The past seven days have been anything but the lazy, hazy days of summer.
There has not been a solid 24 hours where some kind of crisis didn’t find its way to my doorstep, across my driveway or into my living room.
Seriously.
On a scale of one to ten, none actually rank high in that there’s not a solution or plan of action.
But every single one of them raised my stress and anxiety to very uncomfortable heights.
I have no idea why I keep thinking maybe-just maybe-there will be a season of rest when I can get my feet under me, get my mind settled (a bit) and get the laundry put away.
There are good days.
But then there are bad ones right on their heels.
I’m 54 years old, raised and home educated four children, helped my husband with his career and a personal business, managed a small farm and cooked, cleaned and was the all around go-fer for my family while each one pursued his or her education and dreams.
But there has been no season as stress-filled and trying as this one: the season of grief, the season of missing, the season where I have had to admit that control is an illusion.
So many days I watch the sunset in defeat.
Overcome, overwhelmed and undone.
I know the new day will bring new mercies and that is how my heart holds onto hope. 
