Time for the Intellect to Say Goodbye

As this time of fasting comes to a close, so does the time for this blog. 

God has been doing some serious pruning in my life, digging up stuff I never saw coming. On day 13, He revealed something lacking in me, and this revelation sent me into a deep, dark, and fear-filled frenzy. Nothing has ever scared me as much as what God revealed about me on that day. I would have rather faced the clown from IT (and I HATE clowns) or spent the night with Jack Torrance at the Overlook Hotel (The Shining) than face what God put before me. Still, I had committed fully to this fast, whatever the outcome and the only thing that scared me more than facing this unburied truth was the thought of continuing to hide away in my shell and remaining stuck, never moving past this and never growing closer to God. 

Throughout that day (day 13 of my 21-day fast), my fear turned into anger. The next day, my fear turned into childlike griping, similar to the Israelites during their time in the wilderness when they lived off nothing more than the manna from heaven. Still, through it all, I felt the gentle yet firm hand of God on the small of my back nudging me forward. Gentle with love - firm with discipline - the love and care of a Father. 

Today, as I typed in my prayer journal, it all came to a head. As I attempted to lay out all the pieces of the puzzle, hoping to see the progression and admire the complete picture, those individual details, which were right there in the forefront of my thinking only moments before, vanished. Try as I might, I failed to recall one single word or lesson of the fast. 

I thought back to the fear and anger from the days just prior. It reminded me of a story I want to attribute to Dostoyevsky but cannot be quite sure if he was the authentic originator. The story, whomever the original author, goes something like this:

A man died and came face to face with Jesus. He had not been a believer in life. Jesus asked, "do you believe in me now?"

The man thought to himself, "Obviously, he is real, but if I admit that he is who he said he is, then that will mean my entire life on earth was a waste, a fraud."

Unwilling to admit such a thing, the man's punishment was to roam the world alone for 1,000 years. At the end of that 1,000 years, Jesus returned and asked again, "Do you believe in me now?"

With head hung in shame, the man said, "yes," repented of his sins, and was granted admission to heaven. 

As I pondered this tale, I envisioned myself as that man, facing my own crossroads at this very moment. If I choose to crawl into the (false) safety of my shell, then I am doomed to wander alone and lonely forever. If I admit defeat and my total need and dependence upon Jesus, then I can find healing, hope, and love. 

I chose to enter into His rest right here and now. With this decision came the realization that God was intentionally blocking my path of thinking. You see, that has been my problem. 

The revelation he gave sent me into torrential terror. I have gotten it wrong from the beginning - even with Brad. I have never - ever - experienced a truly intimate relationship (and I am not referring to sexual intimacy). 

Nature or nurture? I have no idea and that is beside the point. Somewhere, for whatever reason, early on in my childhood, I learned to shut down the emotional piece of who I was, too fearful and uncertain of how to process emotion. 

I am an intellectual - not in a smart-intellectual way, but in the fact that I cannot accept anything until I am able to analyze and make sense of it in my head. Only when it makes sense in my mind can anything connect to my heart. 

What God revealed to me - about my lack of intimate connections - even with Brad - is something I was intellectually aware of and dealing with since that fateful day when he and I began to unravel. After 11 years, I thought I had finally changed. I am a completely different person now than I was then. 

Yes, this may be true, but only half of the work is done. 

Even though I made the mental decision to change after that beginning-of-the-end conversation with Brad, the real change did not begin until cancer. My sister set up a blog for us to be able to share updates without me having to field a zillion phone calls and texts. That blog turned into my public journal, sharing the physical and emotional impact of cancer. As people responded, I began to see it as a ministry. 

In the process, I learned to open up my heart to others. I became an open, fully transparent book. 

I closed that chapter of my life (and blog) with the prologue of a book I was starting. The intellectual me needs closure. 

Cross in My Window began as a co-production with my mom but morphed into another outpouring of the real me and my real struggles - a more reluctant ministry project than the cancer journal. 

Now, however, I feel like I am being called to wrap up this blog as well. It has served its purpose. 

You see, during this fast, God has revealed that I have done a great job putting myself out there, being vulnerable emotionally. However, it remains an impersonal endeavor because I have still failed at personal connection. I put myself out there, but have not connected to anyone (ever) on an intimate level. I have yet to invest the same emotional energy to get to intimately know others. Revealing the unfiltered me requires minimal effort on my part because it is one-sided and equates to sterility in relationships.

In other words, lack of authentic intimacy = loneliness. 

Not even Brad. When I thought back to our relationship, I see the accuracy in this claim. So many times he alluded to something, opened a door for me to connect, and I never entered. Oftentimes I was too scared to go there. Other times, I was simply oblivious. 

The result - the intense feeling of loneliness and anxiety which has grown exponentially since the fast began. 

The fear - because I know it is going to be a challenging road to learn to fully and intimately invest in others - wondering if it is going to take another 11 years. 

The anger - because I have no one to blame but myself. I hold so much more responsibility for my failed marriage than I ever realized. What did I miss out on by holding my heart so far away from everyone I ever valued in my life? From Brad? From Mike? From my friends here and now? What could have been? 

Contentment - because now I see and, with that gentle yet firm hand of God firmly on my back, urging me forward, I know I will be okay. 

The reason I was unable to remember the details of the pieces? Because God does not want me to focus on the intellectual piece of me right now. He wants me to give my heart a chance to speak, even if my heart is unable to put her feelings into comprehensible words. 

The loving Father that He is, though, knows this girl needs closure. I cannot allow my last post to be my last post. I need a way to say goodbye. 

Will another blog pop up in my future? Who knows? All I know for certain right now is that the work of making myself vulnerable is done. It is time to work on the other side of intimacy - open my heart to invest in others - take a chance, come what may. Only then will I ever experience all He has for me.

It is fitting that my last blog entry falls on Labor Day. Part of my labor is finished while another is just beginning. 

I close with the song that played in my head as I typed . . . and a fitting picture my friend, Amy, took of me while exploring the beauty of Oregon last month.  

Video: Rest On Us - Maverick City Music x UPPERROOM

Something I Cannot Unsee

To help make sense of some of the below comments, I am in day 6 of a 21 day fast.

