He had a name

Tonight as many in our area were anxiously awaiting news reports concerning possible violence at a presidential candidate's rally, one family mourned, for the second time, the loss of their father. They had already lost him once to choices he made that brought about the circumstances in which I would meet him.
The complexities of homelessness can not be explained in one simple blog. Nor do I profess to be an authority in the matter. What I do know is that Mr B had a name; he wasn't just some nameless, faceless drunk that roamed about the streets of Conroe. He had a story, if you only sat down to listen. He had a family. He always had a cane. And a lot of the time he had a bottle in the other hand.
Unfortunately for most, the bottle was all that they ever saw. They just couldn't look past it. Perhaps more unfortunate for others that could see past the bottle, they saw a project that needed to be fixed. It's true that Mr B often needed shoes or a pair of pants that would fit his gauntly shaped body. He needed a shower and soap, although not so much with the shampoo. He needed to eat more and drink less. But what Mr B needed most of all was to know that he was loved unconditionally.
I could honestly sit for hours & just listen to the stories from his life. Stories about his childhood, his wife, his kids. There were stories he told me about his own gpa, the many jobs that he had worked, and I can still hear him say "Brooklyn" in that thick northeast coast accent. Sometimes he'd tell the same story, forgetting a few more details from the time he had told it before. There were stories I would ask about that he couldn't remember. But there was one thing Mr B never forgot - he was deeply & unconditionally loved by a mighty God, even in the middle of all of his mess.
My path with Mr B crossed almost 7 years ago. I was immediately drawn to him because I watched the way he would interact with my children. He loved children unless, of course, they touched his cane - even though it was just a Swiffer handle this week - but that's another story for another day. Watching this 90lbs man throw a football with the boys was sometimes the highlight of our Sunday mornings together. One Christmas when we were trying to unravel the Christmas light ball, he wound himself up & urged the kids to plug him in like a Christmas tree.
We would look for him, and a few others, as we drove through certain parts of town. I always had to keep the windows unlocked so that the kids could, at a moment's notice, roll them down & yell, "Hey Mr B!" while they waved so hard I thought their hands would fall off. We'd see him in the rear view mirror, just a shakin' that cane in the air. My kids loved him unconditionally.
So tonight when I sat them down on the couch to tell them, I knew their hearts would be broken. We talked about our favorite Mr B moments & how much they'd miss him. I told them the message my friend relayed from his son, "At least we know he's not suffering anymore." And that's when it hit me - I've only ever known a broken Mr B, weighed down by the death of his wife, his go-to coping technique, & a very fractured body & mind. But the next time I see Mr B, he will be completely whole! He won't need a cane - though I'm sure he'll call it a staff just so that he can carry around a stick. He won't need shoes or a new pair of pants. And he won't need to cope with anything. I shared that with the kids & watched their sad faces change with the realization of the hope that brought.
Though gma's life was radically different from Mr B's, I knew I could share with them the same hope we found in October when we read some verses from Revelation - He's serving God in his temple, day & night. The sun isn't scorching him anymore & the heat doesn't beat down in him. He's not hungry. He's not thirsty. And God himself has once & for all wiped away all of Mr B's tears.
I'm going to miss Mr B but had I not taken the time to just sit & listen to him, I wouldn't even know his name, let alone his story. It's so easy for us to throw well meaning things, possessions, at people in hopes that we might fix what ails them. But all that stuff wears out or gets used up or lost. What doesn't wear out or get used up or lost is the time we spend just loving them. Mr B wasn't always an easy man to love, but then again, neither am I. Thankfully Jesus loves us both enough that we learned from Him how to love each other. Unconditionally.

This is Mr B. He had a name. Billy. But he also has a title - Son of The King.

