Tuesday, October 20, 2020

I was a robot addict.

When I was about to graduate from Celebrate Recovery, a 12 step program, I was supposed to draw on one side of a poster what I was before, and on the other, what I've become. 

People from the addiction-spectrum participate in CR together. There are those who struggle with "conventional addictions" like substance abuse, chemical abuse, sexual abuse, self-harm, eating disorders, etc. But Celebrate Recovery recognizes that our "hurts, habits and hangups" all come from the same brokenness. So it's also a place for people struggling with anger, codependency, manipulation, over eating... and there was me.

I didn't fit in any real category except I knew broken from Grace's cancer. Somehow I had still managed to heal and after 9 months, I was ready to graduate the program. But I still didn't know what "hangup" I was graduating from. 

I turns out I struggle with becoming a robot. And I've been struggling with it a lot lately. When I'm a robot I stop feeling and just make the motions. It can be so subtle that sometimes I don't even realize. I'm still functioning, in fact, I'm often functioning at 200%. On the outside. Inside I'm huddled in fetal position, lost in a cold, dark void.

This morning during prayer time (the first in a long time) I felt the Holy Spirit  I became a robot.

  • I'm really stressed out about the presidential election. 
  • I'm incredibly concerned that Cal EPA hasn't done anything tangible to enforce the cleanup of the SSFL. 
  • I'm stressed about finances. 
  • I haven't been exercising enough. 
  • I need to go back to the chiropractor but won't because of Covid.
  • I'm worried that low-level radioactive waste could be deregulated and sent to regular dumps across the US. 
  • I'm worried about some of my friends who are really struggling. 
  • I'm weary from the kids homeschooling. 
  • My house is a mess. 
  • Luke's birthday is coming up and I have no energy for it.
  • Home repairs have been never ending. 
  • Covid 19 restrictions have left me lonely and feeling helpless. 

So when I saw the potential to get lost in a work project, I threw myself in, not even bothering to see how deep the pit was. It's a documentary about the Santa Susana Field Lab and how several Nazi scientists quietly worked there after WW2. Instead of keeping the project to it's proposed 8 minutes, I've expanded it to 24 minutes. I've spent countless hours pouring over holocaust footage and images. I've allowed myself to work 8-12 hour days. I decided to shoot my own historical scenes. I decided it needed amazing graphics. I've been so immersed in it that I became a robot.

The advantages of being a robot is that I could blame my exhaustion on being tired from working instead of admitting that life is frightening me. It became an excuse to justify that I was too busy to play with the kids. Too busy to pray. Too busy to relax. Too busy to taste my food. Too busy to feel anything. 

God pointed out to me today that I'm concerned about many things, but I haven't picked what matters the most. I've lost myself inside the cold, metallic shell of overworking instead of allowing myself to be the bruised human that Iam. Good thing God knows where I hide and knows how to draw me back out. And I think because of Celebrate Recovery I thaw much faster whenever I relapse. It doesn't always feel good to thaw. And I know from CR I won't be able to do it without being honest with safe people who can help me. 

The day before I graduated CR I finally realized what to write on my poster. On one side I wrote, "robot." I was a robot addict to avoid the pain, confusion, and the limitations of being a broken human in a broken world. 

On the other side I wrote, "child of God." 

In some ways they're similar. I am still bruised and sometimes bleeding. I am still confused, frightened, and frustrated about the problems in my life. But instead of trying to dull the pain in unhealthy ways, I am safe enough to feel when I know I'm held in my Father's arms. 

And feeling is hard. Feeling is painful. But it's human. And when I can accept myself as a human I won't get as much done, but I will be connected again with the people I love, the things I love, and able to be myself again.



Thursday, May 21, 2020

Scars in his hands and feet

I've wondered why Jesus still had his scars after his resurrection. I would assume they'd either be bloody and raw, or so completely healed it looked like it never happened.

Lately I've felt safe with Jesus again. But not always with his Christians. In a Bible Study I'm part of (we meet on Zoom) there is a mom whose 21-year-old child also has cancer.

One of the ladies said, "I really believe that having a good attitude makes all the difference in cancer treatment," insinuating that having a positive outlook affects who lives and who dies from cancer. Phrases like that always cut my heart out. I'm instantly isolated, frightened, angry, and heartbroken. That's a lot of big emotions for a statement she said so easily.