Today, in the middle of typing in my prayer journal, I got called to the hospital (I am on-call every Saturday morning). A patient coded and was not expected to survive. On my way, I got a call about another patient who had just died. While driving, I prayed with eyes wide open for the patients, family, staff, and myself. As I approached the hospital, that all-too familiar anger began to rage inside of me. 

No matter how hard I try, I cannot rationalize my emotions as I face the anguish of family and staff after yet another senseless COVID death. My animosity toward those whom I deem selfish and ignorant about these issues, those I blame for continuing to cause this heartache, oozes to the surface.  

Sometimes, when my emotions are in check, I am able to think with some semblance of reason. This is part of my prayer journal entry from this past Thursday: 

Speaking of thoughts, ______ said something that I found head-scratching-interesting – she commented on her wow moment of realizing you see our thoughts. What does that mean? Yes, you know our thoughts, but what does it mean to see them? Is that like knowing how they play out in a movie? Or just that nothing is hidden? Well, if you know our every thought, of course nothing is hidden. Then again, to see means you cannot unsee.  

Maybe it’s like what I say about COVID. I can tell people about what I see, they can know my thoughts on the subject, but to actually see it makes it more real. When I get angry with people like ______ for being what I think of as unchristian for putting her desires above everyone else’s, knowing what I know – seeing what I have seen, I remind myself that they have not seen what I have seen. To see it has a much greater impact than simply hearing about it or knowing about it. Yes, we can know that this Delta variant is bad, that it is attacking younger people, but until we see the impact – on patients, families, staff – it’s not fully real.  

It’s like I tell people how I cannot unsee what I’ve seen – especially early on, that one woman who was dying, but chose no help whatsoever, how zombie looking she was from her skin tone to her eyes, the way she looked at me and moved her hand, to the yellow foamy saliva bubbling out of her mouth. That image changed me, changed the face of COVID for me. I can never unsee that. I know if people like ______ could see what I saw, it would change her thinking completely. She would be ashamed for being so selfish. That’s why I say I wish I could take people like her with me to see what I see for just five minutes.  

I suppose that’s the significance of you being able to see my thoughts. It’s like my obsession with _____. No one knows about that. That would be embarrassing. To know my thoughts, is easy to hide my thoughts, but to see them, they cannot be unseen, they cannot be ignored. They cannot be dismissed. I cannot pretend they do not exist.  

So, for me to say COVID is a bitch is simply – wait – that’s not what I said, is it? But COVID is a bitch. Looking back, we were talking about fear. Fear is a bitch as well. Anyway, to type this, to make it real by putting it on “paper” to be seen by you or anyone who may ever stumble upon this journal would be to make my thoughts seen which means they cannot be unseen which means I cannot hide them which means I have to deal with them.  

So, for you to see my thoughts means you cannot ignore them, and I cannot, and should not ignore them. So, pruning – our fast topic. You get rid of what does not bear fruit and you prune what does. 

This (il)logical way of explaining how people could think so differently from me about this topic goes out the window the moment I am once again living the reality of the traumatic effects of COVID.  

That patient I mentioned – the one who looked like a zombie. There is no better way for me to describe what I saw. She had zero family support and declined all treatment options, including morphine. To see what this disease does to the human body will forever be etched in my memory – and no Hollywood moviemaker could ever create anything more gruesome or heartbreaking than what I witnessed firsthand.  

All I can hear are the words of the nurse I spoke with yesterday. She is angry, as so many frontline COVID nurses are. She told me of a conversation with a family member who still thinks COVID is somehow not real. She finally told him to keep his mouth shut, that until he holds the hand of a person as they lay dying for the umpteenth time, she demanded he keep his opinions to himself when in her presence.  

Another nurse told me about a conversation with the director of the nursing facility where her mom lives. He touted that 60% of his staff were fully vaccinated. She rightly challenged, “then that means 40% of your staff do not care if my mom lives or dies?” 

All I can feel is the sorrow of the husband who wept as he watched as his beloved wife take her last breath. I held onto him as he held onto her. Through broken sobs, he wanted to know why. They did everything right, but her immune system was weak. She got sick and died because of someone else’s negligence.  

And just today, I watched as one family made the gut-wrenching decision to put a young spouse and parent on hospice care. Moments later, in the next room, I listened as a nurse explained to a patient’s children and grandchildren the terrible turn the patient took overnight and prepared them for the likely outcome.  

Countless others in my little hospital have similar harrowing stories. Countless nurses wondering how much more they can take and when this will all end.  

A common refrain: this will only end when people get vaccinated – stop making this a political whatever and start taking responsibility for one another. Where is the compassion? That’s what staff wants to know. They are on the verge and fearful of losing their own compassion. It’s called compassion fatigue.  

This morning, when I returned home and resumed my journaling, I realized what I feel right now is quite similar to what I felt when Brad’s management was grooming him to become the next Garth Brooks. He had just been fired from a band and that band’s management knew gold when they saw it. The unfortunate thing is that money is all they cared about when they looked at Brad. They did not see the pain that caused him to be fired in the first place.  

Rumor was that the band fired him because he stole the spotlight, and there may be truth to some of that. After all, after a show, fans wanted to talk to him just as much (and sometimes more) than they wanted to talk to the main act. He was a celebrity in his own right – hence, why management wanted to move him from the back to the front of the stage. They did not care that a bigger reason for him being fired was the problems his drinking and mental illness caused. If they could make money off his talent, they chose to turn a blind eye.  

I remember the day his manager came up to me and asked me what I thought. I told him it was not the right time. Brad needed help and putting him out there like that was not good for him. Did he listen? Nope. He probably assumed I would care more about his celebrity and money potential, but they were dead wrong. Brad was exceptionally good at self-sabotage, and he finally did something even they could not ignore or work around. The dream died. I was thankful that the deal died before it ever took flight. I am certain it would have killed Brad much sooner and harsher had he made it to that spotlight. But the whole experience made me loathe the entire music and entertainment industry.  

I used to think my distaste for celebrity and fandom was because of my experiences with Brad’s short-lived celebrity and my work at Belmont, but I think it has more to do with this one experience. It made me hate the business and everyone who blindly loved and worshipped the beast, thus, aiding in creating and feeding the monster – and destroying lives along the way.  

