One More Truth

Reflections on faith, truth, and being human

Burnout, Crisis & Faith

by Leave a Comment

I wake to two of my favorite things: a cup of coffee on my nightstand and a sky warming for the sunrise. Gratitude should be first on my mind, but in the split second between sleep and awake, my mind rests on an unsettling word: depersonalized.

Indicators of burnout have been popping up for months—waking up to a sense of dread, going to bed defeated, pervasive sluggishness in between. There’s the constant drip of cynicism, even on the good days. The busyness of life is unrelenting, and I hover above work and writing projects with an aerial view of every overwhelming detail and little ability to narrow my focus.

The Red Flags of Burnout
There are the red flags of detachment, too. Forgetfulness, apathy, the inability to answer an acquaintance’s simple question, “What’s your favorite summer activity?” Dysregulation is overriding muscle memory and I’m running into door frames, getting turned around in familiar places, even forgetting to rinse the conditioner from my hair, as I discovered one hurried Saturday afternoon. My mind and body are out of sync with each other and their surroundings.

I call it burnout because it’s less cumbersome than calling it compassion fatigue, the very thing I’ve trained my team to avoid over the past few years of upheaval. We work with women in crisis and we know the statistics. We know abuse increased, addiction spiked, and the impoverished fell into deeper poverty. We know death has come too soon and too often. Our work puts faces to the numbers. Sara packed her two young children and left her violent husband yesterday. Jasmine was almost a year into her recovery, but we haven’t seen her in weeks. Maria is living in her car. Frances lost four family members in less than two months. I’ve continued the work by disconnecting.

But what do you do when crisis comes home? When the statistics say emergency department visits for attempted suicide rose 51% among adolescent girls in a year, and your daughter’s face and name make those numbers part of your story, what do you call it?

Continue reading at The Redbud Post…

A Simple Approach for Moving Through Transition

by 1 Comment

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!

 

Stuck. What You Can Do. (And What to Do if You Can’t.)

by 3 Comments

The school auditorium smelled of brand new carpet and buzzed with the energy of a hundred unjaded teenagers. My sister-in-law and I sat in the row furthest back, because even though we came for the presentation on career tracks, school spirit, blah, blah, blah, we really came to whisper back and forth. We listened to the school rules and both of us agreed we were glad to be adults. We talked about our summers, our kids, our appreciation for vacations AND routines. Somehow, the conversation turned to being stuck – the physical kind – quickly escalating into psychological stuckness, a stuckness mothers of teenagers know very well.

I’ve had many a conversation with a teenager in a slump. I ask what’s wrong and they don’t know. I encourage them to identify the stuckness because it’s the only way to find their spot on the map of unfamiliar territory. They groan. I ask what they want and a litany of what they don’t want erupts.

I assure them ruminating on solutions will eventually help them ‘see’ a path out. Then I hope for the best. One day, the teenager organizes their closet, unloads their dresser, fills half a dozen trash bags with toys, knick knacks, and clothing that no longer suits them, and magically, they come unstuck.

My sister-in-law confirmed she’d witnessed this unsticking process with her own kids as well and we both agreed the physical process of cleaning does wonders for unraveling mental and emotional stickiness. But surely there was a more defined process for coming unstuck. We decided an acronym might help us, and quite possibly, help all of humanity. (We were solving the world’s problems that day.) Being the child of a teacher and a preacher, I knew I was genetically wired for creating acronyms, so there in the back of the high school auditorium, during a PowerPoint presentation on Chromebooks, STUCK was born:

Symbolically, Seriously, Systematically, or Systemically

Trapped

Under

Constraints, Conflicts, or Comparisons of

Knowledge, Kinesthetics, Keeps, or Kindness

Yes, friend, this acronym is yours to use freely and often. Is it wordy? Sure. Complex? Clearly. But one thing is for certain – this acronym’s multitude of combinations will sum up your ‘stuck’.

For example, I’ve been stuck in my workout routine, or to say it better, I’ve been procrastinating because I’m bored with my home gym options. I was Symbolically Trapped Under Conflicts of Kinesthetics, I guess, so I rejoined my gym and I’m back to enjoying fitness classes. I named my stuck issue so I could tame it and move toward a better sense of wellbeing. My sister-in-law was right – an acronym helps.

But I had an epiphany shortly after my Ash Wednesday post. What about the stuck places that are intended for me, the times when I’m Spiritually Tested, Uniquely Conditioned – Knowingly? This is the stuck that scares me most, and I have to admit, moving in faith is an attractive topic because the opposite – sitting still in my faith because I must – is so absolutely frustrating, so contrary to the adventure I picture faith to be.

I savor the Bible stories of courage and action. I cringe through the stories where years pass, adversity comes, and plans go unfulfilled. But just as in the stories of Joseph, Hannah, David, Job, and the many people healed by Jesus in the gospels, ‘stuck’ points have a purpose on the timeline. These are the points where patience gives way to fully surrendered trust. These stories of patience aren’t indicators of tepid faith, but faith on fire.

