Brie Gowen

Savor the Essence of Life

I Finally Found Where I Fit In!

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I can recall receiving a specific message tailored just for me from a visiting prophet when I was twenty-one years old. His words were like a soothing balm, the proclamation I had always wanted in life, whether I realized it or not. He didn’t know me personally, yet the accuracy of his comments struck a chord with my misfit heart, and I have remembered them always.

He had spoken, “you feel like an outcast, like you’ve never fit in. But God wants you to know He has a place for you. You’ve always felt like a square peg, and God is saying He has a square hole in mind just for you.”

These encouraging words were just what I needed. I had always felt like an outsider in life. I was the girl in school who tried to hang out at the “cool kids’” lunch table, but had somehow never been able to take a seat there. I didn’t feel welcome.

As a child I was the new kid, from out West, with the weird accent. Totally tubular.

Or I was the sick kid. Epilepsy. Not a well-known condition in small-town U.S.A.

I was the adopted kid, never really fitting in with all the cousins. Treated differently by the grandparents even if they didn’t mean it to be that way.

I was the little girl who was so ordinary that her biological father had left town, never looking back at the daughter he rejected.

I was the quiet girl in school. Pretty, but odd. Puberty didn’t hit until I was seventeen, and I was the last cheerleader who still admitted to playing with Barbies or frogs.

In all the Howard Hughes’ films of the eighties, the outcasts and misfits at least had their own clique. Even The Nerds got their revenge.

But I didn’t fit in anywhere. I couldn’t find my group, and went through most of my young life trying way too hard to find my niche. A loner. Maybe even a loser.

I was born again at the age of 19. I can remember feeling such acceptance into God’s family, but it seemed short-lived. I’ll never say this was anyone’s fault but my own. I know my own perceptions are often to blame. It was probably the devil at work in my feelings, and perhaps in the actions of others as well. Regardless, I never felt like I fit into the Church. Most of my Christian peers had been raised in a deep faith, and I was still learning to read the Bible. I didn’t understand all the rules, of what was good, or what was definitely bad. I was on a learning curve when it came to taboos of the Christian walk, and those who corrected me were not usually gentle. Sadly, I have way too many instances of harsh correction by my “sisters” in faith, and I know I have healing still left from those encounters.

I had a past, but one thing I learned about people was, ones outside the church didn’t care about that stuff. They didn’t give a hoot about what I wore, if I watched an R rated movie, or if I had saved myself for marriage. It was much easier to get along with the people who skipped Sundays all together, and so began a season of being apart from God.

It makes me wonder, is backsliding the result of sinful influence outside the church, or is it perhaps the realization one haves that they’ll never be good enough to have a place at the table of religion?

Oh, but Grace. Great, great grace.

I have finally found my place. I have finally found where I fit. For awhile I thought the place that prophet spoke of over twenty years ago was a certain space. For years I wondered where God would move me, or what group of friends He would put in my path. Still corrupted by the ways of this world, and still scarred by past rejection, I still tried to make myself fit. I attempted to insert myself in this women’s group or that ministry opportunity. I allowed my belief system to be that of the majority to which I wanted to conform, knowing that to sit at the table, there are certain standards you must uphold, and certain opinions you must keep inside. The thing is, no matter how much I tried to mold myself into the Godly women I admired, the more unqualified I felt. I wasn’t the trendy mom, the crafty homeschooler, or the first hand up to volunteer for watching the nursery on Sunday. I didn’t like being busy, spinning plates, or overwhelming my schedule. Then I had this habit of seeing the best in others, trying to walk in the shoes of the “sinners,” and remembering far too easily the past I had previously mentioned. I wanted to give money to a guy on the street without worrying if he was going to spend it wisely! I wanted to believe that each time a drug addict ended up in my hospital bed, that they would stop using, and change their life. When others whispered about a short skirt on Sunday, I remembered a “church lady” making me leave a meeting because my t-shirt said the word “suck” on it.

My weird ideas have often left people confused. My fair treatment of those different than myself has made me unpopular in certain circles. In fact, the last year has found me ousted from the table of many of my Christian friends, simply for speaking topics not allowed for discussion. I guess we could call them “square peg” topics in the circular world of religion.

I felt so hurt. I felt the rejection all over again. Kindness was met with anger, and I trudged away licking my wounds. I guess sometimes you think you’ve found the place where God has you to fit in, only to discover you’ll never fit! We aren’t meant to fit in the pretty, round spaces this world provides. It turns out the edges have hidden rough spots, and you can get a face full of splinters, even as others have planks in their eyes.

When I read the Bible, though, I felt like I fit. When I read, re-read, meditated, and prayed over the words of Jesus, I felt totally at home. In His warm embrace I found my place, and in His love I found me.

