Curveballs, AKA, I Think God Can...

“I think I can, I think I can…”¹

We all know that mantra. Goodness, I just read the story to my little grandson last week. Twice! Little did I know when he begged for a second reading how badly I needed to hear and rehear that timeless tale.

Life – no, God – has tossed a few curveballs my way lately. I’m sure when I describe them, many in my audience will be tempted to roll their eyes and wonder what all the fuss was about. But consider this: curveballs don’t look the same for everyone. As an educator, I watched students who floundered in the classroom excel on the basketball court. And vice versa. We all have our strengths and weaknesses – that’s one of the things that makes us a body in Christ. If everyone had pastoral credentials and could knock sermons out of the park, who would organize baby showers and meal trains? If finances were everyone’s game, we’d have picture perfect budgets but no one to shepherd the flock through triumphs and tragedies.

See what I mean?

With that disclaimer, let me describe a few of the happenings that semi-unraveled me over the past month.

The Trip

The first, coincidentally enough (it’s been said there are no coincidences on God’s watch), involved a train trip. I felt strongly that I wanted to support a friend whose only child had just passed away at a young age. To do so, I would have to attend the funeral out of state. This was no time for qualms. I began making plans.

I’m a nervous traveler. I like to get in my car and go places that are familiar. Take me more than 50 miles out of my comfort zone and I start looking for a companion and a Valium. In this case, though, I had no choice. I could’ve driven from my home in Pennsylvania to my New York destination; I’ve done it before. But I was much younger then, and my judgment and reflexes were sharper. In short, the driving option was out.

Therefore, I planned to go by plane. I have travel miles racked up from credit card usage, but it turns out the 20,000 plus miles I had accrued only translated to less than half the one-way fare. Who knew? I wasn’t terribly disappointed, because plane travel appeals to me about as much as, oh, I don’t know, bamboo under my fingernails. (I’ve never endured the latter, but I’d wager – if I were a betting woman –that would suit me better than boarding a jumbo jet.)

My resourceful sister, Jo Ann, came to the rescue. She lives only miles from a major transit station that traverses up and down the Northeast Corridor. All I had to do was pack my bags, camp out at her house for the night, and allow her the privilege of chauffeuring me to the train.

Seeing how nervous I was (not sure if it was my silence or the fact that I kept checking and rechecking my belongings that gave me away), my indulgent sister offered to escort me into the station and pretty much put me on the train. It took every ounce of courage and pride I had to turn down that desirable option!

There were a few wrinkles. I had to take two trains each way, as it turned out. And the railway stations aren’t exactly laid out for, shall we say, novices. I had to make quite a few phone calls to organize the trip (one of them was after disembarking from train one while sitting forlornly on a cold, empty platform wondering where my connecting train was). Then there was the matter of asking strangers for help. I can do strangers in uniform pretty well, but when it comes to fellow travelers, all bets are off. Eschewing thoughts of who might be lurking in deserted train stations and for what purpose, I screwed up my courage, tried to look confident, and babbled my questions. And you know what? Without exception, all my inquiries were met with smiles and helpfulness. The Lord – whose idea it was to foist this unasked for trip on me in the first place – even saw to it that I sat right across from a seasoned traveler on train one (who, incidentally, used a walker to get around, thus giving me the sense that if she could do it, so could I), and just next to the conductor on train two!

My next big hurdle came the following morning. Oh, there were mini-bumps in the meantime, such as an eardrum-shattering fire alarm sounding in the hotel for 20 minutes just when I was starting to get my bearings. Turned out there was nothing to worry about, but try telling that to a trembling tourist whose biggest thrill consists of not having any more thrills! In a related God-incident, while paring down my luggage and toiletries bag just before starting out, He nudged me not to remove a pair of earplugs. It was silly, really. I was the sole occupant of the room, so in theory, no one else’s snoring or loud TV or what-have-you was going to trouble me. In His omnipotence, though, the great I AM foresaw the fire alarm and knew those earplugs would mean the difference between calmness and chaos during an already nerve-racking experience.

We got that sorted out, but the morning of the funeral brought new adventures. Don’t misunderstand: what I’m about to share doesn’t in any way compare with the agony of what my friend was going through; her loss was and is unfathomable. That said, I’m sharing the stressors I encountered while feebly trying to support her.

She and I had agreed to go to the service together. A friend of her son’s would meet us in the lobby at 9:15 and drive us to the church. I had set my phone alarm and requested a wakeup call from the front desk.

I didn’t hear either one.

This is not like me. It may have had something to do with the Motrin PM I took to fend off the arthritis pain I anticipated after trekking through convoluted train stations. Or perhaps I should’ve watched one or six less episodes of my favorite sitcom before retiring to bed after a stressful day. Whatever the cause, I awoke with 15 minutes to ready myself and get my keister downstairs or figure out how to take my first ever Uber ride on a day when do-overs simply weren’t an option.

Not only did the Lord rouse me at 9 AM (why didn’t I wake at 9:15, when I was due in the lobby, or even later, so that I would’ve let everyone down?); He also put more time in my morning. I mean this sincerely. I had at least a five-minute walk to get to the elevator before hitting the lobby, and yet, I made it downstairs at 9:16 with time enough to check my thrown together look in the restroom before we took off.

It’s been said that God is never late but rarely early. That day, He was just in the nick of time.

I could go on and on. We had a snowstorm the day I traveled home, adding frigidity and fear of falling to my overzealous imagination. It wasn’t that cold and my boots did their job; neither fear came to fruition. Patient friends prayed me through, responding to my boku travelogue texts with words of encouragement. My daughter-in-law coached me through the Uber and Lyft mazes so I could get to the train station for the return trip. (I later found out she interrupted a conversation she was having at church to take my call and shore up her nervous mother-in-law.)  

Bottom line: I came home fried and frazzled but also assured that God had held my hand every step of the way.

The Truck

I went into a lot of detail about that last experience because it really stretched me. A simple train trip likely wouldn’t have derailed (OK, bad pun) other people the way it did me but, again, hard looks different for every one of us. I’m going to try to relate these next two anecdotes with more brevity because I think we’re all getting the point: God comes through in the clutch. Always has, always will.

I thought my survival badge was all sewn up (alright, I’ll try to make that the last one), but apparently not. A month after shepherding me through the great train caper, the Lord saw fit to test my mettle again. My next field test involved the mundane act of buying second-hand furniture and having it moved from point A to point B. I developed a somewhat complex plan involving the muscle of my two adult sons and beloved nephews; a pickup truck belonging to my sister and her husband; and the gracious indulgence of everyone involved in the move (and a few who weren’t) as every part of the original plan fell apart and had to be reworked at the eleventh hour.

