Brie Gowen

Savor the Essence of Life

A Word of Advice for the New Nurse

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I was walking down the hall this morning with a new nurse, and she asked, “so, were you an IV nurse before this?”

She said it with genuine respect as I followed her down the hall to the room of her “hard stick.”

“Nah,” I replied. “I’ve just been putting em in for twenty years.”

“That’ll do it,” she replied in awe.

I wasn’t even working on that floor. It was one I sometimes floated to, and I had run quickly there from my Intensive Care Unit to grab a stowed jacket. When this new nurse had seen me her eyes lit up, and she eagerly let me know she needed me. It seems I had quickly garnered the reputation on that floor of being very skilled at inserting IV’s. As I walked with her to her room (confident that whatever veins awaited me I’d nail it first try) I realized just how odd this was.

I had become the nurse you asked to help you get an IV started in a patient with “bad veins.”

It was crazy, but I was the one you came to when you had a question, needed a second opinion, or encountered something you had never seen before.

Even more crazy, it had occurred to me over the past year that I had become that older nurse with decades of experience that I used to look up to. Now I was the more seasoned RN on the floor.

I bet you’re wondering when the advice is going to come in. Well, here’s the thing. Most of the time it seems like only yesterday that I was the one with shaking hands when I started my first IV (or two, or three), or that I was the one going insane questioning every single move I made. I was the anxious young woman with a nervous stomach. I was the one afraid to call and wake up the doctor. I was the nurse scared to death of making a mistake, running my butt off to try and get things done on time, but leaving an hour late regardless. That was me. But now, it’s not.

Time passes quick at the bedside. It may not feel like it when you’re trying to make it through a crazy, twelve hour shift, but trust me. One day you will look up and realize a year has gone by, then two, five, and beyond if you decide to stay. On a side note, the patients hope you will. There are far too few of us seasoned (but not salty) bedside RN’s left.

So, here’s what I want you to do. I want you to enjoy yourself. I know that’s not always easy when you’re trying not to bang your head against the wall in frustration, but bear with me. You see, right now is a wonderful opportunity for you. You have the chance to be a sponge, to ask a thousand dumb inquisitive questions, and to take every instance you can to learn.

I remember as a young nurse feeling like I should know more, and often times I neglected to ask for confirmation on a situation because I didn’t want to appear like an idiot. Don’t get me wrong. I never did anything to put my patient at risk, but I did lose many opportunities to increase my knowledge in favor of saving face.

I can also recall not taking chances, not grabbing at situations where I could grow my knowledge base and skill level. Rather than missing an IV that looked hard, I might just ask someone else to do it for me. When faced with the chance to take care of a really critical patient, I would be more than willing to pass it along. This only hurt me. My fear of messing up held me back. Don’t do that.

Being a new nurse is hard. Even though you went to school there’s still so much to learn! I get it. But don’t let this keep you from grabbing those extra certifications and educational opportunities. These things will only add to your knowledge, making you a better nurse in the long run.

So, if you’re just barely keeping your head above water as a new grad, hang in there. Know you’re not the first to feel that way. But just make sure you don’t end up floating along content on still waters. Stir it up. Realize that while being a new nurse is hard, what can be really difficult is being an older nurse who everyone comes to. Because one day you will look up to ask a question, and you’ll realize you’re the most experienced person there. You will be the one people come to. You’ll be the one teaching others, mentoring new nurses, and offering your venipuncture skills to the masses. It happens before you know it. So enjoy your season to learn and grow. Your future patients will thank you.

Why Saying, “I’m Too Blessed to Be Stressed” Isn’t Really Biblical

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Do I believe I am blessed? Of course I do! God’s Word tells me so numerous times, and every moment I look upon the face of one of my children, lay my head on my loving husband’s chest, gaze at the beautiful, blue sky, or feel the cool breeze blow my hair back, I know it is true. I. Am. Blessed. In this world, and thank the Lord, for all eternity, especially then. I am supremely blessed, but am I too blessed to be stressed? I think not.

The other night I was up at 2am crunching numbers, my spouse beside me in bed, a Netflix show in the background. It just wasn’t adding up. Some more additional expenses had come up with the sale of our house, and no number of pushing around of bills seemed to tabulate in my favor. I calculated the debt again, and still it gave me an answer I didn’t want to see. There was no way I could swing this scenario, but I had to. There wasn’t a choice.

Have you ever been between a rock and a hard place? It’s that claustrophobic space where Catch 22’s live. It’s a dilemma with no perfect solution, a choice between A or B, when all you want to find is the option of C. But you know what? Sometimes there’s no option C to be found. Or at least it seems that way.

When we can see no way humanly possible for a problem to work out, that’s when the stress creeps in. Y’all, I don’t care how pious, how Holy, how religious you are. It doesn’t matter if you walk side by side with God, stress will still come. I mean, Moses was a man who was pretty tight with God. God spoke with him face to face, as a man would a friend (Exodus 33), and still, when confronted with the enormous task of freeing his people, Moe got a little worried.

He was like, ABBA, while I appreciate the vote of confidence, I get pretty nervous in front of a crowd. I get hives and stutter. It’s embarrassing. Maybe you could ask somebody else, just this time.

I can imagine him shrugging his shoulders as he tried to pass on the stressful job. But God wasn’t having it.

He basically told Moses, I created your mouth, man. And your tongue. I can certainly give you the words to say!

Point being, even those in a close and deep relationship with the Lord can feel like they’re going to buckle under the anxiety of this world. Problems come, no matter how close you are to God, but He’s always saying, “I got this,” just like He did with Moses. In His Word, the Bible, the Lord tells us we’ll have trouble. Yet He also states, “take heart. I have overcome the world (John 16:33).”

In other words, when Plan A doesn’t work, and Plan B falls through, there actually happens to be a Plan C: Christ.

The annoying part is that even if you know all these things, and like me, you proclaim boldly, “God’s got this,” you can still suffer under the stress of the situation. It doesn’t make you a horrible Christian with failing faith. It just makes you human. The important part is that when the wind of stress blows (because it will), and the waves try to overtake you, that you remember the truth. And the truth is, you are blessed. You are blessed because Christ is with you.

You’ll still get stressed. There’s no stopping that. Jesus warns us it will happen. But then we must remember why we don’t remain stressed, that we don’t continue to be overcome, that the devil can knock us down, but doggone-it, we ain’t staying there!

And that’s what happened with me the other night. Financial stress came on me hard, but then I remembered the truth. Even in my hardships, I am blessed. Even in this stressful life and its stressful problems, I am blessed. I’m not too blessed to be stressed, but I am blessed despite my stress. Even in spite of my stress.

But then do you know what happened? I was feeling good, riding along smoothly on my faith, feeling rather good about myself.

Why, yes, I have grown so much spiritually. Thank you.

When all of the sudden, out of nowhere, the bottom fell out. Man! Doesn’t it always seem to happen that way? You’re dealing with a nightmare of a problem. You’re certain it can’t get any worse! And then bam. The worse happens, and you’re back to square one, trying not to chew your nails to bits, eat a whole tub of ice cream, or cuss a blue streak from Kansas to Miami. I’m not saying I ate half a pie, last night, but I’m not saying I didn’t. Stress! It happens. Again, and again.