A Mother's Day fable

Ya, ya, ya. So I wrote this blog about my mom on Mother's Day. Ever since then I've felt like this horrible hypocrite. Don't get me wrong, I meant every single word I said about my momma. It's just, well, it's just that that day was anything but a warm fuzzy day for me.
Aside from the giant hug from my own mom brought on by the salami cheese rolls, my Mother's Day was spent largely either in tears or on the verge of tears. The fact that there would be no trek across the field to gma's effected me more than I wanted to admit. She wasn't my mother but especially in those four months before she went Home, I morphed into this weird forth daughter kind of person. Mother's Day will never be quite the same without her. It just sucked. 
But that wasn't all that was amidst. My own children didn't seem to recognize that I deserved to be recognized that day. (Insert sarcasm here) Don't get me wrong, the instantaneous "Happy Mother's Day" from my oldest as we walked into the dollar store was welcomed but tempered with the fact that I had just mentioned it was Mother's Day. Ya, I was fishing for acknowledgement. So what? My middle guy apparently offered his own verbal version of accolades in the middle of me having to get on to him for something - a fact reported to me by my oldest so the jury is still out on the validity of the report. My youngest son? He didn't get any memos. Then there was my daughter.
Oh the lovely little pink Piggy - who had just days before in her anger thrown her soccer ball & beamed me, an innocent bystander, in the back of the head. In her anger, her stubborn side (which comes from her dad, I assure you) refused to let her apologize to me. One day. Two days. Three days passed. No apology. She walked in with this tiny bouquet of flowers from gma's yard, offered, "I'm sorry I hit you with my soccer ball. Happy Mother's Day." And there it was. My Mother's Day 2016. I know you're fabulously jealous.
Monday I spent the day fighting a horrible headache & celebrating at my pity party for one. No, really. The only thing missing was a white cake with buttercream icing. I played my music & cleaned the house so lovingly left a mess. I'm sure left that way ensuring I wouldn't get bored the day following such a fabulous outpouring of about me-ness. It sucked. Mother's Day sucks.
So this morning when my pitiful self woke up with a debilitating headache, I was sure that I'd be on my own again. When my prescription strength painkillers for my back did nothing to curb the pain, I quickly found myself on the bathroom floor, laying on my robe, trying not to expel the nothingness that was in my stomach. I cried. Surprised? I didn't think so.
When I finally made it back to the bed, a tiny face peered through the crack in the bedroom door. "Momma? Are you ok?" I motioned her to me. "I really need some water baby girl." That was it. Like a call to arms, my children, the ones who two days before failed my expectations, immediately sprung into action.
Throughout the day, there were cups of water, an offer for the thermometer, repeated trips taking out the trash & rebagging the can, peeps through the cracked door and silence. Wonderful, beautiful silence. In my stupor and fog, I had missed the tray of food they had prepared at some point - a granny smith apple cut & cored, a cinnamon bagel topped with cinnamon sugar butter they had made because we were out, a Monster and a beautiful pink carnation from Piggy's own recital bouquet with a note - We hope you feel better soon.
The gravity of what transpired today didn't hit me until the fog wore of this evening. No, my children did not set aside this one day out of the year where society & culture tell them they have to acknowledge & praise me for doing my job. What did happen was something far greater. In a time when I needed them most, they set aside themselves & served me all day long. Those acknowledgements & servants' hearts speak volumes louder than any "Happy Mother's Day" ever could. They demonstrated their love, they didn't just say it.
I like to think that all moms wonder - Are my kids ever going to "get it"? Unfortunately for me, today my kids demonstrated that not only do they get it but they get it even when I don't. It's not that they didn't love me on Mother's Day, it's that they continue loving me the other 364 days a year.