The short version is, we had to switch transport vehicles not once but twice. My son and his cousins had the foresight to realize that the pickup we originally planned on using was simply not big enough to accommodate the items. Now, friends, believe me when I tell you I measured the furnishings and the rooms they were bound for up, down and sideways. It just never occurred to me to size up the vehicle versus the cargo it was being asked to carry.

Another case of two (or, in this case, three) heads being better than one.

Plan B materialized at the last minute. My son, who was slated for heavy lifting in the morning, did some preliminary heavy lifting (in the form of research) the night before. He suggested – no, he urged me – to rent a truck.

Let me backtrack for a minute. The contorted arrangements I had made involved me babysitting my four grandchildren, all under 10, Friday evening; spending the night at their house; then watching them again Saturday morning while others presided over the move.

Seemed like a good idea at the time.

Hearing the stress in his mother’s voice, Ethan sized up the situation – literally – and realized that logistically this wasn’t going to work. He further realized his mother’s bearings were at that point bare (maybe it was my shrieking at the squalling kids in the background that tipped him off), and he graciously phoned the rental place to get the deets for his semi-deranged mother. All I had to do was reserve the truck and show up in the morning.

Um, not so much.

Let’s just say nothing went as planned. The thing was only a 10-footer but looked monstrously large to a woman whose idea of hauling heavy loads involves hoisting a two-year-old with a blowout diaper onto the changing table.

Enter other son, the one with the four kids, who patiently fashioned plans with me over the phone while I was at the rental place. Being a tradesman, Aaron’s not afraid to man a rig. He dutifully texted pictures of his drivers’ license to the powers-that-be and shifted his day’s plans to execute the task at hand. This was all well and good until Plan B, like Plan A, began to unravel.

The first truck they assigned me was situated in a corner of the lot perpendicular to two other vehicles with very little space to maneuver it out of its position. Aaron’s a good driver, but I wasn’t sure this was the day to test his contortionist abilities with a box truck. The salesperson very accommodatingly swapped that one out for another more favorably positioned truck; however, when I started its engine, big blue letters flashed on the dashboard indicating the tires needed servicing.

Needless to say, my confidence was shot.

I don’t (always) need to be hit over the head with a billy club to get the point God’s trying to teach me. In this case, it was obvious I wasn’t meant to rent this rig. When too many doors slam shut, it doesn’t take a genius to figure out you’re gonna end up with a smashed finger if you keep trying to wedge them open. I canceled the contract and hoped God would come through.

Blessedly, my other brother-in-law was going to be in the area that day. He and his pickup truck – which was also not quite big enough, but tie-down straps and ingenuity made up for that – did the deed, and I’m now the proud owner of a beautiful new sofa and rug.

I’m leaving out little things like having to locate my misplaced debit card when it came time to feed the troops; the ATM not working after I found said card; needing my daughter-in-law to calculate how much pizza I should order for the heavy haulers (and having to make three calls to order same because my brain cells were shot because of, well, everything); and probably some other mishaps which my mind has blocked out. The point is, I had to be willing to relinquish the furniture if the stars didn’t line up. They did in the end, but that was by no means a foregone conclusion, and I had to be ready to let go of what I thought I had to have if God didn’t make it happen.

The Tech

If my readers will bear with me, I’ll share one more bit of mishigas (that’s Yiddish for “craziness” – this one’s for you, Dad) with the idea of showing God’s hand in everything.

This past week I started an online course hosted by a ministry which seems to be seeking new writers for

its forum. The long and the short of it is, I wanted to make sure before the fact that my technology – which is old but not ancient – would be adequate for the job. The email instructions sent to students suggested we upload the latest Zoom app. This proved a bit daunting, what with needing to uninstall an earlier version but OK, I nailed that down. In the process, I located a wireless mouse I had stashed in a drawer which made right clicking a lot easier than using the trackpad. Again, a bit of setup required, but moving right along…

Next, I needed to make sure my Chromebook, which has been known to act up during virtual meetings, wouldn’t slur my voice or drag its feet or otherwise misbehave when I needed its cooperation. To this end, my faithful friend, Tina, who holds joint titles as ministry partner and keeper of all things technological, initiated a Zoom meeting to test things out.

Check!

Still, yours truly wasn’t satisfied that the Chromebook wouldn’t crash and burn during the lesson. Voila! Big sister Jane came through when I spotted the iPad she had given me last summer. I don’t like iPads, never have, but any port, as they say…

Jane’s login pattern was mercifully simple, and my memory mercifully resurrected it. But the darn thing took forever to charge! I wanted to have it on standby in case my preferred device, well, y’know.

While I was waiting – endlessly – for iPad to do its thing, somehow, for some reason, I got the idea that if I unplugged and reconnected the router, everything would go more smoothly. This was all a few days ago, so my memory’s a little fuzzy as to the why (wait till you get into your 60’s – you’ll see). I dutifully did the deed, only to find out I now had no internet on any of my devices.

Oy vey, as my father would say.

I did what anyone would’ve done – asked my non-techie friends if they could help me. The best advice I got was, “Call your internet provider.”

Why didn’t I think of that?

Jennifer at Verizon was an actual gem. So patient, so pleasant, so down-to-earth with her instructions. As a bonus, she got to “meet” Tina, who graciously initiated yet another Zoom meeting to test things out via three-way calling (love that feature). In the end, we asked Jennifer how we could pray for her. I know, people don’t do that sort of thing during a business call, but if, as Dickens opined, “mankind [is] my business,”² and if, as Scripture says, the Lord needs to be in every business transaction a believer undertakes, well, the rest becomes obvious.

Bottom line: tech got fixed; class went off without a hitch; Jennifer got prayed for; God got/gets all the glory.

The Trust and the Thrust

Why share all this?

Well, hopefully, my lack of self-confidence and subsequent mess-ups make for good stories.

But there’s more. So much more.

During each of these misadventures, I ran into the same brick wall: fear.

What if I get on the wrong train? Or miss it altogether? Or make my dear friend late for her own son’s life celebration?

What if I can’t find a way to transport the furniture? Or keep everyone waiting while I scramble to make this thing work? What if I left my debit card on the counter of the U-Haul place while I was trying to sort out this mess? Heaven forbid, what if there isn’t enough pizza?