It’s in those moments where it really does seem like the ocean, and wave after wave tries to beat you down. You eat some sand, and in those moments, with the grit in your teeth, you might not feel very blessed. But when your face gets pushed in the sand you only need to remember one thing. It’s just sand.

All the problems you come across. It’s just sand. All the things you love that you fear leaving you. It’s just sand. The things you cannot change. It’s just sand. Here today, gone tomorrow. Build some castles, but don’t try to stand on it. Sand shifts, you know. It can make you sink. But in the end, whether our castles stand tall or fall flat, it’s really the rock on which we stand. The storms just happen to remind us of that. So we are blessed. Stressed, sometimes, yes, but blessed, always.

3 Keys to a Happier Marriage

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I’m always going to call myself a work in progress. I’m far from perfect, but wiser in my walk than I was before. I consider each day to be a new day to learn something new, about myself, about interacting with others, and about strengthening my marriage. My marriage isn’t perfect either, but I have been able to watch it mature into something lovely over the years. It didn’t start out on solid ground, that I can promise you. If it were not for the prompting of the Holy Spirit, it might have crumbled in that newlywed period a decade ago, but through perseverance, prayer, and the knowledge of the Lord, we have cultivated a beautiful covenant that becomes better each and everyday. Here’s a few tips I have found to be so very true in having a happy, healthy relationship.

1. Lower your expectations. In fact, go ahead and drop them all together. Whatever dream person you have created in your head, let them go. This is reality, people. Open your eyes and fix them on Jesus. He’s the only perfect one you’ll ever find.

I discovered pretty early on that my husband and I shared more differences than similarities. Where I was a perfectionist, he was content with getting by. Where I was a planner, he was a procrastinator. Where I was motivated, he was blasé. Where I completed a task once I got started, he was fine with letting it fall away. It was exasperating.

But then I discovered something more. Where I often held unrealistic expectations for life, he was more able to go with the flow that is the reality of a tumultuous world. Where I had to have my ducks in a row, he was more open to change and going off course to achieve the same goal. Where I was overly dedicated to a task of my own making, he was open to the plans God put before us. Where I became almost obsessed with seeing a project to completion, he was more able to open his hands in surrender to allow Jesus to take it away.

I like to take pictures. He doesn’t. Lol.

I discovered we were a pretty good team. It was like it was a God-ordained union, something I had always known, but didn’t realize the details of until it was before me. You see, a huge cause of discontent in marriage is failed expectations. We have a certain idea in mind of how our spouse must be. When they inevitably fail to meet those expectations we become angry and disillusioned. We seldom stop and understand that they were made a specific way by God, and that if we believe God to be the director of our lives, then we must trust that He put two distinctive personalities together for a reason, for a purpose. Remember, the plans of man always fail; it’s God who directs our steps.

So, drop who you think your spouse should be, celebrate who they are, and most importantly, pray that they will become who God has them to be (not who you have them to be).

2. Remove your plank. I know I’m stepping on some toes now. Another big cause of marital strife comes in the form of our own judgement and self-centeredness. This is a hard pill to swallow, but truth usually is. The problem with the human condition is sin, imperfection, and blindness. No, I don’t mean physical blindness, but rather a spiritual one. Our expectations for ourselves are never as high as the expectations we place on others. Because only God knows our every thought and desire, only He can always do what’s right by us. Only He will never hurt us. Now understand, our sin may hurt us, and God may allow that, but He will never hurt us. If you’ve been around people for longer than five minutes then you know that’s not true of us.

In marriage (and all relationships for that matter), you will get your feelings hurt. The person won’t say the right thing, do the right thing, or always act in the right manner. You will be left hurt, wounded, and let down, which typically leads to anger. After all, it’s easier to get mad than stew in hurt feelings.

“He never helps me!”

“She never wants to have sex anymore.”

“Does he ever hear a word I say?!”

“Why does she keep nagging me?!”

“What’s her problem?”

“What did I do this time?!”

A relationship can become a blame game, pointing fingers and keeping score. Who’s done more for the marriage? Who says I’m sorry first? How long until they disappoint me again? I’ll enlist the silent treatment; let’s see who breaks the silence and speaks first.

“I wonder how long he’ll leave his dirty laundry at the foot of the bed?”

“I wonder how long she’ll leave that curling iron on the sink?”

“I work all day at my job!”

“I work all day at this house, with the children!”

It becomes a competition of who does more, who does less, and who can see the contribution you’re putting out there. We become so blinded by what we’re giving out that we miss what our partner is supplying. We become so focused on where we’re taken advantage of that we totally miss our own selfish attitude.

Who’s the most selfish person in the relationship?

It’s the one who’s breathing. It’s him, it’s her, it’s you, it’s me. We’re all selfish. That’s the easy part of marriage. The hard part is moving past selfishness and working towards servanthood. Serve your spouse; don’t spend your time wondering how they can serve you.

Before you become angry, fed up, or burned out with your partner, consider how you might better improve yourself. What can you do to cultivate the relationship? What plank exists in your own eye while you’re distracted with the sawdust they left on the floor?

From personal experience, you get back what you put in. Your reward is dependent on how you run the race. Your harvest is based on what you’re planting and feeding into the soil. Just like your banking account, the deposits have to exceed the withdrawals, otherwise you’re bankrupt. Invest to see a future profit.

3. Learn what love is. A majority of marriages that end in divorce are because of a lack of love. They start with what they think is love, but it’s not. A lot of the time what we assume is love is really addiction. Hang with me, now.

We are addicted to feeling good. We need to feel appreciated, taken care of, desired, found attractive. We thrive on compliments, we feel best when we are needed. It gives us a sense of purpose to take care of someone, and it gives us a sense of peace to have someone take care of us. And while yes, I believe God created marriage with a partnership in mind, we confuse love with performance. We convolute love with just emotion. So when we are hurt, our love takes a hit. We base our ability to love someone on how they love us back. We base our continued love for someone on how it feels at the moment. We take back love when ours isn’t reciprocated.

If you find yourself doing any of the above in your own relationship, don’t beat yourself up too bad. You’re in good company. It’s called being human. We eat food based on what tastes good. And we stay committed to someone based on the continued performance of our spouse. We’re basically grading our marriage, and we are using a pass or fail sliding scale.

I love ice cream because it’s delicious. Especially chocolate chip! I love my husband, but he isn’t always pleasing to my palate. Sometimes he’s downright bitter.

If we desire a happier marriage we have to enlist a bit of Christ-like behavior. We have to try and love more like Jesus does. We have to understand and discover that real, unbreakable love isn’t based on what we can get out of it. Real, unconditional love is the kind that dies for you even when you hate it. It’s the kind that forgives you even when you are the weapon of that death. It’s the kind of love that loves the unlovable, that loves even when it gets nothing in return.

I’m not asking you to be crucified like a martyr for your marriage, but I do think you’ll grasp a taste of the divine when you can try and sample what He placed before us as an example of love. We are the bride of Christ, and the love He’s laying down, can’t nobody model, but it comes back to that thing I mentioned in the first paragraph. Work in progress. We’re all working towards that perfection we can achieve through Him. Does that mean a perfect marriage? No. But it does mean a happier, healthier one if we can try a little harder to understand that real love He modeled.

