Brie Gowen

Savor the Essence of Life

How to Hear the Voice of God Better

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Do you remember the Kevin Costner film from 1989 titled Field of Dreams? In the movie (based on a novel) an Iowa corn farmer is walking through his field when he sees a vision of a baseball field and hears a voice say, “build it and he will come.” Although everyone thinks he’s crazy, he is so certain that he’s supposed to build a baseball field in his cornfield so Shoeless Joe Jackson can come play there, that despite public opinion he plows down his corn and steps out in this unconventional calling. I won’t ruin the plot for you if you haven’t seen it, but let’s just say that his commitment to carry forth the word he’s given does more for his personal life and spiritual growth than something as simple as a baseball legend coming to visit.

The words uttered in that film, “build it and he will come,” resounded with me deeply when I recalled them yesterday and not because I loved that old movie so much, but rather due to the spiritual significance they spoke.

If we build it, He will come.

Our bodies are a temple for the Holy Spirit, and as such, when we consecrate that space for Him, He is faithful to meet us there. The problem with our temples is they become too crowded for His Spirit to comfortably reside there. Our minds are filled with worries, and our hearts filled with anxiety. We harbor guilt, anger, and unforgiveness on the shelves of our mind. We spend our time on television, social media, or our busy schedule more than we do laying a good foundation in our spirit. Hey, I’m guilty too, but if you desire to hear more from the Lord, I’ve found you must close out the distraction and noise of this world to be able to listen. His voice is a whisper.

  

I’ve taken to practicing a daily unloading of the world. Usually first thing in the morning while in the shower I will quiet my heart and mind, close my eyes, and picture that I am standing at the foot of a throne. In the highest seat is Jesus, and I mentally and emotionally unload my burdens. I pray in surrender and tell the Lord something like, “today I give you all my anxiety, worries, and uncertainty. I exchange them for your Spirit and peace.”

I’ve noticed a tremendous upswing in my day with this simple practice of surrender. In it, I am acknowledging His supreme power in my life. I’m admitting I cannot do it alone. Many times I will imagine myself walking in a field with Jesus, simply spending carefree time with my Savior. I will pray out loud something like, “thank you that I am in you, and you are in me, and we are one with the Father, seated in Heavenly places.” By repeating these powerful words of truth I am acknowledging scripture, believing that the troubles of this world mean little compared to His power, His kingdom, and His plans for me.

When we can pray, listen, and read the Word, the Lord will speak to our hearts. He will impart His plans, His knowledge, and His heart, but I’ve found the key to hearing that still, small voice is pushing out the noise that distracts us. And when I say noise, I don’t just mean the television or screaming children. I’m referring to the noise in our heads, the to-do lists, or the lies from the enemy that say how we perform in life is more important than who God made us to be. The lies that compare us to others, or worry about the opinion of others versus who God says we are. To hear from the Lord is to lay down your life, meaning you would give up anything and everything, including and foremost the things of this world.

There is no room in our bodies, hearts, and minds for anything other than God, but we continue to fill the spaces with it. The thing is, those things don’t satisfy, they just leak out leaving us feeling empty. If we build it, though, He will come. If we empty our houses, clean them of the things not of God, and open the doors in anticipation of His Spirit, He will come and make His home in us. And much like our friend Kevin Costner learned, He will bring us much greater things than we ever imagined.

PTSD in Nursing

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Last night my family and I drove to pickup dinner. I had asked my husband if he still felt uncomfortable taking our young daughters into a public restaurant, and he had been quick to say, “yeah, I don’t want to do that.”

The numbers had gone down, but that did little to change the routine we had carried since April. I’m very honest with my spouse about my work, and as such, he suffered from the same problem I did. We knew too much. There was no way in hell we could be blissfully ignorant, and I don’t mean that offensively. I truly wish I could forget this year.

As we pulled up to the restaurant to get our curbside pickup I noticed the large group of people sitting outdoors. The tables weren’t spaced like they had been just a month prior, and people milled about inches from other groups, laughing, smiling, not a mask in sight.

“That doesn’t look like continued social distancing to me,” I said to my spouse, pointing towards the outdoor dining.

The thing was, I didn’t want to be the social distancing police! I didn’t want to see pictures of church gatherings on Facebook and wonder why no one wore a mask. I didn’t want to cringe at friends starting to gather again, throw parties, and enjoy life. I didn’t want to be wary of strangers. I didn’t want to worry about my daughters drifting over to play with some new kids at the pool. I wanted everything the way it used to be, but I couldn’t for the life of me forget the past four months. I just couldn’t.

For nurses and other healthcare professionals who have been in hotspot areas of the COVID-19 pandemic, I think we’ve received injuries that are invisible. We’re nursing wounds no one can see, and the scars we carry are still raised and angry. So while a large part of society has basically forgotten a pandemic was here, nurses are still trying to catch their breath.

I think of a skittish cat, jumping with shackles raised at every tiny sound. I think of someone who has been abused, how they’re always suspicious for when the next hand will be raised to harm them. It wasn’t fear that griped me, but rather an awareness of what the virus could do. For so many people COVID-19 was like a really bad cold, or maybe the flu, but for the hundreds of patients I had seen in an inpatient, critical care setting, it was a death sentence. All that people with no hands-on experience could say about the virus was that its mortality rate wasn’t that high, but you know who I never heard say that? Those of us at the bedside the past four months, sweating profusely in our respirators, while we pumped aggressively on someone’s chest to help their heart restart. The reason you didn’t hear that from us? Because 90% (or more) of those patients did not live. Last I knew, our hospital had tried to save over 200 people, without success. We did everything humanly possible. The virus is that bad. For the families of those two hundred and something lost, statistics for survival rate meant very little. For those of us who had cared for them, it meant even less.

So, here we are with case numbers declining, but I still don’t feel comfortable allowing my children to go to a restaurant or play with other kids in the neighborhood. To me, it’s life and death, and until someone can tell me what makes one person just get a scratchy throat, and the next guy (with similar age and health) be unable to survive, I must remain the way I am. I cannot help it. My poor husband, who has seen my defeat amidst so much death, he cannot help it either. We’re still over here self-isolating, wearing masks in public, and social distancing when we do get out.

Today my husband said, “I hope they’re wrong. I mean, it doesn’t have to get bad again, right?!”

You see, the healthcare field, based on their knowledge and models, has their own predictions for the next few months. Those of us knee-deep in the muck of this novel virus are like the skittish cat I mentioned. We’re waiting for flu season 2020. It will be like the two tropical storms converging, but when COVID couples with flu, it will be a level 5 we fear. I don’t want to listen to projections, but I try to be realistic.