Mother's Day & the opening of a new chapter

Ever since October 31, momma & I have ridden to our early, no EARLY, Saturday morning Bible study meeting together. Having spent hours together everyday this fall, Saturday became our stay connected time. Some Saturdays we sat together, especially those first months. It was a necessity for both us. The strength provided in sitting in even the most loving of circles didn't compare to the strength I gained in her gentle hand on my back when we would sing "In Christ Alone" or a question would strike particularly close to home. As time moved on, God began to strengthen us enough that we could sit apart, even across the circle from one another at times. After all, there would always be the ride home.
But it was always more than just a simple ride home. To be completely honest, most Saturdays neither of us really needed anything from the grocery store, it was just an excuse to spend more time together alone. Without fail, every week we ended up at of all places, Walmart. I am my mother's daughter in that "shopping" means groceries and I'm perfectly ok with that.
When caring for Gma P moved to the next level, our time together had an extended purpose. Most Saturdays looked like a morning begun with singing & prayer, sharing & listening, followed by a trip to Walmart, Kroger & Gma P's. Breakfast at 5am wouldn't last until 3 or 4pm so a solution had to be found.
I picked up a package of these totally amazing, totally greasy, totally comfort food salami cheese wraps. Mom grabbed the equally healthy donuts or zingers. When we were done shopping & loading the car, she'd toss me the hand sanitizer & a napkin. I'd open our second breakfast while she put the shopping cart away. She'd talk. I'd listen. Then I would talk & she would listen. In the middle of all of the chaos of life, a new tradition, one meant for just the two of us, was born. There was no question in my mind this week as to what I would offer this amazing woman as a small, but extremely meaningful, gift on Mother's Day.
You see, tomorrow night is our last night of our Revelation Bible study. I won't miss the 430am incessant beeping that came from my alarm. But I will miss the ladies who carried us through this fall with their texts, emails & prayers. I will miss my seniors, especially since I won't be their leader next year. I will miss spending Saturday afternoons with momma & Gma P alone. Most of all though, I'll miss  spending practically all day with my momma. For those few short hours every week, I had her undivided attention & she had mine.
It was in those hours that such wisdom & kindness was spoken. There was a kindred bond made in knowing we were equally invested in the tasks the week would unfold before us. Schedules were synced & plans of attack made. In love. With grace.
So if you call one Saturday morning & can't get ahold of either of us, please don't panic. We're probably on a back porch somewhere, with our phones turned off, playing the cd that Gma hummed along with until she went to sleep, syncing our schedules, making plans of attack, enjoying our salami, cheese & donuts, and talking about Jesus. Because I don't care how old I get, I'll always need time alone with my momma. 

Because sometimes love is a pot of hot water

I guess Brian & I were like any typical teenage couple. We couldn't be together enough, couldn't be apart too long, couldn't wait to spend the rest of our lives together. Well, maybe that last one was just me. I jest. Maybe.
At any rate, the things we defined as love in our teens were different from the things we defined as love in our twenties were different from things we defined as love in our thirties and all those were even different from what we define as love now, as one of us has already begun their forties. Getting married so young meant literally growing older and growing up together if we really meant those words we said that day twenty-one years ago.
Love in our teens was very typical for young love. Lots of romance & gifts. Long calls on the long distance phone. (You'll have to look that one up kids....) Handwritten notes & cards. Boxes with trinkets commemorating our "anniversaries". Then, we got married.
Now, for those of you that know us now, you might be shocked to know that love in our twenties meant lots of fighting & just staying with it. Those first years together as husband and wife are years that I would never go back and live again. But they have made me, made us, who we are today. Gifts turned into packages of diapers. Dates turned into bill money. With alternating schedules, handwritten notes looked more like something a teacher would send home - "Today I really could have used your help but I know you'll try better next time. ♡" The heart meant to mask the dripping sarcasm & passive aggressive tone, of course. Baby one, baby two, baby three and even baby four arrived during that oh so fun time as arguments about money & "quality time" filled the air of the 1050sq ft home we made. Our thirties couldn't come fast enough.
By the time they arrived, patterns & routines had been established. We both realized either the money was there or it wasn't & the one person we fought with about it was the one person on the same team. We only had one year of diapers & sleepless nights left. We could do this! And so, we did. Gifts started re-emerging again but they looked a little different. Instead of flowers & chocolates, a crockpot was great! Forget the jewelry, I never wear it anyway. I want a vacuum cleaner that works please. You want to watch another football game? Ok. But the best gift of all? Who would take the first shower. Before we knew it was even happening, love went from something we were doing to something we simply were being. Being aware. Being available. Being second.
Now, as we've (almost) entered this new decade together, love again is different. Some days it is - Really, sports again? Other days it's a text with a picture of a penned on wedding ring and an "Oops, look what I forgot today." Gifts today are wonderful, cherished Symphony bars. Love looks like the trash taken to the end of the driveway or dinner actually ready when he gets home. Grooves & routine are just that. Habit. We are set. But then there are those moments when love goes above & beyond, taking me back to where it all began.
For me, this week, those moments have strung together. Steriod injections Monday warranted flowers & an early birthday card that made me cry when I got home that night. Tuesday it was the quality time I was given to recuperate by having the whole day off while he filled my homeschool mom shoes. With a storm Wednesday morning, we divided and conquered - Brian cooked dinner & I searched for flashlights, batteries, fans & other basic supplies. But we're (almost both) in our forties now. Thursday would be different.
I, thinking I was being the selfless one, sent him to gma's to take his shower. I would have a simple bath here, at our house, by warming pots of water outside on the burner. So selfless, right? But I watched as one stockpot, two stockpots, three stockpots, FOUR STOCKPOTS were warmed & carried for me to the bathtub. With temps in the high 70s & a humidity of 85%, the shower he had taken an hour before had been pointless. But there he was, not complaining a bit, even when the plug drained & he started all over again.
You see, sometimes love IS flowers & chocolates. Sometimes it's diapers & there's a whole lot of crying, from everyone. Sometimes it's in realizing you're on the same team & dividing to conquer. But sometimes, love looks like a pot of hot water. Gentle filled, lovingly poured out, refilled again & again.
There was nothing for him to gain from that constant pouring out other than the smile on my face. For me, it was the reminder that sometimes I think I'm being selfless but love is really about being poured out, over and over again. Even when I don't want to, even when it's uncomfortable, even when I think I've done my fair share. Love, true love, is always about being poured out.

