Brie Gowen

Savor the Essence of Life

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.

We’re in This Together

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“In this family you don’t have to go through anything alone,” I explained to my oldest daughter. “We’re in this together!”

She nodded, sniffled, and wiped a stray tear from her cheek before acknowledging my statement with an accepting “ok, Momma.”

She was eight years old, and for whatever reason had started developing fear at night. She was having trouble sleeping, and she said when she woke up in the middle of the night with everyone else still sleeping, she felt alone. Her father and I had noticed something amiss with her mood, but she tried to say everything was ok. Finally, after much gentle questioning, she admitted her fears. She had worried her dad and I wouldn’t understand how she could know Jesus was always with her, but still be afraid. I think she was ashamed of her fear.

“It’s ok to be afraid, baby,” I explained. “It’s okay to cry, and it’s especially ok to ask for help. That’s why we’re here.”

My husband went on to explain she could always wake him up anytime. We offered wisdom from scripture, but above all we let her know that she wasn’t alone in this. That’s what family is for.

That was last night, but I was reminded of it again today.

“We all just finished praying for you,” my husband texted to me at work.

We’re in this together.

I was reminded how true that was. I had texted my husband earlier this morning to let him know I wasn’t feeling well. I felt downtrodden, and while I knew you couldn’t spread sunshine on the daily, I also knew God didn’t have it for me to feel defeated or depressed in my day. So I had shared my mood with my spouse so he might lift me up in prayer.

Turns out he enlisted the whole family to pray.

We’re in this together.

I thought about how I had responded not long ago when my husband wasn’t feeling well. When he doesn’t feel good he gets really quiet. He’s almost sullen. He doesn’t want to do anything, and in this particular instance had tried to make excuses to not go somewhere I had planned.

“It looks like it might rain,” my personal meteorologist/aka husband had stated.

I had retorted, “if you don’t wanna go just say so!”

And as I stewed with indignation afterwards I thought to myself how his bad mood shouldn’t be something I had to deal with! Yet, I had. I had allowed my anger to cool, tried to place myself in his shoes, and remembered that it was my job to support him in life. Through good times and bad.

We’re in this together.

I didn’t know if our family had a bullseye lately from the enemy for following God’s will, but I did know that everyone eventually had bad days. Sometimes all at once, sometimes at inconvenient times, sometimes when you couldn’t understand them, and sometimes even when they didn’t want to share those bad days with you. You still shared them! Even if you couldn’t understand, didn’t want to deal, or felt like you couldn’t help. Because that’s what you do when you love someone. You help carry the weight when they can’t, and then later they pick up the load for a while. Repeat.

I told my daughter this last night. “God didn’t promise us that life on this earth would always be easy, but He did promise you wouldn’t be alone.”

I reckon sometimes God’s presence is made concrete through the people who love you. Wives support husbands, and husbands lift up their wives. Or they should.

Families pray together, and they intercede for one another. That’s what we’re here for. To love God, love one another, and help make the journey through this life easier for one another until we reach the other side.

We’re in this together.

So, never feel like you’re alone. Never go at it alone. God gives us all our people to help us through this thing called life. Look for your people today.

My Tribe

Asking God to Come Near to You Won’t Help Your Anxiety!

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As I drove to work on a dark and dreary morning I just couldn’t shake the feeling that I had forgotten something. I checked my pockets, my purse, feeling blindly with cold fingers for my badge for work and my favorite pen. As I fingered my handbag’s contents to ensure I had all the items I would need for the day, and ran through my mind if I had remembered to lock the door before I left home, I realized I had not forgotten anything. I just felt like I did. The strange part was that even as my logical mind knew nothing was amiss, the other part of me still cowered in concern. What I’m saying is that even though I had everything I needed, my human mind still bristled with worry that I had missed the mark. That’s when I realized it was my anxiety rearing it’s ugly head. Have you ever felt that way?