Y’all, I don’t know if it will ever be the same. I don’t know if I will ever be the same. I’m so aware of germ transmission at this point, I’m surprised the skin on my hands isn’t falling off from hand sanitizer and washing them. Today I let my daughters play with two little girls at the public pool. Then I spent the next twenty minutes praying silently for God’s hedge of protection around them, worried I had made the wrong decision. I don’t want to be that mom, but I’m that nurse. I just can’t seem to be any other way.

I’m not alone, y’all. I cannot unsee the frightened look in a patient’s eyes before we stuck a breathing tube down his throat. I cannot forget the fact that although I wanted him to live, he didn’t. I can’t erase the images of the handful of critical care patients who did leave my floor alive, but did so forty pounds lighter, unable to do the things they had done prior to being a COVID survivor, some with holes in their neck to keep breathing. I think back to when I was active duty military after 9/11. At some point, as we continued to receive soldiers from The War on Terror, I grew so very tired of seeing young men (boys, really) with only one limb remaining, or their face mangled. I just wanted the war to end. I think your civilian healthcare workers of 2020 are feeling much the same. We’re tired, we’re anxious, and we’re depressed. We’re overly protective of our families, but we’re also happy to be alive. We’re in need of a break, and even though the case numbers are on the downtrend for now, we don’t really believe the end is even close. We can’t catch a break, and our patients can’t catch their breath. It’s an ugly scene for bedside nursing, and so many of us will never be the same.

When you say your prayers tonight, try and remember your frontline workers. We feel like we’ve been forgotten. And although we’d keep doing what we do even without accolades or good vibes, I personally covet your prayers for my team. This year has been traumatic, and I don’t think it’s something we can ever forget.

Is There a Thorn in Your Flesh?

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I’m going to be very transparent here. Naturally, that’s the only way I know to be. See, the past couple of months have been, not that great. In fact, at moments over the past month, they’ve been just plain awful. So many people look upon the things I write and perhaps assume my life is a Mary Poppins, practically perfect journey, but they would be mistaken. Even joy-filled women, victorious in Christ, suffer. I have been in a time of suffering, in the valley of the shadow of death, in a season of mourning. The worst part? I couldn’t pinpoint the reason for my grief.

Over the past couple of months I’ve found my mood declining, and the reason not easily discovered. I blamed some of it on the dreaded hormones. Since turning forty my body had begun a cruel roller coaster ride of emotional surges, and despite a couple of different medicines prescribed by my doctor to try and level things out, it had continued its ups and downs. Forgive the TMI, but I had actually been on my menstral cycle for five weeks straight recently. It was at that point I felt like I hit a rock bottom of my emotional well.

I know the mental and emotional discomfort I have been under has been the same for many people. Isolation, financial loss, and sickness have spanned the globe. As a nurse I’ve experienced the harsh work of dealing with a pandemic and the pain of being helpless to save the many lives we’ve lost. As a mother I’ve experienced the challenges of keeping children at home for extended periods, and as a working mom I’ve tried to maneuver through my daughters’ worry over me working in such close proximity to a sometimes deadly virus. I guess I say all that to get across that a downtrodden mood isn’t exactly unexpected, but that somehow doesn’t make it feel any better.

As a Christian I know I’m not immune to anxiety and depression, but I’d be lying if I said it didn’t bother me that it’s hit me so hard lately. You see, I know that this world is not my home. I understand that Jesus is in me, and I am in Him, and we are seated with the Father in Heavenly places. Just recently as I prayed for His help I saw a vision of Jesus and me walking together in a field of grain. There was such peace in that moment. And I suppose knowing that this world is temporal and finite still couldn’t seem to remove me from the grip of hopelessness that tried to take me. That bothered me.

I was praying about it one day and Paul came to my mind.

1 Corinthians 12:7-10 Therefore, in order to keep me from becoming conceited, I was given a thorn in my flesh, a messenger of Satan, to torment me. 8 Three times I pleaded with the Lord to take it away from me. 9 But he said to me, “My grace is sufficient for you, for my power is made perfect in weakness.” Therefore I will boast all the more gladly about my weaknesses, so that Christ’s power may rest on me. 10 That is why, for Christ’s sake, I delight in weaknesses, in insults, in hardships, in persecutions, in difficulties. For when I am weak, then I am strong.

I didn’t know if depression was Paul’s thorn, but it certainly seemed to be mine. I know that many mornings recently I would wake up feeling so sad. My life is amazing, my family is wonderful, and on an off day of relaxing I certainly had no reason for a feeling of hopelessness. All I knew was that in those feelings I had to be extremely intentional to remove myself from them. Or rather, I knew I couldn’t extract myself, but I knew who could. And in those feelings of melancholy I would seek the Lord in earnest. In fact, I have never sought Him so hard as I have since April. I have never experienced the Holy Spirit so strongly as I have this year. So while 2020 has been terrible, it’s also been a blessing. In the mess I’ve discovered Jesus more deeply. In feelings of helplessness I’ve found my hope can only be in Him. I mean, this world sure ain’t helping.

The Lord has been speaking so much to us personally, and we are on the edge of a major stepping out. As we prepare to move forward in what God has for us, we have felt the resistance from the enemy. My husband, a man who has never been prone to depression, has also recently experienced the downtrodden mood that has no physical cause. We’ve been partaking in communion in our home, and that helped tremendously. The girls have been experiencing headaches, tummy aches, and trouble falling asleep the past few weeks, and this too isn’t normal. We recognize the attacks we are under, and again it has us clinging all the more closely to Jesus. But please, if you think of it, cover us with prayer frequently.

I don’t know what the future holds, but I do know who holds it. I do know who holds me, who holds my family. I do know that when feelings of hopelessness come, they are a lie, and I know where my hope is found. I suppose the past few months have been an exercise in this battle for truth, and thankfully I do not fight this battle alone. For now, my thorn remains, but like Paul, I can delight in a weakness that causes me to more desperately draw from His strength.

Check On Your Nurse Friends. We Are Not Ok.

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I took a survey from my employer today, and as I went through the questions I was surprised by how easily I could answer one way or another. It was a survey for how the pandemic, COVID-19 was affecting us, and as I clicked each bubble I understood even more just how much things had changed. One question that stood out to me asked if I thought about work more when at home. The fact was I had always been proud of my ability to leave work at work. I am an extremely compassionate person, but after twenty years in healthcare I had learned that to keep my sanity intact, patient care needed to stay at the bedside. It would be there waiting when I returned. But today, as I pondered the question on the survey, I realized that had changed. Everything had changed.