Living a marathon life in a sprint paced world

The fact that I was laying in bed on a heating pad Tuesday evening at 630 probably did not surprise my husband a bit. The fact that I was staring at my phone with tears rolling down my face, again, probably did not surprise him either. But the words - I don't want to be me anymore - flashed a saddened look across his face. It wasn't that I didn't want to be me anymore. He knew the words that came out mouth were just a cover as I attempted to deal with the flood of emotions I was trying to suppress from the day. The pain from the day was just more than I could bare at that moment.
Seventeen years ago we made the somewhat unpopular decision for me to stay at home with our kiddos - well at least the one we had at the time. All worlds were rocked two years later when we announced that we would be a granola-eating, grain-grinding, cotton-weaving homeschool family. Ok, I jest. Although I really do like granola.
Perhaps one of the biggest lessons for me in this homeschooling journey has been to pace myself. When we first started, school looked a lot like I had plucked it out of its public school atmosphere & duplicated it at home. Teaching posters lined our kitchen & the crates of books, workbooks & worksheets probably cost us, globally, a small forest. There was a strict schedule outlined on the wall, complete with a clock mounted next to it. Now, before all my vet homeschool mommy friends pee on themselves in absolute hysterics, remember your first years. Remember that new-to-this-journey mom that you know & take her a cup of coffee today, ok?
At that to say, FOR MOST HOMESCHOOLERS, the sprint paced public school model either constantly drives them crazy or they succumb to a new way of life. Homeschooling children is no sprint. Most vet homeschool moms would tell you that attempting to duplicate what we've always understood education to look like just doesn't work in their world. And that's ok! I spent 13 years in the public school system, got an excellent education (at least well enough to homeschool my own children, right?) & do not think that homeschooling is the right education mode for all families. (Yes, I'm an oddball even in my granola eating world!)
But for us, the ability to homeschool our family has meant more than a simple academic education. It is a way of life. For us, it is a slllloooowwww way of life. And we've lived that way, not because we're just to lazy to be more involved (although......), but because we've been extremely intentional in our activities. With all of the opportunities out there for homeschoolers today, we could EASILY fill our schedule 6 days a week, 8 hours a day. That's just not who the Fosters are.
So when a friend texts me and asks me to visit at a time when her world has been stripped out from under her, academic education takes a backseat. When a young momma reaches out because she feels lost & forgotten in the middle of reading Treasure Island, I slip away & cry through the next few hours with her. When math & history & science were spread across every surface of the livingroom & kitchen table but gma just wanted to show us the hummingbirds, math, history & science stayed where they were as we slipped our boots on & headed out the back gate.
It's not that homeschooling is better, it's just different. And it's caused me to live differently.
Sprinters train by studying the technique of their individual strides, constantly trying to lengthen each pace & keep their posture straight so as not to lose their balance. Marathoners train by finding their lactic acid threshold & running at or near it for an hour or better so that their body builds a tolerance to the lactic acids their muscles are emitting. One isn't better than the other, they're just different and serve different purposes.
Every person in my family would tell you that the past three years now have been the most difficult marathon we've ever run together. There has been plenty of training as we joke about survival not being a lifestyle but a mode to get you through a time. There has been no time between situations to examine pacing techniques nor any desire to lengthen our steps.
This is our marathon. And with God as our trainer, we have been held at the threshold of what seems like "I can't take one more step" for a very long time. No, what we're going through isn't enjoyable. No, it's really not a comfort to hear you say, "It's such a blessing to see how faithful you guys are being." Honestly, we're tired. Each and every one of us is tired.
BUT when we look back & see the endurance that God has built in us over the past three years, we can all say - I'm not who I was. There's a strength there that wasn't before. There's a fortitude that only threshold training could build.
So as I continue to make conscious decisions about the busyness I allow into my life, I temper it with the ability to continue running at my threshold. No, I don't want to go shopping; I'd rather be available to sit at Chili's & cry with a friend for three hours. No, I don't want for my kids to be involved in more activities; I'd rather spend a couple of hours in the garden with them & my aunt everyday. No, I don't want to nail another schedule to the wall; I want to teach my kids how to run the marathon that will be their life, learning along the way. I want them to run with the Trainer we can trust as he pushes us past our limit so that our endurance in him can grow.
It's not that I don't want to be me. It's that sometimes "me" feels the burn of my muscles while my endurance grows. I'd much rather feel that burn though than forever stay the me that I am now.