The thing I hate about anxiety the most is that it comes upon me even when there’s nothing to worry about. My anxiety isn’t always realistic. It will come along when all is well. If there’s nothing wrong and life is hunky-dory, the little hamster in my brain will jump on its wheel and start spinning endlessly, running nowhere. I will worry about non-issues, create worry out of thin air, and stew on specific scenarios that have 0.02% chance of occurring.

So you’re saying there’s a chance?!

Yep, my mind can worry itself to oblivion if I allow it, and late at night when I’m in bed, even when I do my best to chase it away. Sound familiar?

This particular morning as I drove to work and realized my unwarranted anxiety was trying to rear its ugly head, I knew prayer was in order. I mean, He says to cast all our anxiety on Him because He cares for us, right?! So as I began to pray for God to come and give me peace, I heard the lyrics of a Christian song on the radio. The words beseeched God to “draw near to me,” and at that moment it hit me like a lighting bolt.

Draw near to me, God.

Jesus, come.

Pour out your Spirit on us!

These are all things we say, things popular lyrics proclaim, and words we pray. And there’s nothing wrong with them, per se, but I realized that in my specific situation this wasn’t something that would work as well as the truth.

God is with us.

Always.

When I deal with unwanted anxiety it’s not so much a matter of praying for God to come near and help me. He hears my prayer. It’s not that He’s ignoring me. When anxiety continues, or when it comes back again, and you battle it time after time, a common misconception would be, God isn’t hearing me. He’s not coming to help me deal with this. He’s turned His face from me. What did I do? Am I not Holy enough? Am I not good enough? Maybe I didn’t pray hard enough. It’s probably that unconfessed sin in my life keeping Him from coming to me.

Yet the truth is that as a born again Christian God is always with us. He’s not left. He doesn’t need to come. He’s already there. Asking Him to draw near to us when His Holy Spirit lives in us is simply a misunderstanding. We end up putting it into our own hands. We say we’re casting our anxiety on Him, but we deep down believe our performance, goodness, or holiness will impact His willingness to come to our aid.

1 John 4:13 (NIV)

This is how we know that we live in him and he in us: He has given us of his Spirit.

Christ is in us, and we are in Him. We are seated in Heavenly places beside Him and the Father, in our Spirit. It’s only the earthly body that resides in this world, but we don’t have to be of the world or let it rule us. Jesus died so we could be one with the Father as He is one with the Father.

Ephesians 2:6 (NIV)

And God raised us up with Christ and seated us with him in the heavenly realms in Christ Jesus

So, instead of asking God to come to us or draw near to us, we just need to recognize He lives in our hearts now. When we call, He is already near. We just have to open our eyes to that fact. We only need to accept the truth that He is. We don’t have to fight anxiety. We just need to acknowledge, understand, and believe that we are in Him, and He is in us. Anxiety can’t live there. No room.

We don’t even have to trudge through a valley. Not really. We’re on the mountain, where He is on the mountain. I realize this might be an unpopular opinion among my fellow Christians, and while I agree we go through barren seasons of life, I don’t think we have to collapse in defeat as we do. To remember this world is but a passing breath, and that we have victory because Jesus is with us always, that is freedom. It’s as if a pipeline from Heaven exists. God pours out His love and victory through the outlet of Jesus and into the container of our heart called the Holy Spirit.

I realized that I cannot fight anxiety. Not on my own, and not simply by asking God to come help me with it. I just have to remember He is here and He says anxiety cannot remain. It doesn’t belong in the Spirit He has created. Anxiety is of this world, but I am not. It has no power over me.

Does it still try to come? Yes. But then I remember the truth. I don’t have to ask God to come near and fight my battles. I just have to remember He is here, and that the battle has already been won.

Is It Just Being a Woman, Or What?!