I see now that my anger for the entertainment industry is similar to my former hatred for the Catholic church. I tend to blame an entire industry for the mistakes and failures of a few.  

I got over the Catholic thing. I’m just now realizing the entertainment thing. As I realize this trend, I wonder how it correlates to the COVID thing – because it does – and my anger, more than anything or anyone, is geared toward what I call Christian Nationalism, good old fashioned American superiority with a God complex.  

But I am beginning to realize that there is good in all these systems. 

For example, my anger at the Catholic church subsided after a young Catholic Priest took the time to truly listen to me and answer my personal and theological questions.  

Odd as it may seem, Faith Hill restored my faith in the music business. (If you are reading this and want to know more, I would love to share that story. In short, it involves my work with Belmont’s security during one of the CMT Video Music Awards hosted by Belmont and Faith’s treatment of one of my officers.) 

COVID – who are the good ones outside of the realm of frontline workers who have witnessed it firsthand? Or the patients, families, or friends directly impacted? Right now, the emotion is too strong for me to be able to see. The point is that I realize my anger, and how I have dealt with it both now and in the past, has been misguided.  

As I have said before, I do believe all this is an answer to prayer. We have prayed for revival for years, but rarely, if ever, has the church experienced revival without a huge shakeup. Again – my fasting theme of pruning. (John 15) 

I am finding that what makes me mad are people who abuse their power for their own selfish gains.  

My mistake is that I tend to blame entire institutions rather than a handful of the guilty.  

What I have learned is that I have a heart to protect and fight for the helpless and hurting. Right now, in my small bubble of the world, the most helpless and hurting are our frontline COVID nurses.  

What I have done in the past is fight the institutions – a losing battle.  

What I have learned is the only way to create any lasting change is at the lowest levels – through relationships, by being who God has called me to be, by doing what God has called me to do.  

What I must do is ignore the desire to participate in ineffective online platforms and, instead, create change through love and action on the small scale.  

It goes back to that moment at Tent City – the small yeses which led to a moment when that one man asked me why.  I never set out to start a homeless ministry when I lived in Nashville. It just happened – one small yes at a time. Then, one day, one of the men in the camp asked me why I did what I did. I said, “because our Daddy told me to.”  

From today’s prayer journal entry: 

The old canes do not produce again. The image I got is of my Tent City Ministry. Yes, it makes for a great memory, a great story, a great sermon illustration, but that ministry is no longer bearing fruit because it no longer exists. I cannot continue to cling to this as a sign and symbol that I am bearing fruit for Jesus. It bore fruit, but it is not currently bearing fruit. There is a very stark difference. What am I – what are we – doing to bear fruit now? Other than the hospital, I’m not fully certain. But I am committed to remaining in you. When I talk about Tent City, I talk about the many small yeses which eventually led to Tent City – and what I consider the Christmas culmination with me, ________, our church, and the Haitian congregation. That was an awesome moment. All because of small yeses that had nothing to do with the end result, the end result which I never envisioned. So, what small yeses am I saying today which will culminate in another cool adventure like that?  

Yes, it’s a ton more time consuming and the results are much slower, but also much more effective. I have already learned from television and social media that gongs and cymbals accomplish nothing more than creating a lot of pointless noise, further alienating, and dividing us. It’s wasted effort. What we need are a whole lot of small yeses. (1 Corinthians 13) 

What we need is to continually ask ourselves, “is what I am doing, is the choice I am about to make, communicating my love for Jesus and love for others or is it merely affirming my love of self?” If we (I) are truly honest with the answer, and respond accordingly, how would that change us (me)? 

A few lyrics from When We Fall Apart by Ryan Stevenson – and my dedication to all our weary and fiercely dedicated COVID nurses: 

It's okay to cry
It's okay to fall apart
You don't have to try
To be strong when you are not
And it may take sometime to make sense of all your thoughts
But don't ever fight your tears
'Cause there is freedom in every drop
Sometimes the only way to heal a broken heart is when we fall apart

And you've got the gift of mercy
Don't ever think it's strange
Not a curse, but it is a blessing to feel other people's pain
And always love without condition
And trust with all your heart
There's healing in the story of your scars

https://youtu.be/nOtOmhgu3bs 

***If one were to read the side blurb of my blog, you would notice that I feel like my writings here are something I feel called to do as a kind of ministry. I used to argue with God about how I would rather not. Recently, God and I came to a compromise. I would still be faithful to publish these occasional blog posts when I felt the nudge, but I would not be required to post links to my social media accounts, advertising that I had written them. So, if anyone happens upon this entry, I firmly believe you were meant to for some reason that only God (and possibly you) know. The way I see it, if I am free from the obligation of self-promotion, then anyone who finds this obscure post was meant to read it. 

Am I Teddy or is Teddy Me?

In June 2012, my doctor called me, told me to pack a bag and check myself into the hospital. She suspected cancer. On my way, I called family and told them that I had good news and bad news, "I'm going to the hospital. They think it's cancer." 

No one understood how there was good news in anything I just said. However, after being sick for two years, I was ecstatic to finally have an answer. Now that we knew the cause, we could do something about it. 

I remember my oncologist putting his hand on my knee and saying, "I'm a fixer. We're gonna fix this." And we did.

 

The term COVID - PTSD has been floating around lately. I know my blood boils anytime anyone attempts to downgrade the reality and seriousness of it. 

Now, as the Delta variant sweeps our communities and swells our hospital rooms once again, my anger has grown exponentially, and I have experienced many more panic attacks than usual. The tension is rising with both staff and patients. I get more requests to visit anxious COVID patients. Because their breathing is already labored, added anxiety threatens their healing. 

COVID – PTSD – is it a real phenomenon? If so, do I have it? 

I posed this question to my therapist because not only does she know me so well, but she works with the military and is well versed on the topic of PTSD. 

Her assessment? Yes. 

She explained what happens with soldiers and how that translates to my world, specifically, why I feel so alive and thrive at work and feel panicky and anxious when I am not at work. 

A nurse friend noticed me sitting on the ER floor comforting a youth whose father died suddenly. She was on her way out and knew I, too, should be getting off soon. She texted me about an hour later to check on me. I was snuggled with Bailey in bed watching an episode of – you guessed it – The Good Witch. I replied that I felt great – that I thrive in trauma – other people's trauma.