I’m not in any way trying to lessen the importance of gathering with fellow believers. I truly belief that finding a church home, surrounded with brothers and sisters in Christ is much needed. Relationships are beneficial! The support, counsel, and correction of other believers is required in this confusing walk of life. So, don’t get me wrong, here. I’m not saying to throw out the baby with the bath water. But I am saying that some dirt and grime can get in the way sometimes.

Some people in this world find their place like the perfect glove. For others, they always feel like an outcast. I think it’s good to understand that if you don’t feel like you fit, you’re in good company. Jesus never fit in with the religious leaders of His day, either. People will misunderstand you, they will hurt you, or they’ll unknowingly (perhaps, knowingly) push you out. But at the table of the Father, there’s always a seat saved for you. Right next to Christ. It’s in His love we find our perfect place. It’s in His love that we finally fit in.

We’re All Defective

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Once I cared for a young man who had survived an overdose attempt. He was young enough to be my son, and as I looked at his handsome face and deep, kind eyes, I did feel an almost motherly affection for him. In fact, after we had gotten comfortable with one another I jokingly addressed him as “son,” and he in turn called me “mom.” It was a good day, that day, and my time with him reminded me of something we can all forget.

We’re all broken. In one way or another.

He had just so happened to hit his rock bottom place. Do you remember yours? Maybe you haven’t hit it yet.

I can recall mine. I was around the same age as him. College. That time where you’re supposed to be grown, and it seems like everyone expects you to have it all figured out. It’s funny to me, an age where an individual has the ability to lay their life on the line for their country, is also an age where so much uncertainty can be. But I’ve found that it’s in those lonely, indeterminate times that God meets us. When our hands are thrown in the air, when we cannot find the answers, at the end of our rope; there He is.

This young man reminded me so much of myself. Sensitive, tearful, soft-spoken, kind. The tears in his eyes felt like my own, and if I could have placed my understanding of life at forty-two into his own fragile state of mind, I probably would have, but I also know that we must all get to that place in our own time. It took me a long time to get there. I still pray now that it won’t take him near as long.

During one of our many, heartfelt conversations he shared his broken spirit, in shaking, emotional words.

He cried, “I’m defective!”

And my heart broke for him. Empathetic, I felt his pain. I had known it myself. I wanted to run to his rescue, to console my son, to encourage him, to tell him how lovely he was.

I wanted to say, “no you’re not!” But something held me back.

How many times had others tried to make me see myself like Jesus saw me? Precious, loved, made new? Until I was ready to see myself like God intended, it was just words. And although it was all true, I was beautiful and made perfect, it wasn’t until I accepted my brokenness that I could allow Jesus to fix me.

So instead I answered him, “yes, you are defective! So am I! So is everyone. It’s called being human. And it’s ok.”

If God had a clubhouse with a sign above the door I am very certain what it wouldn’t say. It wouldn’t read,

No Sinners Allowed

It wouldn’t proclaim,

No Brokenness Can Enter Here

The Lord certainly isn’t the little boy on the school bus in Forest Gump saying, “you can’t sit here!”

No, I like to think that Jesus is more like Jenny, patting the empty seat beside her, a smile even though we’re a little weird, a little different, a little defective.

No, I think if God had a clubhouse, the uneven, wooden slab above the door would read in faded, red paint,

No Perfect People Allowed

It’s only once we’ve accepted His invitation inside that we are made perfect through Him. And even that is a journey.

We’re all broken, you see, in one way or another. Many of us experienced a horrible childhood, some worse than others. Some can move on from the ashes, and others not so much. I do know this; we all need a hand out of our mess. We’re all defective, like my young patient felt, and it’s in that mangled mess that God can save us. It’s in our weakness that His strength emerges, and it’s in our hopeless, helpless, unrecoverable life that He can make all things new.

You know what you can’t see when you’re at the bottom? The top. You know what you can’t see in the midst of misery? The way out. It’s ok. It’s ok because He is the light at the end of the tunnel. He is the hand that pulls us out of our mess.

God doesn’t expect our perfection to come to Him. He just wants our love. He takes care of all the rest. So, while the bad news is that yes, we’re all defective, the good news is that He in turn is our perfector.

I Wish I Could Celebrate With a Drink

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I felt a nervous energy buzzing around the periphery of my senses, and I smiled excitedly as I drove along. I trailed behind my husband as we drove out of town to trade in our two vehicles for a single one that would more readily serve our upcoming needs. I was happy, anxious, joyful, and jittery, all at the same time. Being a grown up was crazy, right?

As we motored along my eyes drifted to the left side of the road, and I smiled at a familiar outdoor mall. And by familiar I mean I had visited there in the last decade. Maybe. Any outings beyond family ones were rare, and I realized I hadn’t visited this particular shopping spot in eleven years, actually! I then fondly recalled my husband taking me there for a date on my thirtieth Birthday.

