a man who lived in a small village in Indonesia. He walked daily to the local spring to fetch water in a metal bucket. His hut had a dirt floor. His annual income probably never exceeded 500 dollars a year. 

Yet, when this man heard that people in California were being asked to restrict their water usage due to drought, he was concerned. Each household was asked not to exceed 120 gallons per day. 

The Indonesian man would have to make 120 round trips (more than mile) to use that much water. He would have to boil that water when he reached his hut. And even if he miraculously could accomplish both tasks in 24 hours, he would have no safe place to store that much water for his use. 

But, when he prayed in church that Sunday, he said, "Father in Heaven, we know our fellow men in California are suffering because they do not have enough water. We have plenty, so would you please take some of our water and give it them?"

This is the theory of relativity in action. How many things are there to complain about? You could probably come up with a hefty list. But how many more things in life are wonderful, beautiful, perfectly satisfactory, and even enough. Enough for our happiness, enough for ourselves, and even enough to share, despite how much we might seem to lack. 

There are a lot of things in the world right now that can get us down.

The election might not have gone your way. Can you rise above it? Can you make enough for yourself, and be content? Can you be grateful to be in a place where you have a voice, where people can facilitate change, where you can express your discontent without being beaten or shot? 

Gratitude makes you look up. 

The coronavirus has everything in upheaval. People are dying, people are depressed, people are alone. There's a lot of things to be angry or sad or anxious about. Can you see that you're still surrounded by good things? Can I be grateful even though coronavirus is terrible? 

Summer is ending, and winter is hard for people. It's hard for me. It gets dark early -- I have lights at the flick of a switch. It's cold -- I have sweaters, I have heat, I have a car that drives me warmly from place to place. It's long -- I have every possible form of time-passing activities at my fingertips -- my piano, my sewing machine, an oven that works, books to read or listen to, old and new movies, and trips to see nearby friends. Can I be grateful for winter?

I might be fatter than I want to be. My legs work. I can think, speak, hear, see, smell. Can you see your body as enough? Can I rise above it? Can I be grateful for my body?

Apply the theory of relativity to your own life. 

And remember this story: 

Two little children were put to bed early on a winter's night, for the fire had gone out, and the cold was pouring in at the many cracks of the frail shanty. The mother strove to eke out the scantiness of the bedding by placing clean boards over the children for warmth. A pair of bright eyes shone out from under a board, and just before it was hushed in slumber, a sweet voice said, "Mother, how nice this is! How I pity the poor people who don't have any boards to cover their children with on this cold night."

Can you be as grateful for your own life, your own self, your own things, as this little girl is with her boards? 

The reality is that a dirt floor can be more precious than marble, a bucket of water more valuable than a swimming pool, and a single loaf of bread more filling than a feast, when seen through the eyes of a grateful soul. 

This is an Emergency

Do you ever get a little flutter of panic whenever you're doing something challenging?

It might be just me, but alarm bells start to sound off in my brain and I start to think I need to find a way out (there's more flight than fight in me, I think. Unless you're taking my bread away. Or making me lose sleep. Or telling my I'm being irrational when I'm deprived of both bread and bed... I digress). 

It happened when I was in labor with Nadine. I was so panicked about how badly I knew things would hurt, that I was in complete denial about how I would actually do it. I focused on how quickly I could get pain medication and was so focused on getting that relief that I could not think of anything else. There was nowhere to run from the pain though, and so the panic just kind of built up inside me.

This is an extreme example. Labor is a herculean task for any person, and I do not berate myself at all for feeling like I was in a constant state of emergency. I kept on wanting help, wanting people to make it end, wanting to get out, to go home, to escape. With training, I probably could have learned to control the panic better, but then -- with so much stress and pain on your body, you never really know how well that training will sink in when push comes to literal shove. 

I had a flashback to those panicky, emergency feelings today when I was at Sisu. I was rowing. We were doing more endurance rowing, so each person, when they rowed, had to row for at least five minutes. Five minutes on a rower is taxing. It's not the end of the world, but your body starts to hurt and your lungs start to wonder why you're even there and not at home meditating. 

There were three minutes to go, and I was rowing for the third time. I felt the handle slip from my grasp, and for the first time that day, my split time jumped up as I regained control and tried to get my rhythm back. I felt panicked. How could I maintain my pace for three more minutes? 

Then I literally told myself, "This is not an emergency. You don't need to slow down yet. You don't need a rest yet. Just be steady, keep the same pace."

A rower is not a hungry bear chasing you in the forest. It's not a dog trapped in a hot car. It's not a bank robbery. It's not life or death. You can keep going; same pace, same time. 

Keeping the same pace is what kept me going. With every catch, I'd tell myself I get a break when I bring the handle to my chest. I'd exhale on each release, and breathe in again. Discomfort is not an emergency. Just breathe, and push back again. Keep the handle straight, make every stroke look the same.

It's interesting how time on the rower can become such a microcosm of existence. You don't know what anybody else is doing. You don't even really hear the music playing. Your world narrows until it is just you, on a seat, with the handle in your hands and the gentle pressure of the straps over your feet. Your existence becomes motion. Heels up. Heels down, push out, lean out, elbows back, wait, elbows straight, lean forward, bend knees, heels up. 

Something so simple can be a metaphor for life. Nothing worthwhile ever comes without that little feeling of panic inside, that feeling that maybe you should stop or quit or slow down or take it easy. But, the things that bring the most joy (like the feeling of that moment when you hit your rhythm just right) are the things capable of bringing the most pain -- and the most panic.

That panic can be calmed by the reassurance that this is not an emergency, we know the technique and we've developed endurance, and we can continue rowing the boat, even when it hurts. Mistakes can be corrected, and you can (and will) find the rhythm again. 

Parenting, religion, education, change, trials -- these things ask a lot of personal investment. They ask for perfection from imperfect people. They ask for endurance from people who are still training for the short race. Sometimes that panic sets in, and you think, this is too uncomfortable for me. At that moment, you're faced with a choice between something good and something better. Tell yourself that choosing better is what you're built for. 

Tell yourself that you can keep a steady pace, that you can keep going. In that steadiness, you find yourself changing. You change into a better parent, a better person, a better friend. 

Burning Bridges

Bridges are moderate things. They take two sides and connect them. They allow people to cross over to a different side. They go over chasms and rivers and highways. The trouble being a bridge, though, is that people are increasingly fond of burning bridges, and usually, they blame the other side, or they even blame the bridge.

This bridge is too rickety. It's better to just stay on one side, and not risk traveling. Bridges make me feel uncomfortable. I'm afraid of heights. There's no need for this bridge. 

This bridge was built by my enemy. If I use it, they'll see that I'm weak. I'm fine over here. There's no need for this bridge.