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Today I feel great. More than great, actually. I’ve smiled enough today that the corners of my mouth are sore, but I’m definitely not complaining. It’s nice to come out the other side of a dry spell. I guess that’s what I’ll call it. I’m talking about that barren place of your emotions where you feel empty, where you feel as if you resemble the desert floor when it hasn’t rained in a long time. Dry, open, weeping, even without tears. You’re even too empty to cry.

Last week I experienced a span of days where I awoke feeling downtrodden. In the mornings I would even awake with my heart racing, trying to remember the dreams that had kept my subconscious spinning, the ones that must have had some purpose if they left me feeling so anxious and coming apart. Through the day I would worry on simple issues, the nonexistent problems that I somehow tried to make matter more. I would imagine trouble when it shouldn’t even be a thought, and I guess what bothers me the most about that is it’s the total opposite of who God has created me to be.

One of my down days I actually sat by the pool with a book, my adoring husband beside me, and my darling children playing before me. My life was surreal, spectacular, amazing. So I couldn’t for the life of me understand why I felt so bothered. As I prayed for an answer I felt one come.

This is how I am answering your prayers.

Over the past year especially I had asked God for more of Himself. I wanted to draw closer in my walk with the Lord. I wanted to be used by Him. I wanted Him to rid me of everything that wasn’t in line with that. So it occurred to me that Him allowing me to feel the temporary, intermittent emotions of anxiety was for sure a way to increase my dependence on Him. It wasn’t that I felt He caused these feelings. No. They definitely were not of God or what He intended for my life. Instead they were the side effects of a sinful, fallen world. So while He had all authority and power to break the chains of anxiety and rid me of the spirit of depression, I also saw how allowing these things to touch me drew me into closer dependence and trust on Him. His power was indeed made perfect in my weakness.

Last week I felt like I was running on empty. I wonder sometimes if it’s just being a woman. Or maybe it’s being a working mom. But other times I realize it’s just part of the human condition. Throughout my brief episode of unhappiness I did persist in joy. Did I feel joyful?! No, not really, but under the surface of my visceral emotions flowed a steady stream of certainty. It was the joy of knowing the Lord held me, even if I couldn’t feel it. It was the river of the Holy Spirit, my faith in Him. So many times when I felt hopeless in my emotions I would simply repeat the same phrases to Jesus.

I trust you.

I love you.

Help me.

Slowly I climbed out of the pit, and I am certain the rope thrown to me was divinely woven in patient love. Though I couldn’t see the way out I never let go of that rope, and He never let go of me. I am reminded of the familiar Psalm, Weeping may tarry for the night, but joy comes with the morning.

Thank you, Lord, that my joy is here, it has never left, and it never will.

When I Couldn’t Pray Depression Away

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My eyes fluttered open slowly, while eager rays of luxurious sunshine tried their best to break through my closed blinds. I turned to my right and saw the sleeping face of my toddler daughter, so lovely as her tiny nose sniffed the air above her, and long lashes curled towards the ceiling. I bet even the angels blushed at her beauty, and although the sight of her caused my heart to be happy, overall I was not. I found that odd. 

Normally a very optimistic and joyful person, I didn’t take well to waking in a foul mood. But it wasn’t just foul, it felt rather hopeless. That was the worst feeling of all. Indeed for a third day in a row I had awoken to sadness, and for the life of me I couldn’t pinpoint anything that I considered adequate cause. Yes, there had been upset, unexpected events, and even stress, but nothing that my logical mind thought should be causing me distress. Now if only my heart could agree. 

With the onslaught of bad feeling and melancholy sadness there was also frustration. In fact I felt oddly guilty for my persistent poor mood, after all, in my opinion my life was absolutely the best. So how could a woman who had everything she could possibly want feel as if she was lacking? Instead of the contentment I desired to reside within me, I felt as if it had been replaced by a hole. Visions of water circling the bathtub drain come to mind, as that’s what it felt was happening to the hope and peace that normally prevailed in my life. They were draining right out!