When you walk in that kind of love for your spouse, you love them even when they say something thoughtless. You forgive them when they fail you. You love them when you’re not feeling like it, and you love them even when they have nothing to give in return. That is love.

We love Christ because He first loved us (1 John 4:19), and true, long-standing love is achieved through giving of yourself without expectation of what you’ll get in return.

We can’t place too much expectation on our marriage. The only perfect marriage is between Jesus and the Church. To love your spouse is to mean that even when they don’t meet that high expectation, we still love. We love like Christ, because He first loved us. I found that by modeling that kind of love towards my husband, he in turn loved me the same.

My husband and I only expect perfection in Jesus, and our true joy and contentment cannot be found in one another. They can only be found in Him. We have found happiness in remembering that on a day-to-day basis. We model His love to one another, but we also understand that kind of love can only truly be found in Him.

A Middle Aged Mom’s Review Of KareKare Curl (Aquatica Orlando’s Newest Waterslide)

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PSA:

I almost died today.

So, in my efforts to be the fun, cool mom (while my husband gruffly mumbled “I’m not getting wet), I quickly agreed to go ride a big water slide with my nine year old. Surely it couldn’t be that bad if she was tall enough to get on.

Famous last words.

It wasn’t the actually ride that was that terrible. What I remember of it (through my delirium) was enjoyable. But that could be the carbon dioxide poisoning status post hyperventilation.

So, I read the rules for the ride before boarding. Yes, I’m that person. It said a lot of stuff about weight requirements and how many per tube, but no where did I see the requirements stated to have completed an Iron Man competition. In reality, they should have posted one of those warnings like you see on roller coasters, something warning pregnant women, individuals with heart conditions, or middle aged women who haven’t exercised since Bush was in office (which one? Your choice).

I do know what the 9 feet tall sign of rules/warnings did not state. No where did it inform you that if you’ve had multiple children birthed vaginally that your uterus may pop out halfway to the top. It forgot to mention that you’d be lugging a 62 pound float up sixteen flights of stairs, and that the higher you went the more the air resembled that at the peak of Everest, or that a strange gravitational pull drew our planet closer to the sun as you ascended.

Before we got on they were kind enough to weigh you individually in front of the waiting crowd. The purpose I guess was to ensure you weren’t so light that you sailed off the top of the ride when it was tilted at a ninety degree angle, or so heavy that you dropped like a dead weight at the peak height of that same vertical, slippery thrill. In retrospect, I think it would have been more appropriate to have you bench press no less than 1 small smart car prior to ascension to prove your worthiness. But instead they approved my 5’ 4” 115 pound self to partner with my beanpole child who falls faint at the weight of her dirty clothes from the floor to the waiting laundry basket.

I’m thinking you shouldn’t have to spend money to ride this one, because your true payment is in blood, sweat, and tears as you tote an elephant sized float, weighted down with a lifetime supply of sand (or perhaps steel), again, I’m assuming to keep you from shooting off the top after reaching Mach 5 speed, up the stairway to Heaven.

It helps to have a small child on the back end “helping” by pulling down on her end while gasping, “I can’t Mom. It’s too heavy.”

It also helps to have young, vibrant teenagers coming up quickly on your six in a cloud of eye-rolls and poorly veiled sighs.

Y’all, when I finally reached the light at the end of the tunnel (cause that’s all I was seeing, lights and stars), I was greeted by a fourteen year old in a Baywatch swimsuit smirking at me.

“You alright,” she asked with a raised eyebrow.

“I’m fine,” I whistle/exhaled like a fifty year smoker after running a triathlon.

I walked cautiously to my awaiting, steel trap of death that I had carried to my own watery grave, trying not to stagger like Cooter Brown, though my poison wasn’t moonshine, but rather hypoxia. As I straddled the swaying, yellow coffin I was hit with a wave of nausea like that of a thousand morning sicknesses, though no first trimester queasiness could match the feeling that overcame me. If nausea was a dude, I imagined he’d be wearing a studded jacket and leather gloves as he punched one fist into his awaiting palm in warning of the beating that awaited me.

I kinda remember the five seconds of waterslide fun that followed my personal episode of American Ninja Warrior. For one brief second, in between the reels of my life flashing before my eyes, I thought, “this isn’t that bad.”

I was going to think, “this is kinda fun,” but that was about the time we dropped straight down from the striped funnel of folly, and my already bulging gorge threatened to expel the minuscule contents of my spasming stomach.

After it was over I rolled out of the two-ton raft like a hungover sailor just hitting dry land after a week at sea. I alternated between still trying to slow my labored breathing and gulping down the wave of acid that threatened to leave my body through my pursed, purple lips. I side-stepped (or rather struggled/stumbled) to the nearest vacant beach chair, plopping down violently, the blackness closing in. I tried to look normal, gain my composure, for fear another cast of Thirteen Reasons Why in lifeguard garb would come and ask the elderly woman if she needed them to call 9-1-1.

What you should not do at this point, if you ever find yourself in the same predicament, is to shamble in a trance over to the wave pool with your un-phased child. It’s just not a good idea to put battery acid in a washing machine, but that’s a post for another day. Just take my word for it and bring along pallbearers to carry your tube if you plan on riding KareKare Curl at Aquatica Orlando. #datfloattooheavy #forrealtho

Signed,

A Concerned, Middle Age Mom (Who may or may not have lost her cookies in the bathroom when no one was looking)

The Curse of Healthcare

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We’ve gotten really good at what we do. Have you noticed that? Hey, I’m all for it, for the most part, and if you or your family have come through my doors, you probably are too. The technological advances are amazing, and the things we can do are such a blessing to so many! I mean, diabetes used to kill little kids, but now modern medicine gives us the ability to live longer despite chronic illness. Widow Makers no longer make widows as much anymore, and the number of people who survive things like a ruptured aortic aneurysm has increased. Teens are surviving that deadly car wreck that no human should have survived, neonatal medicine saves babies that would have been doomed, and cancer no longer automatically spells death sentence. It’s wonderful! Except when it’s not.

It’s been going on a while, but I’m starting to see it more and more. I can glimpse pieces of the unraveling fabric that is good medicine. I can see where healthcare fails by being so damn good. I watch us become our own worst enemy, playing God a little too sufficiently, and we’re left with nothing but the hope that He can get us out of the mess we ourselves created.

Let’s say an elderly woman walks into the grocery store and falls face first into the frozen food shelving. Her heart has stopped. The blood is no longer pumping to her vital organs, and without that precious blood she lacks one other important ingredient for life. Oxygen.

A bystander who remembers enough from the community CPR course they took last summer arrives to the scene and initiates first response. 9-1-1 is called, EMS arrives quickly, the woman is zoomed to the nearest ER (which is really close because we’re building more and more satellite ERs everyday). Everything goes seamlessly, y’all. The CPR was high quality, the paramedics fast-acting, and the ER physician on-point, but despite the stellar work of the healthcare team a delay in the previously mentioned oxygen happens. You can’t die and not suffer some sort of repercussion of that, but what’s changed is how easily we can go forward from there.