This bridge is not being maintained by both sides. I'm tired of maintaining my side, so I'm just going to stop until the other side starts pulling their weight.

This bridge doesn't get enough news coverage. That huge canyon over there, though, is always in the media. It must be better -- or worse. Either way, let's burn this bridge so we can get the same attention.

I'm here to tell you to make it easier, and not harder, for people to be bridges.

You think you are doing good by reposting radically liberal memes calling for defunding the police and accusing all officers of being bad apples, but you're not. You're burning a bridge.

You think you are doing good by posting an inflammatory article about how all women who get abortions are baby-murderers, but you're not. You're burning a bridge.

There's a parable in the bible -- a well-known parable -- about a Jew and a Samaritan. The Jew is walking to Jericho, and he is robbed and beaten. Two other Jews see the beaten man on the side of the road and do not help him. Instead, they stay as far away as possible. But a Samaritan sees the beaten Jew, stops, and helps. He cleans his wounds, and carries the Jew to an inn. He pays for the Jew's care, food, and lodging, promising to pay more if needed. 

What's incredible about this story is not that a good person stops to help a person in need. It's the fact that a Samaritan stopped to help a Jew. Jews treated Samaritans terribly. They were not allowed to worship at the temple. Even touching a Samaritan defiled you. Samaritans were lower-class beings, and they were not considered by Jews to be God's covenant people. 

You think you are standing up for what is right when you talk about how all Jesus said was to love your neighbor, but you're forgetting about what the Good Samaritan actually did -- he paid the price for the care of another without thought of self. When you celebrate the death of a long-serving female justice, you are not following his example. Similarly, when you call for the deaths of officers shot on duty and try to deny them access to hospitals and you say you're doing it because you love everyone, you're burning bridges. 

The Samaritan is you. The person beaten at the side of the road was the person who was prejudiced against you. It was the person who held up a system that despised you. It was the person who fought against your humanity. It was the person who would wash their hands thoroughly after touching you. It's the person who thought you were dirty, stupid, lower-class, and unworthy of notice. Ask yourself honestly if you are really the Samaritan in this story. Because if you're burning bridges, you're not. At best, you're the priest who avoided helping. At worst you're the thief who nearly beat a man to death. 

When you think all rich people are lazy and greedy and don't deserve to keep their money, you're burning a bridge.

When you think all people on welfare are jobless addicts who don't deserve your help, you're burning a bridge.

You might say you don't care. Some bridges need to be burned. But as you are burning them down, and the people on either side of the chasm are accusing the other as the cause of the flames, are you trying to build better ones?

Better yet, are you allowing someone else, maybe someone who doesn't agree with you, to build a bridge? Do you give them a voice? Do you allow them the compassion you are begging for? 

People who try to bridge the gap are tired. They wonder if there's any purpose in being moderate. They sigh inside every time they see political ads. They start to avoid media sources where they see extremes shared and represented. The chasm gets wider, and if it continues to get wider, the gap will need bigger bridges. Bigger bridges are harder to come by, so please stop burning them. 

Once the beaten Jew recovered from his wounds and learned that a Samaritan, a lowly, unclean, unworthy Samaritan, had been his salvation on the road to Jericho, do you think his opinion might have changed? Perhaps he would have seen the value in that which he had previously despised and misjudged. Perhaps he softened, became more compassionate, and more willing to be an example of how his people ought to treat Samaritans. 

The Good Samaritan narrowed the gap. He could have made it wider; he could have burned a bridge. He could have said a bigot and a racist deserved to die, and it wasn't his job to help. But he followed a higher law, a better crede:

"Ye have heard that it hath been said, Thou shalt love thy neighbour, and hate thine enemy. But I say unto you, Love your enemies, bless them that curse you, do good to them that hate you, and pray for them which despitefully use you, and persecute you"

Both sides are hating their enemies when they could be building bridges. 

Focus

 I've worked hard this summer to facilitate a change in my focus. It takes mental work, but I'm hoping it will pay off.

I try to rephrase things in my life that get me down or make me feel like I'm not good enough. I don't want to give myself excuses, either. But you can be committed to progress without ever feeling like you're a bad person. We, as people, don't have to be motivated by our perceptions of what we suck at, and for some people, that's an astonishing revelation.

You don't have to be motivated to workout because you hate your body or because you think you're disgusting.

You don't have to be motivated to be a better parent because you think you're doing the worst job ever.

The trouble with negativity-based change is that negative thinking is a habit, and it doesn't help you when the going gets tough. When you're so accustomed to thinking badly of yourself, you're not surprised when you fail. You give up easily, and hate yourself for doing it. You assume you'll suck before you even get started. You're always convinced you'll never actually measure up. 

Negative self-talk sows the seeds of failure before you even start trying change for the better.

There's a better way.

Here are some actual things I think and say to myself (with the old thoughts in italics) to help shift entirely away from negativity-fueled change.

"Wow, I don't feel like a great parent today (I always lose my temper and I should play with my kids more. Being a mom is so hard on me, and I feel like a waste of time), so I'm going to do something in the next hour to change that."

"I feel self-conscious wearing this swimsuit. (People will think I'm gross and fat because I am. Maybe I should stay on the blanket so I don't have to stand up in front of people) Well, people aren't going to be looking at me anyway, so I might as well forget about feeling uncomfortable around them."

"I ate chocolate cake for breakfast. (I might as well give up or I can never stick to anything. I should have done better. I'll always be this way) I'm going to find some veggies for a healthier lunch."

"This workout is too hard for me. I feel like quitting. (I feel like quitting. I might stop early. I shouldn't have come. Why did I think I'd ever be good at this?) But feeling like quitting is not a good enough reason to quit."

"Doing this gives me anxiety. I want to hide. (Why am I always so broken? Why can't I be stronger?) But I'm more important than my anxiety, so I'm going to finish this."

Am I perfect at this game? Not even close. But I know I have come a really long way in shifting my focus. 

Don't "should" yourself to death. Don't shame yourself. Don't define yourself with defeating absolutes. Instead, take charge of what you'll do when faced with a situation you don't like. What will you do about it? 

If you ever engage in negative self-talk, I encourage you to try these course corrections. This is how you give yourself grace without giving up on achieving great things. 

Loneliness

As a child, I always struggled to make friends.

Reading people and knowing what they expected was always hard for me. I was frequently anxious, but also incredibly lonely. This combination would lead to an intensity that might scare away any potential friends. I also had a fear of people who would expect too much from me, afraid that they might need things I wasn't emotionally ready to give. I needed a friend who could handle my neediness, while not really needing me too much. Someone who wouldn't get tired of me, but who would allow me to tire of them when I needed time to myself.

