To the Families of My Patients: We Don’t Forget

This May will mark six years since I wrote this entry from my private nursing journal. 🧡
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The time was winding down for my nursing orientation, and she was a new admission. My preceptor told me this patient was going to be mine. She needed an allogenic, “fresh” transplant. I needed to mark this off my checklist of things to do or see before orientation finished. A perfect match, the two of us.

I was a new nurse, and she knew it. But she didn’t seem to care. She had confidence in me that I didn’t even have in myself. I spent the entire shift in her room the day of transplant as the infusion bags dripped into her central line. We talked and laughed, and I got to know her as well as she got to know me. Suddenly I knew this stranger’s entire life story — her kids’ names, where she worked, where she and her husband had met — and she knew mine.
She became family so quickly.

When she was admitted nine months later for a small infection, I was the lucky one that got to call her my patient again. And this time I had finished orientation; I was on nightshift, figuring out my job, and I was proud to show her how much I had grown in my nursing career in the time that she’d been at home. And she said that she was proud of me.

She made the time pass quickly. She made the shifts seem happier. I genuinely looked forward to going in every night and talking with her as I’d listen to her lungs or clean the infected wound. Try to wean her off the oxygen she was using. Administer dilaudid and morphine around the clock, because she needed it. Fetch her ice and an extra blanket, because she was alone a lot of the time and had an excruciatingly painful time walking.
Our little routine lasted for weeks.

On this night, I think she knew she was dying. It was 5:48am. It had been a long and stressful night that was turning into an even more stressful morning, and I was feeling weary from the extra, critical care that she required. I tried to stay positive.

I was in her room taking vitals. Pushing metoprolol to try converting her heart rhythm back to sinus. We were talking like normal. She grabbed my hands. She told me that it had been an honor to be my patient all this time. “Almost a full year of friendship,” she’d whispered. I told her that I loved her, and through tears I asked about her family coming to visit later that day. Then she took her last breath. It was so quiet and peaceful that I almost missed it, but I knew.

We did all that we could, but I think she knew it was her time to go. I have never forgotten how it felt to hold her as she quietly closed her eyes and simply stopped talking to me. I’ve never forgotten the other patients I was privileged to hold as they passed on, either.

We don’t forget your loved ones when they leave us. A lot of shifts for us are spent reminiscing on the good and the bad times. The lessons we learned from them. The laughter we shared with them. The stories we heard from them.
We don’t forget their smiles or their funny, little quirks. And we don’t forget the intense battle it took to live just one more day. One more day. Just one more day.

It was intimidating to me when I started work on this specialized unit, taking care of adults and children; most facilities only offer one or the other. Now I just consider it all the more a blessing.
I learn every night from the adults as well as the kids. They all teach me something different.

One boy taught me to find some kind of joy in every day. Like your favorite ice cream flavor, despite some pretty bad mouth sores. Even the really painful days can be painted with joy. He never knew he taught me that.

One lady taught me that life will be sure to knock me down a time or two and make me feel stupid. She taught me that these times can be used by God to bring my eyes back in focus on Him. She taught me that they can make me stronger. And better. I hope she knows that I have tried to let them.

One little boy taught me that our words can be used to build each other up or tear each other down. He taught me that words can sting and can’t be taken back.

Another lady, in the midst of her own death, started praying for me. Me. The one who wasn’t sick or hurting or dying. She taught me to think of others a lot more frequently than I think of myself.

One man taught me that it’s okay to laugh at yourself every now and then. He was hallucinating from the chemo. And he knew he was. He would say something off the wall — like telling me to get the spiders off the ceiling for him. He would catch himself, his confusion. And then he would laugh and shrug his shoulders.

One taught me that we can’t take clothes or riches with us when it’s time to go. We have to leave it all behind. But we can leave behind a whole lot more than just materialistic items; we can leave behind our gracious, everlasting love.

The morning that I was holding her hands and they slowly went limp, I broke into pieces. I went home and wasn’t sure that I could face two more nights of work. Let alone the rest of my career.
But I’ve learned to throw on some scrubs and show back up, even as my heart is aching. I’ve learned that there are still more patients who need our care. There are more fighters to learn from and to laugh with.

God turned the brokenness into a lesson, and I carry it with me every night. I carry her with me every night. We all carry a piece of your loved ones every time we put our scrubs on to face whatever the next shift might hold.

Even after all this time, we mourn with you. We think of you during special occasions and holidays. They each have their own, unique, special stories to us, and we remember them all too well. They taught us too much. They made us better caregivers, better at our jobs. They fought too hard. They were stronger than any of us ever could be. So we don’t forget them when they leave us.

How could we ever do that?

Every Little Thing….Is Gonna Be Alright

Am I ready to talk about this? I’m not sure yet. Do I feel compelled and pressed by the Holy Spirit to do so anyway? Yes.

So here I am.

I’ll start off bluntly: we’ve been trying for our second baby, and it hasn’t happened yet. At the moment in time I’m writing this, it doesn’t seem like we ever will. I’m hopeful, but really more than that, I’m learning a heck of a lot about my faith. I haven’t really wanted to talk about our struggle, mostly because I know others have it worse, but also because I just don’t want to talk about it. I don’t want pity, I don’t want advice, and I don’t want your positive or negative stories. There’s a piece of me that even feels embarrassed, for some odd reason.