After the adrenaline wore off, though, I began to feel panicky. 

As I broached the subject of COVID-PTSD, I told my therapist about one of my fictional characters. "I have been thinking about Teddy a lot lately," I said.

Teddy is one of the main characters in Life Before Me. He realized his childhood dream of becoming a fighter pilot with the Air Force. During the early days of his first tour of duty in Vietnam, it was thrilling for him to take down enemy planes. That changed the day his best friend died. Teddy blamed himself for Caleb’s death. Once discharged, he struggled to reacclimate to civilian life and reenlisted without discussing it with his wife. In his plane during wartime was the only place Teddy felt safe and in control.

My therapist explained that when I am in the throes of battle (hospital – other people's trauma), I feel calm, confident, and (strange as it is to say) happy. I am not happy that someone else is sad, but I am happy because I am in my element, the place where I shine. And . . . I am in control. 

The problem is that my circle has grown smaller and smaller over these 18+ months. 

When I first became a chaplain, I belonged to a circle of ministry which included chaplaincy - a relatively large circle. 

Hospital chaplains make up a smaller, more intimate circle. 

Hospital chaplains in the thick of a worldwide pandemic is an even smaller, more exclusive circle. 

Hospital chaplains in the thick of a worldwide pandemic who have also experienced significant personal loss while serving as a chaplain in a hospital during a worldwide pandemic comprise an even smaller, much rarer circle. 

The smaller the circle, the fewer people can relate to my reality—problem number 1.

Second, we discussed love languages. Mine is time and touch. The pandemic did away with touch. The smaller my circle, the less opportunity for touch.  The smaller the circle, the less opportunity to spend time with others. Translation, lost love—problem number 2. 

It becomes a vicious cycle. My circle is shrinking, but instead of expanding my non-hospital circles, I self-isolate, cutting myself off from the love I need, which, in turn, increases the anxiety. My old ways of coping return, and I try to manage on my own instead of letting others in and sharing what I feel and need with them—problem number 3. 

Like a soldier, I, and others like me, feel misunderstood. Those who have not experienced the battle cannot fully understand us. We try to share, but when we are met with the judgments and opinions and false realities fabricated by outsiders, we turn ourselves off and push those outsiders away.

This is how the real problems for us begin, and if we do not recognize it and take steps to relieve it, we get into more serious trouble – hence – the extremely high rate of suicide with military veterans. 

Don't worry. I am not suicidal. I know enough about how to recognize when I am in trouble and get help. 

This Delta wave put me into a critical state. So, I'm taking some time off. But I am also getting out of my room more and going out on dates!

Now, before anyone gets any ideas, I am still not interested in dating other people. I am, however, interested in dating myself. Pre-COVID, I used to go out and do things by myself all the time. But, for the past 18+ months, when not at work, I am holed up in my room. I don't even sit outside to read anymore. 

So, for the past two weeks, I have done something for and with myself outside of the house. I forgot how much I enjoyed art and live music. I remember I also loved being out in nature. I'm looking forward to getting out there again, too.

Going out is scary, though, because I don't know what will trigger me. Last night, I went to a Christian music showcase and concert.  A few songs and the pulse of the music triggered me a few times, but no one saw the tears because of social distancing and the dim lights. The entire experience reminded me of Brad – the good, the bad, and the ugly of the music business. It was an important step, though, and overall, I had a really good time. 

This is one song that made me cry. Blanca- Even At My Worst

Anyway . . . 

After talking with my therapist about COVID-PTSD, I now understand my post-pandemic withdrawal from church. 

I am angry with them (church-going-Christians) – and when I say angry, I mean livid – and disappointed – and sad – and let down. 

American Christians, especially here in Texas, tend to be highly nationalistic. Way too many of them fall in line with what I wrote about above  – because of the judgmental, self-righteous, arrogant, and uninformed vocal opinions of a people who are supposed to be compassionate and God-fearing. Christians are not supposed to make their own personal rights more important than the rights of others. That is not Christlike. So, to see them, hear them, read their social media posts disturbs me. 

It's not just my church – although my church is not miraculously immune – it is all of Christianity. We have become a noxious odor in the world – the Pharisees and Sadducees. It's no wonder non-Christians find us so repulsive. I am finding my own kind rather offensive, too, right now. 

And what is most difficult to reconcile is that I know that several of the people who say and post such nasty things do care about me. However, when they say and post such hurtful things, I know they do not truly know me – or if they do, they do not care that they are hurting me with their opinions, making me feel more alone and isolated. 

So, where does that leave me? As my therapist said, I suppose I need to tell people what I feel and what I need from them, knowing that I cannot control how they respond. I cannot make every Christian react the way I think they should. I cannot invite everyone with a different opinion to see my reality for themselves. 

All I can do is to be genuine – be honest. If they accept me and give me what I need, great. If they do not, I can let them go knowing that I gave them a chance. 

Still, openly sharing my whys and my needs is not something I am ready to do. First of all, I know I cannot yet speak rationally. My judgment against Christians who do not respond to COVID the way I think they should is fueled by raw judgmental emotion and is just as wrong as the judgment I condemn of them. Also, I don't want to come across as weak or needy, someone others have to walk on eggshells around. I am not a fragile little flower and do not want to be treated as such. 

However, I will commit to talking with those closest to me when they say and do something I find insensitive or hurtful. I will share some of my hospital stories – some deeply personal – if they are willing to listen. But I will do my best not to react in anger and judgment if they still do not get it – or get me. 

I will pray for the discernment to know with whom I can trust – when to speak and when to be silent (Ecclesiastes 3:7).

I will enjoy my vacation these next two weeks. 

I will refrain from filling the silence with noise and give God space to talk, even though it may hurt or cause panic in the beginning. 

I will continue dating myself even though, right now, it can be scary. 

I will continue with therapy and exercise and even watching the Good Witch, all of which help me to cope. But I will not rely on any single coping mechanism to the exclusion of the others. Instead, I will listen to my body and act according to what it needs. 

I will search for friends with whom I can trust and who will fill up my love tank – friends like the nurse who checked on me. I will stop making excuses why I cannot go out with them.

I will commit, just like I did when I found out that I had cancer, to do the work to fix it – knowing that, just like with cancer, I cannot do it alone.  