I did the only thing I knew to do, the thing that normally made me feel good. I prayed. And I prayed. I put on the armor of God, I read devotions, and I listened to worship music. It seemed to help, but the next thing I knew I’d be down in the dumps again. I wondered why it wasn’t working. Why couldn’t I pray my depression away, and it be gone for good?

Instead I would wake again the next day, and the first thought on my mind, aside from bad dreams I had experienced, was the realization that I still felt blue. Beyond blue. 

I began to crave God’s word as it seemed to be the only thing that helped. Even though the good feelings didn’t last, the peace I felt after reading scripture was worth it, so I read more. I dove into the Bible when I woke, and I would put my phone down at night, reaching for His book again before bed. I meditated on His goodness, and I just kept telling God that I trusted Him. 

In my frustration I realized that I had zero control of my emotional state. Though I wanted to be able to be strong enough and “spiritual” enough to combat the darkness and depression, I could not. It had very little to do with what “I” did to make it go away. I realized it was something I had to come back to day after day, and moment after moment. I didn’t even know what to say beyond, “help me.” So that’s what I said. 

Help me. 

Yesterday I woke up. The thirsty sunshine sought its entry into my bedroom window. My sleeping daughter’s upturned, cherry of a nose beckoned to be kissed, and her dark eyelashes continued to curl towards the heavens. I smiled. And I realized I didn’t feel sad. I don’t know where my melancholy sadness sprinted off to, but I know I didn’t make it disappear. If anything, this past week’s sufferings humbled me to the fact of how strong our emotions can be, and how totally reliant on Jesus I truly am. I can’t always pray my depression away. But I can pray. 

I Get Sad Sometimes

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I get sad sometimes. 
For no reason, really. I just feel sad. 

I’m happily married, but sometimes I get sad.

My heart truly thrives over motherhood and taking care of my children, but sometimes I get sad. 

I am happy with who I am, comfortable in my own skin, and proud of the accomplishments I’ve made in my life. But sometimes I still get sad. 

Sometimes it will creep up on me unexpectedly, and I’ll just feel sad. 

“Self?” I’ll ask myself. “What in the world is wrong with you? Why are you so down?”

I’ll answer back, “I don’t know…”

Sometimes I just get sad. 

I guess there’s no immunity to the blues. It can invade the happiest woman on the planet even while she smiles the world’s biggest smile on the outside. Inside she will frown. 

Last night I just got sad. 

My precious daughters hopped around happily, saying clever things, performing enormous feats for my attention while they called out “look Momma!”

How can you be sad? My frowny, inside voice said to my outwardly smiling self. You’re so blessed. 

I am always blessed, but sometimes I still get sad. 

Before bed I sat in the dark rocking my youngest daughter to sleep. I rubbed her hair that was finally starting to grow, and I gazed longingly at her lovely lashes while she slept. They curled upwards in a come hither gesture, and I smiled despite the fact that my stubborn heart felt sad, for no apparent reason at all. 

I love you, Lord. I whispered. Thank you. 

Because even when I got sad I was still grateful. Even when I felt down He still brought me up. 

This morning when I woke the sadness was gone. I don’t know where it came from, nor do I know where it went. 

As I rose with contentment within me I whispered much the same, I love you, Lord. Thank you. 

Sometimes I just get sad. 

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. 

5 Bible Verses to Remind You That God Hasn’t Forgotten You

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Some mornings I wake up and I feel down. I feel a heavy weight upon me, and I wonder how I can feel that way. Even if there is some silly, worldly reason for my hurt feelings, shouldn’t I be able to rise above it. Shouldn’t the fact that I’m a believer in Christ afford me some sort of guarantee against bad feelings?!

Well… sorta. I opened my Bible straight away, and the first verse I saw calmed my anxious spirit. It’s like God’s word was written just for me, and I suppose in a way it was. We live in a sinful world, and because of that we are not promised that every day will be without pain and struggle. But we are promised this. God is with us. 