It turns out, such a person did not exist in elementary school. Or in junior high. Or really in high school. I had acquaintances. I had people I could joke with and eat lunch with, but I always saw myself as other, a hanger-on, an acceptable member of the crew. I'd still be left without a partner when people in my circle of acquaintances would pair off with better or best friends. I'd still be invited to parties, but as an afterthought or "Oh yeah, you should come too." 

These experiences made me intensely self-conscious in social situations. I would say nothing instead of speaking. I would hang back because I was not sure if I was welcome. I would secretly crave a call or a text or a message from someone, anyone, who might think of me after the last bell rang at the end of the day. Someone who might have a story to tell me or a joke to share or even a friend to give them advice. Someone who might invite me over to play. 

Those calls did not come and I would always have to message first.

When college came around, I carried lack of confidence like a shield before my face. I was secure only in my intelligence. I could answer questions in class and talk with my professors during office hours, but I could not speak to the person sitting in the seat next to me. I was surprised when people would laugh at something I said. I was amazed that a boy could notice me enough to ask me on a date and be interested in what I had to say. I was devastated when that same boy, in my opinion, got tired of me and found someone more interesting to date, but there was a voice in my mind that said I should have expected it all the time. 

Gradually, I gained a little more self-esteem. But the feeling that I might be forgettable stayed, and honestly, has developed into my greatest fear.

Some of my most prized memories are instances in my life when I've been remembered without me having to ask to be remembered.

That day at the end of freshman year where a neighbor who had noticed I was low on money brought me groceries, including Wheaties, as fuel for my exams. That time a person from my gym brought me a Mother's Day card. The person who brought me flowers when they remembered my husband was gone for the National Guard. The coworker who took me to see the Nutcracker ballet just because he knew I'd always wished to go. These moments are treasures to me. 

A way to respond to fear is to overact. To force connections. Hopefully, that's not me, because besides being forgotten, a close second fear is that people might have to pretend. And I don't want that.

But the other way is to treat people like I hope to be treated in my life. Because I know how it feels to be without a friend, without a partner, without a real group, without a person you can depend on. I know how it is to be overlooked. I know what it is to be accepted, but never truly embraced. 

To bring cookies for the person who likes them. To remember a birthday. To find the perfect gift because you were listening to something someone said. To clean up for someone who's feeling overwhelmed. To make dinner for a sick friend. To text a person for help just because they might need to feel remembered and valued. To always try to encourage, to smile. 

Weakness can become a strength. Loneliness and the fear that comes with it may color every experience I have, but hopefully, the final painting is a happy one, because that loneliness might be what drives me to help others see that they are not alone. 

Raining

You can smile when you go out
And no one really sees how much you doubt
Their intentions.
You can take a hug or even give one
But no one really feels how you know
You might not matter.

Because even when the sun is shining
There's nothing quite like finding
Clouds when the forecast is clear.
The clouds are there
And they can't see them
So you worry and you wait and you fear
That you can never trust yourself to know
Whether or not it's actually raining.

When you're at the train station
No one sees you check your pockets again,
Tenth times the charm.
You can try to tell yourself not to look
But without reading ahead in the book,
There's no guarantee.

Because even when the world is turning
There's nothing quite like learning
That your world is just standing still.
The hours aren't passing
And they don't notice
So you hope and you work and you feel
That you can never trust yourself to know
What it's like for minutes to just tick by.

Even when the winter turns to spring,
Snow's still falling on your driveway.
Even when the road is straight,
Your path is always curving.
Even when you know it's in your mind
You can't quite help swerving
To miss the car or the deer or whatever is wrong.
You were sure it was there all along.

You can write all of your words
And risk that no one will ever learn
How you mean them.
You can speak the truth out loud
And hope that someone will see a cloud
And decide it matters.

Because, here, it's actually raining.

Inside the Mind

Have you ever wondered what it is like to think like a person who has an eating disorder?

I am here to give you the insight you never knew you needed.

Now, I am what I like to call a recovering bulimic. I don't binge or purge habitually, but relapses happen occasionally because eating disorders are kind of like addictions; they don't really leave your mind all the way. You just train yourself to be stronger than the voice in your head that tells you that food is your enemy, that you need to have more control, that you'll never be good enough.

So, on a bad day, usually, there are external circumstances that start making it easier to amplify those thoughts. These are triggers.

Triggers can be different for different people, and they even vary for me. Sometimes, I can go through months of a stressful environment and never slip up. But other times, all it takes is one straw to break the back of the bulimic camel.

Recently, external circumstances included:

• less sleep than usual
• making large life decisions with plenty of unknowns still to be determined
• routinely falling behind and not getting caught up on housework
• increased isolation due to COVID-19
• increased hatred and judgment toward my family because of Clark's chosen profession

When I am not as strong as usual, these types of circumstances lead to:

• Feelings of loneliness
• Believing I don't matter to other people
• Thinking I am easily forgotten
• Increased irritation and anger toward others
• Self-flagellation because I can't get myself together
• Believing I need to work harder in order to be remembered and to matter
• Feeling discouraged because I might not be able to give more than I'm giving
• Resignation that I can never change and things won't improve
• Cynism over why I ever expected things to be better in the first place.

When this cycle of thoughts begins, I start thinking that my current goals are useless, that I was stupid to believe I could do anything, and that trying will only result in disappointment. At this point, I free myself from my sane self-restraint, and because nothing matters anyway, I might as well eat a cookie.

Now on better relapses, a cookie is just a cookie or two. On worse ones, a cookie is a cookie, and toast, and cereal, maybe some ice-cream, fruit snacks, a granola bar, and other things that kind of disappear into the black void of mental space.

After a while, the reality of what just occurred sinks in, and then the cycle is complete. What can be done, the disordered brain asks? Nothing, says rationality. Just move on, do better tomorrow, take care of yourself. No, disordered brain replies. This is bad. It will just make all those things that happened worse. People won't love you if you have no self-control. You were afraid you won't matter, and now you really won't matter. You should be ashamed of yourself. You really are as bad as you thought you were. Hmm, says rationality, this is an eating disorder talking. So what? disordered brain answers, this is a problem that needs to be fixed immediately.

At this point, rationality leaves the room.
And disordered brain fixes the problem.

All the voices kind of go quiet here.
Except one. My own voice. And all I can hear is a sort of exhausted whisper that even though all of that happened, I'm still getting better. We all have challenges to overcome, and this is one ongoing fight where I win most of the time. It's in the times when I lose where I can see the parts of myself where I am weak, the parts that still need work and reinforcement.

"The battle's in your mind, If you lose that, lose everything there is. The battle's in your head. If you lose that, then there's nothing left." - The Ballad of Jimjamal, The Tenglesons.

The Simpleness of the Way

Why, as humans, do we always want for something more complex, and avoid the simple way?