Kinsley was ready to graduate from High School. She had been cancer-free for six years. She had everything ready to move away to college. She was funny, witty, sassy, and beautiful. When her cancer relapsed she developed sepsis. She fought it off. Was it because of her attitude? Maybe a small part. But when the sepsis returned two weeks later, it quickly consumed her. Kinsley wasn't the type to roll over and die, she already proved what a fighter she was the first time she beat cancer.

Cancer killed her because that's what cancer does.

Bailey was 18 months when she was diagnosed. I called her my sassy-pants-girl. She knew who she didn't like, what she didn't like, when she wanted it, and how. Bailey was also careful about whom she would befriend, especially at the hospital, but she and Grace were instant buddies. Probably because both of them loved Frozen, wore glittery skirts and huge headbands. Bailey died 11 months later.
She was a tough little girl. It wasn't her fault she died.

But "being positive" connotes that it was somehow her fault. That she just didn't want it bad enough, and that she could have controlled it if she tried hard enough.

I know people will say I'm really taking that phrase too seriously, but they probably never knew (not knew of, but actually had relationships with) seven children who later died of cancer. Maybe if they had, they'd at least be more hesitant to say a phrase like that.

Hazel was diagnosed at two-years-old with the same cancer Bailey had. Hazel beat her cancer and for two and a half years she lived as a "regular kid" with her two brothers and two sisters. She relapsed the day before she started first grade. When neuroblastoma kids relapse, there is no treatment plan. It's a throw-everything-you-have-at-it approach because that cancer has a very, very low survival rate. She went into remission again. It came back again. Hazel was talking with her family, sleepily making jokes and telling stories up to the moment she took her last breath. She was full of life, literally, until the minute she died.

Emily had brain cancer and beat it. She had a massive scar on her head from the tumor retraction. She relapsed the same time Hazel did. She died a week before Hazel did. Grace and I went to both her friends' funerals, even though Grace was so weak from her own treatment that she could barely walk and was so tired that we had to leave early.

Kinsley
Bailey
Hazel
Emily
JoJo
Eli
Tinka

I just don't know how someone could think it's ok to say something so hurtful. I know it's meant to be an encouragement. I know she meant well. I also know she's probably never had to think through what that common belief actually means.

And for me, 2.5 years after Grace's bone marrow transplant, my heart wounds are still there. Some are still bleeding. Some are healed. But even the healed ones still show ghastly scars. And I used to think that was wrong. That being "healed by Jesus" meant things would go right back to the way things were, or how they "should" have been.

Yet when Jesus rose from the grave, he had a 2.0 body. He could walk through walls. But he still had the scars from his crucifixion. And I think that was probably a choice. If he could bring the dead to life, he certainly could have removed his own scars. But he didn't. I don't know what that means yet, but I do know that if Jesus still bore his scars, maybe mine are ok too. Maybe I don't need to feel so ashamed of them.

One thing I do know, it's great to be positive. But being positive doesn't tame cancer. That raging, thieving, uncontrollable monster doesn't consider who deserves to live and who will die. It doesn't allow anyone to control it with positivity or thoughts- it can barely be controlled with toxic medicines.

Maybe as time goes on it'll hurt less to hear it. Until then, my scars are fragile and thin and can bleed at the slightest injury. And maybe that's ok. I want tobe like Jesus, and Jesus had scars.

Thursday, March 26, 2020

That makes sense to me

As I'm trying to heal I realized I have a lot of spiritual condemnation for myself. I feel like a failure, or that God was disappointed in me for being so furious at him. I thought I needed to forgive God for letting Grace get cancer. Maybe I need him to forgive me for being so angry and refusing to accept his will. Though I know he understood me in it more than I did.

I don't think He was angry at me or felt like I was a moral failure. I see now that he accepted me as I was at that time. Maybe he didn't expect me to be anything else. I saw my anger as so big and strong, like lethal weapons that I was always shooting at him. But maybe I was more of an angry toddler, hurting and confused, throwing toys, who was still loved just as deeply by a much bigger, stronger and secure Father.

I think I wanted to hurt God so he would feel my pain. At least there is a touch of that in here somewhere. But he loved me, understood me. "Hmm. Yes. That makes sense to me. I might feel like that if that happened to me." And I guess that's a big part of why Jesus came to earth. So he could say that. He really could understand, that it really did make sense to him, because he was human.