It’s easy when you struggle to think God has forgotten you, but that couldn’t be further from the truth. In times of trouble His Holy Spirit speaks best through His Word. 

1. Psalm 94:18-19

I cried out, “I am slipping!” but your unfailing love, O Lord, supported me. When doubts filled my mind, your comfort gave me renewed hope and cheer.

When we feel like we are falling there is but One that can catch us. When we are certain we are drowning, there is One who lifts us from the crashing sea. When we have lost all hope, He provides a renewal for our soul. Jesus. Precious Jesus. He is the lifter of my head.

2. Philippians 4:19

And this same God who takes care of me will supply all your needs from his glorious riches, which have been given to us in Christ Jesus.

When we have reached the end of our rope and the end of our resources, God provides. When we see no way, He makes the way. We may not always even understand His way, but as a believer you know He has your best interest as heart. He’s never late, but always on time. 

3. Romans 5:8

But God showed his great love for us by sending Christ to die for us while we were still sinners.
Sometimes we’re not where we need to be in our relationship with the Lord, and we assume that because of our mistakes and faults that He can’t work with that. We mistaken His silence for absence, when in all reality He just wants us to hear His voice more clearly. 

It’s not by works that we are saved. God doesn’t love us more for being better. He just loves us. He loves us enough to die for. Nothing can change that. 

4. Matthew 28:20

Teach these new disciples to obey all the commands I have given you. And be sure of this: I am with you always, even to the end of the age.
You can bet He wants us to follow after Him in obedience, but you can also be certain of this. He will be with us always. Even when we fall a step behind. When the world happens, and sin happens, and even when calamity happens, still. Still He is with us. 

5. Deuteronomy 31:6

Be strong and courageous. Do not be afraid or terrified because of them, for the LORD your God goes with you; he will never leave you nor forsake you.

It takes courage to make it through life sometimes, and more courage than we possess on our own. Thankfully we don’t have to face life by ourselves. God is with us. He will never leave us, forsake us, forget about us, or turn His back on us. We may suffer through a season where we are going through a refining fire or receiving His discipline, but He won’t abandon us. 

In the moments where you feel lost, alone, and crushed under your anxiety repeat these verses to yourself, and remember that though it may seem at the moment that He has forgotten you, the truth is that He has not. 

The Best Thing You Can Do For Someone Who is Hurting

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We all seem to have something in us that wants to be a fixer, and when we see someone hurting we feel this nagging urgency to help them. When someone you love, especially, is experiencing great sadness your top priority is often aimed towards setting things straight. This is what we think we must do to be a good friend, but it isn’t necessary. 

I recall after my mother died three types of people that approached me at her funeral. 

First there were the ones who came to my rescue with accolades of encouragement. They told me of how she was singing with the angels, and while it was certainly a comfort to know she was no longer in pain as she strolled the streets of gold, it seemed like these well-wishers were trying to take my grief away. And because of that a part of me wanted to punch them in the mouth. You see, I needed my grief at that time. I didn’t want to hear that I shouldn’t be sad because in reality I was devastated, and telling me I shouldn’t feel that way only made it worse. 

I don’t hate them for that. On the contrary I appreciate their desire to console me. It just didn’t help. 

Next there were the people who felt uncomfortable in my presence. It was as if they feared the stigma of death might leap off me and infect their own happy life. They might have offered a weak, half-hug then disappeared quickly. I probably wouldn’t have even noticed if it weren’t for the uncomfortable way they glanced in my direction as if pitying my tears, then swiftly would look away before taking their leave of absence. 

I didn’t fault these people for their reactions. After all it’s human nature to want to separate yourself from another’s pain. At the time when you’re hurting you don’t want pity, you just want to be left alone, so the absence of those who felt uncomfortable at my loss didn’t really bother me. 

I think the reason most people feel uncomfortable around another’s pain is because they don’t know how to fix it, and in their uncertainty they feel like a failure as a friend. So they do the only thing they know to do; they distance themselves. 