I do it just as much as other people.

We don't want to do something as simple as eating more vegetables and avoiding bacon and cake in order to achieve better health. We want a different answer, a new answer, a more complicated answer. The desire for a new, better, different way is why there are 500 diet books on the shelf at any given book store, all telling you beautifully complex ways to eat.

We don't want to try exercise as a solution to joint pain. That won't work for me, you think. I need something different. Maybe a pill or some stretching or essential oils or meditating or all four at once.

There's a story in the Old Testament of Naaman, a respected military leader, who becomes infected with leprosy.

Naaman goes to Elisha the prophet to be healed, and Elisha tells him to wash in the Jordan River seven times.

Instead of hastening to wash, Naaman gets mad. The Jordan river is a dirty river. There must be better rivers. Surely he could be healed without washing. Why couldn't he have a better miracle or a different one?

Naaman's servants, fortunately, are not so foolish and they say, "Dude, if Elisha had told you to do something crazy tough, like walking on hot coals or climbing the tallest mountain or slaying dragons, you totally would do it. But because it's washing in a dirty old river, it's not cool enough for you."

Naaman sees the light, washes in the river, and he is healed, just as Elisha told him he would be.

A simple way, but not really an easy one. 

Sometimes the simple ways are not the way you want your results to come. You want to have a better river to wash in. You want something flashy that you can brag about later. But instead, the most significant changes come in small and simple things, and they aren't things you can brag about. Choosing broccoli and beans instead of a grilled cheese sandwich. Running a mile every day. Doing a kettlebell swing. Wearing a mask at the grocery store. Praying when you don't really feel like praying.

There often isn't a greater answer out there or some big secret to uncover. Instead, it's just as basic as you always feared it would be. Because if it's simple, you can do it, and how scary is that? What sort of change might you have to make? What things will you have to give up? Your comfort, your pride, your previous convictions, your bad habits?

The simpleness of the way is often the stumbling block. We want something complicated so that when we fail, we have an excuse. It was just too complex/I couldn't keep up.

Sometimes the hard thing is just being real, recognizing that a simple path is not necessarily an easy one, and often the hardest part of the simple path is getting out of our own way. When the cart is not moving, it doesn't mean we need a new wheel; we just need to realize the old wheels will work perfectly fine if we're willing to push the cart.

Don't Be a Loser

How do you improve value?

If you're trying to make a house worth more, you might tear out that old carpet and put in hardwood floors. You might replace the roof. You might fence the yard, add some killer landscaping, or finish the basement. You might overhaul the kitchen and repaint the rooms.

You might, in your quest for renovation perfection, scour Pinterest and Instagram for inspiration, pinning posts of great before-and-after exteriors, awesome living room decor, and cool backsplashes.

A house is a thing that's basically defined by the sum of its parts. It can be appraised, it can become run down. If left on its own, it loses value until maybe nobody wants it. It might be better off demolished or given over to the fire department for a controlled burn.

Some houses are winners and some are losers.

You are not a house. You do not have value based on the sum of your parts. You cannot be appraised. If left alone, you will not lose value until nobody wants you anymore. You are not in need of renovation. You do not need to scour social media for ideas of how to make yourself over to improve your value.

If you have ever thought that you're not as valuable as another person, I am here to tell you to stop being a loser. As you compare yourself to other people and see your deficiencies as you place your life side by side with someone else, you choose to lose. You might wish to win, but someone is always better than you, so how can you possibly stop being a loser?

Now, some might feel motivated by wishing for the success and appearance of someone else. Isn't that a good thing? If your motivation comes from "not being a loser" because you won't have value until you change, then I'm here to tell you that there's a better way. Because, if your goal is to be a winner, someone else must lose. You inevitably wish to place someone lower on the rungs of life so that you can feel like a success.

Here are some signs that you maybe might hope for someone to be a loser so that you can be a winner:

• You think things like, "I might not be as fast as her, but at least I'm not as slow as him," or, "I'm lapping everyone on the couch."
• You prefer to be on the elite team, so that weaker members won't hold you back.
• You think like a victim, believing that mistakes are not your fault, but instead the fault of the people around you.
• When meeting new people, you immediately size them up based on your own ability, appearance, or perceived worth. 

If you want to stop comparing, there is a way. 

Stop seeing yourself as a compilation of attributes that bring value. 

People are not more valuable if they are pretty.

They are not more valuable if they are accomplished.

They are not more valuable if they are faster.

They are not more valuable if they are kind.

They are not more valuable if they are educated.

They are not more valuable if they own nice things.

Unlike a house, you don't need new windows and fresh paint to increase your worth. 

When you set goals for yourself, ask yourself, and learn the "why" behind the goal. If your goal, really, is to make yourself into a person who is more valuable, you've set the easiest goal in the world, because your value is already infinite. You were born with it. You can't possibly improve it. 

If your goal is to move past the limitations you have set for yourself, perfect. If your goal is to improve your health, excellent. If your goal is to give your best day in and day out, wonderful. If your goal is to draw closer to God or to treat others with increased kindness, you're on the right track. If your goal will help you see that you've been worthwhile all along, great.

Yesterday, I had a bit of an aha moment. I was doing all the burpees, and during the second round, my tank top was drenched with sweat and was getting hot and uncomfortable. I thought, "Gee, this would be easier if I could just take my shirt off." But then I thought, no, I'm not ____ enough to do that. Thin, toned, confident... just fill in the blank. And then I remembered, I am not a house. I don't have to be uncomfortable because I haven't met the renovation benchmark I set for myself. So I took off my wet tank top, and I finished the burpees much more comfortably. 

This is Nadine. She was not yet accomplished, fit, educated, well-spoken, or talented.
She has worth. 

Once you see yourself as a person who has infinite worth, you respect yourself enough to set goals for your own benefit. You don't hate who you are, you don't wish for the qualities of others. Instead, you accept that on your path in life, there's just one person, and that person is you. You can't win or lose that race -- but you can keep moving forward, moving up. Don't be a loser. 

Love

When I was in junior high, I had a crush on a boy. He had blond hair and blue eyes and was shy like me. Like most boys in junior high, he probably didn't notice or even really care that much.

I remember how aware I was of everything he did. I would sometimes wait outside before the morning bell just so I could see him walking to school and say hi before he went inside.

When I was in high school, I had a crush on the boy I shared a locker with. I remember being so embarrassed that I am bad at keeping a locker clean that I was religious about making sure I kept my things neat. We sometimes would walk together around the outdoor baseball field and talk. 

When I was in my final year of high school, I loved somebody for the first time. There was a boy who liked me, and he would bring me gifts to my work and we would sometimes walk around the pond and talk about the future. We went out to dinner once, and I still remember wearing a light brown dress and feeling like the most special person in the world.