 

Lucky Number 13

When Catherine Bell posted that this would be the last season of the Good Witch, she quoted Dr. Seuss: 

“Don’t cry because it’s over. Smile because it happened!”

I assumed this would be the last season. This is the 13th year of the franchise. I mean, seriously, anyone familiar with this show would know the significance of 13 - for Cassie and for Cassie and Sam - a poetic end after 13 years - "Oh, thirteen gets such a bad reputation but it's actually been a very lucky number for me."

Still, I was surprised by how sad I felt upon learning that my hunch was now a reality. My initial thought was, "Another loss." And, it did (and does) feel like another loss in a long string of losses this year - which feels very strange to say about a television show. Seriously, it's a television show - not real life!!! On top of that, it's not like I have followed them for 13 years. I learned about the show during the middle of season 5. I am a newbie fan. 

However, for anyone who has read my blogs this past year, you will know that the Good Witch show has been an integral part of my self-care plan through Brad's death and COVID. I cannot tell you how many times I have watched each episode - and I never weary of them. 

As matter of fact, I was watching an episode (how to make a Middleton quilt) this morning when I was called into work for a code - CPR in progress. 

Last night was a draining night - covering two hospitals - the wife of one patient begging me to stay with her and me sitting with her for over an hour - another patient coding and dying in the ICU, the family overcome with grief. 

I slept well but was still dragging. So, between prayer group and church, I decided to watch an episode of the Good Witch. I barely got started before having to rush out the door. 

And - the young mother of 4 did not survive. She died before I arrived. The family was gathered around the bedside. Even after I left and headed to church, I worked two phones trying to find a Catholic Priest on a Sunday morning who would pray with the family (at the family's request) - a nearly impossible task being a Sunday morning and the fact that Priests do not offer anointing for people after they have died. (Luckily, we have a great network at Methodist and a Catholic Priest chaplain was on duty at another hospital.)

Now, my neck and shoulders ache - and I find myself thinking of last night, today, the sermon this morning, and the loss of my Good Witch Middleton family. 

When I got to church, one of the pastors greeted me at the door and mentioned how slowly I was walking in from the parking lot. I shared with him and another man why I was so sluggish. 

Inside the church, an old friend saw me in the foyer and came up to greet me with a hug. She asked how life was treating me and I said good. She asked if that's really how I was or if I am just a good liar. Before telling her that life was really good, but that I was having a rough morning, a scene between Sam and Cassie flashed into my head.

Sam: Something wrong? 

Cassie: No.

Sam: I'm going to try that again. Do you want to tell me what's wrong? 

(Yeah, I suppose I am kind of an addict at this point. 😏)

This woman is not just any retired nurse, but a retired military nurse. So, she knows the importance of self-care from a lot of angles. She asked me how I care for myself. I listed some of the ways:

Therapy . . . 

Exercise - and not just any exercise - 9Round where I get to safely punch and kick things . . . 

Writing . . . 

and being here (referring to church).

I did not mention Good Witch, but it was in the back of my mind, obviously! 

Before the service fully got underway, I received a text from my Catholic Priest chaplain friend letting me know that he had reached out to the family and taken care of them. I sighed with relief and mouthed the words "thank you" to the ceiling. 

During the service intro, one of the pastors mentioned their Sunday School lesson - Jesus walking on water - how the men in the boat must have been thinking, "After all this, now we have to deal with a ghost!?!?!" I laughed to myself, improperly thinking, "After all this, now I have to deal with the cancelation of one of my best and favorite self-care routines!?!?!"

I never want to give the wrong impression about my job or EVER make it sound as if I consider myself to be a martyr. That is the furthest thing from the truth. I LOVE my job and am good at it, but it is NOT about me. 

When it comes to grief, I am a stranger inviting myself into a family's worst day. There are generally three typical responses:

1) They want nothing to do with me and "my God" and make it very clear that I am not welcomed - in which case I quietly walk out of the room, but may remain close-by but out of sight just in case (more for staff than family) I often pray for them anyway, but silently and out of sight.

2) They are indifferent - in which case I make it known that I am available and quietly slip out of the room (sometimes praying with them first). 

3) They cling to me as if I am God Himself or at the very least an intimate friend - in which case I let them grab onto me. In this case, I know fully well that it has nothing to do with me and everything to do with who I represent. 

Yesterday and this morning, the families all fell into category #3. 

I am not an empath. Although I may cry with the families or feel for their loss, their grief does not become my own. It is not grief that zaps my energy. It is simply an emotional drain. 

It is like the story of the woman who reached out and touched the edge of Jesus' garment. People were pressed in all around Him, but He still felt power leave Him the moment she touched Him. “Someone touched Me, for I know that power has gone out from Me.” (Luke 8:40-50).

I don't particularly like that comparison, because, well, I am not Jesus. But the sentiment fits. 

Another comparison is like the gentle giant from the movie, the Green Mile. He had the power to heal, but whenever he did, it drained him of his own power. 

Again, this is not the best example. I do not have supernatural powers to heal. I am simply a good listener. However, I am an emotional conduit and after such emotional encounters, I am drained. 

Before COVID, Blue Bloods used to be my favorite show. For the past year, I have been unable to watch any show that even remotely mentions COVID, masks, politics, or any of the serious issues going on in the real world (with the exception of This Is Us). I find it rather difficult just to keep up with the local news. 

That is why one of my favorite and most effective refueling tools is to go home and watch an episode or two (or five) of the Good Witch. The shows are predictable, safe, and filled with love. There is always a happy ending. It refuels me. 

So ever since I learned that the Good Witch was being canceled, I have felt sad and a little lost. What am I going to do without my Middleton family?  

During the service, my pastor gave some wonderfully vivid illustrations. One was about a woman from his hometown, a Christian for over 60 years and the most bitter woman he had ever met. He asked if we wanted to be stuck like that. (At least I think he did - that's what I heard, "Renee, do you want to be stuck?")

That hit me right between the eyes. As I lay down to try to sleep after learning about the show's cancelation, I felt like God was telling me that this was a sign that it was time for me to let go and move on. But from what? I have had milestone moments in my life before, things that changed my trajectory. Where will I land this time? 