It had been early August, a blazing hot end of summer, and after walking around outside we had stopped at a restaurant’s bar for a cool drink. If I thought about it I could still remember the pale ale we had, complete with an orange slice on the rim.

I could use a drink right now, I thought.

Having a cold beer on a hot day was almost as American as apple pie. It was a common accompaniment to Super Bowl, and I enjoyed many an outdoor, professional baseball game with a cool brew in hand.

Tired, overworked medical professionals would unwind after a difficult shift with a nice, stiff drink, and some physicians and nurses I worked alongside had recently joked about just that.

How many moms called wine their “Mommy Juice?” And if I had a dollar for every exasperated mom with wine meme on Facebook I’d be a rich lady.

So while I had made the decision not to drink alcohol anymore, and I didn’t want it to boot, sometimes I wished that I could partake without consequence like so many others seemed to be able to do. After a long day a glass of red wine sounded nice, and in moments of celebration and nerves like today, a cold beer sounded amazing! But then it didn’t too. And that’s what made me different.

I thought about the last time I had drank. It was a bottle of wine on our wedding anniversary, an overnight celebration away from home. I had proven to myself over the proceeding five years or so that I could control my alcohol consumption. I had successfully gone from having an overindulgence/drinking problem to being able to just have a drink or two on special occasions about once every six months. I had proven to myself that I was stronger than my addictions, and I could stay within the limits I set for myself.

Yet there I was in our room, having drunk most of the bottle of wine by myself, searching the minibar of the bed and breakfast for a beer or something to keep that good buzz going. Even in my happy tinglies I realized the feeling was familiar. It was a feeling that liked the effects of alcohol. A lot. It was the feeling of weakness, of lack of control, and it reminded me of my old self. The woman who couldn’t control her drinking. I didn’t want to be her anymore.

So, I didn’t drink anymore. I had to admit I couldn’t drink anymore, or rather, I shouldn’t drink anymore. Somewhere inside me was an alcoholic, and I didn’t want my children to see that woman. I was proud she was gone. I was disappointed that I was weak, but I was also proud that I could admit my lack of control that dwelt below the surface.

I think many of us have problems others don’t see. Some people keep sadness hid behind a smile. Others keep addiction under a rug. The fact is we’re all weak in one way or another. It’s admitting that truth that brings freedom. I wish I could celebrate with a drink sometimes, but I can’t. I am weak, I am human, and that’s okay. Seeing weakness in yourself is often times where real strength lies.

Is Addiction a Disease or a Choice? An Addict’s Perspective. 

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I have seen a lot of articles and conversations on social media lately asking the question if addiction is a disease or a choice. When I see this topic I typically put my guard up, and naturally I take it pretty personally. After all, I’m an addict. I would venture to guess that most people who just know me via social media or as an acquaintance (aka, Facebook friend) are not aware of this little fact. I certainly don’t look like an alcoholic. And my husband doesn’t look like a drug addict. In fact we look like the perfect couple who has it all together, and in many ways, thanks to God’s grace we do. He healed us both. 

I’m a working nurse and a homeschooling mom. I own my own small, skincare business, and my husband owns a local restaurant. We thrive in our businesses, our relationships with one another, and also as role models to our children, but it wasn’t always this way. Once upon a time our lives were ruled by addiction. I almost said even as writing this that we allowed our lives to be ruled by addiction, but that seemed to be putting more power in our hands than I think they may deserve. 

I come from a long line of addicts. Alcoholism runs in the family, along with suicide and other mental health illnesses. Because of this fact I always knew that drinking would be a bad idea for me, but I made the choice to drink anyway. There’s that word. Choice. 

Looking back I’m unsure of when choice ended and the disease of addiction took ahold of me, but it seems like the lines blurred. I don’t think I ever made the conscience decision to become so dependent on alcohol that I couldn’t go a day without it. I don’t recall growing up with dreams to sit in my garage inebriated and crying over how miserable my life had become. I don’t think I ever said, “I’m going to continue to indulge in this substance that puts my life and the life of others in danger.” I never wanted to put my nursing license or my patients at risk because I was too weak to not be hangover on a work day. I didn’t think I’d ever be stupid enough to put a five year old in my car and drive intoxicated to go get more beer, but I did. I didn’t desire to yell and fight with the people I loved. I didn’t want to blackout and not remember hour blocks of time. I didn’t make the choice to develop such ridiculous, dangerous, and self-destructive behaviors. By that point I felt without choice. 

It had started with a choice, but somewhere along the way it became something I no longer controlled. It controlled me. In a sinful world I had fallen, and I couldn’t get back up no matter how much I wanted to. Every day I would wake up feeling like crap. I would say to myself, today is the day I stop. But then I wouldn’t. I couldn’t. 