Then I went to college. While I was there, there were other people. There were bad first dates, bad first relationships, a lot of self-discovery, and even a hasty engagement that started and ended too soon. 

I sometimes would get discouraged because I wondered when I'd be able to meet a person and for things to just work out. No drama, no playing games, but just the ease of meeting and getting to know and falling into step.

And then I found Clark.

Our first date happened three years after I first met him. I met him in the hallway at church when I was in my freshman year of college. Or, I should say, I saw him. At that time, I was too self-conscious to actually talk to people with any degree of normalcy. I just didn't know how to act. I spent my time in high school buried in books and working to get money for college. I'd never been good at making friends, even in elementary school, when making friends should be simple. 

But we bumped shoulders every so often. 

And three years later, after chatting a few times on Facebook messenger, we went on a date on New Year's Eve. We went to see a movie, and we sat outside in the cold on the curb after and ate ice cream together. Neither of us had a car, so we walked two miles together to the movie theater and called a friend for a ride home. I wore this long plaid coat that I loved to death.

As we walked those two miles, the things that struck me most about Clark were how easy his demeanor was and how kind and self-aware he was. I felt at ease, which for me is saying something; I've always disliked meeting new people, and I still struggle to know what to say or how to say things. But Clark is the person where I don't feel that sort of internal tension or wonder what he is thinking of me. I never felt I needed to watch what I said or paint any sort of picture of myself to impress him. 

I think I might have known right then that he was the person for me. 

Clark has been gone this week, and I've had a lot of time to think. No relationship is perfect, and we're not the exception, but I do think love can be perfect even in the face of personal failings.

I don't say the right things sometimes, and Clark forgives me.

I make stupid mistakes sometimes, and he's willing to forget those things and move on.

I'm probably the weirdest person he has ever met, and he laughs instead of making fun.

I get angry for no reason, and he tries to understand anyway.

I often fail at my goals, and he encourages me to keep trying.

I'm often a puddle of anxiety, and Clark doesn't fully comprehend it, but he knows I can get better.

I often think my life, in general, is unexceptional, that my day-to-day routine is simply mundane, and that I can't really claim to be interesting, superior, or inspirational in any way. But I think the reality of love is that steady sense of belonging, that comfortable forward motion that puts the silver lining on the clouds that might cover the seasons of life. It's that two-mile walk to the movie theater in December, where the company you keep during the hike is more valuable than having a car to make the journey easier. It's caring enough to know that an unexceptional life can be made exceptional through hundreds of tiny actions.

In my religion, we believe that families can be together forever. That marriages have the potential to last forever, even beyond til' death do us part. Before I was married, I thought how romantic that was -- you love each other enough to always want to be together. But then, gradually, it meant more to me. Daily, with the small things, we might create a relationship that is prepared for such a lofty goal. Something as simple as choosing not to criticize, giving a word of encouragement, or remembering to leave the onions out of the salad are snapshots of eternity -- an eternity where you're willing to give everything you've got to ensure the happiness of another person, without resentment or fear.

One Year

Have you ever taken yourself by surprise?

I've put off writing this post because in the last few months, I've felt like I haven't made any documentable progress.

But as I was reflecting this morning, I realized that's just not true.

In the past three months, I've successfully done a full pull-up without a band. I can do 15 pushups (real pushups, not on my knees or elevated on a bench). I've increased my bench press max weight. I ran a 7:15 minute mile. I ran 5 miles in under 50 minutes. I've somehow become really good at rowing, which still shocks me every time I sit down and row.

I surprise myself every time I go to the gym. I'm amazed I can go further without quitting. I'm surprised I have the stamina to work faster. I'm stunned when I need to switch out my 35-pound dumbbell for a 40.

A year ago, I looked at the people who could rip out ten burpees no problem and I felt so far removed from them, and this morning, it was weird to think that maybe I'm one of those people. A year ago, I remember laughing every time Nick or Jeff explained a new exercise (You want me to do what, exactly?). Over the box burpees. Double box jumps. Carrying sandbags. Explosive pushups. A plank for five minutes. Maybe the most amazing thing is not that I can do these things, but that I have stopped believing that I can't.

In the last 3 months, I have not lost a single pound. My weight goes up and down a couple pounds depending on the day, and this fact was holding me back from posting. I don't have a stunning progress picture to show.

But pictures don't show the real success.

The real success is that I truly believe my body is good, regardless of how it looks on the outside.
The real success is that I'm way stronger than I used to be.
The real success is that I've met people who make me better as a person.
The real success is that I have improved my sense of self-worth.
The real success is that I've started to become more okay with failing as long as I keep going anyway.
The real success is that I've stopped talking negatively about my body.
The real success is that I've stopped believing there are things I can't do.
The real success is that I believe I'm valuable as a team member, as a person, and as a mom.

A year ago, I said I'd give this a try. Trying turns into doing, doing turns into becoming, and becoming turns into success. Over and over and over.

All or Nothing

Pretty much on a daily basis, I see all the posts and shares, and all the comments.

"Police are all racist bullies."
"F*ck the police."
"Defund the police."
"Fire those officers."
"We hate the police."

I'm biased. My husband is "the police." You can stop reading now if you want to stay in the echo chamber.

I've been told that it doesn't matter that my husband is a good, kind officer who tries to do good work because the police as a whole are broken and brutal.

Excuse me? It doesn't matter?

It doesn't matter that he carries stuffed animals in his car to give to scared kids. It doesn't matter that he always tries to reason with people before resorting to force. It doesn't matter that he counsels people who are suicidal, who have lost loved ones, who are in a great deal of pain. It doesn't matter that he tries, always, to err on the side of mercy. It doesn't matter that he is trying to write a new patrol handbook so that new officers won't have to feel like they don't know what to do. It doesn't matter that he constantly reads articles on improving his work and watches videos of other arrests to see how he can avoid the mistakes that other officers might have made. It doesn't matter that he spent a couple years before becoming an officer counseling drug addicts in rehab to rebuild their lives. It doesn't matter that he became an officer specifically to help these people. It doesn't matter that he spends even more time serving by spending weekends at the National Guard. It doesn't matter that he is always trying to improve himself, that he spends hours and dollars making sure he has all the knowledge and tools to do the best job possible.

Apparently, those things don't matter.

Because some officers push old men down.
Because some departments fail to train officers well enough.
Because some officers take things too far.
Because some officers have taken innocent lives.
Because some officers are wrong.

I suppose it only matters that he chose to be a police officer, and therefore joined the enemy. When I first approached him about becoming an officer, he initially said, "No, I don't want to do that."

"Why?" I asked. "Because I think you'd be good at it."

"Because," he said, "I don't want to be hated. I don't want to be feared. I don't want people to run when they see me."