I have been sitting in limbo, feeling like I was in a holding pattern for another change. I know I have been in this holding pattern for this past year, but I am beginning to see that I have actually been stuck for a lot longer.  

I kind of feel like I am a ball in a pitching machine, whirling around waiting for my turn. I think my turn is coming. I think I am about to be sucked up and shot out. But when? Where? How? 

I have referred to all of my self-care techniques as band-aids, but maybe I have relied on them a little too much for a little too long. It's not like I will stop doing them or watching the series. I mean, they do serve a vital purpose. I have 7 seasons to watch over and over again as much as I need to or want to, but I think it is time to find a real Middleton.

Last week during a text exchange with my pastor, I admitted to needing help with a class assignment that involved our church because I have been MIA for a while and feel way out of touch. I have changed a lot this past year and I no longer know what that means as far as my role at/with the church (meaning SAF and the universal church). 

Today, I think it became a tiny bit clearer. Friend after friend came up to hug me during church. I saw some people I haven't seen in a while and I met some new people. 

A sweet young girl (16) with significant issues of her own, knows just a tad about mine. She had seen me in the foyer trying to have conversations with people while trying to take care of the hospital stuff mentioned above. Before I left, she gave me a hug and asked if I was okay. 

This girl, with this great big heart. She genuinely cares about the wellbeing of this old lady!

I waved my hand around the sanctuary and I said, "I am now. I have been refueled." 

Hugs - community - a place to belong - isn't that what we all want and need? 

Middleton may not be real and this chapter may be ending, but I will always have the memories and 7 seasons of reruns. 

However, I do not have to wait two years for graduation to find out where I am eventually going to land. (My post-graduation plan is to get a job at a cancer hospital somewhere in the country, work on my doctorate and eventually teach at the university level.) 

I have a home right here, right now. For now, my community, my church is my Middleton. I should start treating it as such and not just as a stop along this destination. 

It is scary, to think of moving away from my grief - of letting go of Brad - he has had such control of me my entire adult life. I know letting go does not mean I have to forget or stop loving him. It simply means I need to stop letting him have control over me, my emotions, and my actions. 

It means I need to stop living as a visitor rather than as a resident of my own life. 

Dealing with the "ghost," choosing to not be the kind of Christian no one wants to emulate, walking away from the beach for good (sermon points) is terrifying. 

But, it's the next step in my journey. And, oddly enough, it begins with saying goodbye to the fictional town of Middleton. 

From Catherine Bell's FB and Instagram posts:

Catherine Bell

July 9 3:42 PM 

 

“Don’t cry because it’s over. Smile because it happened!”

- Dr. Seuss 

I am so grateful for 7 seasons... and 13 years (of movies) of being a part of Good Witch, working with the KINDEST and most talented, cast & crew, producers, network! It has always felt like family ❤️ 

Cassie Nightingale... a woman who is always positive, inspiring and uplifting. Someone who brings out the best in everyone she meets, makes life better for everyone around, and always sees the glass half FULL.

She has inspired me to be a better person, to be kinder, gentler, more loving and accepting. I know that many of you have felt the same 🥰 I feel so fortunate. I know we will all miss the Good Witch and all the amazing chracters and stories. But I am definitely smiling because it happened.

With love, respect and so much gratitude,

CB ❤️

F.R.O.G . (Fully Rely on God)

My swimming pool sits empty until it rains. With enough rainwater gathered and slow drainage, little critters emerge - spiders, insects, snails, frogs, and the occasional wayward lizard. The spiders and insects I leave to fend for themselves. The snails, frogs, and lizards I rescue. 

This is how I begin a day - enter the pool, search for these little snails and frogs, collect them, and relocate them. If I neglect this early morning task, they will die by day's end, fried by the heat of the Texas summer sun. The snails are SO much easier to rescue than those tiny little frog babies. The lizards are SO much harder, but less common. 

When there are more than one or two frogs to rescue, I collect them in the big, deep pockets of my pajama shorts. 

When one of the little guys tries to hop away, I promise him I am simply trying to save his life. "Just be still," I say as I maneuver my way around him. 

When they attempt to squirm out of my hand or leap out of my pocket, I tell them that I know they are scared, but I am doing this for their benefit. They will soon be safe and free. I tell them that I know life may be difficult outside of the pool as well, and I have no guarantees that they will have a safe or easy life, but I can guarantee that if they do not let me get them out, they will most definitely die. At least out there, they will have a fighting chance. 

Unfortunately, I am unable to save all of them. Some do not come out of hiding from underneath the murky water until it is too late. Some frantically hop away from me, too quick and slippery to be caught. These stinkers dive back into the water and swim down the drainage hole out of my reach. When I come home in the afternoon to look for them, hoping they stayed in the cool of the water until I return, sometimes I discover that one or more are dead - hard as a rock and melted to the floor of the pool. 

Yep, I mourn for those I was unable to save, but it was not for lack of trying. They simply did not want to be saved and that decision cost them their lives. 

I often think of our relationship with Jesus during my morning jaunts with the frogs. We are those scared and helpless baby frogs and Jesus is just trying to save us and set us free. 

 F.R.O.G. - Fully Rely On God - no matter how afraid we may feel. 

 

Me On My Soap Box

 Disclaimer: This post is not a cry for help or a thinly veiled attempt to get anyone to reach out to me. I am fortunate enough to have many mental health and wellness outlets. I know what is going on, why, and how to get the care I need when I need it. I hope that I can rely on you to help correct what is now happening with the rise in COVID-related mental health issues. I hope that we, the people of God, will begin to be uncomfortable enough to get out of the box - church - and start actively and tangibly living our faith.

"Therefore, as you received Christ Jesus the Lord, so walk in him."

Colossians 2:6

 

"Now faith, hope, and love remain, and the greatest of these is love."

1 Corinthians 13:13

I am currently participating in a virtual women's Story Circle through my seminary (Nazarene Theological Seminary). At the beginning of each session, we introduce ourselves and describe our current day/emotion with one word. Last night, my word was lonely. There is a ton packed into that word, but the most significant reason centers around the theme of isolation, akin to what a soldier returning from war experiences. It is difficult to discuss something that happened with people who have no clue. It is not that they could not or would not be sympathetic. It is simply too tumultuous to effectively communicate what only a handful of people witnessed and experienced. 