Substance addiction changes the chemical composition of your brain. I do believe the propensity to overindulge or to lean towards addiction is inherited. I think we all as human beings make an initial choice to use, but then the sin overtakes your heart. It becomes a battle, an anchor, chains binding you. No one chooses to hurt the people they love. 
I didn’t drink my first six pack and say, “I’m going to become so dependent on alcohol that I have to ostracize myself from others. I want to drink so much that I get to a point where I can’t imagine how to live life without it.”

Addicted fathers don’t choose drugs over seeing their kids. 

Addicted mothers don’t choose to steal from the people they love. 

You don’t choose to destroy your life, self-esteem, health, and the trust of those people who care about you. Who would choose that?

And even when you choose to leave addiction behind it’s more powerful than your choices. I emphatically proclaim that I didn’t beat addiction. I believe the Lord gave me the strength to overcome it, but I think it’s still there like a lion sneaking in the brush. I realized that I was an addict, and as an addict I didn’t have the liberty to casually use alcohol like so many of my friends and loved ones do. I had to choose to leave it completely behind, but that’s not the end of it. It’s a choice I have to make every day because the power of addiction isn’t something as simple as saying “yes, I will,” or “no, I won’t.” It’s much more than that. To say otherwise is giving human weakness too much power, but to say addiction cannot be overcome is not giving God enough credit. 

Addiction is no respecter of persons. It can take over the kindest young man from the best family, and it can affect the intelligent professional who carries herself with grace. Addiction may start with a choice, but the slippery slope it becomes that leads to certain destruction goes beyond any conscience decision any human being would ever make. I think to answer the question of whether something is a disease or a choice isn’t as simple as that. After all, life never is. 

My Favorite Thing About Nursing

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So I recently got one of “those” patients. You know the kind of patient I’m talking about. She was in the fetal position upon arrival from EMS, and I wasn’t surprised one bit. I had been apprised of the situation via report from the transferring facility so I knew what to expect. She was moaning and groaning in pain, and cursing a blue streak of multiple expletives as we transferred her to the awaiting bed. Her drug toxicology screen had lit up like a Christmas tree, but as was par for the course, she had told the ER she didn’t abuse drugs. I had seen it so many times before, and I approached her bed cautiously. 

She glared up at me through squinted, distrustful eyes, and I wondered if that was the same look she gave the nurse who had called me report. She had spoken of kicking, screaming, and refusal of care. Now it would fall on me to try and insert a nasogastric tube in a combative patient. Lucky. 
There are so many different types of patients you encounter in the field of nursing, and there are so many different skill sets a nurse can provide. Each nurse has that one thing they absolutely love about the field, and then we all have those things we absolutely hate. As I gazed upon my new patient guarding her rigid and distended belly I knew I would get to do my favorite skill of bedside nursing. And no, it wouldn’t be shoving a large tube into this woman’s stomach. 

As I approached her bed I made eye contact, and in a low, sympathetic tone I began to speak with her. I started by explaining every anticipated move I would make, and I spoke sincere apologies and empathy for the pain she was enduring. I encouraged her, I attempted my very best to calm her fears, and I didn’t allow things like my observations of the apparent meth scars on her body to cloud my ability to treat her like any other patient under my care. 

After asking her permission I began to pray with her as I attached monitoring equipment, and this seemed to settle her nerves even more. I used a gentle touch, but most importantly I used genuine affection. She responded to that. 

Over the years as a bedside nurse I have found my favorite skill to be interpersonal. I love the feeling of starting an IV successfully, and there’s definitely a rush of pride when you save a life. But I believe my favorite part of nursing is communicating worth to those who feel worthless, offering love to those who need it most, and giving dignity to every single person I encounter. 

Some of my greatest moments in nursing I have not even realized until afterwards. It’s the months later when I receive a call from a former addict who had landed as an overdose in my hospital bed, when they say, “you made me want to be clean for me. No one ever spoke to me like you did. You made me feel like I mattered in this world.” 

It’s when I hear by word of mouth in the community that a former patient is telling people, “I’ve always felt like garbage, but this nurse up there, Brie, she treated me like a queen.”

I suppose you never know the impact your kind words can have on another. Sometimes they may have no positive impact whatsoever that you can see, but I keep at it just in case. I try to remember that each patient who lands in my bed is someone’s son or daughter, mother or father, husband or wife. I try to shine the light of my faith in their dark circumstances, and show the characteristics of Christ. I’m quite certain I fall terribly short of this on many a busy day, but I try. 

On this particular day I started with a cussing, kicking “drug addict,” but I ended my shift with a kind, well-spoken, troubled woman. She lay still while I inserted a tube into her nose and down into her stomach, she politely asked for pain medication, and she profusely thanked me when it was time for me to go home. I knew as I left that I had in no way solved even half of her problems, but I had made her feel important and special while she was under my care. Something about that just makes me step a little lighter when I walk out of the hospital and head for home. That’s why it’s my favorite part of nursing. It doesn’t feel like a job. It just feels like the right thing to do. 