Embarrassed because I feel “less than” or like a “failure” in my body that won’t work as it was designed to work. Embarrassed for feeling any type of way when I already have a perfect daughter. Embarrassed because I know others who have it much worse than I do — and not just in the realm of infertility.

But I have felt convicted that God gave me this platform to share my testimony, and this is part of it. Maybe someone else can relate. I honestly believe more are struggling than we know — and it is a struggle — but people don’t talk about it enough, each for their own, understandable reasons. I just feel like I should share how God has been working hard on my heart, so I will, even though I don’t feel ready.

Let’s do it.

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Before we had Reese, my OB explained that he believed I have PCOS (Polycystic Ovary Syndrome). We were getting ready to start diving further into that diagnosis when I — quite literally — miraculously conceived with Reese. So we, obviously, paused that process. My pregnancy with her was a rollercoaster of things, from almost miscarrying her, to finding my mishappen uterus (which makes it harder to carry a child), to having her early and dramatically with a c section (as he predicted I might). But all in all, it didn’t take medicine for her to get here, and in the chaos with my pregnancy and delivery, I took for granted what a gift that actually was.

Here we are, Round 2. The pieces aren’t falling together miraculously this time. The diagnosis that explained why. And several months of medication, ultrasounds, and at home testings. I wish this was a post rejoicing that Baby #2 is on the way, but it’s not.

Instead, it’s a post praising God for being my Joy despite the heartache.

Is the heartache still present? Yes. But the peace, contentment, unexplainable joy and thankfulness that I have experienced in spite of it is overwhelming. I never thought I’d be able to say that, and to mean it.

I had confided in a few close friends about our situation, seeking prayer, comfort, advice, thoughts, anything that might help my heart feel a little less pain. My friends are such a gift, and those conversations and assurances of prayer were so helpful. But what really got me was the way I woke up one morning, took a pregnancy test, received yet another negative, and felt….okay. For the first time.

I didn’t cry. I didn’t turn my nose up to the ceiling and ask God, “Why?” or “Why me?!” Instead, I just felt Him. I just knew He was there with me. And I let that consume me.

I spent the rest of the day in a spirit of….not really prayer, per say, but maybe mindfulness? I wouldn’t say I had dialogue with God (though I probably should have). Instead I just had these recurring thoughts from Him that everything was alright. Over and over again. Everything is alright, it felt like He was whispering. Hold out your hands to Me.

If you know me, you know that control isn’t something I hand over easily. That’s probably true for a lot of us. I like to hold all the cards, sit behind the wheel, whatever you want to call it. It helps me feel secure and safe, knowing that I hold the power. Hold out my hands?! I asked God. I knew that was going to be a challenge. But I also knew that I was growing weary in my worries and was eager for some relief.

God didn’t tell me “Everything is alright, you’ll be pregnant soon!” or “Everything is alright, one day you’ll look back and laugh that you were stressing over this!” No, definitely not. Just simply, Everything is alright. Hold out your hands. Let Me take this. And for the first time since my PCOS diagnosis, I was able to trust that promise whole-heartedly.

I thought about what my doctor had said at my latest appointment. Literally speaking, Reese is a miracle. I can’t believe you conceived without medical intervention. Me either. I still look at her and can’t believe it. And I realized that…gosh. She might really be my only child! The family I’ve always pictured in my head might not be the family I get to have. It really might never happen again for us. With PCOS, and other infertility issues, that is the very real and very raw reality.

She might really be my only child! I thought. I started envisioning our life and the years rolling by. Reese going off to school, college, her wedding day, etc and I thought again…she might be my only child. And I’d sure hate to waste her childhood, her teenage years, our life together, worried about having a second baby that ultimately never came. I don’t want to spend so much of our precious, fleeting time together worried about the things out of my control.

I’d sure hate to look back and see the dark cloud of my sorrows painted across every memory we have.

Then came my next thought. “But am I okay with that? Do I still love God if that’s the life He’s giving me?” I thought long and hard about this question.

I thought about my walk with Christ since surrendering my life to Him as a thirteen year old and all the trials He’s walked alongside me since then. My car accident, pending scoliosis surgery, where to go to college, family problems, break ups, nursing school, death, almost losing Reese, depression. I thought about how much I’ve learned about God over the years and how, with each trial, I understood little by little that it was actually Him I was seeking all along, not my temporary happiness.

I always wanted my problems erased, but instead I just found a deeper love with Him. And each time, that was more than enough. It was God who gave me peace then, and it is He who gives me peace now.

Everything is alright. Hold out your hands, He beckons. “Do I still love God if that’s the life He’s giving me?” My answer was, and is, yes. Trusting in God’s sovereignty isn’t something I just want to say; I want to mean it. I want to mean it when I tell you that I trust Him and whatever plan He’s got for me. It’s not “giving up” by refusing to worry about the things out of my control; it’s trusting that He sees me, He loves me, He wants good for my life, and He knows far more than I do about my situation.