What if I can’t get my internet reconnected and have to miss the class? What if my technology screws up and the course instructors decide I’m a screwup? What if I make a bad impression and the people I’m trying to wow with my writing abilities decide I’m not worth taking a chance on?

I’ve said this before, but it bears repeating. My struggles look different than your struggles. What may seem silly or miniscule in your world was anything but in mine. What I did notice, though, as God kept throwing curveballs over the past month, was slightly less agitation each time.

Slightly.

My sons and siblings may beg to differ on that point, as they were the ones talking me down off the ledge with the furniture fiasco. Still, I did hear myself say to my sisters, who dropped what they were doing to enter into my predicament, “If too many doors are slamming shut, I have to wonder if I’m meant to have this furniture.”

This was huge because you need to understand, I wanted this stuff. I had everything all figured out – until it wasn’t. As plan after plan succumbed to setback, I needed to be willing to let go.

While sitting in the cab of that truck, I told Jane, “There’s only one thing I know, and that’s that I’m supposed to cancel this contract. This isn’t meant to be.”

Maybe the rental place would give me my money back without a fight. Maybe my brother-in-law would be able to haul the stuff with his pickup, but we couldn’t reach him to find out. Maybe this would all come together in the arranged timeframe without completely undoing everyone’s day. Maybe…

The maybes didn’t matter. The obedience did.

It’s been said that life is a great teacher and experience a wonderful coach. The part that’s left out of that adage is that fear often (perhaps even usually) accompanies the learning process.

It helps me to remember that Jesus’s disciples were once huddled in their rooms, depressed and anxious and fearful for their lives. Their leader had been brutally killed and their worlds rocked. They couldn’t comprehend the events of the crucifixion, let alone the resurrection.

It was all too much.

As one writer put it, “The disciples’ faith wasn’t instantly strong. It grew gradually as they processed their experiences and Jesus’ teachings. Their fear diminished as their faith deepened.”³

I find encouragement in both their cowering and their courage-finding. I picture a continuum of these two states of being that gives me hope that my frail vessel can navigate its own rocky journeys. That my trust is neither misplaced nor outmatched by any opponent. And that the great I AM trumps my “I know I can't” thinking with almighty “can do’s” anytime He chooses. 

What a Savior.

“God gave us a spirit not of fear but of power and love and self-control.” – 2 Timothy 1:7

¹ Piper, Watty. The Little Engine That Could. G P Putnam’s Sons, 2001.

² Dickens, Charles. Christmas Carol, A. Tyndale House, 1999.

³ Jamil, Monica. “Why Were the Disciples Still Afraid? OUR DAILY BREAD.” OUR DAILY BREAD | Jesus is the way of The truth, & the life, 20 June 2024, ourdailybread.pro/why-were-the-disciples-still-afraid.

 

February Part 2

The Demon of Control

In my last post, I worried over things I couldn’t control and fretted over the futile pride that causes me to try to change things/people/events over which I am powerless.

Oy vey, as my father would say.

The Inevitability of Pain

This has been a month of fear and funerals. February seems to have that effect on a lot of us. We slog through wind and ice and cold (at least in our part of the country), and all we have to show for it is another day of the same - aching muscles and weary hearts.

But I mean this post to be hopeful, not despairing.

As I said, my family (and here I mean both biological and spiritual) has been doing its share of grieving of late. Loved ones are either sick – and I mean sick – or have left this world to gain entrance into another. My role in all of this has been more indirect than personal, i.e., I have served as a supportive presence rather than an actual participant. In short, I’ve been shoring up the troops.

Again, I’m striving to be upbeat but…

So far, not so much.

Let me switch gears.

The Value of Accountability

One thing that’s been useful during this period of semi-chaos has been to keep a ledger of sorts. Not to wax political, but I’m thinking of the current administration’s demand that government workers account for their activities on the job. I began tracking my own activities in 2020, when the COVID crisis kept me out of work for about six months. I decided at the outset that I wasn’t going to waste that period of enforced leave. I was well experienced in frittering away down time, having spent many a summer vacation and holiday break wiling away hours and regretting it after the fact. So, this time, when the government and my employer were paying me to “stay home and save lives,” I created a schedule for myself and tried to catch up on things I couldn’t get to during a regular work week.

I drafted a book proposal. The recipients didn’t bite, but them’s the breaks.

I joined and even cohosted nightly prayer meetings. Recalling the impact of corporate prayer in the wake of the 911 attacks, my prayer partner and I drilled down in this particular area. Our efforts resulted in the formation of a weekly women’s Bible study. I can’t say how much these activities impacted others, but yours truly gained a lot of spiritual ground.

The Power of Community

I reached out to other members of my church to see how they were faring during this frightening time. There wasn’t much I could do to help, as we were all simply trying to keep our own heads above water, but it gave me a chance to go through the church directory and make contact with hitherto unknown attendees.

My Aunt Carole had a wonderful practice of checking in often by phone. She lived at a distance and didn’t drive. Her health was only so-so, meaning she couldn’t do much but encourage. But encourage she did. Regularly. Even forcefully, in the gentlest way possible, if you know what I mean. If a few calls went unreturned, a more urgent request for an update would ensue.

This lady understood the power of caring and made it a habit.

Aunt Carole’s earthly body has left this world, but her lessons have not. On days when I feel lazy or uninspired, even defeated, reaching out to others can bring me a sense of purpose. The vacuuming may remain undone, but another soul can be touched.

While I’m on the subject of aunties, Aunt Doris promised to be there for me after the death of my one remaining parent. Like Aunt Carole, her age and limitations made it unlikely that she could do much more than listen and maybe offer a few words of counsel. She did, however, coin a phrase which made its way into my head, my heart, and even my novel: “Sometimes you just need to talk to somebody with white hair.”

I realize this last comment is a bit of a digression from the topic at hand, since Aunt Doris’s phone hugs began long before the COVID era. Citing author’s privilege, I’m leaving it in anyway because it reinforces the importance of community, and not exclusively from one’s biological family.

Community matters now, it mattered during COVID, and it will matter whenever and wherever we find ourselves. My friend, Tina, figured this out long ago. It’s taken me a little longer, perhaps because I’ve been blessed with a close family. Having something as a given can make for a sense of entitlement, or rather, expectation that it will always be there. Taking for granted, I suppose. Tina has experienced many losses and thus realizes the need to not go it alone. She is and always will be an example of casting one’s lot with others and living by that concept.