Is your heart too weak to pump on its own? No problem. We have a machine for that.

If you don’t have a blood pressure high enough to pump blood throughout your body, no worries, we have medicine for that. A good handful, actually, and we’ll give you the maximum dosage of every single one!

Can’t breathe? You guessed it. We’ll breathe for you! You just rest a few days and we’ll handle the tough stuff.

And while all these advances are amazing and much needed, the problem is that sometimes they aren’t. Or perhaps they shouldn’t be. The problem with getting so good at playing God is dealing with the consequences of our actions.

So, remember our 86 year old grandma who passed out by the frozen ice cream? Well, ice cream is part of her problem. According to lab results and an ultrasound of her kidneys, she hasn’t been controlling her diabetes. Her kidneys are shot, her body is in shock, the waste isn’t exiting her body like it should, and all those life-sustaining medicines we’re pumping in aren’t really being dumped out on their own.

No problem, though. We can be her kidneys. We got this.

She’s swollen to the point of her skin busting, and her nurses are changing pads underneath her constantly from the fluid that is literally oozing out of her pores. We have medicines for this too. We call it a balancing act, you see, maintaining a blood pressure compatible with life while pulling off excessive fluid. As of now, it’s building up, backing up from her already damaged heart into her already supported lungs.

Kidney failure, heart failure, respiratory failure, these are nothing new to your critical care team. We see it all the time, and we’re pretty frigging good at keeping you alive despite all the failing organs, infection, and unexpected complications. What I’m trying to say is maybe sometimes we’re too good.

See, we’re great at fixing what’s broken, but some things we cannot fix. We can’t fix things like our precious aforementioned grammy not getting enough oxygen flow to her brain before her heart was restarted. We can’t make an EEG show brain activity when none is there. We can’t cure chronic conditions; we can only extend the life of them. And even then, when is enough enough?

I don’t want to sound heartless or cruel, because that’s not what this is. It’s the opposite, in fact. It’s the voice of a caring bedside nurse who sees the pain in a daughter’s eyes when her mom’s poor prognosis is explained and she’s asked if she wishes to withdraw care.

The blessing of healthcare is we’re so good at what we do.

The curse of healthcare is we’re so good at what we do.

We can artificially feed an individual who has no awareness of the world around them. We can do this forever.

We can bring back and sustain a life that probably should have moved on to Heaven. We can create prolonged suffering. It’s not the intention, but it happens. Without our high-functioning intervention a son would have had to suffer through the unexpected, quick death of his dad. But, he wouldn’t have had to watch his father waste away, a shell of himself, skin turning purple, skin breaking down. I don’t say these things to downplay the travesty, but rather to highlight it, to bring awareness to the devastation that can occur when a body lives on, when perhaps it should not have.

So, where do we draw the line? I wish I knew. As of now, we have advanced directives, and unless those say otherwise, we, as the healthcare team, will fight tooth and nail to ward off demise. We will throw a patient everything we have, which with today’s technology, is almost literally the kitchen sink. And I am so proud to be a part of these crusaders against death. Sometimes, though, in retrospect, you see the suffering all around you and you wish you hadn’t.

When keeping a body alive hurts, and there’s no known or likely chance of recovery, you wish you weren’t so good at what you do. When the lights are on, but no one is home, you wish nature could have taken its course. When suffering is prolonged, healthcare almost seems like hurt-care.

The number of nurses are declining, but the number of patients are increasing. People live longer (which is a good thing), but sadly a large number of the bedside nurses who see on a daily basis the suffering of patients, they’re leaving that same bedside. They’re going to further their education or into administrative positions where they don’t have to explain to another family that their loved one has zero chance of recovering after they were revived.

Quality of life is sacrificed just for life, often times a shell of one, and it’s not up to nursing to decide what is considered quality and what is not. They just watch from the sidelines where that conversation is concerned. It’s emotionally exhausting, and I think where a lot of burnout derives. Many times the healthcare team is the only one that sees the reality/downfall of sustained life that should be let go. The families don’t come. They call frequently, make demands, but they don’t come to witness the hard stuff. I get it; it just doesn’t make it any easier in the end. I can’t tell you how many hands I held when they needed it most.

But I guess that’s what we’re here for, right? We’re here to save them, and to rejoice when they improve. But we’re also there to suffer with them as they slowly die. It’s hard for everyone involved. I suppose we take the good with the bad. We give a man with a 100% blockage to his heart muscle a second chance, where he holds his grandkids, and sits on the front porch swing with his wife. But we also break ribs. We put surgical holes in people, place lifelong tubes there, and whisper a desperate prayer as we try and do no harm.

I try to focus on the successes. I try to listen to God’s voice really hard. I pray. I pray a lot. But mostly I just love on folks. Every single one. The ones we save, the ones we don’t, the ones we shouldn’t have, the ones where we didn’t know. Because in the end, many times, love may be all we can give.

Raising Flat-Chested Daughters Who Eat Cake

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I saw a magazine laying on the table of a hospital waiting room as I walked by, and I recognized it pretty quickly as one I used to read some thirty years ago. Before I knew it my own daughters would be old enough to pour through the pages of fashion magazines, and as I thought back to my own interactions with the likes of YM, Vogue, and Seventeen I hoped my daughters would have a stronger self-worth than I did back then.

I remember staring at the glossy pages of my favorite read and eyeing the glistening cleavage on the young model on the page, envying the slope of her breasts as they played peekaboo with the unbuttoned oxford tied lazily over cutoff denim shorts. I would look back at the mirror where my reflection held copycat attire, except for the perky bosom. My flat chest would stare back at me, and I would feel as deflated as it looked.

My mom bought me my first Miracle Bra. Remember those? Automatic boobies! I can also remember running around frantically in seventh grade, searching for my one, cherished, padded brassiere before my boyfriend came over and discovered I wasn’t the budding B cup my padded bra conveyed.

“Where did I take that thing off at?!!”

I can remember my mother taping my chest and drawing me a cleavage to match the padding in my formal dresses during pageant time. I can remember us girls in school comparing our weight at cheerleading practice. I was next to the skinniest one, and it felt good. I finally felt like maybe I measured up. By measuring down. Which is kinda weird, I know. I remember when I got chubby my mom let me know, and when I lost weight she was quick to compliment me. She was always so proud of my tiny figure, and she loved showing me off to her friends at work, which made me smile. It still does. She wasn’t trying to instill any negative thoughts in me, this I know, but that’s what happened. It just kinda worked right along with what the magazines said was pretty.

I drink Diet Coke nowadays, and I’ve always drank Diet Coke. It’s the only soda that existed in my home growing up. I can remember seeing a jar of Dexatrim on top of the refrigerator, and a cartoon drawing of a large woman in a bikini on a scale on the fridge door reminding anyone who opened it to watch what they ate. My mom was on a diet for as long as I can remember. Again, I don’t think she was trying to instill a negative mindset in me. It just happens to be a consequence of watching the person you love more than anything in the world be on a perpetual diet.