It had really started to hit me, the weight of it all, a few nights ago. I sat in bed the night before work and I prayed. I felt so down, and the fact was I had for weeks. There was nothing wrong going on in my life. I wasn’t financially stressed. My marriage was amazing, my children healthy and adorable. I had absolutely nothing to be upset about, yet I was. The only out of place factor I could pinpoint? COVID-19.

Years ago I had come to a place in my nursing career where I absolutely loved my job. I considered patient care to be a privilege, and even on tough days I considered it a wonderful vocation. It was a calling, and I carried the task with a smile. This past week I noticed an unwelcome feeling coming over me. It was a feeling I hadn’t experienced in many years. It was dread. I was dreading the return to the critical care bedside. How could I dread something I loved so much? I cried out to God to bring back my joy for the field.

When I sat in bed praying to feel better I realized that all this was hitting me harder than I thought. I realized that even though I thought I was doing ok, I really wasn’t. Even though I thought I could handle stress well, I don’t guess I had ever experienced stress like this.

Typically, nursing is about healing. A patient comes in sick, and we make them better. That’s not COVID-19.

And yes, I had experienced lots of death and dying. It was part of the job. So it wasn’t the people dying that got me. It was the fact that most of them seemed to be dying. The ones that were in Critical Care, anyway. The prognosis of these people was horrible, and when you have to break that to a daughter who can’t talk to her mom, or even see her, it’s depressing.

I was used to elderly and debilitated patients dying, but this was different. I was seeing people my age, younger, or just a few years older, and they were not doing well at all.

Nursing had always been a career where I had to be careful with infectious disease. I frequently encountered illnesses I could pick up and take home if I didn’t use proper protection or hygiene, but this was different. It was so new, and I watched the information available change day by day. One minute it’s airborne, the next droplet. One day the CDC says one thing, the next day, something else. The suggested PPE (personal protective equipment) changed faster than I could keep up, and it became this constantly evolving situation. I sadly knew that each time I came to work things would be different than when I left.

Do I need to shower and change clothes at work? Is it in my hair? The questions I had to ask myself. Is a Level 1 mask good enough, or is a Level 3 safer? Wait, now you’re saying it’s aerosolized and I should definitely wear googles? Why didn’t anyone tell me that yesterday?

Am I bringing bad stuff home to my children? They’re so little still. The fact that our government and healthcare system was treating the response to this unlike anything I had ever encountered only added to my thoughts. I mean, your president says everyone needs to stay home. Except you. You need to run into it head on! Unless your patient’s heart stops. Then, don’t run; put on your PPE first. It was going against everything we had ever done as lifesavers!

Everyone was watching us. People whose sole job was to make sure we were protecting ourselves properly. And while I appreciated the effort, it also made you feel pretty odd. I mean, what kind of crazy crap makes hoards of upper management and administration watch your every move? What exactly were we dealing with? The answer to that seemed to change every day!

I never felt so helpless. Everything we tried seemed to be in vain. They typically weren’t getting better. One week this was the go-to drug of choice, the next week something else, and the next week the surprising news that none of it would improve outcomes. In fact, it might make it worse.

It didn’t matter that the mask or respirator hurt my face, left bruises and sores, or that it left me feeling drowsy and cloudy headed after so many hours on straight. It didn’t change the fact that I was paranoid about the seal, worried that the tiny virus could somehow get through.

The stress made me become the type of person I didn’t want to be, short tempered and easily frustrated. The high acuity of the severely critical patients forced me to become the kind of nurse I didn’t want to be, hurried, harried, just struggling to keep them alive, keep my head above the water. My shift would end and I’d be sure I had missed something, which drove me crazy, but at least they had lived through my shift. They would likely die after I left. The prognosis was always poor.

Seeing the fear in their eyes, or hearing the words, “am I going to die,” remembering those words after they were gone. Holding their hand, offering comforting, muffled words, but knowing you were no adequate substitute for their loved ones.

Speaking of loved ones. We had those too, and just this week my nine year old said sadly, “Mom, I don’t want you to go to work. I’m worried you’ll get sick.”

But then I also had loved ones who had no idea. As I was leaving work today it occurred to me that not many of my family members had called to check on me. It wasn’t their fault; they didn’t know. I had not told them the toll this pandemic was having on me, and that’s when I knew I needed to. I see Facebook posts of people who don’t even think the pandemic is real, or that it’s like the flu. They have the privilege of not knowing how hard this is hitting me and my coworkers. I don’t normally try to play a pity party or seek attention, but I realized that a lot of people just didn’t know. They didn’t know that we’re not ok.

I have spoken with my coworkers and peers, and all the ones I have questioned are feeling the same pressing weight as me. They’re tired, worn thin, worried, beyond the typical stress of saving lives on a daily basis. It’s beyond skipping lunch and bathroom breaks to keep someone from dying. That’s just a regular Thursday. This, this is different. This is harder.

I don’t know the answers, and I don’t know if things will ever be the same. I don’t know if there’s anything you can do to make it better for your nursing friends. You can pray. You can send us a message, drop off some toilet paper, or even just a long-distance hug. We need so many hugs right now, and social distancing is messing that all up. The typical outlets aren’t available to decompress, or the ways we deal with stress are not allowed. Nurses have the added weight of homeschooling, when that’s not something they are used to, or a spouse out of work. We’re dealing with all the same stress and aggravation as the rest of the population, but also the additional stress of facing this monster up close and personal.

We can’t pretend it’s not happening or busy ourselves with conspiracy theories. We’re too preoccupied with telling ourselves, “it’s not your fault. You did everything you could do.”

This is all I can write right now. There’s more, so much more, but I am exhausted after a day of the above. I need to lay down so I can wake up and do it again. See, that’s the great thing about nurses. We are not ok, but you’ll still find us when you need us. We’ll be in the clinics, ER’s, and units ready to do all we can do for those who need us. We’ll worry about us later.

Who Do You Say I Am? A Guide to Victory in Pandemic.

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Easter is quickly approaching, and it seems we’ll still be under social distancing at that time. I know for many Christians they may have never spent an Easter Sunday not in church, and I was reminded this morning of an Easter Sunday I spent at the hospital bedside years ago. I recall being disappointed that I wasn’t in the house of God that holiday, and it was then that the Lord spoke something very strongly to my heart.