The Slow Demise of Pride

All these goals are worthy and good, but just when I’m feeling indispensable (yeah, right), I fall hip deep into a flareup of an underlying condition which had been behaving itself for several months. Out comes the cane and in go the NSAIDs.

Those palliatives may be little, but they pack a big punch.

It’s not the pain I mind so much. I know how to do rest and relaxation, but I’m not too keen on helplessness. Check that. I’m not helpless; I’m simply less able to be helpful, at a time when family and friends are in need of all the help they can get.

Apparently, my heavenly Father feels I need a lesson in humility.

So be it.

Accordingly, on this final day of February 2025, I offer up the power I can still exercise in the midst of powerlessness. Power to call on a Power far greater than any I could boast. Power to relegate pride to its rightful place – as so many people I love are involuntarily having to do right along with me. Power to slowly but surely admit that divine power overpowers, overshadows, and overcomes any perceived power I’m blessed to possess.

What a Savior.

Giving Birth

“I'm scared!” I told my husband in the delivery room. It was go time. We were awaiting the arrival of our first son over 30 years ago. I had longed for this moment, prayed, like Hannah, for God to favor me with motherhood, yet there I lay, unable to corral my fears of the moment and beyond.

“I'm scared of the whole thing!” I whimpered. “Scared of having the baby. Scared of raising the baby. I don't think I can do this.”

Shortly thereafter, the nurse came in with pain medication, which calmed both body and nerves. I turned to my husband with full sincerity and wondered, “What was I so afraid of?”

All these years later it's just a whimsical story that every expectant mother can probably relate to. But back then, in the heat of the moment, at the finishing line, those fears were very real and loomed impossibly large in the face of what was to come.

I'll be giving birth in just a few days. It's a planned delivery, one that's well overdue. Pregnant women, when their gestation time waxes long and perhaps goes into overtime, become cranky and uncomfortable. Quite bluntly, they want that child out! Having endured sleepless nights, a contorted body shape, and too much time to think about the what ifs, they want to see their baby, hold him, hear his tiny cries. At the same time, there's a panic button that sounds at the moment of truth, and the whole thing just seems impossible.

Like I said, I'm at that point in my maternity journey. Exhausted from labor and uncertain of the outcome. I want this baby dearly. I've longed for her, prayed for her, spent grueling hours planning for her arrival. Still, now that the moment has arrived, I feel a hesitancy that's hard to put into words. 

Maybe it's because this birthing process has been hugely different than my other two. For one thing, it's been 10 years in the making. There were many false starts and false hopes. I endured plenty of losses along the way, disappointments that made me despair of ever trying again, yet somehow, I lived to fight another day for what I felt sure was God's will for me.

Enough suspense. I suspect my astute readers have surmised that I'm not talking about welcoming a rosy infant; rather, at the end of this month my novel, Belabored, will hit the proverbial shelves via Amazon in both eBook and paperback forms. There have been innumerable fits and starts in this arduous process, but the big moment has finally arrived. The eBook is currently in pre-order status, meaning it can be ordered in advance of its actualization, which will be June 28. The paperback is slated to be available on June 30.

Woo hoo!

So, why am I so nervous?

Could it be because I've never done anything like this before? Because the anticipation may not live up to the reality? Because the pre-birth process is only the beginning of a lifetime commitment?

Let's face it – some things in life don't lend themselves well to do-overs. I've worked and reworked this book, to the point where I'm almost sick of it. But there's something terrifying about knowing this is it. My finished product will be in readers' hands; any sentences phrased awkwardly, or concepts delivered poorly, will be permanently etched in black and white. I get that authors update their publications, but realistically, how many readers can be expected to revisit a botched first effort for further consumption?

Belabored is being brought to bear via “indie publishing”. In short, I am self-publishing through Amazon's Kindle Direct platform. The pro side of this process is that it: a) costs nothing; b) removes the pressure traditionally published authors face to maintain a high-volume social media presence; and c) eliminates the marketing commitments traditional publishers expect of their authors. On the cons list is the fact that their publishing software is proprietary and therefore, doesn't readily interface with the word processing program I used to create my book. I wrongly assumed that, after making my final edits (famous last words) to the Kindle Direct document, I could download the same into an easily retrievable Word document, then with minimal effort transfer the manuscript into a print version.

Um, not so much.

I was prepared for this wrinkle, though, because I have at my disposal a wonderfully talented web developer/designer who is affordable, personable, and has a positive knack for being able to untangle my most daunting computer problems. This dear girl had no prior experience with Kindle Direct, but she has oodles of programming know-how. After first digging my blog out of the technical abyss which had swallowed it, she turned her attention to helping me navigate the ins and outs of Amazon publishing.

If we're following the birth analogy, the Lord conceived this “baby”, I carried it to term, and my tech guru “midwife” helped Belabored emerge from my hard drive into the light of day.

A true labor of love all the way around. I pray my audience finds the book worth the wait and worth their time. To God be the glory.

“My heart is overflowing with a good theme; I recite my composition concerning the King; My tongue is the pen of a ready writer.” – Psalm 45:1

Everything is a Big Project

Defining the Problem

We all know how it is. A tiny paint job turns into a wash, spackle and sand ordeal before the bristles even make contact with the wall. Job interviews become major undertakings involving multiple interviews, background checks, and lots of nail biting. Even small weddings demand countless phone calls, emails, visits and beaucoup bucks. Buying a house is an expensive, involved process that can fall through at the last minute.

And then there’s the vital work of raising children. Between car seats that look like lounging chairs for royalty and cribs resembling four poster beds, it's all parents can do to put food on the table, let alone save for college. And these “have to's” for kids require know-how; gone are the days when we could pop kids into and out of car seats and transfer said seats between vehicles with minimal time and effort. Five-point harnesses are showing up on things like highchairs these days, making mealtime more of a challenge than it already is with young eaters.

Don't get me wrong. I'm all for well-being. Home inspections and child safety make all the sense in the world. But I do wonder at times whether we're preparing ourselves right out of starting anything in the first place.

There's no way around it. Life is a big project. Where, oh where, has simplicity gone?

Drilling Down

Other things can be big projects, too. Things that aren't as tangible, but just as real and challenging as the more mundane aspects of life. Yours truly has been dealing with some such projects recently. Anger, resentment and fear, to be precise. 