It’s not fair (when is life ever fair for anyone?), and if I did stop to dwell on it, I know I could get sad and frustrated. I could live in a state of perpetual envy and jealousy whenever I see pregnancy announcements or attend baby showers. But I don’t want to live my life like that, and I certainly don’t want to teach it to my daughter. I really don’t want to waste my time envying others — I’ve got a pretty dang good life, too!

Their life is theirs, mine is mine, and I get to choose what I want to do with what I’ve been given. I get to choose how to act and respond. That much is still in my control.

So I will do my part; I’ll do what I can for my body. I will be be as healthy as I can, I will take the prescribed medication, I will thank God for what I do have, and then I’ll hold my hands up in surrender and let Him take on the rest. Everything is gonna be alright, He whispers to me still. Whether that’s another baby, like I want, or something totally different that I might not even know I need, I have no idea. But He can’t give me anything if I’m clinging to all my worries with my fists folded tightly.

So I’m holding out my hands, God, because I know everything is going to be alright either way.

With much love to my BloggerFam and anyone struggling with infertility,

Allie

Peace Like a River

The waves are rising higher and higher. It is strange, because it had been a beautiful day when I climbed onto the boat. This storm came out of nowhere, and now we’re stuck in the middle of the open ocean as it’s brewing over our heads.

I guess that’s life, right? One minute everything is going well, the next minute a storm appears out of nowhere and really catches us off guard.

And where is Jesus during this storm? The waves are rising so high that it crashes down into the boat, and that’s when I become afraid. I search for Jesus. Surely He is still around somewhere? But I don’t see Him as I scan the upper deck.

I finally find Jesus — but He is asleep! Waves are crashing into our boat, I am certain we will capsize, I just know I am going to drown, and all the while Jesus is sleeping peacefully?!

“JESUS!” I scream at Him. Doesn’t He see and feel and hear the storm we’re in? “WAKE UP! WE ARE ABOUT TO DROWN!”

He opens His eyes and kind of scolds me a bit. “Where is your faith, Allie?” Then He stands up and scolds the storm, too. And the storm obeys. It is sunny again. All is well again, because Jesus said so.

Where was my faith?

I watch Jesus walk back across the boat and cross His arms behind His head. He falls back asleep. The earlier storm hasn’t bothered Him at all; He isn’t obsessing over what might’ve been, and He isn’t crushed with anxiety or fear that another storm that might crop up. He is sleeping peacefully with the sway of the boat.

I suppose when You are the God of the universe and control the winds and the rain, You get to sleep peacefully, knowing that the winds and rain don’t stand a chance against your commands. I want to be next to that Guy!

I suppose when you are a child of that God, you can go to sleep peacefully, too, knowing that the winds and rain don’t stand a chance against Your God’s commands.

Car accidents. Hospital visits. Cancer diagnoses. Heart attacks. Infertility. Tornados. Suicide. Unexplainable deaths. Divorces. Deception. All life’s little storms that appear out of nowhere.

Rest assured, Christian. No, really! Rest assured! The God of the universe is in the boat alongside you. He’s got peace like a river, not anxiety like a storm, and we can depend on Him to simply speak and calm it all down. It may not be all sunshine and rainbows just yet, but rest assured that you can rest in Christ Jesus. He’s sleeping during the storm because He’s not afraid of it all.

So we don’t have to be afraid of it, either.

What will you choose to do today? You can either stress over your storm and whatever life may look like, or you can rest peacefully with Jesus. You can trust He’s aware of the storm, and He’ll calm it down in due time. Until then, have faith! He’s in the boat!

I, personally, would like to rest.

With much love to my BloggerFam,

Allie

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Then he got into the boat and his disciples followed him. Suddenly a furious storm came up on the lake, so that the waves swept over the boat. But Jesus was sleeping. The disciples went and woke him, saying, “Lord, save us! We’re going to drown!” He replied, “You of little faith, why are you so afraid?” Then he got up and rebuked the winds and the waves, and it was completely calm. The men were amazed and asked, “What kind of man is this? Even the winds and the waves obey him!”
‭‭Matthew‬ ‭8‬:‭23‬-‭27‬

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I’ve Always Loved the Sunshine

It’s been a while, BloggerFam, and in this time of absence I’ve not only felt God’s peace wash over me, but I’ve personally witnessed His goodness firsthand so many times. Most of you are probably aware that I’m currently 8 months pregnant with our second child, a little boy! We prayed and dreamed of this baby for so many months while struggling to get pregnant, and God graciously worked on my heart during those months to prove to me what I already knew but wasn’t resting in: His timing, not mine. His gift, not my works. His provision, not my planning.

And by golly, here I am again.

I’ve allowed some earthly circumstances take precedence over my heavenly confidence in regards to this baby, but it wasn’t long before God really grabbed my face and refocused my attention to Himself and the same truths He printed on my heart during the months of trying to pregnant. Thank God!— both for Him and for His steadfast truth!