Folks, I am talking about the aftermath of COVID on frontline workers. I am talking about PTSD. 

The "world" may be getting back to normal, but we here in the hospitals are not. For one, we are still seeing COVID patients. Although the numbers have significantly declined, they are still coming, still getting sick, still dying. In the words of one of my favorite fictional characters, Cassie Nightingale, "they are more than just bodies, you know?" 

Today I learned that my little ole' hospital treated over 3,000 COVID patients. I forget how many died. Each one of them were/are more than just bodies, more than your political agendas or personal rights. Each person had a name, a family, a life worth living, a heart worth loving. 

"Post-COVID" hospitals are seeing a dramatic increase of psychiatric patients coming for treatment - suicide attempts are on the rise. We believe this is correlated with COVID isolation - overwhelming loneliness, death of loved ones, loss of employment/income/stability. Whatever trials they lived before were exacerbated because of COVID. They have lost hope. 

Front line workers everywhere are experiencing PTSD in record numbers. They lived and worked through something they never imagined when they entered their chosen field. Not only did they do it and do it well, but they had to do it while dealing with the uninformed social and media hurtful and hate-filled propaganda.

YES! It is hatred when you speak so blatantly harsh about someone and something you know nothing about. (Sorry - not sorry. This is one topic which makes my blood boil.)

I have been thinking a lot about this issue this past week. 

One - my church hosted a special podcast about mental health (Mental Health and the Church). It got me reflecting on my own mental health as well as on what I am seeing and hearing here at the hospital about the mental health of patients and staff. 

Two - my hospital hosted a memorial for COVID victims, families, and staff this past Wednesday. Watching it live on Facebook (especially Dr. Stupka's remarks) stirred up several emotions. I cried with the memories and grew angry thinking of all those inconsiderate social media posts over the past year+.

After my story group last night, I decided I had something I needed to get off my chest - a plea I want to make from anyone who knows me and has the slightest respect for me; please watch this video and consider my requests.

Dr. Stupka is one of my favorites. He is a great doctor and man of God. He is the kind of doctor I would want if I had COVID. I learned the most from him about COVID, what it does and how it is best treated. I also learned the mental toll this disease was taking on the staff as well. 

In this video (around 6:40), he shares a little of what we experienced during the worst of COVID. 

Methodist Hospital Northeast Virtual COVID-19 Memorial Service

Request 1:

Please reconsider posting negative commentary about COVID. Whether you think this is a hoax, political ploy, whatever. Stop. Just stop. Please. Just because you did not see or experience this for yourself does not mean it isn't real. Think about the holocaust. Think about Vietnam. Both were very much politicalized, but both were just as real and traumatizing for those involved. Is it disrespectful and hurtful for survivors to undermine their experiences by reducing COVID to politics or agendas? Of course! SO, PLEASE, STOP IT. 

Request 2: 

Adopt a frontline worker. Do you know someone who worked directly with COVID patients? More than just doctors and nurses worked directly with them. Housekeepers still had to go into the rooms to clean and sanitize the rooms. Food services still had to deliver meals to those who could eat. Maintenance still had to go into rooms for repairs. They, too, put their lives on the line for the sake of the overall goal  - because they, too, believe in our mission - serving humanity to honor God. 

If someone worked directly with COVID patients, chances are, they could be dealing with PTSD. Worse still, they may not even realize this could be what is causing their shift in mood, health, and/or behavior. 

If they do not have anyone to talk with, they need someone. Be that someone. 

Be bold and brave enough to ask them about their experience. 

If they want to dismiss it because they were not nurses or doctors, don't let them. They mattered. They still put their lives on the line. Their experience - their thoughts and emotions matter. Tell them as much. 

If they want to talk, let them. Do not correct or interject. Simply LISTEN. We often ignore the greatest gift of love we can give someone - time and attention - the ministry of presence. 

If they do not want to talk, respect that. Let them know you are there should they change their mind. 

(FYI, if you post political or personal rights stuff on social media as it relates to COVID, chances are, that person will not open up to you because you have already broken their trust. Chances are, they are angry with you no matter how much they love you. They are angry and hurt because you indirectly injured them.)

You may encourage them to seek therapy or join a support group. The hospitals have support groups for frontline workers who worked during COVID. Volunteer to go with them if they are scared. Show them how to be brave by being brave yourself. 

Request 2:

If you know anyone who is alone, lonely, who has lost a loved one this past year (whether to COVID or not), lost a job, or is hurting in any way, reach out. Invite them into your lives, especially if they are single, with no family, or estranged from family. 

Invite them to dinner at your house with your family. 

Take them on an outing with your family. 

Do your kids have a ball game or dance recital? Invite them. Make them a part of your family. 

Ask them to share their joys, hurts, and fears. AND LISTEN - no agenda - no judgment. 

You have no idea how great of an impact such simple acts of love, compassion, and kindness can make in someone's life.

 You may very well be saving a life. 

This song truly fits the post-COVID mental illness crisis.

Lonely

"And everything is not the same now

It feels like all our lives have changed

Maybe when I'm older, it'll all calm down

But it's killin' me now.

What if you had it all

But nobody to call?

Maybe then you'd know me."

-Justin Bieber 

Let’s take the time to get to know someone before we decide to judge them. Let's take that statement one step further. How about we let go of judgment altogether and simply love? As my friend, Tracy, once said, Jesus never made His love conditional. Neither should we. 

Angels on my Shoulders

 A few weeks ago, my trainer and I got to talking about the importance of exercise to mental health. I made the comment that I hate it when people say we can choose to be happy. That is a simplistic load of garbage. Anyone who is able to easily choose their moods should consider themselves fortunate. 

Squirrel moment - bear with me. This relates:

On my way into church this morning, I contemplated the high rate of suicide attempt patients in the hospitals. Is it post COVID? The isolation exacerbating what was already lying underneath? 

This train of thought made me think of this time last year and a question a CPR student asked me last week about my experience. This time last year, I was taking a six week hiatus after Brad's death. Before I left, the hospital was functioning just as they planned. COVID patients coming to our hospital would be immediately transported to Main Methodist or the special MASH unit set up for COVID. Sure, we had to wear a mask, but it was still relatively controlled. When I returned to work, every hospital in town, including our small hospital, was overrun with COVID patients. We were now required to wear three layers of protection just to be inside the hospital. COVID took over the rest of our lives for the better part of a year. There was no escape for any hospital employee. 