No need to call in the suicide squad. The Lord has provided ample resources to cope with these difficulties, which I'll elaborate on shortly. In the meantime, I invite my readers to take a moment to reflect on the “big projects” - material, financial, emotional, spiritual - which are confounding them lately. 

I'm going to make the assumption that ALL our big projects are spiritual, for the simple reason that when anything stretches our limits, divine intervention is not only useful but often essential. Even the least spiritually inclined person must concede supernatural assistance at times. “Coincidence” allows us to cross paths with someone who can solve our problem in one way or another. “Fate” arranges events in an advantageous way. Some deem such happenings miraculous or lucky; whatever we call it, the plain fact is that impossible seeming solutions are orchestrated outside of our resources, by some unseen hand.

The Resentment Factor

When something’s bothering me, I pick at it. That’s why my hangnails turn into bloody fingers and scabs take a long time to heal. It’s not a behavior that I’m proud of, and I’m better than I used to be – but old habits die hard.

I do the same thing with perceived injustices. I’ve had some unhappy experiences recently, situations calling for forgiveness, which I felt loathe to give.

After all, I was right.

Can I get an “amen”? Don’t we all always feel like we’re in the right when righteous indignance comes to call?

The circumstances don’t matter; suffice it to say, I felt shortchanged and grieved by the actions or inactions of others on numerous occasions, and each encounter got progressively more painful in terms of who did the offending and the magnitude of the perceived wrong. Sadly, several of the hurts came from other believers.

Before anyone calls me thin-skinned, can’t we all point to seasons in our lives when it seems like the universe and everyone in it is out to get us? We can’t dwell in that attitude, or life wouldn’t be worth living; but it does seem there are times when everything’s going wrong.

Satan loves a good rodeo, and finds lots of clever ways to throw God’s children off the proverbial bull
just when they think they’ve got a firm grip on the reins. The fourth chapter of James describes some of the ways our enemy creates division among believers. Jesus Himself provides a clear example of how Satan can use our brothers and sisters in Christ to make us fall.

So, what’s a believer to do?

The Tools at Hand

First, use all the tools at hand. For me, one tool is journaling. A therapist told me long ago that “writing moves things” – it takes us from point A to point B with our emotions. One important caveat: these scribblings ought never show up in the offender’s inbox, at least not in their raw form. It’s much too easy to hit “send” on an unedited diatribe that will only make things worse.

Which brings me to a second point. I prefer verbally discussing a problem to letter writing. Written communication can be read and reread, picked and poked at (remember the hangnail and scab?). In addition, there’s always the possibility that the recipient will ignore the message and act like nothing ever happened. Personally, I find that more painful and uncomfortable than just getting it over with and hashing things out once tempers cool. This also happens to be the Biblical approach, although it will need to be adapted when dealing with people who aren’t on the same spiritual page.

While going through this period, I also revisited a book called Thank You for Being Such a Pain: Spiritual Guidance for Dealing with Difficult People, in which the author offers a roadmap for transforming irritation with people who “push our buttons” into spiritual growth. These practical strategies, combined with staying in God’s word, praying over the situations, and confiding in a spiritual mentor, helped defuse some of the anger, which was real and frightening.

Each New Problem Usurped the Previous One

I noticed something interesting as this period progressed. As each new kidney punch reared its ugly fist, the previous one seemed a bit less daunting. Thank heavens (literally), because if these things had compounded without any of them lessening in impact, I really think I might have checked out available beds in the nearest psych ward. God mercifully tamped out the flames of each current struggle as a new one entered the picture. Oh, a few embers remain, but they’re more reminders to exercise caution with certain people than flames waiting to be fanned.

Although, truth be told, embers can really go either way. If we tend to them properly, they’ll eventually become harmless. However, we can also nurse them back into a hearty fire if we choose.

That’s really the point. The choice is ours.

There’s a pithy saying about learning how to dance in the rain instead of waiting for non-stop sunny skies. I think that’s key. In this season of my life, where it seems I’m only a cloudburst away from each next downpour, I’m seeking God’s purpose for the storms. Having spent decades using ineffective strategies – running from difficulties, seeking escape, blaming others, or whipping myself with shame – I think it’s time for a change.

Weekend at Aaron’s

Shortly before Easter, I was feeling emotionally “hungover” by the trials in my life. Most had been semi-resolved, meaning while there was no active warring going on, neither was there an actual meeting of the minds. In short, truces had been declared, but we were a long way from civility.

I couldn’t imagine how God could turn these difficulties around. One came right on top of the other, each somehow worse than the last. My mind, often so forgetful about things that matter, was having no trouble at all revisiting each minor infraction over and Over and OVER again.

In the midst of all this, my son called begging for help. His wife, in her third trimester of pregnancy with an already much-loved baby boy, needed urgent medical care; could I please come stay with the other kids while he tended to her needs?

What mom could resist such a plea? Who would even want to? I was just starting my spring break from school, so the timing was perfect. I ended up spending the weekend, helping out and gathering gobs of joy from the little ones.

I collected a few other things, too, during my stay – an ugly stomach bug, which turned out to be the cause of my daughter-in-law’s symptoms, but more importantly, precious time with my son. His schedule is jam-packed with work and responsibilities, but we enjoyed a very low-key weekend while Elise and two of the kids recuperated from the virus. I got to know Aaron all over again, in a deeper way, while we chatted over the mundane but also the extraordinary.

And cradling my granddaughter while she was crying and her little body was heaving brought back sweet memories of mothering my own children when they were young. I don’t think it was any coincidence that I happened to be wearing my “Best Grandma Hands Down” t-shirt (which carries my first grandchild’s tiny handprints) while little Kira was throwing up on my shoulder.

Who says God doesn’t have a sense of humor?

We must never discount the creativity of the Lord when it comes to dealing with human frailty. I had been crying out to Him all week, powering up all the tools in my arsenal, but at best the fury was merely ebbing. It never completely subsided. The interruption caused by Aaron’s family emergency, combined with the sweet communion with my son and grandbabies (and my own subsequent illness), provided the break I needed from my own thought processes which were keeping me chained to bitterness.

I wish I could say all my resentments flowed away into an ocean of Godly forgiveness. That wouldn’t be honest. But I can attest to the fact that caring for my son’s family provided a welcome diversion from my angry thoughts and disappointed expectations. The abundant love in my heart for my family served to crowd out the ugliness that had been pervading my soul.