When grief, loss, upheaval, and suffering come, when conditions are out of my control and problems won’t budge, when there are closed doors and dead ends, and I simply cannot move – how do I move in faith? By actively trusting, patiently waiting, expectantly watching, and firmly relying on God to move. I move my lips in prayer and make it my habit. I do what I can, accept what is, and continue hoping. I stay awake, alert, and grateful, so that when the ground moves under my feet, I’m ready.

—————–

What’s your stuck look like? Maybe it’s something you can solve on your own and a long walk or closet purging session will bring your ‘aha’ moment. Maybe it’s something outside your limits and you’re familiar with prayers so deep, you never say a word. Maybe it’s unclear if you’re in a procrastinating place or a patience place. Answering the following questions often helps me identify my sticking points and the shifts I need to make. Praying through the questions helps me even more.

What am I thinking? (What’s playing on a loop in my mind?)

What am I feeling? (What emotions are being fueled by my mindset? What mindset is fueling my emotions?)

What am I doing – behaviors, actions, patterns? (Are they coping, numbing, avoidant?)

What am I praying?

 

 

5. Reflect

by 4 Comments

Nine years ago this week, my children and I hopped on a plane and moved across the country. The sunrise was incredibly bright through those long airport windows that morning. The kids shared a bag of powdered donuts as we waited, each of us with our own emotions. I’d moved before, big moves from one state to another. The mix of expectation and uncertainty were familiar for me and I did as I’d done as a kid – did the only thing I could think to do in order to survive and not crumble into messy bits of fear and sadness – I thought about the good stuff and ignored the bad. Some parts were easy to ignore, like leaving a house behind. A new one was waiting. But other things had to be stuffed, like leaving my family and friends behind. When you choose change, you choose loss – that’s the exchange – and I knew that dealing with the losses would have its day. Like I said, I’d done this before.

A whole lot’s changed in nine years. My children have outgrown me in stature, so I look up more than I used to. I listen more than I used to. My children’s needs have changed and I still care for them, but differently. From a distance, I think. Independence grows when it has the room to grow. I still care about a clean house, but less. I still care what I look like, but less. And since these two preoccupations were obsessive once, I’m thankful for less in these matters. I will always be thankful.

The neighborhood has changed. The neighbors on all four sides of us are not the same families who welcomed us to the neighborhood. Mr. Mike, the older man with the Corvette, still waves when we round the corner, but he shakes a little now. The dad a few houses down used to play basketball with his preschoolers, now he plays basketball with his middle schoolers. And his hair is gray.

When we moved it was just a few neighborhoods, an orange grove, and a ten minute drive to a grocery store. We used to go out as a family after dinner, crawl up on huge beams of concrete stacked in the desert west of our house and watch the sunset, but then dirt pushers came in and paved roads. Houses sprouted up as far as the eye could see, covering the horizon. Shops, restaurants, and a Starbucks were built – all the things we were told would come, we just had to wait. So weird, waiting. It lasts forever and then one day, the wait is over. Expectation and uncertainty for months or years, and then one day, it all changes.

But nine years later, the eastern edge of my world remains the same. Lined by empty desert and an unobstructed view of the Superstition Mountains, I’ve biked and run countless miles on the road where those mountains stretch. I’ve watched the sun rise countless times out there, too, and I know the little crook where the sun peeks out in the winter and the high point where it pops in the summer.

I was out there yesterday evening. This morning. This afternoon. I can see those mountains with my eyes closed. Sometimes I think my insides are a broken compass that only points East, because I’m pulled to those mountains every time I can’t see clearly, or my heart is heavy, or my mind is full, or my body aches from loss or disappointment. I’m pulled to those mountains when the wild pony in me just wants to run, gasp for air, and hate it the whole time because it’s uncomfortable, but there’s no other way to feel the finish – to feel something. Endurance of the heart, of the mind, of the lungs. Each demands discipline, demands that life be drained so strength can grow.

Conversations about polarizing issues didn’t characterize this year for me, but I struggled through many a battle with polarized thinking. I woke up feeling defeated before my feet hit the floor some mornings. I often found myself believing that nothing can change in a day, because waiting is confusing like that. The girl with big faith and big hope – some days I didn’t recognize her.

But I always seem to find myself on that road lined by desert. Those mountains have heard all the chunks of my soul that have yet to be written. When I think of God, I see those mountains.

Every evening, there’s a window of only a few minutes when the mountains glow purple and orange at the same time, reflecting the last bits of sunlight before the day ends. I’ve seen that reflection more times this year than any other. It’s reminded me to stay composed and stay put, continue doing the hard stuff, because that is the good stuff, the stuff that matters. My life is only a reflection of His love; my faith a reflection of His faithfulness.

Step 5. Reflect. Reflect on who He is and who He made me to be, so I can reflect His love to others.

When I remember 2020, the ever-changing year of uncertainty and distance, I will choose to remember God’s faithfulness, because I have seen it. It just looked different. Sometimes, it looked like those mountains.