Yesterday was my eldest daughter’s ninth birthday party. I had already decided I would not be having cake. I’ve always been able to stay small, but a simple weight gain of seven pounds and I start to feel miserable about it. I can’t help it, and even as much as I’ve grown spiritually or matured with age, if I’m not in my comfort zone of weight, I feel horrible.

For the past 3-4 months I had been telling myself it was the birth control pills I started taking at the beginning of the year, or that it was the new normal, being in my forties and all. I told myself I was happy with who I was. And I was! I’ve never felt more self-confident and content in my life. But still, when you’ve lived forty-two years with the weight that makes you feel the best, nothing less more will do. So, after pushing it off since the holidays ended, I was finally on a diet. Sigh.

One thing I didn’t do, though. I didn’t talk about it around my daughters. If we were throwing out the processed food and going organic for the good of the family, then yes, we all had the conversation. But if Momma was counting carbs to fit better in her favorite denim capris, I kept that close to the cuff, or rather the waistband, I guess you could say. I didn’t want them even knowing what a diet was!

So back to cake. I had decided no cake! I was 8 days into Ketosis, and after my bread withdrawals I didn’t want to wreck my progress. I was an all or nothing kinda gal, and I was all in on shedding this middle age muffin on my midsection. No cake!

The party couldn’t have been more perfect. I mean, it wasn’t perfect. It was a Dollar Tree decorated jumble of pink and flowers, but the point was, she loved it. She freaking loved it! Her eyes wide, her smile even wider. She blushed with excitement and couldn’t stop saying, “this is awesome! It’s even better than I imagined it would be!”

She had beamed at the Baskin Robbins cake, the smallest they made, and certainly not the stuff Instagram promotes or Pinterest is made of. It was just a plain ole cake, but she couldn’t stop smiling. It had cost about twenty bucks, but she couldn’t stop smiling. She giggled with glee as her dad prepared to make the first cut, and she smiled even wider as he divvied out slices around the table. I knew it then. I knew I’d eat cake. I had to.

I didn’t want the carbohydrates, but even more I didn’t want the conversation. I didn’t want her asking why I wasn’t having cake. They say truth is stranger than fiction, but I guess it’s harder too. I didn’t want to tell my innocent, precious girl, “your mom doesn’t always like herself. So that’s why I’m not eating your birthday cake.”

The best days I have, the ones where I love myself, the ones where I feel beautiful and amazing, that’s what I want for my daughters. I want them to be healthy, sure, but I don’t want them judging themselves by society’s standards. I don’t want them to value their worth by their waist size. I don’t want them comparing themselves to anyone else. I don’t want them wishing they could be more. So many days I wish I could turn back time and erase the breast implants I got in my twenties, so I never have to tell them how bad I felt I needed a big bust to be beautiful.

I want my daughters to realize beauty is more than skin deep, that the skin doesn’t even matter. I want them to age gracefully, live life fully, and take the best parts of me into their future. I don’t want to raise them on scales or hearing me berate myself.

I want my daughters to focus on the things that really matter. I want to cultivate kindness, not self-absorption. More importantly, I want them to view others through the right lenses, not judging people by what they wear, how they appear. I want them to know they can’t judge a book by its cover, and they can only judge themselves by the standard set by their Heavenly Father.

My daughters need to understand they’re precious, set apart, made unique, and I sure don’t want them thinking they need to change for anybody. I don’t always get it right for myself, but I want better for my girls. I want them to experience a healthier view than the one I’ve always had, or even the one that tries to assault me now. I want them to see themselves like Jesus sees them, and to see others the same.

I want to raise daughters who can be proud of their flat chest, cause let’s face it, genetics ain’t in their favor for anything else. I want to raise daughters who are healthy, but can enjoy some cake and ice cream without counting the calories or beating themselves up. I want to raise daughters who know they’re worth more than what Hollywood tries to sell them or what a magazine may try to tell them. I want to raise daughters who know their worth.

When they’re older perhaps I can share my struggles with them, but while they are young and impressionable I will speak life. I’ll speak confidence, and I’ll model self-love for them to see. I won’t call myself fat or use words like diet. I won’t frown at the mirror or refuse to take a picture with them in my bathing suit. They can’t see me being unhappy with me because right now I’m the woman they look up to as how they want to be. And me… I want them to be happy with who God made them to be.

So, I’ll eat the cake, and I’ll play in the dirt. I’ll let them dress themselves in clothes that don’t match if it makes them feel pretty. We’ll laugh, play, act silly, dress comfy, and love life, ourselves, and others because when it comes right down to it, isn’t that what it’s all about?

My Husband Didn’t Lift a Finger to Help

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I stood at the sink scrubbing dish after dish. It was like the day after Thanksgiving, and never-mind that the amount of bowls and silverware only appeared monumentally huge because of our smaller RV sink. What mattered was I was singlehandedly tackling the leaning tower of plates and pans on my own. Behind me my husband played a game on his phone, and the ping, ping sounds of his imaginary battle did little to soothe my feelings of neglect. There he was engrossed in his phone while I slaved away at the sink.

When he had mentioned offhand the dreaded takeover of dirty dishes the night before I had commented, “no problem. We can do them together tomorrow.”

Yet here I was. By myself. He didn’t even lift a finger to help me.

I have to work tomorrow, I thought angrily.

My thoughts of being put upon fed into one another, and like fertilizer my discontented mental mayhem made my anger grow. The more I thought about how much I did for the relationship, the madder I became.

He’s certainly not working tomorrow. I mused mentally. What will he be doing?! Probably playing on his phone some more!

I worked, I brought home the bacon. He stayed home. I mean, I wasn’t asking for a lot. Just some help with the dishes.

But he always does the dishes, this meek, quiet part of my mind commented.

Darn her. Yeah, he did. He always did the dishes.

He does the laundry too, the wise, mild-mannered me spoke.

Yeah, I guess you’re right.

He actually does a lot. Like, almost everything, the selfless side of my brain countered.

Gosh, he did do everything. I rinsed a mug as my eyes drifted to our Keurig coffee maker. I mean, he even filled that water. I had noticed a few months ago that every morning when I went to make my morning joe the water line was at maximum capacity, and finding that unusual I asked my spouse about it.

“I do that before I go to bed,” he had said. “I know you get up so early, and you’re rushed sometimes, so I wanted that to be one less thing you have to worry about.

And as I stood there washing the remnant of egg off a frying pan, looking at the water container of my coffee machine, a voice of reason whispered again. This time it wasn’t my good wife side, but rather the Holy Spirit.

This is a service to your spouse.

Bam. The reality of it hit me like a Mack Truck. He always washed the dishes, and by me washing them today I was offering him a reprieve. Last week he had sent me to the pool alone, knowing I needed a little quiet time to myself. Even though he spent all his time with our young daughters, even though he was never alone, and even though he was the one who needed a break without tiny voices demanding attention, he sent me off to be alone. What were a few dishes?

Again the voice of truth.

Marriage is about service, not comparison.

It seemed to bless my spouse to do these things for me. Whether big or small, he took pride in it all. Whether he was folding my pajamas, homeschooling our children, or cooking supper, he always had a smile on his face. He worked so much harder than I always gave him credit for.