What a great God we serve! “How unsearchable are His judgments and His ways past finding out!” (Romans 11:33)

The Evolution Piece

At age 60, I’m unwilling to give up this fight. If life is going to be a big, complicated ordeal on most levels, then so be it – but may I be found wrestling against attitudes that don’t please God when it’s my turn to stand before Him. While I have problems with Darwinism, it does make Biblical sense that humans can and should evolve behaviorally and spiritually:

“I will give you a new heart and put a new spirit within you; I will take the heart of stone out of your flesh and give you a heart of flesh.” (Ezekiel 36:26)

“But you have not so learned Christ, if indeed you have heard Him and have been taught by Him, as the truth is in Jesus: that you put off, concerning your former conduct, the old man which grows corrupt according to the deceitful lusts, and be renewed in the spirit of your mind, and that you put on the new man which was created according to God, in true righteousness and holiness.” (Ephesians 4:20-24, emphasis mine)

So, in addition to using the aforementioned strategies to combat resentment and feeling bogged down with problems, I’m trying out some new ones. Here are a few:

1.      Divert my focus away from the problem and onto God’s goodness (for example, instead of focusing on the latest worry or hurt feelings, I mentally shift gears to consider something positive and hopeful that God is doing in my life).

2.     Pray as much or more for those doing well in the Lord than for those in constant crisis. This redirects my attention from floundering ships and onto destination-bound vessels! This is not to suggest I give up on or mentally cast off troubled people; far from it! Rather, it affords me the opportunity to uphold believers who are growing and thriving in the Lord at least as much as I do for those who are struggling. The mental difference this makes is palpable.

3.      Realize God is using the circumstance, person, infraction to GROW ME! This amounts to taking the focus off the tool and placing it onto the One who is holding the tool!

4.      Notice the big picture, i.e., what I’m going through in the context of a greater plan. I’m currently teaching a Bible study called “To Whom Shall We Go?” which is derived from Peter’s answer to Jesus’s question about whether the disciples would ultimately stand by Him. Peter’s cavalier response and subsequent denial of our Lord should give all believers pause. It’s worth noting that we call our Bible study group the “Cord of Three Strands” to remind each other of the vital bond to which God calls the body of Christ. Within that framework, it behooves believers to buckle up! Where God’s people are communing together and striving to please Him, Satan will surely try to work his mischief. If Satan can take out the teacher, the students will surely suffer. Also, as a wise Bible mentor once explained to me, after God teaches His children a lesson, a test is sure to follow.

To sum up, I’m practicing making a conscious decision between nursing grudges or nurturing my relationship with the Lord, and noticing all He’s doing in the midst of (not the absence of) struggles – that’s the key! It's not feasible to keep getting all jumbled up inside. Too much emotional drama is draining; I simply can’t spend exorbitant amounts of time on every little rainstorm. It makes more sense to prayerfully commit each challenge to Him, then try not to overthink it. Sometimes this involves having to detach from people or situations that are more than I can handle. I may need to step back and minimize involvement for awhile to give God time to make my behavior more Christ-like.

Sweet Irony

Ironically, it seems this article itself has become a big project. I started it about a month ago, and it’s been weighing on my mind ever since. The whole thing has been written piecemeal, drawing from notes I’ve jotted hither and yon, and needing much revision to bring about a sensible product (I hope). Not all that different from giving birth, really (if the process by which God transforms the union of a seed and an egg into a full human isn’t a big project, I don’t know what is).

Which just goes to show our marvelous God knows how to tackle big projects one bit at a time.

Dad's Dream

My dad had an upsetting dream while recovering from open heart surgery. By some stroke of a heavenly pen, poor Dad was required to go through the recovery process for multiple patients. His own arduous road to wellness would be multiplied by two, maybe three times. Every therapy session and each needle puncture would be doubled or tripled.

I'm sure he awoke in a cold sweat.

Thirty plus years later, while reflecting on Dad's nightmare, I believe this was his mind's way of playing out what was just too much for him. He undoubtedly felt unable to handle his own recovery, let alone anyone else's. Perhaps his subconscious was contemplating the idea of further surgeries and interventions down the line, the thought of which terrified his overtaxed mind. 

At times I feel something akin to what Dad's dream indicated he was going through. At the beginning of a grueling week or the outset of a major challenge, the mountain ahead appears insurmountable. The forward-thinking part of me overtakes the "keep your mind where your feet are" wisdom I've gained over the years. I want to tackle the whole thing and be done with it, instead of nibbling one bite at a time; I choke on the idea of gobbling up the whole problem, and rebel at the idea of taking even the smallest step to begin. A cycle of fear and panic grips my troubled heart, and if I don’t let God talk me down off the ledge, paralysis can overwhelm action.

Dad eschewed his dream and got on with the taxing business of recovery. He showed up at cardiac rehab and followed doctors’ orders. He let himself be weak until he gained a bit of strength, and endured the inevitable setbacks.

In short, he had good days and bad days.

What he didn’t have to do was recover for anyone besides himself.

That part of the dream was fallacious, and he knew it.

I’m sure he had moments when it all seemed like too much. When hiding at home seemed preferable to trying to make his uncooperative, post-stroke fingers button a shirt so he could go out and fight another day.

That’s right. Future recoveries did await him, as a post-operative stroke further limited his capabilities. But he continued putting one foot in front of the other, living out the truth of Matthew 6:34: “Therefore, do not worry about tomorrow, for tomorrow will worry about its own things. Sufficient for the day is its own trouble.”

He didn’t have to fight all his battles at once, and neither do I.

What a relief.

                                                                       Dad and I, circa 2004. I miss him.

Rejection... Before the Fact... Again

It's happening. Again.

I've been trying to steel myself, but to no avail.

I've never been any good at keeping hopes high and expectations low at the same time.

Remember that feeling when a relationship is new? Too new, even, to call it a relationship? That feeling of wanting something so bad you can taste it, but dreading even to take that first bite, lest it not live up to the expectations you've assigned it?

I'm talking about fresh love. Infatuation, really, because love has to be cultivated, but infatuation only has to be stoked.

I'm finding out that this phenomenon isn't limited to the highs and lows of romance. No, it can rear its leery head in things as mundane as a new job or a long anticipated vacation or the prospect of anything you really want that may not come to pass.

Don't get your hopes up.

Something this good can never last.

Better to aim low than to be disappointed. Again.

I thought I was going to be open enough to tell you, lovely readers, what I'm hoping for that may not happen, but I'm finding out that my courage is in short supply. Again. 