“At that time Joshua spoke to the Lord in the day when the Lord gave the Amorites over to the sons of Israel, and he said in the sight of Israel, “Sun, stand still at Gibeon, and moon, in the Valley of Aijalon.” And the sun stood still, and the moon stopped, until the nation took vengeance on their enemies. Is this not written in the Book of Jashar? The sun stopped in the midst of heaven and did not hurry to set for about a whole day. There has been no day like it before or since, when the Lord heeded the voice of a man, for the Lord fought for Israel.”

Joshua 10:12-14, emphasis mine

I remember reading this story for the first time in Sunday School years ago. Or rather, actually understanding what was happening in this passage instead of skimming through the boring battle scenes. In the middle of war, Joshua cried out to God, and Sovereign God made it so the sun didn’t set for 24 hours, and Joshua’s army was able to overtake their enemies.

That is quite literally insane!

First the obvious: the sun didn’t set! Like, what? We always say the cliche truth that God is in control, but… I mean God is really, really in control. We know the stories that He calmed the storms and walked on water and flooded the earth and turned water into wine, yet something about this specific passage where He literally stopped the sun’s rotation is beyond comprehension for me.

God controls the winds and the rain and outer space! We know these things, but I don’t believe we stop to consider them as often as we should. If we did — if I did — I don’t know how I’d let my worries take over so easily. If I rested in the truth that God is in total control a little more often, then I’d be able to let go of my fears so much faster.

What a comfort to trust that our sovereign God is totally, completely, wholly in control, even down to science. What a comfort that that same God cares for me!

What’s really stirred my heart this morning though isn’t even this God-is-in-control truth; it’s the fact that God chose to stop the sun from setting instead of immediately delivering Joshua’s enemies to his hands.

God didn’t hasten Joshua’s victory; He just lengthened Joshua’s days to accomplish it.

As someone who operates on a strict running timeline in my head, this is a new comfort for me to think about. I mean obviously I’ve trusted in the truth that it’s God’s timing and not mine. But… it really is on God’s timing and not mine.

Far too often I’m greedy for the victory. I’m eager for my battles to end and His sword to start fighting for me. I know He’ll win in the end! I know I can hand it over to Him, let go of control, and sit back! “Let go & let God” — Easy peasy!

But I forget sometimes that also means letting God dictate how long my battles last.

He doesn’t always hand me victory when I think He should. He doesn’t always allow me to conceive a child when I desire, give me the ten million bucks I think I need, or fix all the problems my family is facing exactly where I have planned these things to fall on my own personal timeline.

Instead, sometimes, He just lengthens my days.

He lets me keep fighting. Hard. He keeps the sun shining down on me as my enemies rush in. He gives me more time in the thick of it all than I care to be stranded in there. But trust me, friends, there is still victory in the longer battles we endure. And there is certainly still God in control, a greater purpose being spun, and His glory bursting through the seams.

I’m learning that I love this God whose ways are not my ways. I’m learning that He knows better than I do after all. I’m learning to battle on, as long as it takes, because He has proven time and time again that it’s worth it in the end. He will never leave me nor forsake me, even in the longest fight. He’s still bending science to His name and maneuvering behind the scenes to my victory, and in ways I wouldn’t expect or even know I could ask Him to do.

With much love to my BloggerFam,

Allie

This Rod is Gettin’ Heavy

They were tired, hungry, and thirsty. They’d been running circles in the wilderness for quite some time. I’m sure we’ve related to the Israelites in this way; I remember first seeing the parallel between them and myself when I was in high school.

God had provided everything they had needed thus far. Escape from slavery, food from Heaven every single day without fail, a leader to guide them, detailed instructions how to build the tabernacle, His presence. He even forgave them time and time again, after they proved themselves unworthy and forgetful.

It’s me, hi. I’m an Old Testament Israelite.

Today, though, I saw myself in Moses. I don’t do that often (except maybe in the part when he told God that he wasn’t good enough to be the leader).

Like I said, they were tired, hungry, and thirsty. The Bible says, “There was no water for the congregation,” — for the thousands of people and animals that desperately needed something to drink. So the Israelites complained to Moses and Aaron, again. Angry they’d left Egypt where they were ~literal slaves~ (oh, how quickly we forget!!), because at least there they had had water back there in captivity. Moses and Aaron go to meet with God and ask for water.

God, again, provides a way. He instructs Moses to simply speak to a rock, and water will appear.

What’s important here to understand is that Moses knows God can. I’m not sure why, but for some reason the leader of the pack who has seen God face to face and knows of His power….he strikes the rock, instead of speaking to it. I think Moses was still confident that God could and would bring him water from the rock. I’m just not sure the motive in why he didn’t follow God’s instruction perfectly — whether out of pride, exhaustion, or frustration. Whether it was an intentional move or an accident.

Regardless, God still lets water flow from the rock to quench the Israelites’ thirst, but now Moses — the faithful leader of Israel — is no longer permitted to reach the Promised Land. WOW! All because of a small disobedience in God’s instruction.

This is the part where I see myself in Moses. Like Ole Mo, I’m not new at following God. I’ve seen Him perform miracles that cannot be counted, and I’m confident that He can produce water from a dry stone. I’ve seen money come from thin air, physical healing where there shouldn’t have been, absolute brokenness restored in its fullness, and the natural gift of new life when I was told I’d need medication to accomplish that.