He said, my resurrection lives in you.

With all the happenings globally as of late, I am reminded of His Spirit at work in us. And with all the common reactions to this pandemic, I am reminded of some lyrics I heard in a song recently.

It said, God isn’t hard to find.

I suppose that seems way off base to many people, especially lately. After all, so many times God seems silent. When tragedy strikes, like now, He can especially seem distant. But when I heard those lyrics the other morning I was hit by the truth of it. You see, God isn’t hard to find. It’s just hard for us to do the locating. We’re too distracted by the world to realize that He is here with us all along.

It’s not hard to see the fear out there. It’s not hard to feel it yourself. I realized after a four day stretch at the hospital bedside that I was overwhelmed with the very realness of all this. I was inundated with COVID-19 statistics, the ever-changing instructions for how to deal with it all. Uncertain and evolving information from the CDC and those in power above me made my head spin. I discovered pretty quickly that I had to be intentional in my time with Jesus, because everything else vying for my focus was pretty intense. Not only were the worries of having enough food to eat there, or how the economy would suffer, but also the real threat of taking home a dangerous illness to my family.

This morning, and last night, I was drawn to the book of Matthew. I read it before bed, but also again this morning,

Matthew 16:15-16 (NIV)

15 “But what about you?” he asked. “Who do you say I am?”

16 Simon Peter answered, “You are the Messiah, the Son of the living God.”

As Easter approaches I’m reminded of the days leading up to the Crucifixion. Jesus enters Jerusalem with much fanfare and praise, the crowds singing and proclaiming Him a king. Yet five days later the same words of “King of the Jews,” were used to find Him guilty and sentenced to death. Public opinion was a shifty one, indeed, and it’s in Matthew 16 we see Jesus gently leading Peter to the realization that it’s not what the crowd says that matters.

Who do you say I am?

This is becoming a question that Jesus asks us all. Who is the Lord to us during such a time as this? Is He an angry God, distant, pouring a plague on His people, only to forget them as they suffer? Or is He the Messiah, the Savior of the world?

In the midst of COVID-19 and the fallout of this pandemic, it’s hard not to be afraid. We see the news, the growing numbers of infected, and of course, the personal stories and accounts coming from those working in the thick of this illness. Some of us see dwindling bank balances and empty cupboards. Others see plummeting stocks, or death up close and personal. I’m reminded again of our dear disciple Peter. He knew, before it all went down, that Jesus was the Son of God. He spoke it out loud in faith, yet we all remember what happened before the cock crowed three times. He denied Jesus. It’s a disappointing turn of events in scripture, yet Jesus still fulfilled what He spoke in Matthew 16. He still built the church on the rock that was Peter. That’s good news for us!

When Jesus spoke about building the church, with a mere man who He knew would deny Him down the road, He spoke this.

The gates of Hell will not overcome it!

Today, we face the straining of Hell coming against us. A spirit of death and sickness come in a virus form, and a spirit of fear tries to make us deny (or forget) the power of our God, but Jesus promises that evil does not win. It can not overcome us!

Another verse comes to me as I write this post.

Psalm 121:1-2 (NIV)

I lift up my eyes to the hills– where does my help come from? My help comes from the Lord, the maker of heaven and earth.

As believers, we can find God. It’s not hard, after all. He is here in us. He has not forgotten us, and actually has promised our victory. He doesn’t want us in fear, denying the power He gives us to overcome problems, but He does still provide us victory, knowing we will have our doubts. Today, I would remind you to ask of yourself the same question that Jesus asked Peter.

Who do you say I am?

Is He the rising infection rates or empty store shelves? Is He the dwindling economy or uncertain future? Is He the depressing news reports or scary Facebook posts? No! None of this is a surprise or uncertain to our God. He is the Messiah, the Savior of the world, the Great I Am, and He will! Be encouraged.

The Upper Room

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I’ve felt such a heaviness for the past few days, and I can’t for the life of me pinpoint why. I think that’s the worst part of it. To feel downtrodden even when from the outside in things look good. To be unable to name the reason for melancholy, it makes it all the more absurd. An unwelcome visitor to your happy home. I wonder if it will always be this way, while I exist in this body? Separated from joy that is so close I can taste it.

For a few days I’ve wanted to write something about the upper room. It’s been dancing on the periphery of my brain, waiting to be put down into words, yet unwilling to escape from the mental chamber keeping it captive. How could I speak of Heavenly things when my heart felt pushed into the dirty earth? Still feeling captive to my flesh, I knew I needed to write it anyway, if only to show myself I could.

I find it no coincidence that in Luke 22 Jesus plans the Passover meal venue, the upper room, and just prior to that, in Chapter 21, He says this.

Be careful, or your hearts will be weighed down with the anxieties of life, and that day will close on you suddenly like a trap.

It’s so easy to forget that there’s more for us than next month’s work schedule or a pending dental appointment for the children. Before you know it you’re focusing on the bank balance versus the pending bill stack, or you’re questioning the commitments you’ve plotted in your calendar. You find yourself worrying about the virus the household keeps passing around, or replaying that thing you said to so-and-so, that ridiculous comment you wish you could stuff back into your stupid, gaping mouth. We busy our thoughts with if it’s time to wash the linen, or what theme we should plan for the youngest child’s birthday party. We never once contemplate the upper room.

He has prepared a place. He’s gone ahead of us and made arrangements. A banquet is coming, the likes of which we have never seen, yet we busy ourselves with plans akin to dining at Burger King. The Lord is setting the table for a grand feast, and we are somehow content to catch the scraps of the world where we wait. We forget all about the upper room.

It’s like we have an invitation sitting on our bar. It’s mixed in with grocery store flyers, an exorbitant utility bill, and one of those card stock advertisements with a fake, brand new car key attached. It’s addressed in gold letters, sealed with a blood red stamp, and it’s just waiting to be opened. Each and every day we pass it by. It’s left unopened, forgotten, pushed to the bottom of a stack meant for the trash.

We pass it by in favor of our favorite Netflix series, or rushing to the kitchen table to argue angrily over homework, pressing a dry kiss and sideways hello to our spouse. Tired, worn thin and wore out. We pass the invitation for rest, and we pass it in favor of rush and hurry. We run towards the things of this world that are here today and gone tomorrow.

Have you noticed the things of this world bring us a heap of stress, yet we pursue them with vigor? We think, if only I can hit the deadline. If only I can pay this debt. I just gotta get the kids through school and get this mortgage paid down. Then, maybe things will settle down.