So we looked into maybe doing the fire department instead. But then, something changed. This work would challenge me more, he thought. I could do more good here. I can communicate well, I keep calm under pressure. I could handle it.

And he has. He really has.

He comes home with gouges in his hands from holding someone in place. The gouges are there because his bare hands were against the asphalt, and he didn't want to use more force, so instead, he just held his ground and let his hands get torn up as the man struggled and fought. He comes home with his face burning with pepper spray because, in order to use it, it has to be used on you first. He comes home with his boots and clothes soaked through because he was standing beside an accident scene in the pouring rain for hours, staring at blood and gore all over the ground. He comes home from protests tired, with scratches on his arms from rocks that were thrown at him. He tries to avoid reading the news because no matter what he did that night that was good and right, those actions will not be seen. He gets a few hours of sleep, and then he leaves again to protect the people's right to free speech, while still knowing that he'll be seen as the enemy to every single person there.

I don't ask you to give up the cause of asking for reform. I don't ask you to ignore the thousands of black people who are hurt and victimized. I don't even ask you to stand down from your peaceful protests.

I just ask you, please, to say that he matters. Can you change the way you talk about him? Can you change the way you talk to your friends, your neighbors, your Facebook friends?

Can you see that officers like Clark are your allies, that they are the people you want protecting and serving? What would have happened if Clark wasn't strong enough to take a job where he knew he would be hated? What if a more blustering, ignorant person was in his place? What if he decided to use his extraordinary capacity for goodness and communication for something more respected and popular?

A good man would be home, safe in his bed, instead of getting rocks and bricks thrown at his head. As his wife, I'd count that as a win. But as a society, we would lose out on the service of a great man. He is the change you want to see.

Please tell me that it matters. Because if it doesn't -- all the anxiety, the training, the trying, the preparing, and the caring would be a waste.

The Thief

Anxiety is the stealthiest and most cunning of thieves.

Months ago, I thought, "I think I'd like to get a dog."

So began a series of endless preparations. Researching rescue animals, looking up puppies for sale, settling on a Golden Retriever as the right fit, saving money, buying supplies gradually, and eagerly marking the date on our calendar when our pup would be ready to be picked up.

We spent hours deciding on what name to call our puppy. Midas? Merlin? Westley? Kevin? Finally, we found the perfect name: Pacha. 

 I was nervous, but normally so. I read all the articles. I did all the research. I set up the crate and bought a potty bell and cut up treats carefully into tiny pieces to get ready for training. With the clicker on my wrist and the toys in my purse, I made the drive and picked up the puppy. 

He was plump and playful. The car ride was a bit scary, but he was brave, and so was I.

I showed him his crate. He went right in and took a nap. He chased the kids in the back yard and discovered how much he loved being out in the grass. He would eat random leaves and chew on exposed roots in the backyard. 

I started to feel the familiar wave of panic, held at bay by trusty anti-anxiety meds. Clark could sense my unease and sent me on a walk because that often helps settle me down.

The walk helped a little. I returned home and did a brief five-minute leash training with the puppy before crating him for the night.

He did not cry, whine, or even stir until midnight.

And then the thief entered -- at night like they most often do.

Pacha went back into the crate. He went back to sleep.

I did not. I felt full-blown panic. Trouble breathing, the need to go to the bathroom every 10 minutes, racing heart, thoughts running like wild ponies through the sagebrush of my mind.

I waited, breathing, for the panic to subside. It did not. Instead, it spread, affecting every muscle and blood vessel in my body. I felt tears coming and I could not stop them. Confusion rushed through me. Hadn't I prepared for this? Why was I having such a strong episode of anxiety?

I did my usual coping mechanisms. Listen to audiobooks. Try soft music. Pray. Wrap blankets tightly around self. But I could not cope. Desperate for sleep, I took a second Zoloft in addition to my usual dose, and I got two more hours of rest.

I took the puppy out at 5 AM. The kids got up. And I was a zombie of sleep-loss-enhanced panic. 

I could not eat breakfast, because I knew I would throw up if I tried.

I couldn't even look at the dog, because I felt my stomach clench every time I did.

My skin was pale, I was constantly clammy, and my heart rate stayed at 130 beats per minute (thanks Garmin) for over two hours. 

Not knowing what I to do, I turned to google. Anxiety after a puppy, I typed. How long does it last? About six weeks, came the response. Three months, one person said. A year, said another. A year? 

Not surprisingly, though my body was already tense with fight or flight stress responses, the anxiety worsened. 

The thought of even two more hours like this was terrible. The idea of a week -- nearly unbearable. A year -- unthinkable.

So then I turned to friends. What's wrong with me? Why am I broken? Why can't I do a normal thing like take care of a puppy (food, sleep, water -- it's not exactly brain surgery)? 

Nothing is wrong with you, they said. You couldn't have known this would happen. 

And they were right. I couldn't have known. With all the training videos and preordered treats and dog dishes and crate set up, anxiety slept in the background, not daring to show its head.

Instead, it struck when I had the most to lose. I could have called it off. I could have told the breeder, we've decided not to get our puppy. I could have avoided disappointing my children and feeling guilty and embarrassed and stupid. I could have saved hours spent researching and driving and planning. But, the best thieves only come when the prize is the greatest.

A lovely lady from a reached out to me. She's been looking for a dog after losing her last one to old age. She could drive down today, she said, just let me know what you need.

After taking away my sleep, my appetite, my ability to even control my bladder with any semblance of adult normalcy, and then taking away my new dog, anxiety then took away my ability to feel anything but emptiness after that 24-hour war that I just waged with myself. The thief completely cleaned house. 

Just a day later, my life is back to normal. But thanks to anxiety, there's a giant dog-shaped hole in it, filled to the top with nothing but guilt, shame, and sadness.

The Cost

What would it be like to live in a world where the priority was not economics but empathy?

Maybe the price we pay would be different.

It's less costly to pay a settlement and give a suspension than to fire an officer and chance risking an admittance of guilt to open the door to more potential lawsuits.

It costs money to train an officer. It costs money to outfit him. It's hard to get enough officers working to cover a full shift because the city doesn't want to hire, train, and pay more officers.

It costs money to raise salaries to attract better talent for police work. It costs money to continue their education. It costs money to give good benefits. It costs money to extend academy times, to provide stress outlets, to host community events to promote unity.

So what happens when all those things come together?

You get officers who don't speak up because they don't want to rock the boat.
You get officers who lose skills the further away they get from the academy.
You get officers who don't seek counseling for anger or anxiety because it could call their ability to police into question, or because it's not covered by health insurance and they can't afford it.
You get officers who gradually become a rule unto themselves, committing worse mistakes with a sense of complacency because even if they get their hand slapped, they won't get fired.
You get officers who forget the job is not about guns or punches (or apparently, restraining people with their knees until they die), but first about protecting and serving people and promoting the sanctity of human life.
You get officers who try hard, who want to do well, who are not racist at all but are now suddenly embarrassed and disgusted to be associated with a gang of bullies.