25 Things I Wish I Knew 25 Years Ago

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I was watching a Sci-Fi show on Netflix with my husband last night, and it came to a point where the Time Travelers realized they would become stuck in the past in the bodies they inhabited. One character was an older man, and he found himself stuck inside the body of a teenager. I said to my husband, “I wouldn’t mind having the knowledge I have now back when I was a teen!” And he agreed. 

I haven’t learned everything God has in store for me to learn, but in the past decade alone I’m amazed at the changes He’s brought in my thinking. My husband mentioned to me last night that I wouldn’t be the person I am today had I not made the mistakes I made then, and though I concurred it doesn’t mean I’m not mildly regretful of the past. It certainly would have saved me some heartache. If I could write a blog to my past self it might sound something like this. 

Here’s 25 things I wish I knew 25 years ago. 

  1. You aren’t who hurt you, but you can be stronger despite it. 
  2. You aren’t the pain inflicted by others, but you can still heal. 
  3. You’re not the way you were raised, but you can choose to raise your children differently. 
  4. You’re not your addictions, and you can overcome them. 
  5. You’re not who loves you, or even who doesn’t love you. Your worth isn’t based on earthly love. 
  6. You can’t buy love, earn it, or use it. It’s freely given by God. 
  7. Craving affection is a byproduct of past rejection. But no man will ever fill the hole inside your heart. Only God can do that. 
  8. Respect your body. It’s valuable. Clothe it like it is. 
  9. Don’t let anyone’s opinion shape your perception of yourself. 
  10. Make a mistake? It’s done. Learn from it, move on, don’t dwell. We’re not meant to  dwell on our missteps. 
  11. No substance can fix your problem, be it chemical, alcoholic, or even a tub of ice cream. When you wake up the next day your problem will still be there. 
  12. The only limits you have are those you put on yourself. If you believe you can’t then you won’t. 
  13. Don’t let anyone tell you that you can’t succeed at something you really want to do. 
  14. Don’t believe that just because something has been a certain way your whole life that it has to stay that way. Be the change. 
  15. Your upbringing, family name, or geographical location doesn’t equate to what you’ll be. Chains were made to be broken. 
  16. It’s not your fault. The bad stuff that’s happened in your life? Don’t waste time trying to place blame on yourself. Instead find healing and move forward. 
  17. Don’t allow your friends or relationships to change you. Stay true to your personality, not that of those you surround yourself with. 
  18. Don’t focus on the bad/sad things. Look closely for the good/happy things, and focus on that. 
  19. Look around and realize that someone has it worse than you, and that you have it better than many. Practice gratitude. 
  20. Realize the impact your words have. Choose them wisely. 
  21. Don’t strive to be a people pleaser. Be a God pleaser. If all is well with your soul then you’re headed in the right direction. 
  22. Put yourself in someone else’s shoes before speaking. 
  23. Don’t spend so much time seeking the compliments of others. They don’t make or break you. 
  24. Integrity matters. 
  25. Don’t sweat the small stuff. And in the grand scheme of eternal thinking, most of it is small stuff. 

You’re Not What 2016 Says You Are

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Ten years ago on New Year’s Eve I drank so much that I blacked out. Like I don’t even remember ringing in the New Year at all. The thing is it wasn’t my first black out. I did it pretty frequently. Many times I look back on my life and I wonder what I was thinking. I regret the time wasted, the relationships lost, the blocks of time I’ll never recall or even get back, the people I caused to stumble along the way, and the pain I must have created for my Father in Heaven. I certainly can’t travel back in time to correct the mistakes I made. Even if future me shook the drunken shell of past me, I’d probably be too inebriated to notice. Or I’d wake up saying, “today is gonna be different. Today I’m going to start living better, being healthier, doing life like I know I’m supposed to.” Then I’d inevitably fail. Again. 

I suppose the same struggle could be said for 2016, although not one with alcohol (sober 7 years and counting). But I struggle all the same with changes I would like to make in life. I pray at the end of the day for forgiveness, and I declare that tomorrow will be different. “I won’t let my anger get the best of me.” Or perhaps, “I won’t be judgmental of others.” Maybe even something as simple as giving up Diet Coke or giving more to others. I decide to make a change, but then the next day I scream at my kids or make a snap judgment about a stranger before I even realize I’ve done it. I fail. 

But here’s what I try not to do. I try to not let it define me. I am a woman with a tainted past, but that isn’t who I am. Sure, it helps mold me into the person I am becoming, but my mistakes don’t give me my name. Jesus does. I am His. I am His Beloved. 


