One More Truth

Reflections on faith, truth, and being human

To the One Who is Busy, Burnt Out, and Still Saying ‘Yes’

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Please, say ‘no’.

You know you’re spread thin. Just yesterday, you looked at your calendar and noticed you’d overscheduled yourself…again. You sighed, told yourself it was fine. You’ll explain your situation, ask for an earlier or later time, a different day, another week. You’ll apologize and quickly follow up with, “It’s just a busy time, but after __________, I’ll have more breathing room.” You’ve been saying that for a while, but inevitably, the blank fills with one commitment, then another. Your life is always busy. It hasn’t slowed down.

I understand the reasons why you say ‘yes’. I know your worth and identity are tightly stitched into each one and it’s not entirely your fault. People like you more when you say ‘yes’. Many hands make light work and if your hands aren’t in it, the work is harder. Some people are disappointed by your ‘no’, some take it as rejection. Some get mad or hurt, and some just don’t understand. Some are so charismatic for their cause, they won’t take your ‘no’. They bargain for a smaller chunk of time or suggest ways to arrange your schedule so they are accommodated. Sometimes the conversation ends with a painful, “Well, I’m sorry, I thought you cared…”

I recognize you’re conditioned to say ‘yes’. You grew up watching overextended loved ones drain themselves past empty. They helped everyone, everywhere, and you were often included. People praised your assistance, gushed over your willingness, and said ‘thank you’ a lot. Praise wasn’t your motivation, but it certainly didn’t hurt. Being the hero isn’t a bad gig, especially for a good cause. Especially when the need is significant, and the work is important.

It’s true you lived selfishly before. There were times you could have helped – should have helped, perhaps – but you made excuses instead. Their problem isn’t my problem. No one helped me when I needed it. You’re not proud of this person, so you assuage your guilt by saying ‘yes’ more than you should. It never feels like enough.

I understand you cast a wide net because you feel underqualified. Everyone else seems to have found their thing and you feel like an imposter. It’s nice to have opportunities open to you. It’s nice to be asked by people who see in you something you couldn’t have seen on your own. Are you passionate about your commitments? Not really, but at least they’re safe. Passions are risky.

I realize the ‘yes’ of many others shaped you and equipped you to become who you are today. It is now both your honor and responsibility to be there for others and that is a beautiful thing. But before you say ‘yes’, please consider this: The cultural message of ‘showing up’ is slippery. It suggests availability to everyone at any time is sustainable. It implies everyone can and should have your attention.

The truth is, you are not called to make everyone happy, solve everyone’s problems, fix the world, etc. There are many good directions, many things worth doing, many noble distractions, and if you are pulled by all of them, your most precious relationships (your spiritual relationship included) are likely to get dysregulated fragments of you—physically present, mentally distracted, emotionally distant, and spiritually drained.

God’s will for you is specific, not scattered.

His plan for you is fullness, not spreading yourself thin.

His purpose for you is restoration through relationship with Him—all your heart, all your soul, and all your mind—that you might experience peace in Him and live in the assurance that the good work is always His.

Pull closer to Jesus, friend. Trust Him more.

 

Flood My Heart

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Rain drove me to the desert. Years of rain, actually. I’d grown up under gray Midwestern skies that lasted weeks in a row during winter and spring. And fall. Recess was soggy grass and slick playgrounds, a purple raincoat and foggy glasses. At fourteen, we moved to the sunshine state where humidity would collect in spring and summer clouds, and eventually let loose drops so big they stung. The rain fell in torrents, but minutes later, the sky was blue again.

Years later, as a mom in the South, rain meant spoiled plans. It ruined park dates and grocery shopping and birthday parties. The final straw was an Easter Sunday when I braced against icy rain while the kids searched for hidden eggs. I was over it, primed and ready for the job offer that came the following month. My husband’s company wanted him in Arizona. We said “yes.”

The moving process stretched months longer than planned. Chronic pain spasms intensified, which I attributed to the pressure of raising four kids in a house that had to be kept perfect for spontaneous showings. There was packing and piles of paperwork and school withdrawals. The neighbors hung Christmas lights; I said goodbye to my family, my job, and many friends. I often imagined myself in my new bedroom, sighing with relief. Rest is coming, I’d assure myself.

But long after the boxes were unpacked, peace was still elusive. My insides were frenzied, which made sense considering we’d uprooted our lives and were deep in the throes of making a new life. I speculated my unrest was further aggravated by grief, which I avoided by compulsively keeping busy and staying in motion. I wore a heart monitor for a month to figure out why it sometimes felt like my heart might jump out of my chest, but the readings said my heart was fine–strong and healthy, actually.

Every day, the desert sky poured sunshine, and every day, I hurried out to absorb it all. This went on for months, and then one afternoon, the air smelled like rain. The sun shone bright as ever, but a few miles north, the sky was dark. The unmistakable scent of rain loosened my muscles a little and a sense of relief shot through my veins. I settled into a chair by the window and watched the rain come down in sheets. The cracked ground gulped what it could, but the streets quickly became rivers. My kids and neighbor kids ran out with boogie boards and danced in water to their knees. In less than an hour, the monsoon transformed the desert into a rushing waterway, and I soaked it all in, completely still. If this was what renewal felt like, I wanted it. I was ready…

 

Read the rest at The Redbud Post.