I talked to a friend who has done EMDR therapy. She said that the closest way she could describe it, is that it changed your physiological reaction to traumatic memories. The panic and terror are gone. She said that she still remembers the memories, but her memory of them has altered so that she now remembers herself at that moment as being resilient, brave, and capable of change, instead of just as a helpless victim.

Even though psychologists are offering EMDR therapy online, I feel like it'd be hard to do for the first time that way. But I was able to revisit the root of a lot of my pain yesterday. I didn't see myself as resilient or determined then. I felt like I was the victim of cosmic injustice. I felt angry, robbed, frightened. And I felt like Jesus was disappointed in my less than spiritually-wise attitude.

But I think from now on when I think of that memory I'll hear the words of Teri in the mouth of Jesus. "Hmm. Yes. That makes sense to me. I might feel like that too if that happened to me." It's a compassionate Jesus. One who understands how frail and human I am, even if I don't. He accepts me and loves me as I am, not as I "should" be.

And I want to change my perception of myself in those memories. I was broken. I was scared. I was angry. I couldn't say to God, your will be done. But I refused to curse him. I didn't leave him. I still sought him. I reached out to my community and admitted when I needed help. I did my very best to be a good mom to my kids, though it still hurts that I couldn't do it all. I think that's another condemnation I need to heal from. I couldn't do it all.

"Hmm. Yes. I think I'd be frustrated by not being able to be in two places at once, even though I loved both of my kids. I might feel angry at myself for not being able to do that. But it's not fair to yourself to judge yourself for not being omnipresent. Only God can do that. You did the best with what you had as a human. You put in 200% whenever you were with either of your children. I can understand how would be painful it would feel to not be able to give them everything they needed. But if I were you, I might also feel proud of myself for putting them first and for loving them with every exhausted ounce of energy I had. And I would forgive myself for not being God. Yes, I think I would feel that way."

That's both Teri and Jesus saying that to me. And it's also me, saying it to my broken self.

Wednesday, March 25, 2020

Ready?

Thank God I went to see Teri Reisser again. There's a lot to be said for saying something out loud, especially when there's an empathetic listener.

I finally admitted out loud that I didn't want to heal from the emotional scars of Grace's cancer. I wanted to be able to hate every bit of her cancer and show it no mercy by keeping myself under the crushing weight of hatred and pain. I thought I was appropriately punishing it. And somehow, appropriately punishing myself for the deep-rooted belief that somehow, maybe, I did something wrong.

But I'm stuck. And I'm tired of being stuck. every time I start to thaw and every time I start to feel near to God, that hatred and anger for her cancer hits me like a bus and sends me crashing back to the moment when Grace was diagnosed for the second time. It's always there. Because at that moment I felt totally abandoned by God. That is the moment that holds all of the pain.

If I look at the photo of Luke smiling on "bug day" from preschool, my heart aches because it was one of the few events I was able to attend. I am heartbroken looking at it, since he was smiling so big because I was finally, actually there for him. And at the root of that moment of pain, I feel totally abandoned by God, immediately back in the first moment of her diagnosis.

Teri has recommended EMDR therapy for me. To help deal with the pain of the first moment that is so deeply entangled in all my memories from the last two and a half years.  That's when I realized I didn't want to let go of that pain. It's also when I realized I have to if I'm ever to heal. I have to heal. I'm on a trajectory of bitterness and regret and anger. That would be a horrible life, especially as Grace is cancer-free.

Maybe its because I'm secretly afraid that if I let my guard down, and admit to healing and happiness, that it will curse life and bring her cancer back. Or even if not, if her cancer ever came back, that all my defenses would be gone and I'd be too vulnerable to the pain.

But I'm so angry. And that's so tiring.

When my best friend's boyfriend died suddenly from a heart attack, the first thing Chad and I did was get on our knees and worship God. Because we didn't want to go into the grief and pain without the Holy Spirit leading us. Similar to the Old Testament when the worshipers went before the armies in war, making the battle God's, molding their will to his. When Grace first had cancer, it was similar. We felt God's presence so tangibly, and that may have been because we accepted that whatever happened, we wanted God's will instead of our own. We were determined to worship and obey him no matter where he lead us. There was so much peace in that.