We’re always in eager anticipation, expecting a future of better things. We’re hoping in a time when we won’t struggle so much. We’re waiting for a time when we won’t be so tired, when finances won’t be so tight, or when raising kids will get easier. We cling to dreams of a brighter future with less stress and more bless. We trudge through our season, weary and wondering when we’ll find our better day. We pass by the dusty, forgotten invitation.

There has to be a better way! That’s what we say. It shouldn’t be this hard! We buy self help books, seek advice from a counselor, maybe even beg that lady on Oprah Winfrey’s channel to fix our life! We forget all about the upper room.

Here’s the secret. Here’s the thing we all forget. We don’t have to wait until the feast begins to partake of the hors d’oeuvres. He is preparing the banquet table, but until it’s time to be seated, we can remember that we already have a place set with our names on it. The best five star restaurant in NYC doesn’t compare, and even better, the worst dinner party we throw doesn’t matter. It all falls flat when set beside the upper room.

The invitation that awaits, it’s one that requires our RSVP, and by accepting our individual place of honor, we agree to walk out each day with an air of importance. We can pass through each day throwing off the anxiety of a fading world that falsely vies for our attention, and instead we can say, “I’m sorry, but I’m going to a party. I can’t be bothered by that at the moment. My mind is on the upper room.”

In my time of heaviness the past few days, I am reminded to hold tightly to my invitation. It promises a wonderful feast. I don’t have to falsely hope for better days here on earth. Instead I can know in my heart that better days will come. I can walk each moment, even as my flesh and heart may fail, in joy, knowing that I am a special guest, and a special seat waits for me. Nothing much matters compared to that. He’s preparing a place.

Children get sick and the truck needs new tires, but He’s preparing a place. I feel heavy, sometimes for no reason at all, but I am invited. The world could hate me, but I’d still be invited. Karen could roll her eyes in my direction, and the whole table could talk about me after I walk away. It doesn’t matter. My Father has set a place for me at His table. Bye, Felicia.

But seriously. All the ridiculous things that try to pull me away. The unimportant tasks that try to overwhelm me. The minuscule happenings that attempt to shake me. The inconveniences that mar my day, or the mistakes that make up my past… they can’t hold a candle to what lies ahead. The upper room.

Lord, when my mind wanders to places it doesn’t need to go, remind me of the upper room. When I place my hope in anything other than you, remind me of the upper room. When I’m hurting, remind me of the upper room. When I’m happy and everything is peachy, remind me of the upper room. When I put too much stock in this fast food life, remind me of the banquet you have lavishly prepared. May I never forget the invitation that requires my focus even now. Keep my thoughts always on the upper room. I know that at your table I will never thirst, and most importantly, I will be filled.

What God Would Say to the Woman Who’s Not Enough

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Most of us women, at one time or another, feel as if we’re not enough, like we’re lacking some fundamental trait that will magically transform us into the women we wish to be. Not a patient enough mother, or perhaps you’re a wife who suffers to serve. We desire to be that mighty woman of God, to get it right at least every now and again. A fight with our spouse, or a harsh, thoughtless word screamed in frustration at our children prove to us where we have fallen short once again. If only we could be the kind of friend our girlfriends need, or have the time and energy to volunteer at church. If only we could keep the kitchen clean, laundry basket empty, or keep up with our graying roots like other moms seem to do.

We see our Facebook friends dressing trendy, our Instagram idols redecorating their homes. The lady next door doesn’t have trash falling out of the backseat of her minivan, and the mom of four at church, her kids are always so well behaved! A condescending look at the grocery store, the well-intentioned yet hurtful advice from an older woman at church, and the thoughtless comment from your husband all cement the idea that you need to step it up. You need to change, improve, work on you!

Wash your face, wipe your eyes, and work on you! Make time for yourself, yet cherish time with your children, time that is fleeting, and that you’re constantly reminded passes too quickly. How does that work?!

You’ll miss this, they say, all while taking afternoon naps themselves that you can’t personally enjoy.

So you strive to do better. You endeavor to be a Proverbs 31 woman, even though you feel like a Prozac 24/7 kinda gal. If you feel depressed you must not be godly enough, so back to the drawing board for you. Watch your weight, exercise, pray, repeat. Count backwards from ten, take your vitamins, and drink more water. Go out with your girlfriends, read a book, take time for yourself. Stay attractive for your spouse, serve him in love, and give him the affection you yourself feel like you’re lacking. Be in the mood, even if you’re not. Meal prep, crockpot, freezer meals. Keto, Paleo, Weight Watchers, Hello Fresh. So much advice, yet so little time. I don’t know about you, but I just want to not be tired anymore, and to wake up without a sore neck and back. Also, why am I anxious about nothing at all?!

Being a woman is hard, but working to be the woman you think you should be is even harder. It’s not easy being everything for everyone, yet still feeling like you’re not enough. Not good enough, pretty enough, young enough, thin enough, strong enough, happy enough. You’re not everyone’s cup of tea, sure, but maybe you just want to be the cup you yourself could enjoy. You want to be the mother your children deserve, the wife your husband desires, and the woman God needs you to be. Why is it so hard?!

Well, take a breath and listen. This is what God would say to you today.

Stop! Don’t work on you. Work on knowing me better. Stop striving to be the “mighty woman of God” you think you should be, and instead simply rest in who I have created you to be.

I don’t want you to be like her. I created you to be you. The things you see as flaws, I put those there. I thoughtfully formed your crooked nose and short legs. And even the flaws that the world has harshly placed upon you, I can work with those too. Don’t doubt what I can do.

The world will say you are not enough. Even my other children will tell you that is so. Satan will whisper lies so stealthy you will think they are truth, but I promise you this. You can only find my truth in my Word. If it’s not in the Bible, then it’s not for you to believe.

Stop seeking self-improvement, and instead seek my face. Spend time with me. Pour over my truths in scripture, and let that truth flood your soul. Allow it to take over your thoughts so that when lies from the enemy come, because they will, you can overpower them with who I say you are.

Stop working on being better, and start being better in me. Remember that my strength is in your weakness, that you have been made perfect in me, that I am in you, and you are in me. Together, there is no lack. There is always enough.

You are what I say you are, and you are enough. You can rest in my perfect peace, knowing the plans I have for you, plans for a wonderful future.

Stop fighting battles I have already won. Stop waging war on yourself. I take it personally. I created the stars in the sky, ones you cannot even see, ones that shine so fiercely they are blinding up close, but you are still my most precious creation. Just as you are. Stop trying to alter my design.