It’s easy to forget sometimes that Satan is out to destroy marriage. He wishes to sink the first union God created. He knows that two are better than one, and he understands that a team dedicated to serving the Lord together is a force not to be challenged. It’s much easier on him to divide and conquer, to confuse couples, to deceive them so effectively that they’re too busy focusing of themselves to work with their partner towards God’s will for their life. When he can instill selfish thoughts and comparison, he takes a husband and wife’s eyes off the prize ahead. Instead of moving forward they stall out, and many times they bail all together. Thankfully my own thoughts of self-centeredness were brief in nature, but I knew it was my own desire to be like Jesus and serve in love that blessed my marriage. In showing my love to my husband by appreciating his contributions to our family, remaining humble in my own, and realizing our combined efforts created a beautiful union, I not only served my spouse, I also served the Lord.

The thing is, in the grand scheme of life, a sink full of dishes doesn’t mean much at all. A healthy, happy marriage, though, that means more than we even realize. It means our daughters will grow up in a joy-filled home brimming with laughter rather than a broken one punctuated by raised voices. It means a cord of two strands that won’t easily be broken when the problems of this world rear their ugly head. It means simply more time enjoying each other’s presence rather than resenting our relationship. It means a happier life. No matter how many dishes it racks up.

As I finished placing the last rinsed fork into the dish drain, I noticed my husband walking into the bathroom. He spent the next 45 minutes fixing a clogged sink, and completed the job by scrubbing the sink until it was gleaming. Thank goodness it’s not a competition. The score would definitely be in his favor.

God Doesn’t Expect Our Perfection

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I woke up this morning with conflict on my mind. I hated that! The thing was I had gone to sleep with the same worries plaguing me. Before I drifted to sleep I read the Bible, desiring to fill my mind with truth, yet I still woke with it in my head. Ugh.

I hate conflict. I think my husband is the luckiest guy on the planet because he rarely has to face a fight with me. Arguments make me uncomfortable, and raised voices make me shake. When I come across a disagreement with someone I am quick to back down, apologize, make amends, whatever needed to save the relationship. And I think that’s a good thing overall. It means I value people over always being right. In my line of work as a nurse there are a lot of times I’m right, but I will let it go. I try to place myself in the other person’s shoes, and I do this with everyone. My preference is to avoid conflict altogether, but eventually it occurs despite my best intentions.

It was such an interaction that kept coming up in my mind as I stood in the shower. I don’t know why my brain does this, but I will replay a negative interaction over and over. I’ll think of things I didn’t say, things I should have said, and of course question anything I did say or do. I will mentally beat myself up over something like this, and that’s what I found myself doing this morning.

As I stood before the mirror mentally trying to push the situation that was over and done with to the over and done with bin of my brain, I prayed, and at that moment I felt very strongly that I should speak to this matter out loud. It seemed kind of crazy to me, but I knew its merit also. After all, when anxiety or senseless worry continues to assault your mind, where do you suppose these thoughts come from? They certainly aren’t from God. Conviction of where you might be wrong is one thing, but incessant agonizing is not. Fretting isn’t from a friend, and panic isn’t for our pleasure. One thing I knew; God did not want me feeling this way, making mountains out of molehills.

They say there’s power in the name of Jesus, and believing that to be so I spoke His name out loud.

“These thoughts that are harassing me aren’t welcome,” I said. “You have to leave in Jesus name.”

Y’all, if my mirror turned into a burning bush I wouldn’t have been surprised, because divine intervention happened in that room. It wasn’t like it took a while, either. It wasn’t later in the day or even thirty minutes after. Within moments I felt better. The anxious thoughts had drifted away. They no longer banged persistently at my door. They left.

As I sat on my bed getting ready I finally thought about other things, and as my mind wandered towards a parent’s class at my church I thought of some good advice for moms and the unrealistic expectations we place on our parenting skills.

God doesn’t expect our perfection. So why do we?

It was like a lightening bolt word of wisdom that I suddenly realized could be used in my day to day life and interactions with others. A lot of my worry when conflict occurred was if I handled it properly, or if I was a good example of Christ. On times like the most recent object of my obsession and personal conflict I knew I had a tendency to beat myself up over how I could have handled things better. But God didn’t expect my perfection. So why did I?

I was reminded that I won’t be perfect in every single interaction I have with others. Let’s be honest; some people are really difficult to handle. But the point is I’m trying. I strive each day to be a better me than yesterday, but when I fall I can be reminded of God’s bountiful grace. I can remember that in my weaknesses I find strength in Him. I guess that’s a reminder we all need from time to time.

What Christians Need Most

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As I left work last night I marveled at the pink and lavender sky as the sun began its descent along the horizon. It had been a pretty good day. I mean, it had been a long day. Thirteen hours on your feet never felt short, and looking at a step-counter on my phone, I had walked a few miles to boot. The patients had been challenging, and I felt a dull throb in my lower back from lifting, pulling, and holding two times my body weight every two hours throughout the day. But still, it had been a pretty good day.

“Thank you for a good day, Lord,” I spoke out loud.

I smiled. Despite the full, long day, despite the weariness around the edges, I felt good. I felt joy. There was a difference between happiness and joy. Happiness was dependent on your situation. The day before I had been very happy while I floated in the pool, but as I made the drive home, feet tired and brain frazzled, I felt that river of contentment flowing through my being.

What made life like this? I wondered.

And just as quickly I thought, the fruit of the spirit.

It seemed to permeate most of my day. It had changed how I interacted with coworkers, patients, a stranger in line at the store, my spouse, and everyone in between. It had changed me. I had not always been so patient or even so kind. I had not always been loving, and I certainly wasn’t the epitome of self control. Even now, I am the furthest from perfect as anyone can be, but I have seen myself grow over the past few years. And because of such, my life has improved dramatically.

I know why, and I saw something run across the news lately that especially brought this to the forefront of my mind. One huge decision I had made in my life had flipped it upside down, which honestly meant it was right side up. Isn’t it funny how what the world tells us is correct, nine times out of ten, that’s just not true? I discovered real truth is only found in one place, but I’m astounded by how many don’t even consider it as important. I mean, they know it is, but knowing and doing are two different things entirely.

The national news story that I came across happened to have occurred less than fifteen minutes from the town I grew up in, and though I no longer lived there, it made me sad to see such horrible happenings become attached to my hometown. It was disappointing but not all together surprising. I had been raised there, after all, and I could recall hearing the same thing from some people in the small, Southern Baptist church that I had entered my teenage years attending, but had never returned to after college.

It seems that a woman was caught on video denying wedding services to another woman because the couple to be wed were an interracial couple. You can catch details of the story here, but to sum it up the owner of the establishment stated they were denying their services due to their “Christian” beliefs that interracial marriage was a sin. In other words, she was implying God was against mixing races, and was quoted as saying she “wasn’t going to argue her beliefs.”

I must say I was pleased with the majority response from friends in the area. They were appalled by the situation, and some very strong worded about it. A few others offered grace, and it was through such a source that I saw a personal response on the owner’s Facebook page a few days later. I have to give the woman applause for admitting she was wrong, and while I in no way condone or approve of her opinion, I do think it was very good for her to publicly admit her fault.

