The Glorious Muddle
glimpses of grace in the messiness of life

March 19, 2018

Take Care as You Give Care

I spent my Spring Break week off work in a hospital room in a city an hour away. No, not as a patient. I didn’t experience any excruciating physical pain but I suffered the emotional stress of waiting and watching someone I love hurt. No question that the patient has the harder role, and I wouldn’t trade places with my husband for anything, but I’ve learned a few things in my intensive course in caregiving.

As you give care to others, you need to take some for yourself. Caregiver burnout is a very real thing, and there are practical ways to lessen the negative effect on yourself.

Photo by Daan Stevens on Unsplash

If you are a caregiver, you need to build a support system. You need other people to help you shoulder your load. When faced with traumatic stress, you may not know what, or who, you want. Before your situation becomes desperate, think about an answer you can give to people who offer their help.

Certain people are better suited for different tasks. Maybe you have a friend who gets overwhelmed by the idea of fixing a meal for your family, but she’d love to roll up her sleeves and help you clean. What are the tasks your loved one used to do that now fall on you? Or perhaps you just want to talk to a friend you can be real with.

If you truly want to help a caregiver, just show up and do something helpful. Don’t put the onus on them to tell you what they need.

That’s what my friends did for me this last week. They took care of me as I tried to take care of Steve. Two dear friends from my former life in Eastern Europe came quite a distance to sit with me in the hospital and wait through the long surgery. We talked about all kinds of things, laughed and even cried together. They lifted my spirits and reminded me that I’m not alone. If they’d asked me if I needed them to come, I would’ve said, “No, I’ll be fine. It’s too far.” So they didn’t ask. They showed up. They ministered to my soul.

As I gave care to Steve, the care offered to me surprised me. When we arrived back home, our wonderful neighbors showed up on our doorstep with meals and desserts. They didn’t ask; they just came. We both felt loved and uplifted by comments from friends around the world on Facebook and Instagram. They reminded us of God’s constant care. Many assured us of their prayers not only for Steve, but for me as well.

If you are a caregiver, you need to take time for yourself. You probably feel exhausted. You’re not sleeping well; you’re called on to be a nurse even if you have no aptitude or training for it; and you’re doing all your regular tasks plus the other person’s tasks. Taking care of your health isn’t selfish. If you don’t, you won’t have the strength and energy to care for your loved one. Walk, eat healthy meals, get fresh air, try to sleep.

Steve’s the morning person in our marriage. He’s the one who wakes up, alert and cheerful, makes breakfast, feeds the cats, and makes my latte before gently waking me up. (I know. Spoiled rotten.) I’ve never woken up cheerful in my life, but especially not after not sleeping most of the night listening to him moaning in pain and wondering if I need to call 911. When I do rise, I find my husband sitting patiently, waiting for me, and the cats outside on the porch doing backflips, not so patiently. In the long and painful weeks ahead of rehabilitation, we will all (human and animal) have to get used to our new normal.

I’ve learned the only way I can function is to steal whatever time I can to be alone. New moms learn to make the most of naptime to do whatever it takes to be recharged, and the same goes for all kinds of caregivers. Naptime is sacred for me, and thankfully, Steve takes frequent naps.

It’s best for me when my alone time isn’t totally alone. The only way I am restored is when I come, weary and burdened, to the One who gives me true rest for my soul, who exchanges my heavy yoke for his easy one. I like to pray Proverbs 11:25 for myself: “…whoever refreshes others will be refreshed.”

I’ve used the term “caregiver” but you might say “caretaker.” The dictionary says the two terms can be used interchangeably. However, there is a more nuanced distinction.

Caregivers give care to someone who can’t take care of themselves: babies, the elderly, the sick, or the disabled. That’s pretty straightforward, but it seems a caretaker should mean the exact opposite: the recipient of care. I give care but I also take it when it’s offered to me, so am I simultaneously a caregiver and a care-taker?

In the most common usage, caretakers take care of something, such as a building or an estate.

The life I started preparing for years ago, as a caregiver, is beginning to unfold. It’s the reason my husband and I moved to a more affordable town on the other side of the country, and settled my parents in the same town. So far, it’s been relatively easy with my semi-independent parents. But as they age, and their medical care increases, my role as caregiver becomes more defined.

I see God’s perfect timing for my decision last fall to switch to part-time work. In the last two weeks, each of my parents had outpatient procedures (in two different cities) before my husband’s major surgery in a third city. Between them, post-op appointments are set for weeks to come, some at the same time in different hospitals. Needless to say, I’m the designated driver, and I’m stretched thin.

Others have stepped in to help. They take care of me as I give care to my family.

Even the weather reflected God’s care of us. The day before Steve ‘s discharge was snowy and icy, and I didn’t relish driving my spinal patient husband straight down curvy mountain roads. By the time we did leave, the sun had melted all the snow.