That didn't happen when she relapsed. We were in escrow on a home in Indiana, trying to escape cancer. I had family there. It was close to a great children's hospital. The schools were stellar. The house was brand new, on a culdesac designed for family living. We'd be paying off all our debt from the sale of our house in California, and have money left over after the purchase of the new one in Indiana.

We had been playing in the pool together the night before and life was starting to feel safe again. Her oncologist had told us just three weeks before that Grace was unlikely to relapse and to "go live our lives." Grace's hair had grown back, she was back in school. Luke's phobias had healed and he was feeling secure again. I was leaving the SSFL behind, which was good according to many concerned family members who felt it was too emotionally damaging for me. Chad was going to change careers and trying living out his dreams. I was going to become a writer. Everything was lined up for our happily ever after.

And she hadn't had any signs of relapse until the day it was obvious. No bruises. No petechiae. No lack of energy or appetite. After the pool she cried because her arm hurt, we figured she somehow hurt herself in the pool. By the morning it was apparent to Chad and I. She was in pain like she had broken her arm, and that type of pain is often a sign that leukemia in her bones was swelling and putting so much pressure on the inside of her bones that they felt like they would burst. And that's exactly what it was. I think the nurses and doctors knew, just like Chad and I did, the moment we walked in.

The first thing they did was give her a shot of morphine. Not oral Tylenol. Because they already knew what they were dealing with before her bloodwork came back. Still, we were all praying we were wrong, though no words were spoken.

I went to get the kids some food from the cafeteria while a child life specialists watched cartoons with the kids. Coming back to the infusion center I was intercepted by a nurse. His eyes were so sorrowful. He was so sad for us. I knew then the bloodwork showed cancer. He brought me to the procedure room so I'd be away from the kids when they told me.

When the doctor walked in, it must have already been on my face. You know already, don't you? she said. After holding me while I cried, she told me to wash my face, dry my tears, and put on a brave face for the kids.

It was a brave face. I already knew that if she ever relapsed she would immediately need a bone marrow transplant. I already knew that her survival statistics would plummet. I knew a lot of kids with her type of PH+ Leukemia didn't always make it.

And so I did not start her relapse with worship. I didn't start with wanting God's will to be done. I was so angry. So hurt. I called Chad so he could be there when we told Grace and Luke. I called the realtor and canceled the sale from the hallway. I called the grandparents and heard their grief.

I was so frightened for Grace. I grieved for Luke. I let go of my hopes for our happy ever after. I was so angry. So angry that God let this happen. Such an opposite attitude from her first cancer.

And so I wonder now, what would have happened if we had started on our knees like the first time, determined to follow God's will. It wouldn't have changed Grace's treatment, just like it didn't miraculously heal her the first time. But maybe I wouldn't be in so much pain now. Maybe I wouldn't have felt so abandoned. Maybe I was the one who abandoned God, not the other way around. I didn't want his will. I didn't want his presence. I didn't want cancer. I didn't want Grace to die.

Maybe it was because I had no time to grieve. She was hospitalized that day and the two of us lived there for five weeks straight. Even now, over two years later, the memory is terrible. It goes to the root of who I am. And even now, I don't really have time to grieve. I have to go make breakfast for the kids. Life has to continue, just like then.

But at least now I want God's will, no matter where he leads. Clearly, life without him didn't work so well, I almost destroyed myself with my anger. I was losing who I am. And it's still so scary to trust him, even to trust him to heal.

But heal I must. I don't want to waste life in anger. Or debilitating pain. And I pray that as I open myself to that opportunity, and to accept God's will, that I will feel his comforting presence through such a frightening time in my life as I reexamine that time.

And if Teri were here, I know she'd say, "Hmmm. Yes, I could see why you would feel that way. That makes sense to me. I might feel the same if I had all that happen." She's always such a merciful listener.

And maybe Jesus would say the same too.

Tuesday, February 4, 2020

Also

In Celebrate Recovery, one of the hardest of the 12 steps is the dreaded step 4...inventory. It's an opportunity to list out every harm you've caused and every harm done to you. It's an incredibly painful step but thankfully my sponsor helped me through it. Several times she helped me see that my beliefs about certain events were based on a child's reasoning, but I was carrying the guilt and pain into adulthood. Whenever she pointed these out it was an immediate relief, because children's understandings are 90% emotions and fears and are often interlaced with superstitious equations, not logic.

But if she hadn't been there to give her objective opinion I wouldn't have questioned what already seemed settled.