I know God can, and I even know that God will. Yet, sometimes, I still strike the dang rock after God instructed me to simply speak His name.

Usually I hit a few rocks, but nothing gives. I take matters into my own hands, I spiral into my anxiety, I seek out anyone and anything other than God Himself for an answer, a map, a list of To Do’s to get what I want. But God doesn’t require us to hit every surface searching for His provision; He really doesn’t need our help. He just wants us to speak His name (aka, trust in His timing and His provision that He’s already promised and proved He would supply).

Maybe it’s my pride? Maybe I don’t have as much faith as I want to think that I do? Maybe I’m irritated about how my situation is playing out? Maybe I think I can help God out a little bit, grab onto a little control, give Him a little nudge as if I’m dealing with my toddler and not the all-powerful God. It doesn’t matter my “Why,” though. What matters is that God clearly tells me to speak, and I clearly do something else instead. And then I get confused and pouty when I miss out on the Promised Land.

I’ve been a Christian for over half my life, and I’m still learning how to step back and let God do His thing. I’m still learning to trust in what He’s promised, lay down my rod, and speak His name before I do anything else. I sure don’t want to miss out on what God has promised for me just because I’m concentrating on making my own way. Striking the rock for dramatic affect isn’t necessary, for the Bible tells me so.

The Good News is that He takes the reins (if I let Him) and lets the water flow, again and again, even after I’ve circled around in the wilderness a couple years and deliberately disobeyed Him. The Good News is that, when I couldn’t bail myself out, He paid the penalty in full and without my help.

I’m thankful it’s as simple as speaking — no other action required.

And I’m thankful He is still merciful, because I don’t deserve to step a toe into the Promised Land. Again and again and again, God is faithful, and He proves it to me. Again and again and again, I strike my rocks in frustration, and He gives me the Living Water. He shows me the better way.

Stay tuned, Christian brothers and sisters. We’re all on this winding journey through the woods together, and I know God’s going to show us something glorious when it all unfolds, if we lay down the rod and listen.

With much love to my BloggerFam,

Allie

Potty Training

It has been quite the week in the Tubby house as we blocked off our social calendar to focus on potty training our two year old. I can’t say it’s been all fun and games, but I can say that it hasn’t been nearly as painful as I worked myself up thinking it would be, and I’m really proud of my daughter. She usually picks things up pretty quickly, but I’m not exaggerating when I say that she really blew potty training out of the water — no pun intended.

We both still have a little to learn as we navigate this new normal without diapers, but overall I’m marking it a huge success.

On day 3 of our new normal, we hit a wall. The fun and intriguing newness had worn off, and my two year was being, well, a two year old, who tries pushing boundaries and limits. It ended with one of the only big messes she had + me muttering a few choice words in my head. (A small note before the Nazi Moms come for me: this was completely a behavioral thing and not a real potty accident. Believe me, I know my child, and the look in her eyes said she knew exactly what she was doing, and she wanted to see what my reaction would be about it).

In the middle of this chaos, I saw what God has to see when He looks at me sometimes: Defiance. Disobedience. And a big ole mess that I created because I wasn’t listening.

I certainly didn’t chuckle in the moment, but later when I had time to stop and realize what God had shown me, I laughed hard. I hear ya, God. I understand.

I don’t expect perfection with the potty with my child right now, and God doesn’t expect perfection in me. He knows I’m going to make some more mistakes, because I’m just not God.

The frustrating part of this little dance is when the mistakes come from me deliberately not taking a potty break when He asks me to do it. Or when I’m angry because I’m not getting my way, so I just glare in his face and pee all over the floor — that’ll show Him!

How many times have I heard God whisper, “Just be still,” but I preferred some action? Too many times, let me tell ya. How many times have I felt the nudge of the Holy Spirit telling me to, “Wait! I’m working behind the scenes!” but i spiraled into an anxiety attack because I didn’t fully trust in His deliverance? Too many times…especially lately.

When God asks me to stop and pause for a second, but I want to keep on moving, that’s when all the things get messy. When I take back over. When I pretend I didn’t hear Him. When it’s all said and done and I’m sitting in my mess, and I’m too prideful to run back to Him and admit it just yet.

Graciously, God waits. Even when I refuse, He keeps His promises. He waits on me to get my act together, and sometimes (MOST OF THE TIME) He even picks me up in the middle of the puddle and cleans me off before I even realize that’s what was happening. Without any prompting of my own, He steps in and handles business. He shows me.

She was crying, I was crying, but I stopped and grabbed her little hands. “Let’s take a breath,” I told her. We breathed together. “I know it’s hard. I know it’s not always fun. But this really is the better way.” She nodded her head and let me clean her up. When both her tears and her booty were dry again, she ran to me and gave me the biggest hug.

“I’m sorry I yelled at you, Mommy.” she whispered. And I reminded her that I don’t like it when she yells, but I’ll never stop loving her or helping her clean up when she needs me there to do it.

I hear ya, God. Who knew potty training could teach me a lesson, too?