March 8, 2018

The Impossibility of Being Set Free

Have you prayed for something for so long, with no answer, that you’ve begun to doubt that it’ll ever happen? You might even think it’s impossible.My husband and I, along with an army of people from our former church in California, have had such an ongoing request. Last night, we received news so wonderful that I can hardly believe it’s true. Our friend, who I’ve renamed Chester for his protection, is being paroled. He will be set free!Chester has served 24 years in California prisons for three crimes committed as a young man. He has spent his entire adult life behind bars. His crimes did not involve violence. He broke the law, for sure, and he needed to be held responsible. He stole about $136 worth of goods, swiping two $20 bills from an open cash register for his third strike crime. But 24 years?

Steve met with Chester often at San Quentin, and I got to know him at volunteer events. We both have been moved by his story. In prison, he was introduced to Jesus Christ and his life changed dramatically. Through years of disappointments and abuse, Chester has continually praised God, believing that he is free on the inside and that God is in control of his situation, even though he physically remained in bondage.

I have blogged about him several times in the past, and I even wrote my research paper for Rhetoric class on the Three Strikes Reform Law, using Chester as one of many examples. As a matter of fact, Chester’s story helped get the reform law passed, six years ago, but he continued to sit behind bars as others were released.

What kept him going? He had a purpose in life. He helped bring about change, and restore the law to its intended result:  to keep violent criminals off the streets. Ultimately, he trusted in God’s goodness, believing that He is bigger than the judicial process.

You intended to harm me, but God intended it for good to accomplish what is now being done, the saving of many lives. Genesis 50:2

In the process of my research, I discovered work being done by law students and professors at Stanford Law to get some of the nonviolent three-strikers, like Chester, released, people whose punishment far exceeded their crimes. We got Chester connected with them. I’d like to think that helped, but that was almost three years ago.

Finally, soon, he will be set free! We rejoice with our brother.

Our faith in God, that He can answer even impossible prayers, has just grown a bit. I’ve been reminded that nothing is impossible with God.


March 2, 2018

Go Directly to Jail

These words appeared on a letter I just received in the mail. No, not the bit about not passing Go or collecting $200. The “Go Directly to Jail” part.

A jury that’s not so grand

You see, I’m part of the Grand Jury, and every month, I get a new summons. We meet one day a month for a year, locked in a room with 18 of us, a room so small everyone has to stand up to let one person squeeze by on their way to the bathroom. Next week, we’ll meet earlier than normal to inspect the jail, and not in our regular room in the courthouse. Hence, the wording on my letter that took me back to Monopoly games of my youth.

I can’t talk about the cases I hear or they might not let me go home once I go to jail next week. That is, unless I turn in this card …

But I can say that I’m not like most who try desperately to get out of their civic duty. Juries need people who try to follow Christ, the one who is Truth and who perfectly blended justice and mercy. I’ve been selected to three juries in the past; one of them actually resulted in a trial that lasted a week. It was fascinating, and I left with greater faith in how our judicial system actually works.

However, grand juries aren’t as interesting as trial cases. We only hear one side–the prosecution’s side. We don’t weigh in on guilt or innocence, just whether there’s enough evidence to go to trial. We vote on whether it’s a “true bill.”  We’ve listened to as many as 70 cases before in one sitting, some minor but some the stuff of nightmares. Those cases still haunt me.

A crime that’s not so bad

Each time I go, I witness another crime that goes unreported and unprosecuted. The crime of butchering the English language. Things like “the truck was stole” and “he had a broke arm” accost my grammarphobic ears.

I remember Herb Caen of the San Francisco Chronicle who wanted to start a volunteer Apostrophe Posse to corral the offenders. We need Verb Vigilantes here.

Think I’m overreacting? Here’s a sample conversation from the first day I sat on the jury.

One of the jurors asked the officer why he searched a house.

“I had saw it was through,” he said.

“What do you mean?” I asked.

“It was through.”

“I’m sorry. I don’t understand.”

“I seen it.” His frustration starts to show.

“What did you see?”

“The contraband. It was through.”

“Do you mean it was finished?”

“No. The drugs was threw inside the house.”

True bill. I rest my case.

A transition that’s not so smooth

I go directly to jail on Monday. If I’m lucky enough to get released, on Monday evening, I will see another jail. This time, from the safety of a movie theater in a free country.

“Tortured for Christ” is the story of Richard Wurmbrand, tortured for 14 years in a Communist prison in Romania, because of his faith. He is one of my heroes. In the early 1990s, I saw people line up for blocks to meet him in the Christian bookstores he founded in Bucharest. I wish I’d jumped in line with them.

If this film comes to your local theater, please go to see it. I promise you’ll be inspired.

We received a free book (my third copy!) when we purchased tickets for the film. The copy to the left is an original edition.

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February 24, 2018

Good-Bye, Billy Graham

My home is sandwiched between Billy Graham’s homes. Today, I was present to witness the procession carrying his body from his adult home in Montreat to his childhood one in Charlotte, right past my small town. Right past people old and young, many too young to have known him in his vibrancy. Past people of all races who came to pay tribute to a life well-lived.

