Whether the burden is child loss, abuse, chronic illness or some other ongoing and unchangeable hard circumstance, it’s easy to get so good at acting “OK” you can almost fool yourself.
But all that stress and struggle exacts a cost.
Pretending that it doesn’t is not helpful at all.
Read the rest here: Don’t Let It Fool You
Why is it “dwelling” in one instance and “remembering” in another?
Who gets to decide whether I’m taking out a cherished memory, holding it, stroking it and reliving it because it’s all I have left or I’m clutching the past, refusing to let go?
I will be the first to admit that mulling over past offenses is probably the last thing I need to do. Especially if I’m trying to forgive them. That’s not helpful nor is it healthy.
But there’s a difference between THAT kind of thinking and the kind of thinking every bereaved parent does about his or her missing child.
Read the rest here: “Don’t Dwell on That!”
I wrote this last year about this time but it suits me this year too.
So many big stressors combined with dozens of small ones have me begging God for relief. The end is not in sight but I DO know how the story ends.
If I can hold onto hope -which I manage to do most days-and make space for my heart on the days I just can’t, it will be alright.
Maybe not soon and certainly not in this lifetime. But it WILL be alright. ❤
Today is full of tears.
No real reason-other than the obvious one-but so many things coming together to remind me this life is hard, hard, hard.
I find on this side of burying Dominic that when two or three other stressful events pile one atop the other I crumble. Sometimes it’s other family members doing the best they can to muddle through and sometimes it’s physical pain or disappointment or the random “ya-ya” stuff of life in community with other people Whatever it is, the weight-in addition to grief-just absolutely overwhelms me.
I used to be stronger.
Or at least I thought I was stronger.
Read the rest here: Just Plain Hard
I’m really not good at sitting still.
When I see something that must be done I tend to get up and do it.
But right now (as I wrote yesterday) I’m in a season where I need to be patient with myself. I need to learn to rest. I need to give my own heart the space and grace I’d quickly extend to another.
So I’m hanging this little sign up around every corner in my house.
I hope my heart heeds the message.
I love, love, love when people leave comments on the blog!
Even though I wish we had come together over a common happy experience, I’m still thankful we have come together.
And I normally try hard to “like” and answer every comment in a timely way.
But this spring has been a real roller coaster ride and I’ve fallen dreadfully behind.
Please forgive me.
I’m trying to keep up, but no matter how fast I pedal, I’m not quite able to make the miles I hope to make each day.
I appreciate every single heart that chooses to engage, chooses to encourage, chooses to turn back and hold out a hand to the next struggling soul behind them.
Thank you. Thank you. Thank you.
I love you all. ❤
I think I will post this link as long as I maintain the blog because I will always be a voice for those whose lives look more like Ash Wednesday than Mardi Gras.
I will continue to speak out for space in our congregations and fellowships that acknowledge life is often hard, often unfair and often more like a broken hallelujah than a high note.
I am not a member of the Church of the Perpetually Cheerful. I am a member of the Broken Body of Christ, limping through this world, holding onto hope with both hands.
Twenty-four hours separate one of the most outlandish global parties and one of the most somber religious observances on the Christian calendar.
Many of the same folks show up for both.
Mardi Gras, “Fat Tuesday”, is the last hurrah for those who observe Lent-a time of reflection, self-denial and preparation before Resurrection Sunday.
It’s a giant party-food, fellowship and fun-a wonderful way to celebrate the blessings of this life.
Ash Wednesday, by contrast, is an invitation to remember that “from dust you came and to dust you will return”. None of us get out of here alive.
Read the rest here: Mardi Gras and Ash Wednesday: A Study in Contrasts
I don’t have to leave my house to “go” to work.
Most everything I have to do is on these 35 acres or within a mile of my home. And my routine is pretty much the same seven days a week.
So Mondays aren’t really all that big a deal. But rainy days? Well, those make EVERYTHING more challenging.
It’s been one heck of week here. Heavy rain for at least an hour or more each day means that it’s so soggy I can barely tell the difference between the mud and the manure (and that’s an important distinction to make around here!).
My driveway is a river. I haven’t had to fill water troughs for days because it rains as much as the horses, donkeys and goats drink.
Gray days infect my soul with a kind of weariness that’s hard to express.
I’m always just a breath or two away from overwhelming sadness, and when there is day after day after day of rain and clouds and mud and muck it often overtakes me.
I try so hard to buck up and ignore it. But I’m not always successful.
Mornings are good. If I sleep well the night before, I can get going and momentum carries me through until a little after lunchtime. Somewhere between three and four in the afternoon, I usually lose the battle.
Willpower just isn’t enough to overcome the sense of “what’s the use” that nips at my heels like a terrier chasing a squirrel.
So I usually give in. Sometimes I even go on to bed.
I feel like a failure.
I used to be able to work hard for a good 18 hours out of every 24.
Not anymore.
Especially on rainy days…