It costs money to liberate black men and women from slavery. A war was fought over that money, actually. It costs money to provide the same educational opportunities for everyone regardless of skin color. It costs money to register black people to vote. It costs money to pay black people the same amount that white people get paid. It costs money to give black people the same amount in welfare checks as white people. It costs money to build new schools in inner cities and hire competent teachers. It costs money to support single black mothers. It costs money to hire proper defense attorneys for black men accused of crimes.

So what happens when all those things come together?

You get black men who are always aware they could be shot when they go for a jog.
You get black graduates who know that their black name on a resume means they won't get the job.
You get black families who worry about how their kids will get a good education.
You get black boys who grow up without stability.
You get black dads who get killed for no reason.
You get black kids flooding foster care, facing abuse and other horrors, with little chance of finding an adoptive home.
You get black people in prison with harsher sentences for lesser crimes.
You create a black nation who feels that they are still second class citizens, because every time they begin to breathe freely, someone or something cuts off their air because giving them air is just too costly.

I chose this picture because they can breathe. I want others to breathe too. 

I guess this is America, and we get to keep our money in exchange for something we apparently seem to value less: the lives of the poor, the black, the brown, and even some of the good blue ones who pay for the sins of the bad blue ones because police do get shot in cold blood just because they're police. They're all cheap currency, a valid opportunity cost.

One nation under God, with liberty and justice for all -- for all who are rich, who are white, who are privileged, and
who are lucky to be alive.

Good

bread is without a doubt the best food on the planet.

I hear it every day. Every day.

"I've gotta get my body ready for summer."
"I need to be good with my diet this week."
"I need to lose these saddlebags."
"My butt is too flat for these jeans."
"My skin is too wrinkly now."
"I hate the way my legs look in shorts."
"I've been so bad -- I gained five pounds during quarantine."
"I'm so bloated and disgusting from this weekend."
"Gotta go for a run to burn that extra cookie I ate."

I get it. I know that self talk.

Here are my replies:

"Your body is ready for summer. You have a body, and summer is just around the corner."

"You can make healthy choices this week, but no food choices makes you a bad person. You can choose to be strict with what you eat for health reasons, but you can't be more good by choosing to eat a certain way."

"Your body is a good body, and saddlebags are normal. So is having a little fat on your thighs, a little pudge by your bra strap, and a bulge when you bend over at the waist. You can work out to be strong, but no part of your body is a bad part of your body, because your body is already a good body."

"Wear what you like and feel comfortable in. Your body is capable of more than filling out the seat of a pair of jeans."

"Your skin is good, and wrinkles are normal. Wrinkles do not diminish your worth."

"Your legs hold you up. If they feel warm, wear shorts. Your legs are part of your good body. Your legs are good legs."

"Gaining weight during quarantine does not make you a bad person. It makes you a normal person. You can change your choices and move forward in a different direction if that is what you want to do."

"Bloating happens for all sorts of reasons. Slime is disgusting. Rotten food in the back of your fridge is disgusting. Poop is disgusting. Chewed up gum is disgusting. You are not disgusting, even when you are bloated."

"Running is so good for your body and your mood. Run regardless of what you choose to eat, just because running makes you feel powerful, and exercise shows respect for your good body (which is good regardless of what you choose to eat)."

Say it until you believe it. My body is good, even when it doesn't look good. Food does not make me a bad person. No part of my body is a bad part of my body. Aging is normal. Your body can experience good things like summer and swimming regardless of how it looks. Exercise shows respect for your good body. You make your body stronger, you give your body relief from stress, you help your body avoid injuries when you move it regularly. Food choices can improve your health, help you avoid sickness, and make everything function optimally. Food is fuel for your good body.

Rinse. Repeat. You have a good body. It doesn't deserve the hate.

Greater Love

When you think of Jesus Christ, what do you think about?

I think about someone who is constant, compassionate, capable of great joy, whose greatest defining characteristic is the love He has for others. I think of someone kind, loyal, dependable, and obedient. I think of someone protective, teachable, wise, and honest.

But I also think of someone misunderstood, chastised, hated, and suffering. I think of someone who needs solitude, who struggles under many burdens, who chose pain as the path for His life.

"Greater love hath no man than this, that a man lay down his life for his friends." John 15:13

"He is despised and rejected of men; a man of sorrows; and acquainted with grief; and we hid as it were our faces from him; he was despised, and we esteemed him not... But he was wounded for our transgressions, he was bruised for our iniquities; the chastisement of our peace was upon him; and with his stripes we are healed." Isaiah 53: 3, 5.

With the advent of this Memorial Day weekend, I want to reflect on others who made a similar sacrifice to that of the Redeemer of the World.

There are thousands who laid down their lives for their friends -- countrymen, comrades, and citizens.

There are thousands who were despised and rejected for that sacrifice, brave men and women who are not remembered, not honored, and not respected for the pain and trauma they experienced on behalf of others.

There are thousands who bear constant sorrow for the loss of a brother, father, sister, son, daughter, or friend.

There are millions who look away or, like the priest on the road to Jericho, pass to the other side instead of stopping to help the man by the wayside, because they are too uncomfortable to face suffering.

From small things.

There are soldiers who do not get esteem for what they have done. There are men lying in forgotten graves, men who were never recovered, men who are still missing in action after seventy years.

But they were wounded. They were bruised. And most importantly, the chastisement of our peace was upon them. They allowed their personal peace to by assaulted so that countless others could live without experiencing that same pain. Often with their personal wounds, free countries can be healed from the threat of war, from natural disasters, from oppression, and from pride.

The ultimate gift we receive from Christ is peace and healing. He can fix what we cannot fix, repair what we personally broke, stand between us and our enemies, taking blows so that we do not have to suffer them. There will come a day when that peace will heal the world.

Until that time, there are good people who go forward, willing to lay down their lives for their friends.

The Next One

I've gotten through some days of social distancing by listening to a few of my favorite books on Audible. I'm more productive when I listen to books. They keep my mind distracted as I go through mundane tasks like doing dishes and folding clothes.

Some books I like to listen to include Harry Potter (obviously), historical books like The German War or The Boys in the Boat, and nostalgic books like the Phantom Tollbooth.

But, I've started the colossal "relisten" of "The Way of Kings" by Brandon Sanderson.


For those unfamiliar with Sanderson, he's kind of a rising star in the world of high fantasy work. He finished the Wheel of Time series for Robert Jordan. His method of writing and worldbuilding is astoundingly logical and complex. He has shorter books -- the most popular probably being the Mistborn trilogy (totally great, by the way), but "The Way of Kings" is the first book of an epic fantasy series. The audiobook is over 45 hours long.