So, why do people still insist that COVID was not real? A government conspiracy? Fake? 

I assume it is for the same reason people deny the holocaust was real or that racism still exists. These people were fortunate enough to never be touched by the evils which led to the holocaust, slavery, or modern day racism. In 100 years, I'm sure people will deny 9/11 ever happened. "Where were you when the world stopped turning?" (Alan Jackson)

However, just because we have never experienced something does not mean it isn't true or that it does not or never existed. It just means you are lucky - or unlucky as the case may be - Christ exists and to know Him is to be blessed beyond measure. We cannot see God, but, oh, is He real!

Which brings me back to my point - the rise in mental health cases in the hospital.

I described for my trainer what it is like for me to live with a mental illness. Happiness is something I cannot simply turn on or off. It is a constant struggle. I really want to slap anyone who claims it is as simple as choosing to be happy. 

I described it like this: you know the cartoons of the good and bad angels on your shoulder trying to coax you into doing either the right or wrong thing? Well, it is as if I have an anxiety angel on one shoulder and a depression angel on the other fighting for control. How I respond to my day truly depends on which angel is winning.

The anxiety angel causes my insides to feel like they are going to burst. My shoulders tense and I cannot relax. Working out is a necessity to help me get that negative energy out, even temporarily, so that I can go about my day. On highly anxious days, getting out of bed to work out is quite easy. 

On high anxiety evenings, however, I struggle to wind down to go to sleep. My brain and my body will not stop. I watch too much television, read until I feel like I can sleep, then end up turning the television back on because I am too tired to read, but not tired enough to sleep. When I do fall asleep, I sleep well, but usually not enough, between 5-7 hours. However, I usually have little trouble getting up in the morning to start my day. On days like this, I lay off the caffeine and take my medication before bed.  

The depression angel causes me to feel overtly lethargic, as if I have not slept in days. It takes every ounce to find the motivation to accomplish anything. I have little desire to be around anyone. 

During days like this, working out is next to impossible. I force myself by constantly reminding myself of how good I will feel, however briefly, after a good workout. I remind myself that I will feel even worse, hating on myself, if I fail to accomplish this simple task. 

Sleep, on the other hand, comes easily. I tire easily and am able to go to bed and fall asleep early. I get my 8 hours of sleep. I will not let myself sleep much past 8 hours, but, depending on the day's activities, I may sleep up to 10 hours. I rarely allow myself this luxury. 

On depression days, I am anal about my lists. I make lists of tasks that must be completed. On good days, I can knock out a lot of my to-do items early and even get ahead. On depression days, it takes a lot longer to accomplish the same goals. I may read five pages of a text then watch a show on Netflix and repeat the process. I love puzzles anytime, but they are especially therapeutic during seasons of depression. I get angry with myself a lot and have to constantly remind myself that this feeling is temporary. I am not as stupid or incompetent or unlovable or as worthless as I feel in the moment. Puzzles help to table these negative thoughts and emotions. 

Most of the time, I live right in the middle between the anxiety and depression angel. They are both there, but neither one has full control. That, for me, is my happy place. 

Anxiety usually takes over when an activity disrupts my routine (whether as infrequent and nerve-wracking as knowing I have to prepare to deliver a sermon or as common as working a couple extra hours on my usual day off). That is why I will rarely accept a last-minute invitation. My brain and body do not have ample time to process the request and respond.

Depression strikes less often and comes when emotions disrupt my routine (such as the one year anniversary of Brad's death).

This brings me back, yet again, to the rise in suicide attempts. 

Work is one place where anxiety and depression flee. For whatever reason, I am someone else completely while at work - or maybe I am my  most authentic self at work. My attention is on the patients and not on myself. I am happy at work. I have come to realize that one of the things I love most about my job is that it gives me purpose - a reason for the situations and emotions I have been through. 

Yesterday, I visited with a patient who told me I was a God-send. She said she had been crying just before I walked in, feeling depressed. She had asked God for help and there I appear. The more we talk, the more she begins to smile and laugh. Apparently, I spoke directly to what she was feeling and asking from God. I told her that is my prayer before every shift - for God to send me where I need to go, to do what He needs me to do. On days when I'm feeling my worst, I thank Him that He can still use me and speak through me even though I'm not feeling my best. It is moments like this that remind me why I do what I do and thank God for allowing me to know what that person is feeling and to be able to speak truth from a place of experience. 

Toward the end of my shift, I walked by a room. The door was open. The patient had a sitter (patients who cannot safely be left alone - whether physically or mentally - have a staff member sit with them). The patient stared at me and something told me to go inside. 

I went inside and introduced myself. She said she needed to talk to me. I sat down and she poured out her heart, telling me about her suicide attempt and what led up to it. We talked for quite some time. I shared with her just enough of my story to make a point that life sucks sometimes, we don't know why things happen, but none of us can get through these tough times alone. We need help - all of us - at some point, and we need to allow others to help us. There is no shame in getting the help we need.

- And - we need hope. Without hope, life is not worth living. 

- And - the only true hope - the only reliable and constant and unchanging thing in this life is God and His love for us. 

I left her room knowing that visit had been as much for me as it was for her. I needed the reminder that there is purpose to the pain. I have purpose. There is no way I could have been what those two patients truly needed in that moment if I had not experienced it and survived to tell about it. 

Some people are fortunate enough to have birds and sunshine on their shoulders. They, too, have a purpose - a glorious and sacred purpose. 

The angels on my shoulders are not so bright and bubbly, but they, too, have a glorious and sacred purpose. I may not be able to choose happiness as easily as social media posts tout, but I can and do choose blessings - to receive it and to be it - in this life, and with this personality God has chosen to give to me. 

My stories may not be all warm and fuzzy, but I guarantee, they will always have a happy ending.

We all need purpose. We all need hope. 

If you need help finding yours, reach out to someone today - right now.

Integral Care National 24/7 Hotline: 512-472-HELP (4357) or 844-398-8252 

Crisis Care Center San Antonio 24/7 Hotline: 210-223-SAFE (7233) or 800-316-9241