The fabulous thing about salvation is how it delivers you. It takes you from the clutches of the enemy’s hands and places you in the arms of Jesus. It wipes the slate clean. It doesn’t demand perfection, just a faithful heart eager to serve the Lord out of love, not obligation. It takes sin and destroys its power over your life. It doesn’t take the sin from you, but it makes you no longer a prisoner to that sin. You can move forward in freedom. You can break the chains that hold you back and proceed in victory. 

Your past does not define you. Your struggles do not make you who you are. As a child of God you’re not represented by 2016, 1996, or even yesterday. You are a new creation, and as such you can walk forward in confidence forgetting what is behind you. You can learn from your past mistakes, but you don’t have to be crushed by them. You don’t have to believe the lie that just because you’ve tried and failed thus far that you will continue to fail when you try once more. January 21st 2009 God lit a fire in my heart to stop letting alcohol and other things control me. Though I had failed before, this time I did not. What would have happened if I had stopped trying? I’d probably be in jail or dead. 

If you’re desiring to make changes in 2017 then I say go for it. This is your year to shine. This is your year to move forward confidently in the power of the Lord. I leave you with a few power verses you can speak over your upcoming year. There is power in God’s word. Proclaim these truths in your life as you move forward confidently into 2017. Happy New Year!

Romans 6:6

We know that our old sinful selves were crucified with Christ so that sin might lose its power in our lives. We are no longer slaves to sin.

Philippians 3:13-14

13 Brothers and sisters, I do not consider myself yet to have taken hold of it. But one thing I do: Forgetting what is behind and straining toward what is ahead, 14 I press on toward the goal to win the prize for which God has called me heavenward in Christ Jesus.

Isaiah 43:19

See, I am doing a new thing! Now it springs up; do you not perceive it? I am making a way in the wilderness and streams in the wasteland.

2 Corinthians 5:17

Therefore, if anyone is in Christ, the new creation has come: The old has gone, the new is here!

This is Making Nursing Harder

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I don’t think it’s any secret that nursing is a difficult field. There’s a lot of knowledge the nurse must possess, and the nurse to patient ratio doesn’t always make it easy to deliver care in the best way possible. We know this. We deal with patients and families during the most physically and emotionally stressful times of their life, so although my human side wants to bristle my quills at the harsh words of an angry patient, I’m typically able to remember that being sick is no fun for anyone. I’m even transversing “okay” through the new computer documentation upgrade this year. 

Sure the uncertainty of the hospital environment, especially critical care, can be quite intense, but I think I roll with it pretty well. Like anyone I get frustrated, exhausted, and pushed to my limit, but another trend in healthcare is lately getting me down. I feel very helpless to help this ever-growing population that I’m starting to see every single time I come to the bedside. 

If I didn’t know it before, as a nurse I’m even more aware of the state of the world around me. This world is full of broken people and they’re trickling in more and more frequently to the hospital setting. Actually trickle isn’t probably the best descriptive. It’s more like pour. They’re pouring in by the ambulance load. 

Each year that goes by, and lately each week, brings more brokenness to my hospital beds. It’s no respecter of persons either. Twenty-something’s, women my age, and every gender, age, and ethnicity. I see more overdoses than I care to admit, and the vacant look of defeat in their eyes always chills me to the bone. I try to reach past the barrier they’ve built around themselves, or through the sheen of drug toxicity between us, but I rarely even scrape the surface. 

Opiate dependency, benzo dependency, alcohol dependency. It’s no longer few and far between, but instead it’s a rarity if a patient doesn’t suffer from some sort of addiction or vice to help them cope with life’s demands and the cruelty of a past they can’t forget. I’ve discovered every patient has a story, and it seems like the tales of hurt and heartache outweigh the ones of happiness and joy. 

And it’s a challenge. It’s a challenge to care for this growing population. Not only does my heart break for the broken, but my resources seem so thin when faced with them day after day. My worst fear is always that my sympathy will slip, that in my frustration over multiple cries for help I’ll stop listening to their deep-seated pain, and instead I will become annoyed at the “drug seekers” and suicidal ideation patients who flow through my unit like it has a revolving door. As I rush to try and control pain for the chronic pain patient whose threshold for medication is far different than my own, I worry I’ll stop caring if they hurt. 

I have had patients blatantly lie to me, or simply tell me what I want to hear. I have been cussed and cursed up one side and down the other. I’ve been punched, kicked, pinched, and spit on more times than I can count. I’ve been accused on being cruel when I’ve refused to medicate a patient for pain when it is not safe to do so, and I’ve been told “I just don’t understand” more than I care to say. It’s tough to try and help someone, but be seen as the bad guy time and time again. This is making nursing harder by the day. 