At church last Sunday we talked about surrendering to God's will for our lives. That's been a really hard topic for me. When Grace last had cancer I surrendered and did my best to trust and obey God. (And as I write this, the feelings in the pit in my stomach is sprouting into a choking weed). The thought of being willing to surrender to God's will feels like Grace would get cancer again. I know it doesn't make sense, but sometimes logic made under duress is a lot like the reasoning of a child. And the thought of Grace relapsing again is so frightening that I won't allow myself to think about it.

But God took the role of my sponsor last Sunday.

He gently reminded me that I hadn't surrendered to Grace having cancer. I had surrendered to God in the things that coincided with Grace's cancer- to try to trust him.

Grace's cancer was never in my realm of control, though realizing I have no real control in my life is also frightening. And that might have been an unconscious reason I allowed myself to think I had let Grace get cancer by obeying God- because then somehow I could prevent it in the future. It seems so childish on paper, but it's been a daily influence in my walk with God lately. The fear that somehow my willingness to obey Him in the hard things could open the door to another relapse.

He also gave me a prophetic word, "Also."

I've been angry again that Grace's cancer is one of the main reasons that the SSFL is getting cleaned up. I would have never become the woman who could be brave, people wouldn't have listened without my personal experience with Grace's cancer, and it was the medium which revealed the problem in the first place. I hate Grace's cancer so passionately that sometimes I resent the work God has me doing to help fix the problem.

I've been so angry at God for letting Grace get cancer. I know it was because of the decisions made by greedy people, but I also believe He is a miracle giving God and I know he could have stopped her cancer with one word, especially when it existed as 1 or 2 cells. And he chose not to. I know it's not the same as giving her cancer, but in his sovereignty, I believe he allowed it.

And I've been so mad again. The PTSD rips open the wounds every single time I think I'm getting better, and every single time I'm back at the beginning again. I feel like it's the day Grace relapsed and I have to decide if I will continue to follow God, or if I will reject him. It's been so emotionally exhausting.

And I've also watched the good God is bringing out of her cancer. I feel so conflicted that some days I think I'll implode.

But "Also" is an important word for me, a word I need to hold onto as if it were life support.


  • God allowed Grace to get cancer. Also, He is using her cancer to protect others.
  • My faith in God was completely devastated. Also, I continue to trust him.
  • I am broken. Also, I am healing.
  • I hate Grace's cancer so much I want to burn the world down. Also, I am grateful for the good things God has allowed to come from it.
Again, it seems so simple on paper, but it's been a nightmare living in my brain lately. My faith (and emotions) have been ricocheting from one extreme to the other until I think I'll lose my mind. It's been exhausting. 

But there's calm in Also. It's a place of rest where my extremes can coexist.  It's where I don't have to make sense. 

And that seems to be where God keeps leading me back to, the place where I find him waiting for me, the place where he understands me when I don't understand anything.

Tuesday, December 24, 2019

Immanuel

Dear Jesus,
I think your name Immanuel, God with us, is one of the most tender aspects of the whole Bible. It is the name we remember you by at Christmas. It is the whole purpose of Christmas.

When I was feeling so separate from you a while back, you gave me a vision of Jesus weeping at Lazarus' tomb. I felt the grief of Jesus in the dream.

But what surprised me was that you weren't weeping about Lazarus dying. I may have read this or heard it another time, but you knew you'd raise Lazarus from the dead. You intentionally waited days before going. You talked plainly that Lazarus was dead and that you were going to "wake him up." His death wasn't a surprise to you, and knowing you were going to raise him back to life, it doesn't make as much sense that you would grieve his death.

And maybe I'm reading too much into this, but Jesus what I felt in the vision, you wept as you entered into the full understanding of humanity's hopelessness.

We are so fragile God, so prone to death. But that was not your original design for us. You created humans for community. Death rips families and people apart. I think that's apparent in the all-encompassing grief of when a parent loses a child. Our souls know what is true, even if our minds refuse to believe, that death is unnatural. Perhaps if there is a "universal truth," that is it. Innocent children suffering and dying seems to go against every fiber in our being, regardless of time or culture or beliefs.

A child's birth brings the overwhelming joy of a miracle and a feeling of communion with our creator. Giant redwoods and singing birds, towering mountains and gentle streams, these have inspired songs of your praise. The stars and vast space put wonder in our hearts. The spring after winter, full of new life, makes our souls feel new. All of these are from your hand, meant to testify of your goodness and love for mankind.