Perhaps it's best to just leave it to the imagination, since we all know the sensation I'm talking about.

 The "what if" syndrome. 

What if this doesn't work out after all?

What if I invest in this (name the prize you're trying to grasp), and it eludes me?

What if I expend a lot of energy and not a few sleepless nights, and nothing comes of it?

What if I get hurt? Again.

I'm not one to listen to a lot of melancholy music these days - the kind that nurtures angst and pining. Oh, I used to do a lot of that. Certain songs can still tug on my heartstrings and bring me right back to my teen years when everything mattered and all possibilities seemed available and out of reach at the same time.

But I did stumble across an old tune that touches a chord right now. I'm not going to supply the lyrics here, because the songwriter and I have totally different world views and probably couldn't even hold a four-minute conversation without disagreeing on the weather forecast for that day. That said, he got it right when he penned words about lost love and the need to let things go and move on.

He's talking about a broken relationship, but I'm talking about life.

The things that don't come our way, despite our best efforts and deepest longings. The things we clawed at, ached over, yearned for. The things we trusted in that came up wanting.

The Bible says King Belshazzar found this out the hard way:

"This is the interpretation of the matter: MENE, God has numbered the days of your kingdom and brought it to an end; TEKEL, you have been weighed in the balances and found wanting; PERES, your kingdom is divided and given to the Medes and Persians." (Daniel 5:26-28)

Verse 30 tells us "that very night" Belshazzar was killed and his empire taken over by another. But before he died, the proud Babylonian ruler honored Daniel, who had just foretold the king's doom, and elevated the prophet to a position of prominence in the kingdom (v.29).

Good for him. Way to not kill the messenger. Way to respect the message even if you're terrified of its contents.

So it goes.

One man rises as another man falls. 

The ashes of one regime fuel the ignition of another.

My takeaway is that life is circular. Always has been, always will be. One day you're up, the next, you're down. But if you wait long enough, many times you'll make it to the top of the ferris wheel again - if only for a few minutes.

Unless, of course, your ticket's punched. As Belshazzar found out.

I don't mean to sound cynical. I'd rather consider these words of wisdom born from experience. Since I'm learning it late in life, it's a bit arrogant to call it my philosophy. Perhaps life lesson is more to the point.

What goes around comes around, but not always in this lifetime.

So, what does matter? 

Well, for me, what matters today is testing negative for COVID after a week of wondering if, like the friends I vacationed with, I will start developing symptoms. Assuming the virus has passed me by this time, what matters today is visiting my aunt who's recovering from heart surgery. Making progress on a writing project that's taking a lot of time and may not pan out the way I hope. Spending time with my beloved sisters. Following my Lord and trusting Him to show me how to do each next right/write thing. And inching a tiny bit closer to the goals He's set before me, regardless of how they turn out.

Rejection may well come my way. Again. If so, my God will be there to pick me up. Again.

I don't need to mourn before the fact. Maybe I don't even need to mourn after the fact - if, indeed, things don't go my way. 

Because His way trumps my way, even when it doesn't seem so this side of heaven.

"A man's heart plans his way, but the Lord directs His steps." - Proverbs 16:9

 

Intentional vs. Chaotic Living

Intentional vs. chaotic living.

I am not an expert on this topic, and yet, in a real way, many of us are experts on this matter because we are living examples of this very thing.

Here are some signs that we are living chaotically vs. intentionally:

1.     We are constantly buying food (either fast food, restaurant food, or at the grocery store), yet we also constantly find ourselves throwing away forgotten food from our refrigerators.

2.     We are careless with things, such that we are constantly throwing away broken items and/or having to replace them.

3.     We always feel we are running behind. When we have blocks of time, such as vacation or days off from work, we fritter the time away more than is necessary to recharge our batteries. Then, when we return to everyday living, we kick ourselves because we could have accomplished some of the nagging items on our list while we had the time, but instead, we wasted it.

4.      We seem to be making good money, yet we never have any to spare. When emergencies or unanticipated expenses arise, we have trouble meeting those needs.

These are but a few examples that I have witnessed in my life and the lives of others.

I recently invested a whopping 25 cents on a book that is helping me identify some of these weaknesses in my own life. I purchased it at a yard sale, and it sat on my shelf for a few months. I picked up this small book the other day because lately my life has been feeling chaotic. The text ties 12-step recovery programs to their Biblical roots by incorporating readings on each step throughout relevant passages from Scripture.

A quick disclaimer: as a 30-year veteran of Al Anon, I have watched these programs adapt to the culture over time. Identifying as “spiritual” rather than religious programs, a sort of “one size fits all” approach has usurped the Christian underpinnings which many believe formed the core of Alcoholics Anonymous (which in turn formed the template for all 12-step programs). It follows that most such groups place no emphasis on Christ’s atoning death on the cross as the ONLY way to have ultimate peace with God. The focus is on a “higher power,” which can be as specific as God or as vague as the group or meetings themselves, to which the struggling addict yields control of his life. Therefore, it is essential that Christians like myself, who avail ourselves of the tried and true help to be had in 12-step programs, realize their limitations and not use these groups and their materials as a substitute for corporate worship and Scripture study.

With that being said, I have posted notes below from a talk I gave on step 11, which reads “[We] sought through prayer and meditation to improve our conscious contact with God as we understood Him, praying only for knowledge of His Will for us and the power to carry that out.” Rereading these today is helping me ground and center myself, which will hopefully instigate a domino effect whereby some of the pitfalls mentioned above will be minimized, and my life will flow in better order. I don’t claim to offer a panacea – but I have learned over the years that only to the extent that I intentionally take time with the Lord, offering up my problems and failings to Him and seeking His guidance to sort out schedules and priorities, will I find a measure of peace in this chaotic world.

My prayer is that these scribblings (and I haven’t edited them for readability; these are rough notes I used while giving a talk) will be useful to my readers as well.

This is one of the hardest talks I’ve ever had to do. Been in al anon 26 years, sat in tons of meetings, given talks and sharings, but never been asked to speak on step 11. A bit scary for me b/c I’m a Christian, and Christianity and Jesus aren’t very popular these days in this post-modern, secular world we live in.at first I thought I would wow you with my faith – this was my chance. There is a large emphasis in the Bible on sharing one’s faith, and I do believe in evangelism. But I have respect for you and for the fact that this has become a spiritual program, not a religious one, even though the 12 step program was based on Christian principles. I once asked a friend of mine who was a mentor to me spiritually why 12 step programs work even though they’ve gotten away from their Christian roots. She said because the 12 steps are rooted in Biblical principles and God knows what He’s talking about.