With much love to my BloggerFam and S/O to our two year old who impresses me every day,

Allie

A Way in a Manger

The Christmas season is finally in full swing, and I’m thankful because I needed a little holiday cheer!

A lot has been going on, both in my own world and in the world around me, and if you couple that with the dreary fall weather and self-diagnosed seasonal depression, sometimes I can wallow with the best of them. BUT, my wallowing has had the opposite affect than what [I believe as the devil] intended to harm me, and it’s been a time of looking to Scripture, God, and worship more closely than I was before.

Tough times usually do that for me.

Today I saw a friend post about an Advent study she’s reading, and I clicked on the link. I read the first four days straight through and and felt the familiar whisper of the Holy Spirit— I will give you as many comforting reminders as you need, Allie.

The scripture verses at the beginning of each Advent day focused a lot on old man Abraham, his elderly, barren wife Sarah, and how their faith brought about the family line Jesus was born.

Usually I read these passages and feel confidence in the Lord that He is all powerful over life and death. He allowed Sarah to conceive long after her body was capable.

Then there’s the story of Abraham taking Isaac up on that hill to offer him as a sacrifice, because God asked him to. We see Abraham’s unwavering faith as he agrees to use his only son as a sacrifice — the son he waited 100 years to have — the son he was promised, by God, would produce a nation as numerous as the stars in the sky. God stops Abraham just as he’s about to kill Isaac, and a baby ram appears in the bushes for them to use instead.

Usually I read these passages and am reminded to trust God when things don’t make sense; He always makes a way.

But today, these weren’t the truths I clung to in my reading. I recognized them, I thanked God for them, but then it occurred to me that these stories link together with other stories, and they all tie in to bring about the birth of Jesus. The One who died to set my soul free.

In each story, there are trials and tests and lessons wrapped up in a bow. You can pick any of them individually and feel comfort, strength, peace, and awe of God’s power. But when you zoom out — I like to view them all spread across an imaginary timeline in my head — you see that each trial was really for a greater purpose than just its individual lessons. Each trial led to Jesus. THE greater purpose.

I will give you as many comforting reminders as you need, Allie, He whispered.

I hear You, God.

Over my life, I’ve gone through my share of trials. I have a journal full of desperate prayers, tear-streaked pages, and, off to the side of each entry, I wrote the date that God made a way, or brought my desperation full circle. And each individual trial — though jam-packed with lessons and a deeper trust in my own history book with God — was really for a greater purpose than myself.

Each trial, woven together in my timeline, always led back to Jesus, and still is today. There are much higher stakes at play here than just my temporary, earthly, happiness and what I can’t see beyond my selfishness. The stakes here are as great as eternity.

I felt Him bluntly, lovingly, gently re-focusing my desires back to the understanding that this life is not really about me and my desires at all. We have a higher calling, a bigger purpose, and sometimes my temporary wants just don’t make the cut.

I know that sounds kind of harsh and depressing. But when I glance back through my journal, the evidence on those pages reveals that His plan really was always better in the end. When my preference didn’t line up with what He was doing, it was because God had written my story more perfectly than I could have if left to my own devices. It was because God has a greater plan in motion than just what I can see. His plan includes redemption for humanity; my plans usually just focus on myself.

God rarely does the “Expected.” When the Israelites were anticipating a strong, earthly King to rule over them and save them from their earthly enemies, God sent a baby in a manger to save their souls. And somehow that story unfolded much better than if they’d gotten what they thought they wanted. They didn’t understand it at first, but their wishes of an earthly king weren’t nearly as important as the King of Kings.

I hear You, God. I trust that my little story is bigger than I can comprehend, full of the unexpected, and it’s all for a much greater good. It’s not about me at all. I trust You.

With much love to my BloggerFam,

Allie

Another Brick in the Wall

It’s another beautiful day in small town, MS, and I’m feeling grateful to be alive to see it. If I can be so vaguely candid with you, I’ll say that I’ve been struggling a bit here lately, though I’m not fully ready to share exact details. (Thanks for understanding 💛).

But in my moments of struggle, I’ve intentionally slowed down to look back on all the goodness God has done over my twenty-seven years of life— if for no other reason than because I needed to be reminded of all that goodness again. I needed to stop and bask in His power. I needed to look back and see that He’s been faithful time and time again, even [especially] when it didn’t feel so good for a while, in hopes that I can continue to put my trust in this confusing time I’m walking through.

My Bible reading plan brought me to Nehemiah.

Nehemiah was an Israelite official, serving in the Persian government, with the mission of rebuilding the protective boundary walls around Jerusalem. There is a lot more context I could give here, but for the sake and the point of this post, I’m not going to.

In my reading, I noticed that while the Israelites diligently worked to rebuild their protective walls, they were simultaneously standing guard against enemy attacks. How difficult that must have been! They were literally rebuilding their protection— meaning it could’ve easily been Open Range for their enemies. They were defenseless out there.

The Bible says they “labored on the work with one hand and held weapons with the other hand.” They were basically pulling over time, physically working hard with construction and mentally working hard to stand guard.