You're done ladybug

This is actually a pre-blog writing I shared a year ago today. 

This past Saturday night I wanted my momma's advise on my Monday night lesson. Honestly, this isn't at all new - I frequently want my momma's advise and frequently I want it about my lesson. On the surface, there was really nothing new about what was going on. But really there was.
We live on a compound - well, l use "compound" loosely. With conjoining properties, gma, mom & dad, Brian & I and Jeff all live within "I need a roll of toilet paper now!!!" distance. I printed my lesson, slipped on my rubber boots, trekked through the lot next door, checked on our garden, and meandered my way to gma's house.
Now, to all of those people who are taken back by the idea that a 92yrs old woman lives by herself, I scoff. Why did I go to gma's? Because my momma & gma have a routine every Saturday night. Gma's not winning any marathons and honestly, her strength has decreased more than I would like to admit to myself over the past month but mom & gma's routine is for gma to be able to have a bath - as long as she wants - and to have her hair curled afterward. She's just not strong enough to do it all alone.
My plan was to have mom read my lesson and leave so that I wasn't in the way when gma got done. But the older I get, the more I realize, things don't always go the way that I have them planned in my head. Gma got done WAY earlier than I thought she would. So I sat at the kitchen table, wondering if I should leave. Then I heard my momma call me. She needed help with something that was just out of her reach. I handed it to her and resumed my place at the table, now waiting to see if there was anymore help that was needed. Another five minutes or so went by and then my gma called to me.
I walked into her room & stood at the end of her bed. All of the activity seemed to have taken the strength out of her. Over the next 30-45 minutes, I stood there in that room, soaking in EVERY SINGLE SECOND. The thought that one day it would be me on the floor, rubbing the lotion in on my momma's tired, frail feet & legs was almost too much to hold the tears back. "You're done ladybug," words that I will remember for a long time to come - even though they will mean nothing to anyone else. I watched in amazement as they had this whole routine down with the comb and the curlers and the bobbie pins. Momma knew right where every curler went. And gma remembered exactly which curlers had been a gift from my gpa. "Ok Ms Butt, you're done." I giggled at their silliness. Ms Butt, Ms Burt - ha!
It was only a silly bath & momma was only curling gma's hair like she's done every Saturday for the past year. But the humility that my gma has shown in loosing some of her independence is a testimony of her confidence in who she is. And she'll tell you - She's a child of The King.
And my momma. The gentleness and tenderness that I watched that evening - she wasn't rushed or hurried or just doing it because she had to. She was serving her momma just because she loves her. She was pouring out all of that grace and mercy on the same tired and weary feet that had carried her all those years ago.
So on a weekend when my own family had left me feeling overlooked and unappreciated, God again gave me a small glimpse of who he is....who I'm supposed to be. God is faithful and he is loving. Jesus demonstrated humility that goes beyond all human comprehension. He is gentle and he is tender. And this time, he used two of the women I hold most dear, and a bath, to show me.