A Simple Approach for Moving Through Transition

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My oldest daughter visited earlier this week, so the two of us and my youngest daughter chatted in the family room under the largest fan you’ve ever seen, because September or not, it’s still oppressively hot in Arizona. Our conversation revolved around life and normal stuff, and then somehow, we got to talking about mental health and the darkness that sometimes appears and just how jarring it is when outside opinions attempt to wedge themselves into mental health management and dealings that are not their own responsibility. (Note: There are a million soapboxes on this topic – this space is not one of them. Do what is necessary for your health and don’t worry about the numerous outside opinions. That’s the long and short of it.)

My oldest said, very matter of fact, “The darkest time in my life was the summer after my freshman year.” I nodded because I remember. And then she said, “But that was the summer after our move to Arizona. I’m not blaming the move or saying we shouldn’t have moved, it was just a lot to figure out.”

I found those two sentences powerfully affirming, because: 1. as a mom, there is nothing more wonderful than knowing your child doesn’t blame you for the hardships of growing up – with or without an uprooting. 2. Being reminded that time, healing, and God’s grace can work a dark time into a two sentence summary is the picture of both hope and miracles (and I need that). 3. Change is hard. I need that reminder, too.

My family is elbows deep in transition. My second oldest has a new job. My son is employed for the first time. My youngest switched to online high school. My oldest daughter and son in law are expecting their first child. These are happy changes, changes each one chose, and it’s nice to be in the choosing position, but the ripples of change are still challenging to absorb. Not in a “this is impossible, I can’t do it” kind of way, but in a “wobbly, trying to regain my balance” kind of way. I’m absorbing these changes, too, amidst my own, amidst those of our ever-changing world. It can be a lot.

In my younger days, I rushed through change, dismissing the process rather than dealing with it and through it, scrambling for full competence, an uninterrupted plan, zero resistance, and zero visible exhaustion. I made busy days even busier. It didn’t go well. That’s not a pattern I want my children to follow, so in these times of transition, I’m keeping things simple with this approach:

  1. Acknowledge the transition. Change doesn’t always announce itself, you have to notice it. Maybe a caring person in your life points it out. Either way, acknowledge it – no dramatizing it, no minimizing it.
  2. Accept your humanness. You may be agile, but you are not impervious to the impacts of change. Your body will tell the truth, it’s just a matter of when. You can be proactive or reactive. Up to you.
  3.  Adjust accordingly. My son put his early morning workout routine on pause while he learns how to balance work and school. He doesn’t like it, but he knows it’s necessary and temporary. I’m more committed than ever to time blocking and less resistant toward napping. We’re all figuring it out.
  4. Advocate for yourself. Like walking in the dark, you have to feel your way through transitions. If you’re lost, speak up. If it gets too dark, ask for help. (I’m still learning this one. Anyone else?)
  5. Appreciate the good. It’s the little things, isn’t it? It’s dinner as a family because we’re finally all home together. It’s a late night run to Dairy Queen because my son is working drive-thru. It’s a picture of my daughter’s homemade sushi roll, because one of the perks of online school is she can make and eat whatever she wants for lunch. It’s watching my daughter lean more into her own independence. It’s the text when my daughter, the soon-to-be mama, feels her first kick.

There’s another good I’m appreciating, too. My early morning prayer time dropped off over the summer, but I’m back into the practice of taking my coffee outside and settling in for unrushed prayer. If you find yourself in transition or uprooting right now, pray the 5 steps above in contemplative prayer before your day begins. Ask the Lord to impress one word on your heart as a continued focus for the day.

Praying peace for you this week.

 

*Know someone in transition? Send them the 5 step approach for moving through transition!

 

Transcendence Isn’t Achieved Through Constant Striving

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I arrived at the crisis center for my weekly volunteer slot juggling coffee, a bottle of water, and a bag with my laptop and other things I didn’t really need but couldn’t be without. Mina was waiting for me, beaming as usual.

“This is me,” she said. “This is my real shape, my real body. If I ever come in here and I don’t look like this, something is wrong. Because this right here, is me.” I’d been mentoring Mina for a few months. I knew the grittiest pieces of her past, but little else. I knew she had two children whom she hadn’t seen for years. I knew she’d been sleeping on a bunk bed in a domestic violence shelter down the road. I knew when the cops found her a few months before, she was wandering the street with a broken leg. The doctor said the fracture was weeks old. Mina hadn’t a clue how it happened. I knew that every morning, Mina turned on worship music and “worshiped with her tears.” Pain brought Mina to the center. Pain brings every woman there.

Mina’s body was recovering from substances I couldn’t name because she didn’t share the details, and I was fine with that. I’d been witnessing her transformation every Tuesday, but on this particular day, she wasn’t looking at how far she’d come. She wasn’t rattling a plethora of plans or goals she aspired to reach. Mina was paying attention. She was naming her exact spot on the recovery timeline, recognizing the curvier body that felt more familiar. Her body was finding its balance, its homebase, and she was content to be right where she was. In fact, she was delighted.

Finish reading the article here.

This piece was featured first on Fathom.