In all honesty, even in my frustration I just want to fix it, but this seems to be an epidemic I cannot control. I want to take every broken girl and place her in my pocket for safe keeping. Every tormented woman I want to heal, and every empty young man I wish to make well. If I could even give them a portion of the joy and zeal I hold for life surely it could help, but beyond my prayers and compassionate care I don’t know what I can do. 

It seems like the sadness just keeps multiplying, and the wrecking ball of abuse and addiction tears lives apart one by one, by one. It used to be occasionally I saw broken minds laying in my hospital bed, but now it seems to be every room I enter. It makes me want to cry out, “why Lord? Why does hurt beget hurt?”
How can I be the change?

As of now I do the only thing I know I can do. I do my job. I center myself, I push off my frustration (which isn’t always easy), and I try to see the person in my care as the person they were meant to be before chemical dependency or clinical depression reduced them to a shell of their former self. I focus on not making my heart hard. I look at the patient and try to see my mother, my father, my husband, or my child. After all everyone is someone’s something. 

I try to believe that nothing is impossible, that change may be just around the corner. If I can foster that, well, that’s a good thing. I once was told by a local minister that a woman who had come to his treatment center had mentioned me by name. She said she had never been treated like she was anything worthwhile until she entered my care. She stated I made her feel like the most important person in the hospital, and thoughts of that still brings tears to my eyes. So that’s my goal. 

I want every person who encounters me to see light in darkness. I want the broken to feel like they can be mended. I want the “worthless” to see that they are worthy, precious, and capable of being helped. I fall short of this quite often, and it is not something I enjoy, but the fact is this world is broken. If I can help fix a small part of it then I guess I’ve done okay. 

Why as a Christian I Don’t Drink Alcohol

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I’ve considered writing this post at least half a dozen times, but I’ve always hesitated. I think a large part of me worried that people might assume I was riding a high horse and attempting to dole out judgement for anyone who chooses to live life differently than myself. That couldn’t be further from the truth, but it seems like the devil tries to insert his own spin on how things are seen whenever a child of God opens their heart. Then of course there’s also simply shame, but who has time for that? Plus in the end the idea just keeps popping into my head, so I have decided to try my best and explain why I personally, as a Christian, choose not to drink alcohol. 

I can easily recall the first time I drank alcohol and got drunk. It was that pre-made margarita mix that a teenager can find easily in their parent’s freezer while on vacation. It wasn’t the best icee I had ever tried, but I certainly loved that warm, fuzzy feeling after a full glass. I sat outside watching the fireworks feeling so pretty, confident, and free. 

I can also easily remember when I realized I had a problem with alcohol. Fifteen years later I can recall waking up with a headache, struggling to get ready for work, and praying. 

God, I’m sorry. I’m not gonna drink anymore. 

That very afternoon, after a stressful day at work, I stopped and bought a case of beer.

Just one more time. Today was so stressful. I’ll quit tomorrow. 

And so it went. I had seen the effects of alcohol abuse throughout my family, and I knew it was in my genes to be an addict. 

I had seen it play its part in wrecking my previous marriage, and I had experienced a few scares along the way. Wrecks that should have killed me, arrests, DUI’s for those around me, and extremely poor decisions that still cause me to cringe with weepy regret. I was even watching it live as it chipped away bit by bit at my current marriage, and I knew something had to give. So what was it going to be?

In the end I chose life. I chose healthy relationships with the people I love. I chose motherhood. I chose to give my life completely to Christ. You see, when addiction resides in your life, no matter what that addiction may be, it serves as a divisive force between you and the Lord. It destroys marriages, relationships, and fulfilling the destiny Jesus has for your life. 

It wasn’t easy to stop something I had seriously done every day for a decade, and I honestly don’t think I could have done it alone. God’s hand is the only explanation. Each day got easier and each month proved better. 

Looking back now, I wonder how I existed in such an empty life before. 

Over the next few years after I stopped drinking I came to realize I could occasionally have an alcoholic beverage without falling off this imaginary wagon into a pit of drunkeness and shame. Like seriously, I could have a glass of wine and be done. That felt pretty good. 

But what did not feel good was the memories a drink stirred in me. After years of sobriety all it took was one drink to make me tipsy, and to me that feeling no longer was grand. In fact, it was awful. It simply seemed to serve as a reminder of a past life where I thrived on inebriated separation from self, and I didn’t like the person I had left behind. She wasn’t me. 

And then there was the whole voice in the back of my mind. It was that tiny whisper that said, “mmmm, that’s good. Why don’t you have another?” I didn’t like that voice at all. 

So my 1-2 drinks once every six months still proved to be a problem to me. They reminded me of a person I no longer wished to be, a person who couldn’t commit her life fully to the Lord because of excess baggage. 

Then there was the whole reputation thing. I decided as a mother I didn’t want my children to see me drink alcohol, and as a proclaimed Christian I didn’t want people who were struggling in their own relationship with Jesus to get a wrong impression from me. I couldn’t stand the idea of being a stumbling block for anyone. 