But this is a program of attraction rather than promotion, so I’m just gonna say up front that I am a Christian and I’d be happy to talk to anyone privately about my faith after the meeting, but for the focus of my talk I’m going to share how God has been with me throughout my life, sought me, strengthened me, and spared me in my darkest times, and proven to me the usefulness of step 11. Where I was, how I got here, and what it’s like now. Strength, hope and experience.

Best way to tell it for me is in milestones. People who have dealt w/others’ addictions have long, tattered stories, not easily lending themselves to 10-minute talks. So I’m boiling it down.

I started to grow up at age 29. The year I gave up trying to hide my husband’s alcoholism. The year he entered treatment through his first rehab.

Calling an Al Anon friend when I couldn’t reach husband while he was on a business trip – didn’t suspect foul play, just deeply worried and felt very out of control – called her while I was bathing my son. Her advice: bathe your little boy. Be present in that activity. Basically, let the dervishes whirl, you can’t control what husband is or isn’t doing, but you can participate in getting your child clean.

When I realized the extent of my husband’s alcoholic behavior, I was already pregnant with second child. Could barely eat. Had to choke down half an apple. Yet this child weighed 10 lbs. 3.5 oz. and had to be induced b/c so big. God knew my older son needed a sibling and I needed this child, although I literally cried out to God why did You allow this pregnancy. It took some doing to have my 1^st son, but I decided to have a 2^nd, and rolled over in bed, so to speak, and voila, I was pregnant. If I had known what was going on, wouldn’t have tried for #2, but God did know, and sent me #2 anyway. Debating skills honed with this kid. He has become such a dear young man, so personable, everything he struggled with as a kid. I have learned the value of perseverance and prayer thru this kid, and I told him recently he’s one of my best friends, and I meant it.

When second son came along, things got crazier. There was a moment of truth when husband did something outrageous; I asked him to leave. He moved out temporarily. I felt empowered for about 30 seconds until reality sank in. I had no job. Living in a house that belonged to my mother-in-law. Felt solely responsible for 2 young lives. Remember calling parents and saying I can’t raise my kids today. They dropped everything and came and cared for us.

Had to use every mental faculty to load and unload the dishwasher – prayed for clear thinking to accomplish that Herculean chore

I put sticky notes around the house reminding me to bathe myself and my kids. The basics. Went food shopping with my sister because too much to handle by myself. Going to the grocery store felt like climbing Mt. Everest. Cried in the store. My sister was there for me, and if she was embarrassed she didn’t show it. Son knew something was wrong but didn’t know how to fix, so when we got home, he gave me a play dough sheep he had made. As I look back, that was pretty profound because as a Christian, I believe that Jesus was the sacrificial lamb who took my sins away. I don’t even remember making that connection then, but as I look back, I see God carrying me, and using the kindness of my child’s heart to do so.

Thought of murder and suicide. Murdering the alcoholic or killing myself. Could see no end in sight. Who will help me raise my kids? Didn’t know God had oodles of people He was preparing to help me financially, emotionally and physically. He was truly, as the Bible says, a father to the fatherless and a defender of widows (Psalm 68:5). I became functionally a widow, as my husband was taking himself out of the picture through his addiction, and later geographically.

The day I stopped trying to get help for husband and started trying to get it for me (my therapist, the prayer that led to her – Lord, I don’t have time or money to waste – I need the right person the first time)

Micah 6:8: what does the lord require of you but to do justice love mercy and walk humbly with your God? I had all these expectations of myself that I was always falling short of. Often at church I would realize how much time I had wasted during the week, and during the sermon, I would make lists of things to do. Took years to figure out that getting up earlier and seeking God first thing in the AM through prayer and meditation and Scripture reading would put order in my day. 1^st things 1^st. but that was a long time in coming, and Micah 6:8 (He has told you, O man, what is good; and what does the LORD require of you but to do justice, and to love kindness, and to walk humbly with your God?) gave me an anchor. I could do those 3 things. Justice - try to be fair. Mercy - try to be kind. Walk humbly with God let Him steer the ship.

Romantic inventory, how this gave me freedom from rejection. Always took these things to heart. Believed whatever was said of me as long as it was negative. Got good grades, good evals at work, but always thought I was fooling those who thought well of me, and the naysayers had it right.

Had to realize the difference b/w faith in the program/any program vs. faith in God. I always thought this rehab or if I could get him out the door to an AA meeting, everything would be OK. Now I have a legal matter that I’m dealing with and I’m not real happy with the legal support I’m receiving. Step 11 tells me it isn’t any law firm or individual who I’m to put my trust in. If God is the great physician, He is also the great attorney, and will do His part and show me what steps I’m to take when I need to take them.

For me step 11 is very tied into serenity prayer. The complete one.

 God, grant me the Serenity
To accept the things I cannot change...
Courage to change the things I can,
And Wisdom to know the difference.

Living one day at a time,
Enjoying one moment at a time,
Accepting hardship as the pathway to peace.
Taking, as He did, this sinful world as it is,
Not as I would have it.
Trusting that He will make all things right
if I surrender to His will.
That I may be reasonably happy in this life,
And supremely happy with Him forever in the next.
Amen.        

Realizing what is my part and what isn’t. I add “people” to things I can and can’t change. This clearly delineates others’ behavior from mine. I can change mine, not others’. Am still trying to exercise this with my two adult sons and their wives – figuring out what is their business vs. what is mine.

One of my biggest fears has always been loss. I remember worrying one night when husband got home late, thinking my world would end if something happened to him. He was my functional savior. I saw him as the thing that kept me afloat. Something did happen to him. He became lost in alcoholism and I left him and then he left our family geographically and I was left with the kids. But my parents stepped in to fill the void, and I couldn’t imagine life without my parents. What would happen to me if something happened to them? Who would go buy the mayonnaise if there were a mayo emergency? I told that to my counselor once and she said “you would do it.” Something did happen to my parents, they got sick and died, but God and my sisters and friends were still there. So now, in my 50’s, I worry what would happen to me if something happened to my sons? I can’t imagine life without either of them. I have terrific fears when I allow myself to give in to them, BUT…

Step 11 tells me it will be OK because my circumstances may change, but the God I serve is the same yesterday, today and forever (Hebrews 13:8).