The day I had to face it - I can't do everything

As much as I share things, as much as I try to see God at work in every situation so that I can share His goodness, there are still things that I keep ultra personal. A lot of it is I simply LOATHE being the center of attention so I don't draw any purposefully. Other times I just don't want to be treated differently or be reminded about what's going on.
This fall though, with the intensity life provided, the pain I've felt in my back, as far back as I could remember, became unbearable. I took handfuls of ibuprofen and naproxen on a regular basis. I wore Thermacare heat packs until my back was covered in blisters. I would have to take a few days off then start the cycle again. I slept on heating pads & even got a jack for the car so it could travel with me. The occasional numbness in my right thigh moved down my leg until it finally reached my toes & became constant. Life gave me no option to slow down at the time nor would I go back & change a single decision that I made.
Then momma tried to hug me one night. I recoiled because the blisters hadn't quite healed from the day before. My secret was exposed. She made me promise that night to make an appointment when "life settled down a bit". I went to the doctor in January and ended up at the neurosurgeon last week.
I was faced with the reality that the damage done to the discs in my back meant no more "just push through it", no more slap a heat pack on & get to it, no more mowing my yard, no more running. No more running. But all that news also meant that it wasn't just in my head, as most people with chronic pain fear. I've never had a doctor tell me that I don't take enough medicine. Then again, I've never had a doctor tell me, at only 39 years old, that I will have to have multiple discs in my back replaced in the foreseeable future. There was a lot to take in at that appointment. A lot that would need to be processed.
The kids' science fair is this weekend though so let's just get through it, right? No. Tomorrow morning I begin treatment, for what I thought was all in my head, with steriod injections to prepare for the next phase of treatment. I'm not afraid of the appointment or the procedure, I just don't have time for it. I don't have time to be down. I'm still trying to recuperate from all the time off we took this fall. Then you tell me that I can't sweep or vacuum anymore? I'm a stay at home mom, doc. Sweeping & vacuuming ARE my job. Cleaning, mowing & running are my healthy coping techniques. I felt lost. I feel lost. With everything else our family is facing, I'm barely hanging on.  
Enter a tiny ballerina. Pig's ballet class is early on Monday afternoons. I confess that because of the craziness that has been life lately, I drop her off & return to pick her up two hours later. I haven't actually seen her ballet routine this semester, nor had I heard the song until she jumped in the car following class.
"Momma, you have to hear what Ms Whitney chose to be our ballet song!" Before I go any further, Ms Whitney didn't know anything that was going on in our lives until that evening. She, nor my precious Piggy, knew how much I had been struggling that morning, holding back tears & whispering the conversation I was having with God - Please calm my heart. Please calm my heart. I'm so anxious & all these things.....I just need Your reassurance.
I listened as Pigs fumbled with my phone, trying to find the song on YouTube. She plugged my phone into the car's sound system and I listened as the piano began to play. I recognized the song, I've even blogged about it before. But it hadn't been where my heart went that morning.

Be still my soul
The Lord is on your side
Bear patiently the cross of grief or pain
Leave to thy God to order and provide
In everything, He faithful will remain.

Tears began to roll down my face as my whispers had a very tangible answer now. I sang along until I got to the bridge. This was a new version to me so I just listened.

In You I trust, In You I found my hope
In You I trust, You never let me go.
I place my life within Your hands alone.
Be still, my soul

Calm my heart. That was what I had whispered.  I'll never let you go. That was God's loving response.
The only way my whispers could have been answered more tangibly would have been for me to have seen the spiritual battle that was going on around me. The oppression. The depression. The lies.
Before the piano stopped playing, that ball in the pit of my stomach was gone. I felt like I had a little more breathing room. My situation hadn't changed at all. My limitations were still in place. I still face reality that the three things that calm me the most will no longer be the activities I can go to for solitude. My heart, my trust, my hope had been redirected by my head. But only temporarily. My head & hands felt lost, & they probably will for a while, but my heart had been refocused.  
Chronic pain is a rollercoaster. Those that suffer do so quietly for the most part. Why? Because complaining doesn't change their reality and sympathy doesn't help their situation. The physical pain is rivaled only by the emotional. Everyday is a battle as they want to, & think they should be able to, do everything. The battle that goes on within themselves is exhausting & most of the time they're on the verge of just giving up. Then the anxiety of giving up ties them in knots as they think about all they're not doing. Their level of self expectation is higher than any that is imposed on them.
The truth is NONE OF US, chronic pain or not, CAN DO EVERYTHING! In those moments when I'm threatened to be swallowed up by what I'm not doing, I have to trust that God will never let me go. My hope isn't found in all those tasks that are now off limits anyway. My hope is in the One who never changes. He has no limitations. He can take my rollercoaster days & still my soul. I have to leave it to Him to order my days & provide everything that I need - not everything that I want, but that I need to grow.

Even when my focus shifts, He is faithful to remain.