Tag Archives: stress

Another Foot on the Bedrock

It happened years ago, so poignant I remember where I was driving–turning east, a corner from my house when it hit me.

He loves me.hearts

And it is enough.

Oh sure, there have been times it doesn’t feel like enough. Times I’ve stomped my childish size eleven and questioned. Times I’ve looked elsewhere for affirmation.

But this new paradigm, that HIS love was enough to survive–even thrive–on this planet, stayed with me. It carried me. Healed me.

And yet here I sit, years later, blogging about it to remind myself.

I need this truth.

A few nights ago, determined to get words onto a screen I typed a vulnerable post about my struggle to write. A friend’s comment grounded me, and I remembered my Audience of One.

Then Paul said, “You are not simply a writer. Not simply a mother. Not simply anything. Not even simply Paula. You are a unique, complex, multi-layered loved and loving individual. You need do nothing to carry on being that unique treasure. You are that unique treasure. You are surrounded by love . . . Always. When the writing flow flows, then the writing flow flows. You will always be you. You are always you.”

The first time I read over his words I didn’t get it. So I prayed. Read again more slowly. Asked God what tugged at my heart.

It was love.

Yes, much of my struggle to write has simply been empty nest grief and transitions. It was okay to give myself some space as I worked into this new season of my life. But beneath all that something else sneaked in, hampering my forward momentum.

Now that the schedule is opening so I can more fully pursue my dreams, the pressure has been subtly building, the pressure that said I must perform. And how.

When I NEED to perform, fear slips in that I can’t. Memories of disappointment and rejection hint at failure.

Paul’s words reminded me that I am me. Whether or not I write. Whether or not I perform. None of that affects the core.

Because of Love.

I am loved by the King of the universe.

Nothing can take that away.

Nothing can separate me from His love.

It is enough.

And strangely enough knowing this sets me free to be productive.

It’s a grand paradox. Letting go of the need to perform, stepping back onto the bedrock of love, I am secure enough that I embrace the desire to perform again. It is no longer threatening because it does not define me.

I am defined by love.

Love is my bedrock.

How about you? What defines you? Where is your bedrock?

Until next time,

paula cropped

 

Do you think anyone is going to be able to drive a wedge between us and Christ’s love for us? There is no way! Not trouble, not hard times, not hatred, not hunger, not homelessness, not bullying threats, not backstabbing, not even the worst sins listed in Scripture:

They kill us in cold blood because they hate you.
We’re sitting ducks; they pick us off one by one.

None of this fazes us because Jesus loves us. I’m absolutely convinced that nothing—nothing living or dead, angelic or demonic, today or tomorrow, high or low, thinkable or unthinkable—absolutely nothing can get between us and God’s love because of the way that Jesus our Master has embraced us. (Romans 8, The Message)

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Stress?

It was quite the day.

4:30 a.m. and I was already in front of the mirror, taming the wild mane of clean hair. I’d gone to bed with it wet to gain sleep time.

I’m not a morning person.

Packed my bag for the hospital stay. Put on my favorite shirt for the interview.

Hubby and I bundled our sixteen-year-old “baby” in the car, dreading the pain he would soon endure.

It’s our fourth hip surgery. Experience is helpful in these situations. It also makes you realistic about things like how much pain there is and how demanding the next few weeks are, how long the months to recovery will be.

At the hospital they take us through the paces. The doctor talks through options of what he might do depending on what he sees once he’s inside.

The anesthesiologist discusses options, too. We ask for the anti-nausea patch. Opt for a spinal over an epidural. Last time Sam hated the tingling in his feet.

One last kiss. My child is whisked away. Parents ushered away, too. We’re sent to wait.

I linger only a moment before a brisk walk to the van. My interview is on the other side of the big city. If traffic cooperates I can be there and back before while my son is still in surgery.

It’s 7:30 now, and I long for the coffee I feared would upset my system three hours before. But the traffic is heavy, and a Starbucks’ line seems unwise.

It’s stop and go, this tedious drive that used to take half the time before my city grew. Close to my destination I realize I will be late.

I’m interviewing for a demanding experience in a third world country. “How do you hand stress?” They ask.

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Photo from Wiki – South Sudan

I’m calm. So calm.

Stress. The files click in my mind. Stress was those seven years. When my husband almost died. When they almost took our home. When all four children faced sickness, surgeries, undiagnosed illness, broken bones, struggles academic, physical, emotional, spiritual.

When dreams crashed, and I fought for breath every day. Digging deep. Carrying on.

Stress was two years past the seven. When two car accidents stole my stalwart reserves, messing with my head, my emotions, causing headaches, pain in my neck and back, sensations still undiagnosed. Making me afraid to drive. Afraid to live, really.

But today is 2014. Not 2012 or the years before.

“I don’t know. I haven’t had much stress lately.”

If they are incredulous they don’t show it.

They know my son is in surgery. They’ve been praying for our family. They know I drove through rush hour traffic to get to them.

I talk about the hard stress years. How I had to be strong. How the car accidents stole my strength.

I’m in the van before I realize the absurdity of my answer. How this day. THIS day of surgery, little sleep, traffic, and interview I say I am not stressed.

I shake my head. They must think me delusional.

Or in denial at least.

I laugh at me. Did they do the same when I left the room?

Today is stress. Even more than normal stress.

But maybe I’m not so stressed I don’t know stress. Maybe I’m not in denial.

It’s a matter of contrast.

Those years, those nine years of unrelenting stress . . . did they teach me something? Show me we can endure more than I knew?

I’m deeper now. God is more established in me. Oh HE was always right there, but I know Him more. His faithfulness. His provision.

His ability to receive my pounding fists when I hate the things He allowed.

I trust Him more. He has earned that trust.

My friend says I’m happier this summer. Is it due to the reduced stress or the increased understanding of life, God, strength?

Maybe both.

My stress this surgery day is real, even if I didn’t articulate it in the interview. But it is not crushing real.

Some things are understood in the comparison.

Some things are understood in the perspective of a life lived.

And in this we have survived. Blossomed even.

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Until next time,

paula cropped