In her public apology she confessed that she had always assumed this particular instance (interracial relationships) to be mentioned in scripture, but at her husband’s prodding she had found it was not. After studying her Bible and seeking Godly counsel from her pastor, she realized her long-held “belief” was strictly passed down intolerance. Nowhere in the Bible did it claim this to be a sin, but since she had been raised by other humans to believe it was, that became her truth.

And that’s where our problems lies, ladies and gentleman. We are a generation of busy Christians, Christians much too hurried to have time for the Bible. We assume Sunday is enough, flipping rapidly through whatever verse the preacher reads out loud, forgetting that the man on the pulpit is also just a man. We forget that we must glean the scriptures ourselves for God’s truth, that per His instruction we must meditate on it day and night.

What happens instead is that we start accepting the world’s truth as God’s truth. We think success is found through possessions, that healing just through the hospital. We lose sight of who God is, that He is the same yesterday, today, and forever. So we assume miracles are something from Old Testament Times, and that now it’s up to us to make our own way.

What happens is we push people away from Jesus. We’re so busy relying on man-made and mankind adapted rules and religious, pharisaical dos and don’ts that we lose sight of truth. We forget the greatest command of them all because we aren’t daily submerged in God’s Word! We remember how to play church, but we forget how to love!

What happens is we become depressed and anxious. We worry about things we can’t control. We look at man to save us! Bail me out of this jam, loan man. We stay up all night long trying to figure out how to solve our dilemmas. Meanwhile God is just waiting for us to ask. Maybe we get overweight or we develop a problem with drinking, gambling, pornography. We’re just so lonely, empty, and hopeless, and we search all over for something to fill the vacant places. Never once do we crack the Bible to find the answers there.

Hard day at work? Let’s go get a drink! That’ll fix it. Smh. Hey, I’ve been there. No judgment here. All I know, from personal experience, is that the next morning my head hurt and my problem still existed. It wasn’t until I read the Bible and learned how to view my job that work no longer sucked. Just being honest.

See, what happens is we think babies in the womb aren’t a life until they get on the outside, like maybe a hotdog in the package isn’t food until we finish cooking it on the grill and throw it in a bun. Hey, my three year old holding a cold wiener straight from the pack may disagree, but I’ve heard crazier things.

I’ve heard that you can fill your mind with horrific images via movies or your music, without any consequences to your spirit. I’ve heard you can ask for good vibes on Facebook while consulting your psychic and get your grandma to pray to Jesus for you all at the same time. You really want to cover all the bases for best results. It’s okay to lie if no one finds out, and cussing out someone on the freeway is fine and dandy. Oh, and you don’t really have to give 10% in the offering plate anymore if you need the money for something else. I mean, who do you think provides for us? Us, of course!

So what happens is we end up thinking we don’t need God everyday. We drift along happily with our fancy life, planning our parties and running up our credit card bills for more stuff we don’t need. But then when our child gets really sick we cry out to Jesus.

Oh, Jesus, why won’t you answer me?!

Give Him a minute. Maybe He’s trying to place your voice. After all, He hasn’t heard it in six months.

What happens is we believe lies from Satan. We don’t think they’re from Satan. We don’t even really think about him. He’s mentioned somewhere in the Bible, but the preacher only mentions the devil when he talks about Hell, and you’re not going there. You’re saved by the blood of Jesus. You’re a Christian. Your youth leader told you so! What happens is we become Christian only in title; we lose sight of living like one. We forget that to be a Christian is to be a follower of Christ, and to follow the ways of Jesus you have to read what He said, what He did, what He sacrificed for you. You have to be brought to literal tears when you read how much He gave so that you could live! But instead we spend our time binging Netflix and crying over our latest romance novel.

You know what? I love me some Netflix. I won’t deny it. But nothing comes before the truth. Nothing.

To walk in freedom, to bear the fruits of the spirit, and to lead a joyful, hopeful, wonderful life that is lacking no thing we must read the Bible! I know, I know. I too used to think that was just something people said. You think that praying is enough, that going to church on Sunday is enough, that wearing shirts with scripture on them is enough, that hanging out with other Christians is enough, that growing your hair long or being submerged in water just in itself is enough, that wearing a cross around your neck and flying the flag of Israel in your yard is enough (yeah, I saw the flag hanging next to it that evokes feelings of division and hate, but that’s a blog for another day). The point is, none of it is enough, and because this stuff can take the place of God’s Word in your life, it’s actually a lie straight from Hell. Your “salvation” is really your veil that covers your eyes, and it’s the stumbling block that makes others fall. Only in Spirit and Truth will we find the wholeness that God can provide. Listen, I’m not saying you’re going to Hell if you never read your Bible. There’s only one judge up in here. But I am saying that if you want to live a full, free, joyful life then you have to dig deeper. You have to read God’s Word.

How do I know this? I mean, besides scripture saying it’s so? I see it in my life. Over the past eight years I have been on a journey of growth with the Lord, and the biggest breakthrough began to occur when I submerged myself in the scriptures. I began to crave more of Him, and it filled me to read His Word. Over time the words of truth bled into my life and they transformed me. How I viewed myself, how I viewed others, and how I viewed the world all changed. I began to see everything through the eyes of Christ. But it wasn’t just that.

I found joy. True, lasting joy. I got rid of fear once and for all. I kicked anxiety to the curb. I learned how Jesus could help me deal with my depression. Of note, because I see feathers ruffling already, I take a medication to help with hormonal mood swings and depression. I am a nurse, after all, and I do believe God gave us the brains to develop healthcare, but I also know my Healer works in me in conjunction.

I’ve found my life is more fulfilling, my marriage is happier. Like, I fall in love with my husband more and more each day. Of note, he reads the Bible everyday also. We do it together. God’s truth carries our marriage to places it could never go without Him. Our marriage is so successful because of Jesus, and knowing the Bible helps us know how to treat one another as Christ would.

Y’all, I could go on and on about how God’s Word fed into my life has changed everything for the better, but I know you don’t have all day. I don’t want you reading this much longer anyway. I want you reading your Bible!

The point is, you can belief what your family has always said, what your friends say, and what the world deceives you into believing. You can do this, still find salvation, but have a rough road until Jesus returns. Or… you can read His instruction manual now (because He told us in there what to do until He returns), and find some joy and contentment here on earth. Am I saying life is perfect if you read your Bible? Heck, no. But it sure is a lot easier with truth on your side. Plus, the side effects are phenomenal.

Can Christians Get Offended?

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I can remember when I first started travel nursing that the first thing people noticed about me was my thick, Southern drawl. Heck, even now it’s the way people will differentiate me from others. If I’m not known as the “singing nurse,” then I’m described as the one with a Southern accent. I’ve been called Reba, and if I had a dollar for every person that tried to do an impression of my country twang I could have retired last week.

Yeah, people are not as good at impersonations as they assume, but I’m sure many a Brit would raise an eyebrow at my Monty Python impressions, so I can’t say a word. The thing is, though, if I’m being totally honest, it’s not near as amusing as people assume. Repeating a word I’ve said in your own impression of my pronunciation as you laugh hysterically isn’t funny to me. In fact, it’s eye roll worthy as I fake laugh along. But even now, as I bristle at the harmless prodding at my expense, I don’t react like I used to.