Along with hundreds who lined the route, I remembered my encounters with the humble man, pastor to presidents and the most famous preacher and evangelist of the 20th century. Billy Graham could frequently be seen on our television set when I was growing up. I’d flip through the small number of channels we had in those days, looking for something more interesting, and I’d skim by one of his crusades. It only took a few words of that commanding voice to hook me in to his simple message: Just as I am, I can come to Jesus. He never deviated from speaking about the gospel and the cross.

I heard him a few times in person. The first time was in 1972 in the Cotton Bowl in Dallas. My church’s youth group rented a bus and drove down from Maryland for Explo ’72, a weeklong training culminating with him and his good friend, Bill Bright, speaking to the crowd of 80,000 young people. I remember there was a downpour, but when Dr. Graham stood up, the sun broke through. I thought it was the rapture.

You probably read a quote that went viral hours after Billy Graham’s death.

Someday you will read or hear that Billy Graham is dead. Don’t you believe a word of it. I shall be more alive than I am now. I will just have changed my address. I will have gone into the presence of God.

It perfectly sums up his life, and Billy Graham did say it, but he isn’t the original author. He reworded the opening lines of The Autobiography of Dwight L. Moody, the most prominent preacher and evangelist of the 19th century. I think Moody would’ve been honored.

Some day you will read in the papers that D. L. Moody, of East Northfield, is dead. Don’t you believe a word of it! At that moment I shall be more alive than I am now. I shall have gone up higher, that is all; out of this old clay tenement into a house that is immortal—a body that death cannot touch; that sin cannot taint; a body fashioned like unto His glorious body.

Today, I think of Bill Bright’s homegoing celebration among the staff of Cru at their summer training. I missed that; I was no longer on staff. But I watched it online, crying along with everyone present as they shared memories of another humble man of God, another man who kept his message focused on Jesus. Another good and faithful servant who received his “Well-done!”

I think of the Sunday school class in Hollywood, California in the early 1950s. Participants included a dairy farmer from North Carolina named Billy Graham, a candy salesman from Oklahoma named Bill Bright, and many more who went on to influence their generation. You would expect the teacher to be someone of the caliber of D.L. Moody. Instead, these men (and women) who would soon start and lead world-changing movements were inspired by a school teacher, a single woman, whose name you may have never heard. Henrietta Mears.

God can use anyone. And he does.


February 7, 2018

What’s the big deal about Valentine’s Day?

You probably know that February 14 has something to do with a saint named Valentino. It’s not his birthday or the day he was sainted. February 14 is the anniversary of the day–about 1,750 years ago–that he was beheaded in Rome, martyred for his faith.

His life and death have nothing to do with romance or buying flowers and chocolates. His name doesn’t mean lover; it means brave, strong one.

Valentino’s legacy should be his courage to lay down his life and stand up for his beliefs.

So why do we give out valentines in his honor? Over the centuries, several unsubstantiated, and wildly different, storylines have circulated. One says that he signed a note to the jailer’s daughter, “Love, your Valentine.”  Hence, our tradition got started.

Just over half of all adult Americans will celebrate Valentine’s Day. They are projected to spend $19 billion, or $143 per consumer. The staggering amount of money and level of commercialism is sickening, but that’s not what’s on my mind.

I’m thinking about the nearly half of the population who will not celebrate. According to the latest census, 43% of Americans are single. Some of those unmarried people have someone special in their life who will buy them roses or chocolates. But many of them don’t.

What about them?

At the risk of being seen as a crusader against all invented holidays, I have to tell you a couple of things about me. First, I am always for the underdog, the misfit, the one left out. Second, when I got married in my forties, I vowed to never forget what it felt like to be single and excluded.

Valentine’s Day doesn’t seem to be as traumatic as Mother’s Day—the other target of my rants. On Mother’s Day, I see and hear and feel the deep pain of women who aren’t moms. What I observe on Valentine’s Day is more like irritation.

Maybe that’s because  the hurting ones haven’t found their voice.

I’ll never forget one Valentine’s Day overseas. My team, all married couples and me, had a planned social time, which just happened to fall on February 14. Each person took a turn sharing how they fell in love. It’s as if the people–my teammates and friends–who organized it didn’t consider my feelings at all. That stung.

To ward against loneliness which can easily spiral into depression, some singles band together and make their own Anti-Valentine’s Day fun. These parties can have a dark edge, with blacked-out hearts and wilted roses. But the idea of drawing toward others when you feel sad or alone is healthy.

Christ-followers should be the first to notice people hurting, and reach out to them. Churches are often so family-oriented that people alone can be overlooked. Invite single friends out for coffee or to your home for a meal, not out of pity, but to get to know them and include them.

If you are married to someone you love who’s good to you, count yourself fortunate. Love is a wonderful thing. You did nothing to deserve it. It’s a gift of God. His grace to you.

Most people didn’t choose to be single. There’s not something wrong with them that they’re being punished for. They may be grieving a death. Or they just experienced a break-up. Or, as in my case, they’re waiting for the right person, not willing to settle.

Let’s look out for them this Valentine’s Day.  Let’s be like the real Valentino this year.

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