But death? Grief? Death is as unnatural as being taken from a safe and comfortable home and being thrown into an icy lake.

Death and grief separate us from you, God. Sometimes we put on a good face and praise you for the resurrection to come, but that is a choice. It is not the natural feeling of humans towards death. Unless a person is completely and utterly despised, death always brings pain to the human who grieves them. And that pain does not testify of your goodness God, it speaks only to this life's brokenness. You understand this more than us.

Jesus, because you became a human, you came into the grief of humanity. With human eyes you saw our completely powerlessness against death. You heard the wails of parents who had lost their children. You felt the agony of the two sisters who lost their brother.

I believe that at Lazarus' tomb you were weeping because you felt death from a human perspective, the grief of our naked souls when someone we love dies.

Like a child in the womb, we only see an infinite chasm and muted vision of what the "real" life will be like. We were stripped of the ability to connect with that truth in the garden of Eden. It's no longer part of our natural makeup, we have been made inane to even imagining life past the mists. We can't see past the impenetrable veil, that nameless space that separates this broken life from wholeness of life in eternity.

But not for you Jesus.

You saw both sides. You knew the fullness and goodness of God, and the restorative life that heaven holds for us. You wept because you saw how trapped we were by our limited understanding here on Earth. You felt our despair. You knew our hopelessness and helplessness. And you wept.

That's why Immanuel brings me to my knees every Christmas, no matter how rushed or distracted I may be. Jesus, you had so much tender love for the messy humans you created that you couldn't abandon us. You came.

Your birth, death, and resurrection permanently tore the veil between this life and heaven. We remain unable to see it with human eyes, but you restored hope to humanity. By your Holy Spirit, you comfort the depths of our soul by grieving with us. Holding us. Breathing hope into our lifeless souls because of you death has lost its power to seperate us.

Thank you Jesus. Even when I can't understand you, when I can't seem to find you, your name comforts me.

Immanuel. God with us. God as one of us. God to rescue us.



Friday, December 20, 2019

Dear Jesus,
This seems to be a safe medium for me to be honest. I feel much less burdened today, knowing that I can come to you imperfect, and rushed, and as myself. I do imperfect very well.

Yesterday I had a hard time buying things for Chris. I'm honored to be able to decorate his room, but Jesus it really hurt knowing that it could behis last Christmas. And it reminded me of a lot of BMT details I had forgotten. I felt very lonely thinking of them, and I had a hard time not being able to really share that with Chad. I know he's stressed about the finances. Maybe I need to try again, because I'm really heart broken about it.

And Jesus it always takes me back to the "how could you let this happen?" Even though you were threre with us. For a while I said so confidently that all I needed to know was that you'd never leave me nor forsake me. Maybe it's because life is so nice again, the fear of ever returning to cancer is more terrifying. She's been two years cancer free. It's the longest break we've had from cancer in five years God. And I know that every time a kid relapses, their survival rate tanks. And children dying is so hard to bear.

Last week I had a dream that someone asked where Grace was. There was Luke, and a baby sister, and somehow I had forgotten that Grace had died. And in my dream I collapsed to the ground, totally paralyzed. It's the worst dream I've ever had in my life. I know it's because I got Bailey and Charlie mixed up at Karate, they look/ed so similar. But that dream really hurt, and I didn't find the comfort I need.

It's hard because I refuse to feel the depth of my fear and horror, thinking abut cancer. And I don't know if that's good or bad. I don't know if you need me to go there to heal, or if it's ok to have that defense mechanism. And sometimes i wonder how long I'll have to feel this way.

I can go weeks without remembering and life feels so light again. But with Nicholas and Navy, it's at my doorstep again. And the weight of it is hard during such a busy season.

I know today's saving grace will be the understanding that I can come to you broken, which I am. I can be the black sheep. I can come to you with nothing and know you can accept me, and love me. It's what i've been all along, it's just that I had forgotten. And the concept of "healing" hurts again, I just need to be myself and rest in your comfort instead of always trying to get better. That thought wears me out. But resting in your arms, that brings me peace. And that's what I need to survive today- it's going to be a busy day too.

Please give me the energy I need, the patience I need, and the motivation to get things done today. Thank you most of all for bringing me back to you.
Amen