I used to be terribly offended. See, I was born in San Diego, California by a world-traveling mom, and we only moved to Mississippi to settle down when I was about eight. I could have quickly adapted the accent of my local peers, but a part was always held back by my mother’s suggestion. She raised me to enunciate my words, to use a vast vocabulary, and to make a point to sound as educated as possible. She fought hard to ward off her own Southern drawl as it crept into everyday vernacular, as her experience had impressed one, huge thing upon her.

A Southern accent=stupidity

That was the majority assumption, anyway.

This was what she had experienced. It was what traveling the world had taught her. And as such, she raised me to understand the same. When I began my own world travels so many of the things I encountered nailed home her point. In Naval Bootcamp I achieved the highest scholastic scores among my peers, earning my parents a special seat next to the Chief Officer of the base during my graduation, and allowing me to march at that ceremony in a special company. As we practiced the drill we would execute at our graduation a senior enlisted gentleman commented on my upbringing.

“Where are you from?” he asked.

“Mississippi, Petty Officer,” I replied quickly.

“Well,” he commented in surprise and sarcasm, “I didn’t know they made smart people in Mississippi.”

While I served in the Navy in the Washington, D.C. area I was on the receiving end of reverse racism, with people assuming that since I was from the South, I was automatically a bigot. My mother had hated this aspect the most. She had told me once that people saw movies like Mississippi Burning, and they assumed everyone from that area wanted to wear white hoods and hang black people. In my experience, I even had someone report me to my boss. I had been singing a country love song that came into my head about a man who committed suicide when his girlfriend left him (hey, I didn’t say country songs were known for their great lyrics). The guy in the song hung himself in grief, and the secretary who heard me singing reported to our superior that she feared for her life when she was around me. Because of the accent, where I was from, she assumed my song was something about hanging black people, even though the lyrics never said something even close to that.

This is turning out to be a bit longer than I intended, but I guess I want you to understand why it offended me so much when people poked fun at my Southern accent. In a way, I felt discriminated against for my accent. In my experience, people assumed I was ignorant, racist, uneducated, and the like. My upbringing and my own negative experiences had caused me to be easily offended when my accent was brought to the forefront. I think we all have really good reasons we get offended about things.

As a nurse I’ve gotten offended when a patient is rude. I mean, do they know the responsibilities I handle with limited time and resources? Why are they being angry at me? It’s not my fault they’re sick! I’m just here to help! I don’t deserve such anger aimed at me like an arrow for trying to help!

As a customer I’ve gotten offended. They’re here to serve me. What’s with the attitude?! They must hate their job!

I get offended on the interstate when people cut me off in traffic. I’m going five miles above the speed limit here, buddy!

I can get offended when my husband doesn’t read my mind like a good spouse is supposed to. Doesn’t he know I don’t really mean I’m fine?!

I can especially get offended when people don’t agree with me. As a writer I put out a lot of opinion posts, and not everyone agrees. I’ve had people say some pretty heinous things to me via comments or email. I’ve had people tell me that they feel sorry for my children being raised by me, such an awful person. I’m leaving out the graphic language, mind you. Sometimes I’m so certain that what I’m speaking is truth; I’d bet my life on it! Yet people disagree, and they tell me so quite strongly.

I’ve had close friends and family say or do despicable things to me that have hurt me so badly. I mean, when someone cuts you to the bone, isn’t that a legitimate cause of offense?

See, I’m not saying I don’t have reason to be offended. I’m not saying you don’t. Can Christians be offended? Of course they can! I suppose the better question would be… should they get offended?

Matthew 5:38-40

38 “You have heard that it was said, ‘Eye for eye, and tooth for tooth.’[a] 39 But I tell you, do not resist an evil person. If anyone slaps you on the right cheek, turn to them the other cheek also. 40 And if anyone wants to sue you and take your shirt, hand over your coat as well.

An interesting thing happened as I began to dive deeper into my walk with Jesus. As I began to read God’s Word more and more, I found myself taking on the pages. I mean, I began to act more like scriptures said I should. It wasn’t like I was trying to follow some religious teaching or law. It’s just that the more time I spent reading about Jesus, the more I loved Him. And the more I loved Him, the more I wanted to be like Him. I wanted to see with His eyes and love with His heart. I wanted to be a servant, not selfish. I wanted to encourage people, and help them to see their worth in Christ.

When a patient was undeservingly rude to me, I laid down offense, and instead I asked myself to imagine how hard it must be to be the sick person in that bed. It didn’t matter that it wasn’t my fault, or even if it was theirs. It didn’t matter that I was trying to help, or that I didn’t deserve a cussing. Why would it?

See, we get offended a lot because of bad treatment we don’t deserve. Check. I get it. It’s offensive. Jesus didn’t deserve to be crucified. Remember what He said?

“They know not what they do.”

As a follower of Christ I realized the best way I could show His love (a commandment He gave me, by the way) was to love like Him.

When people hurt my feelings, I laid down offense. Instead of thinking of my own hurt, I wondered what hurt they must be under to make them act that way.

When someone cut me off in traffic or a cashier was rude, I offered grace. I smile really big at them!

When my husband doesn’t read my feelings I remind myself that we are different.

When people don’t agree with me, I remind myself that everyone won’t. That doesn’t change my eternity.

And speaking of eternity? Have you ever stopped and realized that 99% of the things that offend us actually have no eternal impact? But, how we respond to the people who offend us, well, that can have an eternal consequence. We may push people away when they offend us, but we shouldn’t push them away from Jesus. If someone stumbles because of me, well, I don’t even want to think about it.

I am who God says I am. Thirty-four years ago, in His great wisdom, God placed me and my mom in Mississippi. He orchestrated my mom meeting my adoptive dad, and my subsequent adoption, the one that would positively impact my opinion of fathers and my life. God placed me in the South, and God loves my Southern drawl. After I laid down my offense I realized that most people love my accent as well. They weren’t all making fun of me or judging my intellect. My offense told me that, but it wasn’t true. I’ve discovered that my patients love the soothing sound of my slow, Southern drawl. It puts their souls at ease in a harried, uncertain environment. It implies caring and it easily earns trust. I cherish my accent, and I’ve found lately that in difficult situations at the bedside, like when I must break bad news, I draw out my syllables a little longer, and I dredge them in sugar a bit more. The patients like that.

I’ve learned that although many times I have every right to be offended, and that God won’t love me any less because I am, I am better able to fulfill my calling when I let go of offense. When I can turn the other cheek I am actually showing the face of Jesus. When I take off the red rage that veils my eyes under my own offense, I am better able to see where and who needs love most.

Will every situation we encounter require us to lay down our offense? No. I’m not saying to let yourself be filleted open for the masses. But I am saying that when we can let go of ourselves and see other’s pain, Jesus smiles. When we can love someone despite their hurting our feelings, they’ll see Jesus in us. When He calls us to lay down our life for a brother, He even means the ones who disagree with us. We can lay down offense, and we can pick up love in its place.