But then there was a third group of people in the aftermath of my mom’s death. These people were much like the others in that they too knew that eventually my grief would lessen with the knowledge of eternity. Yet they also didn’t know the right words to say to take away my pain. The difference with this small circle of individuals, though, is that they were fine with that. They understood that my grief didn’t depend on their ability or inability to make me feel better. They knew I was hurting, and they let me hurt. 

True friends will not try to fix you. They will support you, and they will help you as you need, but they won’t feel an urgency to make things better because in essence that only makes the person trying to fix you feel better. 

Friends who know you best will sometimes not even say a word. They will sit with you, being present as an available support system if conversation is required, but I think we all know that sometimes it’s just not. 

The best way to help someone who is hurting may require doing nothing. Sure you make yourself available, and you supply a shoulder to cry on or an ear to hear their pain expressed in racking sobs, but you don’t actually have to try and make it better. Because sometimes you just can’t. 

Many times when someone is experiencing emotional pain the best thing you can do is just be there. You don’t have to offer wise sentiments or an explanation of the grieving process. You just sit there. You listen. You hold them. You don’t try to fix it; rather you allow it to mend. 

On My Worst Days…

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On my worst days… He shows up. 

I am one of those people who has always struggled with depression. It might shock you to know this, because of my jovial disposition, but when I was eight years old I actually hung myself. I hung myself from a Dogwood tree in a thicket in front of my parent’s home. My life was not bad; I was just sad, and at that moment I didn’t want to live anymore. 

On my worst day… He showed up. 

He showed up and made certain that the knot my little hands tied didn’t hold. It held long enough that I felt the pain of my breathe being cut-off. It held long enough to make my little mind realize I had made a terrible mistake. And it held long enough to leave an ugly rope burn around my neck. But then I fell to the ground. Thank God I fell to the ground. 

Over the years I struggled so badly with a crippling sadness, and I can think of many rock bottom moments where I just didn’t want to go on. I didn’t want to suffer through the pain of trying to walk upright when I felt a terrible weight crushing me flat. It hurt. It burned in my throat, along with the hot tears that always wanted to surface when hopelessness tried to consume me. 

On my worst day… He showed up. 

Sitting atop a partition in my dorm room that separated my bed from my absent roommate’s tidily made bunk. Legs drawn up, emotions in an even tighter wad than my impossibly thin body. I cried in the pain of a person who has given up, and I shakily uttered a pleading “help” in a raw voice, to no one in particular. 

On my worst day… He showed up. 

I climbed down, and I walked on. The weight had lifted. 

I have found an improvement in the past few years over the emotional stronghold I’ve suffered in this life, but I would be lying if I said it was completely vanquished. Some days I wake up, and the blanket of sadness tries to cover me. It whispers in my ear, and it tries to wrap its cruel tendrils around my brain. In these moments where I first wake, wake to a wonderful life in which I should only feel utter joy, I am left confused. I am confused as to why I feel an overshadowing of melancholy sadness trying to overtake me. Why?!

This morning I awoke in just that manner. I felt a wiggle of worry, an inkling of anxiety, a nagging, downtrodden mood that wished to envelope me. 

I usually hate this feeling so, and I often approach it in a desperate moment of prayer where I plead with the Lord to take these thoughts away. I pray for the armor of God to surround me, and though He is faithful to intercede, I am left dissapointed that I must consistently seek Him for rescue in this matter. 

Yet this morning it was different. This morning I thought of something I hadn’t before. So many times when I wake this way I feel defeat, and it saddens me that I am not stronger. But He can work in that too. 

On my worst days… He shows up. 

2 Corinthians 12:9

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.

I was reminded that even in my most rock bottom moments, not only am I not alone, but He is able to show Himself most evidently to me. 

It’s an opportunity for His power to be pronounced triumphantly in my life. 

For His peace to be my manna. 

And on my worst days… For Him to show up.