Stop planning to do better, and simply follow my path I have laid out for you. You cannot see it for your own anxieties of becoming lost. When you feel lost, go back to my map. Read the words there in red. They tell you the way.

Stop working on being a better you, and focus on residing in me. I am your safe place. I can block out the whispers that say you’re not enough. There’s nothing wrong with desiring to be a better you, except when you begin to think you alone hold the key to change. Only I can change hearts, and only in me will you find the completeness you desire. Stop trying to be everything, and rest in the fact that I already am. In me you have fullness of life. In me, you are already enough.

How I Got Rid of My Anxiety

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This post comes from a person who has dealt with anxiety for as long as she can remember. It’s not from someone who hasn’t been in the trenches of panic and all the side affects it induces, yet wants to tell everyone else how to live a stress-free life. Nope. This post is from someone who dealt with fear, anxiety, worry, and depression for forty years, the last ten of those being the worst. This individual got so used to the way she felt that she considered it to just be the way it was going to be, and accepted that these feelings were her lot in life. She called herself an over-thinker, a worry wart, and other pet names to poke fun at what was in fact an irrational thought life, one which controlled her, made her dislike social situations or hanging out with groups of people, and kept her from being the kind of person deep down she knew she could be. Her anxiety controlled her. Until one day it didn’t.

This person is me.

I assumed I would always deal with anxiety. I would find myself anxious over absolutely nothing. It’s sometimes kinda like the feeling that you forgot something.

Did I remember my keys?!

Did I turn the stove off?!

I would eventually realize I had not forgotten anything.

At least, I don’t think I did. (Cue increased heart rate).

The way my brain worked said that I had done something wrong, people were upset with me, didn’t like me. If people were whispering I would wonder if it was about me. My logical brain knew it wasn’t. My anxious mind told a different story.

It’s like the dream where you’re naked on stage in front of your peers. But, it’s not a dream. And it’s every day.

I got anxious about problems that didn’t exist. Problems that weren’t even problems. Problems that I created. I worried a lot about finances.

What if I lose my job?

What if I bounce a check?

Pay a bill late?

Go into more debt?

Lower my credit score?!

Gasp.

And on, and on.

I can remember driving to Florida when I first decided to become a travel nurse. As we drove through Birmingham I found myself anxious. I was in a panic as we drove through the city.

What is that smell?!

Oh, gosh, our new truck is going to breakdown! Then what will we do?!

It’s so bumpy! We’ve sold all our possessions; what if the meager collection of our stuff that’s packed in the back of the truck blows out?!

Y’all, I can’t even. It was exhausting. Anxiety is exhausting. And I got tired of being tired.

You’ll hear all kinds of ways to beat anxiety. I had heard exercise is a good one. Well, that wasn’t happening. So, I moved on to other practices I had heard, but even the power of the ultimate, positive thinking couldn’t squash my anxiety. I mean, it was illogical, so no logical thinking could reverse it or prevent it.

You always hear that you “need to give it to God,” but what does that even mean?! There’s not an app for surrender, know what I’m saying? And I guess that was my problem. I was trying to do whatever I could to not be anxious. I mean, nobody wants anxiety. I wanted to get rid of it, but I wasn’t sure what I needed to do.

I prayed. Oh, Lord, did I pray. But I still had problems with anxiety. Was I not praying hard enough?!

I read a verse this morning that summed it up pretty nicely, how I dealt with my anxiety once and for all, about a year ago.

John 8:31-32 (ESV)

So Jesus said to the Jews who had believed him, “If you abide in my word, you are truly my disciples, and you will know the truth, and the truth will set you free.”

Funny thing about the word abide. It’s not so much something you do, as something you are. I came to a place, through reading God’s Word, meditating on scripture, and reading fantastic Christian books and studies, where I truly, and I repeat truly believed where the Bible states I am in Him, and He is in me.

See, the thing about anxiety is that you can’t control it! How can you fix something you can’t control? You can’t! But Jesus could. I could do all things through Him. He was in me, and I was in Him. Therefore, if Jesus could see anxiety for the lie it was, and if He could make it go away completely, then doesn’t it just stand to reason that I could too? Because it wasn’t just me; it was Him.

I began to see myself as seated with Christ in Heavenly places. I fixed my eyes on things above, not things below. You don’t so much worry about your bank balance when you realize that money isn’t everything. You can stop fretting about finances when you really believe Jesus will provide for you. I had never faithfully and consistently tithed because I didn’t think I could afford to do so, but I was proclaiming God couldn’t provide for my needs when I didn’t. So, I followed through my faith by tithing every week. I watched more money than I had ever given in offering before leave my bank account, and it gave me zero anxiety. I considered it an investment.

I stopped worrying about health concerns that might come my way or to my children, and instead focused my attention on God as my healer and sustainer. I’m not saying I stopped taking care of my temple, but I stopped fearing illness. The flowers of the field didn’t fret. Why should I?

What is the worst that could happen to me? Would it affect me for all eternity? If the answer was “no” then it wasn’t worth concerning myself about.

But what about the uncontrollable, irrational anxiety? Well, I got rid of it too. When I remained in Christ, through frequent reading of my Bible, consistent prayer time (I talk to God all day, my eyes pop open and I’m immediately thanking Him for the good sleep I got), and surrounding myself with things pleasing to Him, I became saturated with truth. Y’all, where truth resides, anxiety cannot be. Anxiety isn’t from God, and if you can fill yourself so completely with the truth of who Jesus is personally to you and in your life, anxiety just slips away.

I can’t pinpoint when I precisely realized I didn’t suffer with anxiety anymore. It didn’t disappear all at once. It wasn’t a magic spell. I simply, consistently absorbed more of Jesus. I abided in His truth. I rested in it. I took it in so frequently that it became reality to me. You can read the Bible and know in your heart that a verse is true, but you almost have to pound it in to yourself for it to click. You can’t read the truth once. I know Atheists who have read the Bible. You have to read it again and again, ruminate on it, get guidance from other believers on it, pray on it, listen to God impress to your heart what He’s trying to tell you through it. I did this over and over, and one day I realized that I believed so deeply in my spirit every word of scripture to be true, and true for me (that’s the kicker), that I couldn’t let lies stay very long.