It's a commitment of a listen.

But the slow pace and the intense world creation, along with some brilliant characterizations, are perfect for quarantine.

One of the key characters in TWOK is Kaladin.

Kaladin was raised as a lesser race but in a relatively privileged home. He showed promise as a teen to apprentice as a surgeon, but Kaladin feels his true calling is in military service as a gifted leader and fighter. He joins the army in an effort to protect his conscripted younger brother from being killed.

In a series of progressively unfortunate events, Kaladin goes from a position of military leadership to the lowest of the low as a slave. He's passed from master to master until he eventually is sold to become a bridge runner on the front lines of the war effort.

A bridge runner's only job is to carry massive bridges for real soldiers to cross when they reach chasms between plateaus. They carry bridges right into the arrows of the enemy, and hundreds get mowed down at every plateau assault. Basically, to be a bridge man is to be condemned to death.

After a few weeks of the bridge runs, with open scars on his shoulders from the bridge cutting into him during plateau runs, Kaladin contemplates suicide. But, he figures if he has nothing to live for, he might as well try to make the lives of the other bridgemen better.

He saves his slave pay to buy medicine for the wounded.
He trains his men to lift and carry the bridge more effectively.
He convinces others to pool their resources for better food.
He unites the bridgemen into a team that works together.
He gets his men to value their lives.
He earns their trust, builds their health, and minimizes their losses in battle.

One of the most prominent quotes from the series is "The most important step a man can take -- it's not the first one, is it? It's the next step, always the next one."

Now, for some honesty.

I didn't deal with social isolation as my best self. There was a lot of Netflix, a lot of complaining, plenty of tears, and a lot of abandoning self-care for self-pity and apathy.

I didn't track my food as usual. I skipped workouts because I just didn't feel like doing them. I ate whatever I felt like eating, even if it made me sick later. I didn't read to my kids or homeschool them. I stopped teaching Tennyson piano. I gave up working on my quilt. I felt no pressure to clean, to plan, to prepare. And even though I'd have bursts of productivity, I'd quickly regress back to my rather dismal approach to daily life.

But one of the lies we tell ourselves is that if we've screwed up enough times, then we might as well just not try anymore. We do that with food (I've already eaten this, so I guess I'm giving up), we do that with parenting (I always lose my temper with my kids, and it's too late to change that), we do that with God (I've already messed up my life this badly, how could I ever be redeemed). Kaladin did that too -- every time he would try to help or protect someone, he would fail. He wanted to quit trying -- what was the point?

But the next step is the most important. It doesn't matter what steps you took yesterday, or last week, or last year. It matters what you do now, and a minute from now, and an hour from now, and tomorrow, and all the tomorrows after that.

If you feel like you're too broken to try, then just remember that you have nothing to lose if you keep trying anyway.

Instead of taking his own life, Kaladin decided if he was already dead, then he might as well give his life away to people he could help, even a little.

If you're not too broken, then you have something to work with.

And, a quote from Jeffery R. Holland (who says it better than me):

"The past is to be learned from but not lived in. We look back to claim the embers from glowing experiences but not the ashes. And when we have learned what we need to learn and have brought with us the best that we have experienced, then we look ahead."

Her Name

She's twenty-six. She's gained 35 pounds already, and still has three months to go until her due date. Her hips ache and she can't eat without getting that burning feeling in her throat. Her shoes won't go on her feet anymore, so she wears flip flops, even though it's November.

She's exhausted. She's been up all night with a child who can't keep any food down. The water pours into the bathtub at 3 AM, and it's the third bath that night. She falls asleep next to the hot little body on the floor, hoping they both get the rest they need before the day begins and wondering if maybe the doctor can squeeze them in if they call right when the clinic opens.

She's worried. Her son has been struggling to make friends in school, and she can't seem to reach him like she used to. He's hurting and lonely, and she wants to help. Is he being bullied? Is he doing the bullying? How can she help him grow into a good man?

She feels guilty. She lost her temper today, and she could see the change in her daughter's eyes. She knows she shouldn't have yelled -- but it was just one more thing in a day where so many things have already gone wrong. They were going to be late, and she's tired of always having to repeat herself, so she got angry, and the kids got quiet.

She's sixty-one. She gets in the car to drive to the post office to send a package to a five-year-old boy who loves dinosaurs. She doesn't get to see him very often, but she loves him anyway. She sees his mother struggle with feelings of inadequacy and worry, and offers advice and comfort when she can.

She's trying. She's working full-time and taking evening classes, studying when the toddler sleeps. She sometimes wonders if she made the right decision, and single parenting is tough when you have no one to help you. But she still sings songs before bedtime and folds laundry if she has time. She's carving out a future by pushing a boulder uphill.

She takes a moment alone. The tiredness behind her eyes builds up. She takes a deep breath. And then she keeps moving forward. She puts on a brave face to protect you so you don't have to be afraid.

She wears her heart on her sleeve. She gives her body away. She fills up her time. She creates light in the darkness. She chases away dragons. She washes dish after dish. She asks how your day was, but she spends hers in the car, just driving and driving and driving. She says yes to getting a cat, even though she doesn't like cats. She makes playdough for the preschool and puts the homework folder in the backpack. She says no ice-cream unless you eat your dinner, but then forgets and gives you ice-cream anyway. She goes to bed last and wakes up first. She wants to lie down and rest. She wants to get away, but when she does, she misses home. She's lonely and crowded at the same moment.

She waits by the hospital bed and holds your hand at the dentist. She says you don't have to go out when you don't want to, and she agrees to be the bad guy so you can save face. She sees the melt-downs in the grocery store and somehow she knows what to do, even though she feels like she's just making it up as so goes along. She is patient, even if she doesn't believe it.

She wonders who she is sometimes. She wonders what she can change. She wants to be better but doesn't always know how to get there. She hopes her children will forgive her when she makes a mistake.

She says sorry sometimes. She says you need to wait for lunch, to put that in the trash, to tidy your room. She cares how your hair looks for school pictures and tells you to put on a clean shirt because you've worn that one for three days. No, it's not still clean. Yes, people can tell.

She is divinity made human. She is sacrifice embodied. She is hurting and healing at the same time. She chooses to be wounded to make others safe, to cultivate joy, to give what she can, even when she has given so much already.

She cries tears in every shade emotion -- by the side of a tiny casket, as she watches the picture on the ultrasound, into her pillow as she lays down to sleep, in the bright sunshine, and when she doesn't know if she can take another step forward. Joy and pain, sadness and gladness, guilt and pride, peace and turmoil.

Her name is Mom.