I stopped. This was confusing for me, honestly. There are so many times in the Bible that God simply spoke and beat down the enemies of the Israelites. Too many times to count, they didn’t even have to lift a finger for victory because God’s omnipotence handled it for them. But here, in this story, this generation is working hard to keep themselves safe and their work productive.

Why? Where was God’s power in this story, like the other times He easily defeated their enemies before they even broke a sweat? Is it possible He was trying to teach them something through their hard work and dependence on Him? Is it possible everything was for a greater purpose than just their temporary happiness this time?

(Spoiler: yes and yes!).

Like I said, I’ve been doing some intentional-looking-back. I thought about my own life and the trials I’ve faced before now. I thought about the miracles I’ve personally witnessed and then the times, like now, when I’ve felt just like the Israelites — one hand putting in the work, my other hand standing on defense. Overtime hours.

I thought about how I almost always turn my face towards Heaven and ask Him to take my burdens away for me. Solve my problems. Defeat my enemies. Bring me victory, God, I’m exhausted! Spare me a little heartache like You’ve done for me before!

In recounting all the miracles He’s done for me, I noticed that I even still counted the times He didn’t miraculously speak my troubles away; I counted my hardships as “good” because of the growth He provided through those challenges. He taught me lessons I couldn’t have learned any other way, had He spared me the heartache.

I think that’s just it— it would’ve spared me the heartache, sure. And the tears.

And it would’ve spared me the growth.

I know I couldn’t have learned all that I did without walking through those valleys, putting one hand to work on my walls and the other on guard against my enemies. I couldn’t have appreciated His glorious unfolding without first feeling all the defeat, grief, anguish, perseverance, and anxiety I also experienced with the victory.

I think God is kind and loving to allow us to endure some of the things we walk through, and He promises to walk alongside us. He could snap His fingers, I know it. I’ve seen Him do it before. But this time He’s choosing to let my hands get a little dirty in perseverance for something greater than my temporary happiness. Endurance equals strength and gratitude at the endpoint. I’m eager for that strength. I’m excited for the gratitude.

So today, instead of asking God to give me another miracle like I know He could, I ask myself— Okay, since right now He’s clearly not, then what is God trying to teach me here? He’s not bringing miraculous healing for me. I’m working a little overtime both physically in what I’m able to control with my circumstances and spiritually, in my growing prayer life. One hand is building, the other hand is alert and on guard.

What is God trying to teach me here?

For Nehemiah’s troubles and for my own in the past, I’ve seen it all work out for good. It was good when He spoke immediate defeat over my enemies, and it was even good in the middle of construction when I had to get sweaty and put in work. Either way, I saw it all work out for my good and for His glory. So I’m confident He’ll do it again.

I guess for now I’m just not finished building my wall yet.

With much love to my BloggerFam,

Allie

From that day on, half of my servants worked on construction, and half held the spears, shields, bows, and coats of mail. And the leaders stood behind the whole house of Judah, who were building on the wall. Those who carried burdens were loaded in such a way that each labored on the work with one hand and held his weapon with the other.

Nehemiah 4:16-17

** kinda feeling like all my thoughts might be jumbled on this one, so forgive me. blame it on the night shift brain 😉

Tantrums

The memory starts out fun. We are playing on her little slide. I pull the basket of stuffed animals to the stairs, and we are sending them down one by one. She is giggling and clapping her hands. “Now it’s Mickey Mouse’s turn!” I yell, just as I have done in naming each stuffed animal before. But instead of her cheers, I hear her frustration.

“It’s Reese’s turn!” she cries. Her little brows furrow at me, and she stamps her feet on the ground. “No, no, NO Mickey Mouse!” she cries again, throwing her hands in the air. This brings a full-on temper tantrum.

Toddlers. It just happens like that sometimes. One minute she’s happy, the next I’m not doing whatever it was exactly as she had planned in her little head, and she is sure to let me know.

It was such a simple thing that set her off. I didn’t really even understand it; if she had just let me throw Mickey Mouse down the slide, she would have seen that her turn would be next. There was no need for the tears, the anger at me, the frustration in not getting her way.

It is in this moment of watching her whine and cry that I see myself so clearly. “This is what You see, isn’t it, God?” I think.

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How many times have I done this exact thing to Him? We’re having fun together, cheering. Everything is fine…until a situation pops up that I don’t agree with. I want it done another way. I have it all planned, but God chooses a different direction. So I get mad. I stomp my feet and shake my fists and am sure to let Him know where it is He has gone wrong. I tell Him that He’s taking too long or He’s obviously forgotten me altogether. I demand a change of course. I demand answers and catering to my ridiculous requests. I believe in my heart that it’s my turn, it’s the way I want it, and I deserve what I want. He’s messed it all up this time, and I am hysterical on my knees about it.

This is what You see, isn’t it, God?

I reach out for my daughter’s hands in an attempt to calm her. “Reese, it’s okay. Let’s pause for a second. I love you,” I reassure her. But she doesn’t want to listen. She protests. She flings her hands around and tries to pull away. Over and over again, I calmly tell her that I love her and that it is going to be okay. I let her know that she can cry to me, and I’ll still be here. My arms stay stretched out, waiting for her to come.

This is what You see, isn’t it, God?