Do anxious thoughts try to come my way? Not as much as they once did, but they still try to sneak in. The cool part is that God’s truth shines a light on my anxious thoughts, and it exposes them as the lie they are. I speak scripture to my anxiety, and if it tries to come on me, I fight it off with God’s Word. This may sound like it couldn’t possibly work. It may sound like mumbo-jumbo. Maybe you’re saying, “you haven’t dealt with real anxiety, not anxiety like mine.”

Well, I don’t know what your anxiety is like, but I know that I have experienced suicidal ideation in the past and a failed suicide attempt due to mine. I wanted to be asleep forever rather than deal with the anxiousness I felt. Sound familiar? I remember even having a psychiatrist diagnose me as Bipolar when I was a teenager.

All I know, now, is that it feels good to be free. It’s not anything I did, per se, but what Jesus did in me. When I realized and truly believed, rested on, and drew strength from the fact that through the Holy Spirit, Jesus lived in me, I was able to abide. I was able to continue in truth. The truth set me free. I was able to move forward by being still. I was able to get rid of my anxiety by letting go of my ability to fix it. I was able to get rid of my anxiety by allowing Christ to. You see, He never had anxiety (sin) for me. He took it on Himself on the cross. He already died and was resurrected so I could be anxiety-free. I just couldn’t see that. I was blind to that fact.

When I opened my eyes to the truth that Jesus had already made the way to trash my anxiety for good, it simply stopped being a thing. Heck, I didn’t even have to get rid of it; it was just gone.

Remembering God’s Plans Never Fail

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I was eight years old when I almost died.

I stood in church, swaying to the worship song, and I looked at my eight year old daughter sitting in the row in front of me.

I was that age, I thought.

So much potential, so much life still ahead of her. I was her exact age when I tried to end my own life. It amazes me, looking back, how Satan tried to stop short the plans God had in mind for my life. I could have died; I should have died. But I didn’t.

It was a hot, July afternoon when I climbed my favorite tree. The tree climbing was nothing new, but the coil of old rope wrapped around my arm was. I stood on one branch, and I tied tightly an end of the rope to the branch above it. On the other end I fashioned a circle. I wasn’t sure how to tie a noose, like the ones I’d seen the bad guys swing from on the Westerns on TV, but I figured this would do. It would have to. I looked at the circular section of rope I had fashioned at the end of the tree-anchored line, and I figured it would do the trick.

I was just so sad, you see. Thinking back I’m not sure what made me feel like death was the only escape for my sadness. Was it being the new kid? Being the sick kid with epilepsy? Being the adopted kid? Being the kid whose biological dad had left her? I’m not sure. Maybe it was all of it.

I had to make the loop big enough to fit over my head, and as I slipped it over my fine, white hair and onto my neck, I looked down at the ground below. I saw no other way. I jumped.

Oh, my God! It hurt! It hurt so bad!

I didn’t realize how bad it would hurt to hang myself. I thought it would make the pain go away, but as my throat began to burn from the jolt of my descent, coupled with the lack of life-giving oxygen, my soul screamed for help. I bucked and jerked as my little body dangled over the dirt, and the bright light of the sunny afternoon started to blur around the edges.

Suddenly I was on the ground, and I sucked in hungrily the luscious air. In my frantic bucking I had slipped free from my haphazardly constructed noose. That was the only explanation for me being on the ground, yet the circle of rope the size of my head still dangling from above me. I had slipped free. Even now it doesn’t make sense. Or perhaps it does.

Twenty-three years later I sat stunned in my darkened car, my white knuckles clutched desperately around the steering wheel. I sucked in eagerly the breath of life, and just like I had done on the dirt ground many year prior as a child, I rejoiced at the fact that I was alive. Once again I had done something stupid that could have taken my life, and though drunk driving in a rainstorm wasn’t a suicidal intention like hanging myself, it should have been. It could have been. I should have died. Again.

My car had spun in repeating circles and skidded out of control across the wet, dark night. My small body had dropped dangerously to the dirt, suspended in the air by a life-stealing rope. So many times, even beyond these close calls, the devil had tried to thwart the plans my Father had in store. His desire to steal, kill, and destroy me was relentless, but then again, so was my God. His plans never failed.

From the moment that God forms us in the womb, He knows the story of our life, His desires for our future. From the moment we enter a sin-filled world, the enemy strives to take it away. People hurt us, we make poor decisions, our plans don’t work out. But God’s plans? They never fail.

From the time I was a young child the enemy wished to steal my future. He must have laughed as I stood in that tree. In the unseen, I’m sure a battle was waged for my life.

“Not today,” my God had spoken. “I’m not done with her yet.”

I’m so glad He wasn’t done with me that day, over twenty years later, or even today. I’m so grateful His plans never fail. So that even when I mess up, misstep, or make mistakes, my plans may crumble, but His plans for me never fail. Greater is He that is in me than he that is in the world.

I look fondly forward, each day a gift, and I’m eternally grateful for a God who’s not done with me yet, a God who fights for me, a God who doesn’t let go. I can jump from a tree, but He catches me. My husband has his own story of miraculous survival in a wreck where he should have died. God wasn’t done with him yet. He wasn’t done with us. And He’s not done with you.

When the world seems frightening, when it spins out of control, never forget who holds you in His hand. Never forget that His plans never fail. He battles for you. Yesterday, today, and tomorrow.

Another Thing Women Aren’t Talking About

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I can remember five or six years ago feeling helpless to support the women in my life who were hurting. It was a time when I was birthing babies, and I experienced women close to me struggling with this. Women I loved were feeling the intense pain of miscarriage or infertility, and having never dealt with this particular battle, I could only sympathize, not empathize. What I discovered, though, as I spoke with other women and mothers in my life, was that an overwhelming majority of them had experienced the same pain. Most women I knew personally had lost an unborn child, yet had never spoken of it until I broached the subject. I realized miscarriage was something women didn’t talk about. They kept that particular trauma to themselves. But I also realized that in sharing the struggle with one another, strength was obtained by those close to me.

It was something women didn’t talk about, and recently I’ve come across another struggle women keep to themselves. Why do we do that?

Here’s another thing women aren’t talking about, but I will. Be warned, fellas, and continue at your own risk.

After my third daughter was born I breastfed her like I did the first two. As an exclusive breastfeeding mother, and exactly like my previous children, I did not experience a menstrual cycle while nursing. I dealt with the hormonal changes of pregnancy, and then the ones of postpartum motherhood, but nothing was quite as hard as the return of the hormones related to my period. After 9 months of no cycle, then another two years sans period, when I did stop breastfeeding and my period returned, it was with a vengeance. I mean, I had spent the last seven years of my life pregnant or breastfeeding. I assumed this would get better, that it would regulate, that I would feel normal again. And so began one of the hardest experiences of my life thus far. The worst part, is that I have felt all alone in it. Like, I’m crazy. I’ve even described myself as such.