So do I think drinking is wrong? No, I don’t. Do I think drinking alcohol is a sin? Not if you don’t allow it to control you. See, for a few years I proved I had control over it myself, but even that wasn’t good enough for me. When I decided to follow Jesus with my whole heart I also decided to cut out anything that seemed like it could possibly affect our relationship negatively, and for me alcohol cut it too close. 

I suppose that possible dividing force is different for everyone. For you it may be shopping or too many pieces of chocolate cake. The point is that in our walk with the Lord we strive to stay as close to Him as possible, and when something gets in the way you kick it to the curb. As a Christian we work to become one with Christ, and we don’t do things that get in the way of that. 

In my goal of walking hand in hand with the Lord I don’t drink alcohol, and now you know why. 

When an Addict Can Be a Saving Grace

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Over a year ago a wrote a post about a patient I encountered in my job as a nurse. For my long-term readers you may recall Princess. Everyone else can read it here. But basically the woman I’m talking about was broken. She was reduced to a shaking, shell of a woman due to addiction, and a slew of other things that had occurred in her life over the years. I was used to seeing overdosed drug addicts on my unit, so much so that it actually became commonplace. In fact it was hard not to become frustrated and short on patience with people who seemed to live a life that would be the death of them. 

Yet this woman was different, and although she resembled in her presentation so many that had come before her, on this particular day God tore open my heart for her. I think it was the utter and complete brokenness I saw in her eyes, and as a former abuser of alcohol and broken woman myself, my heart went out to her. 

I didn’t think I did anything special that day, but I did speak the truth as I felt God speak it to me. As He had indeed spoken it into my very own messed up past. I just told it like it was, and I let her know about the Father heart of God. I spoke to her of what that meant for her character, and as a princess, rather than “trash” or an addict, she held a lofty title as God’s heir. I suppose when you become aware for the first time of your royal and special existence as a child of the King it can kind of change everything. 

Two weeks from our first meeting she called me at work. I really couldn’t imagine the impact I had made on her until that moment, but through our conversation it hit me. I guess we’re all unlikely heirs to the throne, but then to realize God loves us anyway, well, that’s a game-changer for sure. And she wanted to change. 

We exchanged numbers, and promised to keep in touch. She planned on attending a rehab of some sort, and I was just honestly humbled that I had made an impression on her that inspired her to change. I couldn’t believe that God was using a former addict like myself as a saving grace for another, and the idea that I was a catalyst for her desire to change was huge to me. Go God, right?!

That’s been well over a year ago. I kept her contact information saved to my phone, and about once every three months I would see her name, pray for her, and send her a text letting her know I had. In retrospect I probably should have prayed more frequently, but that is neither here not there. Regardless, I never received a response back. Never. 

After the first couple of times I resigned to the fact that that could be a bad thing. We see it a lot in the field of medicine, and I had seen it in my own life. So many times addicts desire to change, but they relapse. Despite the fact that I was sure Princess’s nonresponse meant awful things, I still held out hope. I mean eventually everyone who wants to change has to change, right? Or they die. But I pushed that thought away. 

So imagine my surprise when a week ago, out of the blue, I received a message from my absent friend. We talked on the phone, and I was pleased to hear that she had not contacted me due to the fact of her completing a year of inpatient rehab. She was clean, sober, and determined to continue her journey of healing. Beyond that she also was quite adamant on letting me in on how much I meant to her. If I had a mirror I’m sure I would have seen myself blushing. 

It seems that growing up she hadn’t known much about God, and my conversation with her had been new territory. I guess you get so used to people being raised in a Christian environment in the South that it’s actually shocking to learn that the Father God principle is something new. I mean, can you imagine discovering for the first time how special you are in your Savior’s eyes? Do you remember that feeling? Nothing compares. And nothing else can change you like that. 

And I guess that’s the whole point, the whole thing God’s been telling me through this. Only He can change a person’s heart, but we can be that catalyst for change. Only God can take a sinner and somehow make them a saving grace for another lost child of the King. Only God can draw in hurting hearts, but He can use me to call their name. He can use me to show His heart. What an honor. 

Would I sit complacent when he urged me to show His love to others, or would I let Him use me? Would I accept the call to assist Him in changing lives?

It’s easy to assume some lost people are so far gone that they’ll never be found, and it’s even easier to assume you can have no role in something so difficult and life-changing. But God would tell you that you can. God would tell you that through Him all things are possible. What an encouraging thought. 

Naturally Princess wishes to keep me up to date on her progress, and I’m tickled pink to be a part of her transformation as it continues. I’m hopeful for her future, and as I think of how drastically God altered my own life I believe for her that change is possible. 

We always have to believe that change is possible.