Finally she stops resisting, and she does come to me willingly. She reaches out for my hands, too. She hugs me, she cries into my shoulder, and she looks up at me with crocodile tears in her hazel eyes, seeking comfort, seeking calm.

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When He reaches out to me in my mess, but I reject Him. When He assures me of His presence, but I hold tightly to my anxiety instead. When He tells me to pause, and breathe, and be still, but I fling my hands in His face and run.

But He is still there when I finally decide to come. He is patience, love, joy, peace. Kindness, goodness, faithfulness. Gentleness. Self control. He holds me and lets me cry it out even though I’ve pushed Him away so many times. In His patience, His arms stretch out and are still waiting for me. He never grows weary in settling me down for as long as it takes.

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Then my daughter smiles at me. The kind of smile that makes my heart skip a beat because I can’t believe God entrusted me to help rear this little soul. Together we send Mickey Mouse down the slide, and she laughs again. “Reese’s turn?” she asks. But she asks sweetly, politely. She’s waiting for my cue.

“It’s Reese’s turn,” I say.

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This is what You see, isn’t it, God? We’re all just toddlers running around throwing our ridiculous tantrums because we can’t see the ending, but still You are there, patiently waiting for us look up. Thank You, God. Thank You for meeting me in my messes and never wavering, even after I do time and time again. You are bigger than my chaos. You are a good, good Father, still, in times of uncertainty, panic, frustration, and the unknown. You are so good.

With much love to my BloggerFam,

Allie

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Just Nightshift Things

It had been a string of particularly difficult and emotionally exhausting nights at work. Some joyous moments, of course. But more so gruesome and sad. This night ended with her death.

I drove home from the hospital with tears in my eyes, and I’ll admit that the thought Why am I even doing this job? crossed my mind. I really wanted to talk to a friend — my beating heart needed some type of encouragement or smile or hug — but when ya work night shift and get off as the rest of the world is clocking in, there aren’t many friends available. So I just kept driving.

Why do I put myself through the heartache I know sometimes comes? When you care for someone through their worst moments, when you clean and bathe them because their strength is gone, when you encourage them with the same words you’re trying to believe yourself, when you look them in the eyes and say, “I know you can’t breathe. And I am going to fix it!” but then you don’t…

Why do I put myself through this heartache? I thought again as I turned onto the highway.

All the other patients I’ve lost over the years raced through my thoughts. All that pain I’ve compartmentalized and stuffed away in my box, never allowing myself to feel it once the box was closed and locked. All the memories, good and very, very bad.

I was almost home. Two miles from my driveway. And I heard His whisper. Because I called you to do it.

That day I lay broken and covered in my own blood came flooding back to me. That day He called me to nursing. When I knew without a doubt that it was going to be my duty — for Him. My whole drive home I was wondering why I put myself through the work that I do, and I’d forgotten that the reason was because He called me to it. He’s equipped me to do it. He gave me the heart, then the passion, then the WHY, and He made all of those things clear. It’s almost like it wasn’t even my choice. That was a reminder I needed.

I walked in my front door to silence and let it drown out my thoughts and images. I grabbed my Bible searching for.. something. Peace? Answers? Hope? Comfort? I let God’s arms wrap around me, feeling like He was actually there in the room. I fell into them. I cried. And instead of skimming my Bible for whatever it was I was looking for, He just gave me what I needed. Be still, He whispered. Psalm 46:10.

He met me in my mess and provided what I was longing for but couldn’t find.

I had first sought out a friend, but there wasn’t one. Then I cranked up the radio, but it only irritated me. So I welcomed the silence and solitude, but my thoughts took over. When all along, I just needed to be still and know that He is God. And turn to Him for all the things I was seeking elsewhere.

The lesson that I suppose I’ll never stop learning.

Honestly, it’s hard for me to be a nurse sometimes. I can often take the burden so personally. I can befriend my patient but then struggle with keeping the door to our friendship open, because I know that, sometimes, our friendship ends in their death. And I don’t like to feel that pain so frequently. It’s a constant battle between wanting to love them with everything in me and wanting to protect myself if it all crashes down. A tug of war between wanting to be the very best nurse that I can be…without the emotional attachment that can break me. But sometimes I’m not sure how to do that.

I might live with the heartache of losing patients a little bit longer than others, but I really don’t want to be calloused to their deaths; I cared for them both physically and emotionally. And then I watched them leave this earth. I want to recognize, in their honor, what just happened. Death is an intimate matter when you’re the one in the room, and it’s okay to feel that.

And when I’m ready to look up, He is still there waiting for me. He is there to comfort, to provide hope, strength, and to be the only Answer that could ever make sense of the burning questions I have on this earth. He reminds me of the greater joys coming, where heartache is absent and worship fills the streets of gold.

I think of her often. Of them often. The patients I’ve been privileged to know, care for, and love. I often question if I’m doing my best, as well. He has called me to this profession, and I can’t deny it, even when I question it. But I can’t do it alone, either. I need His presence. I crave His comfort. I seek His joy in the midst of my deepest sorrows. And I will continue learning and striving to be the best I can be.

With much love to my BloggerFam,

Allie