I’m crazy.

Around the time of my returning cycle, I also entered my forties. My reproductive body was starting to slow due to age, but the mother within there wouldn’t put it to rest. I imagined it like two, competing women within me. One was saying, “we’re done with this procreation business,” and she was trying to slow down my baby factory. Yet the other zealous woman inside screamed, “no, I’m not finished yet,” and she released a torrent of reproductive hormones. I found myself riding a rollercoaster of hormones, with plunges and surges, ups and downs. I just kept telling myself it would get better.

Over the past year and a half I’ve been waiting for it to improve, but instead of improvement I’ve experienced upheaval. I’ve dealt with symptoms unlike anything I had ever experienced in adolescence, much worse, in fact. They followed a cyclic pattern, so that I could pinpoint exactly where I was in my 28 day cycle, based simply on how I felt. When I was ovulating I’d have headaches, dizziness, lightheadedness, and nausea. I’d have pain and be prone to periods of rage. The week before my actual period I’d be an emotional wreck, crying five times within ten minutes of a movie that wasn’t even sad. I’d have acne that was worse than anything I saw as a teenager. My acid reflux would get out of control, I’d be fatigued, swollen, and experience muscle strains and pains in my back and neck. Anxiety, insomnia, depression. PMS was the worst, and I’d actually long for my period, telling my husband that I wanted to “bleed my bad mood away.”

It seemed like with each week new symptoms came, month after month, and I only had maybe 5 days in 30 where I felt “normal” or like my old self. The actual period itself was worse, with cramps rivaling anything I’d ever known, ones that made me cry. It lasted longer, would wax and wane, stop, then restart. But I think it was my mental state that made it the worst. So many times I used the words “out of control.”

I felt out of control of my emotions.

I felt crazy.

I felt unstable.

I felt like no one understood this because no one talked about it. Was I the only woman in my forties who felt insane?

I started scouring the Internet, something as a Nurse I hated when patients did, but I had to do something that made me feel less alone. I found things that made me feel better, but that also didn’t. I realized women in their forties experienced these hormonal surges, ups and downs, as their reproductive bodies geared down. I discovered it was called a perimenopausal period, but I also found it could last ten years or more! Was there any end in sight?!

For over a year I waited to see if it would improve, and when it didn’t I decided to finally bite the bullet and see my doctor. When I explained my symptoms at my appointment he didn’t seem surprised. I had never believed in PMS as a young woman, naively presuming it was an excuse women used to act nasty. Even as I spoke honestly to my doctor a small part of me worried if he’d feel the same, but I was beyond premenstrual syndrome; I was all-the-time syndrome.

I thought later about when he had suggested different medication options. One suggestion had been Zoloft.

“But I’m not depressed!” I had exclaimed defensively. “My life is wonderful!”

He had answered, “it doesn’t mean you’re depressed to take it. It can just help your mood to be regulated.”

A few days after this conversation I had the worst PMS of my life. Two nights before my period started I found myself fixating on a situation. I was worried that someone might be upset with me. The crazy part was nothing had happened, but I was worried it might. I was anxious about a nonexistent issue. And I couldn’t stop thinking about it!

I prayed and prayed. “God, take these irrational worries away!”

The next day I found myself in a “slump,” but that’s really a nice way of putting it. It was even beyond my typical description of “melancholy.” I was depressed, bordering on hopeless, and even had a very brief thought of suicide in the shower.

It wasn’t my first brush with suicidal ideation. I could remember two episodes prior where I had lay in bed thinking that my children didn’t love me or need me, that they would be better off without me. Thankfully, a thought of ending my life was only a fleeting one, mere seconds of contemplation, then pushed away by my rational mind. But the realization that they came at all frightened me. How could I think such a thing?!

Crazy.

If it wasn’t that then I considered running away, deserting a family that I felt didn’t appreciate me.

I guess they’d see how much I do if I was gone!

Crazy.

The truth always would shine through. It would tell me I was loved (and appreciated), by my family and by God. I guess that’s probably what bothered me the most. How could I (in my innermost being) know the truth, that I was complete in Jesus and loved, yet still feel this way? The two things didn’t gel, they didn’t go together, they didn’t go side by side. The truth of who I was didn’t coincide with my feelings. My emotions betrayed me. They threatened to upheave me. I was a happy, blessed woman! So why did I feel so sad?! That was the worst part. The truth of my situation didn’t change how I felt sometimes.

I called my doctor back!

In talking to other women, and ones older than myself, who had been in my shoes (forties, multiple babies later), I realized I wasn’t alone. They had been through the same emotions and struggles. I don’t know why we keep these experiences so close and silent, but I think it’s because they scare us. They make us feel out of control. I mean, many years ago women suffered in silence, and the ones who did voice the roller coaster feelings were hospitalized, institutionalized, given electroshock therapy, separated from family, and heavily medicated into compliance. Perhaps that macabre history is why we keep our struggles close to the vest, unspoken, and swept under a rug.

Maybe it’s indecent or inappropriate for women to discuss out loud things like hormones and menstrual cycles! Like how breastfeeding still isn’t normalized, I guess neither is the struggle of being a woman. We go through the difficulties of carrying a child, the pain of childbirth, the struggles of the postpartum period, but it doesn’t even end there. It continues into this time of life that I’m now discovering, and I haven’t even gotten to the menopause part!

I wish it didn’t have to be so hard to be a woman, and I wish I knew the answers of how to make it better. But I don’t. I do know this, though. If anything I wrote sounds familiar to you then I hope it helps to know you are not alone in how you feel. You’re not the only woman who feels crazy, unbalanced, or out of control. Don’t be afraid to talk to someone about it, to see your doctor. Keep looking for a doctor who understands your situation and helps you find solutions. Don’t be ashamed of how you’re feeling, don’t be ashamed to get help, to find the right medicine.

Tonight I heard a song on the radio that sang, “I’m not okay, and that’s okay.”

I guess that’s my anthem during this season. Women always try to be everything, but it’s okay to admit you need help. I cling to Jesus and prayer, but God created knowledge which created medicine, and there’s no shame in that. Being out of control of your emotions doesn’t mean you’re a bad person or even a bad Christian. It just means you’re human. And I think it’s okay to talk about that.