Spring has come to Lincoln, Nebraska.

I delivered a breakfast burrito and coffee this morning to Tina for her birthday. I haven’t seen her in months, though we talk from time to time, so seeing her smile today lit up my heart. Through the passenger side window I sang happy birthday and we squeezed hands—followed by some hand cleaner, of course—and that was it. But I know from Livia’s birthday drive-by last week that right now a smile and a gift means a whole lot. I felt sad and happy all at once driving away.

But spring has come. And I almost missed it! I don’t have many reasons to travel far from home and, to be honest, I get a little panicky considering that I may need to use a bathroom when I’m across town and what then? That sounds dumb to the average person who doesn’t mind popping in a store or restaurant, but alas, I’m not average when it comes to my health and I have reasons to be extra careful and thoughtful right now. Today’s drive let the beauty of spring sink into my soul and it. was. delightful. It was cloudy and raining but I could still feel the trees gently growing over Lincoln’s roads, changing an open sky view to one layered in green. A red bud here and there caught my eye, and there are these little round, white globe-like flowers in shrubs every so often that look like small hydrangeas. Getting out felt glorious.

I found myself talking to God on my drive.

I thought of my pregnant friends and prayed for them. I thought of my friends with new little ones and I prayed for them. I considered a friend who is house-hunting and asked God for the right space for her family. I asked for healing for the grieving and provision for our leaders. I asked for wisdom for myself in coming days. It was like a dam had opened and the space between me and God was clear.

Why was God nearer to me when I was behind the wheel of my Nissan Altima? I considered this because it felt confusing.

God is near to me, always. He is the constant, and I am the variable. And boy is life full of variables right now.

I had a rhythm in my pre-coronavirus life—as did we all—and the rhythm was a pretty healthy one. Livia and I would pray for our days and ask for blessings from God on our drives to school. Only recently did I realize that I hadn’t prayed for my husband’s work in weeks and weeks because, well, because I wasn’t driving Liv to school! My mornings used to be filled with meeting with people, going to appointments, checking off to-do lists, or studying in preparation for bible studies or talks. Of course all of that has gone topsy-turvy now and I find myself with very little reason to drive around town, no ability to be around people, and my goals have changed entirely. I have the same amount of time in a day, only now I fill it with assisting my teen in school work and tending to our house.

So while God is near always, I have changed. But on top of that, I have felt lower—emotionally, mentally, spiritually—than I have in a long time, and I believe that’s due to my extroverted personality. This whole corona situation has been a giant struggle bus for me and though I keep posting memes and notes and talking to people, there’s not a lot that makes things better. Each day is hard, some harder than most. Being inside my house, with the same two (beautiful) people, with the walls staring at me all day long, it’s just not a good setup for me. I am now needing to pay more attention to my mental health, in addition to my physical health. If I don’t actually DO something to lighten up my spirit, I might not ever get out of bed.

This morning, a simple drive and goal elevated me. I’ve felt fairly lonely in my extroverted struggles, but there it is: a change of environment and a reason to get out the door did wonders for me. Not only was I encouraged to see the beauty of spring in Lincoln, but I felt God’s sweetness and closeness in a way that has eluded me for weeks.

I am so blessed with a safe home to stay in right now, and I feel grateful that I am not working outside the home at all. My days with Livia and Jeremy are good ones. But they’ve also been very hard. It’s okay to feel both of these truths all at once.

Nothing is normal. Lots of things are normal.

That’s the weirdness of our current situation, isn’t it?

I just told Livia that she could do school in bed. I percolated a giant pot of coffee, made her an iced coffee, and hand-delivered it to her bedside. Certain she was taking longer to wake up because today is a school day, I decided to sweeten the deal. You want to do school in bed? She was down for that, and is now tucked away into what seems like a claustrophobic situation to me: pink curtains pulled closed, dark room cluttered with, well, all her belongings scattered on the floor, shelves, and closet floor, with her Chromebook on her lap.

It seems to me that such concessions are exactly the way I want to be treated at this time. A drink made with love, an understanding of the way I feel joy, and goals padded with grace.

Earlier I sat on the back deck, cool breezes crossing my face, and I listened to birds singing. It’s been a struggle for me to open my bible right now, but today I had it open to Hebrews 11. I’d read a little about faith, then look up and watch the newly-sprouting leaves sway in the wind, watch robins hop around the yard, smile at preschoolers following their moms on the bike path. Has there ever been a time like this? The slow pace? The worry? The future spreading before us that seems confusing?

My pre-corona life was a tidier mix of goals + freedom and I liked it that way. It was like a well-made bed—something I love to study and re-create in my own life. I like tidy hospital corners (thanks to my nurse parents). I like a soft and fluffy comforter on top. I like neatly stacked pillows—with matching pillowcases—tucked against the headboard. And if a chunky hand-knit blanket lands on top of the whole thing, all the better. Purposeful. Welcoming. I like a well-made bed.

To carry on with the metaphor, coronavirus came on in and royally effed up my bed.

It’s like COVID-19 decided I could still have the bed frame, but the headboard would be replaced by the scratchy wall, stucco. And sure, the mattress is present but it’s haphazardly thrown onto the frame, and oh, here, you can use the old sheets, you know the ones used for drop cloths for painting, as your bedding. We’ll top it off with the picnic blanket from the trunk of the car—complete with some dog hair, grass from the last outing, and perhaps a tick or two for companionship. And here’s the flattest and most stained pillow you’ve forgotten in the back of your closet. No pillowcase. Now, get comfy and sleep!

That’s what coronavirus feels like to me. A scratchy, paint-marked, glass-clipping, slightly smelly bed. I can still lay down and I’m more than welcomed to sleep, but it’s not right, not normal.

The weird thing is that I really like listening to the birds. I’ve had time to watch clouds float past and to really cherish this season of winter changing to spring. With one kid almost 16, I’ve had some freedom to slow down and for that I’m grateful.

But I don’t like the bed I’ve been given.

Not one bit.

In a few weeks I’m teaching a passage of scripture to a group of women, and honestly, prepping for my time with them has been a joy. Not an easy joy. More like a hard-earned, thoughtful, considerate, butt-in-my-office-chair-for-hours kind of joy. It’s the kind of learning and re-learning, assessing my language choices, returning to sources and then double-checking my references type of thing. More simply: it’s teaching.

God bless the teachers. They need it. WE need it.

Teaching is an enormous privilege, and as I prepare for an hour’s worth of teaching on Hebrews 10, I’m reminded of the many ways God has brought me to this point. I think of my training to become an educator. How many hours of classwork was spent on pedagogy, childhood development, professionalism, and dreams of my future classrooms? Not a moment of that was wasted—though I kind of wish someone could’ve informed me that I’d head back to working in the church and not so much towards middle schools. I think of the many many learning experiences in biblical knowledge… from scripture memory as a kid, to training at Horn Creek camps in high school, from some profoundly important teaching at Covenant College to my courses at Covenant Seminary… it comes flooding back at the moment I need it.

I found myself on my hands and knees this morning, digging through a seminary notebook for just the right answer to fill a question I had in my mind. I didn’t find it, therefore there’s a gaping hole until I can scratch that particular itch. But even as this knowledge comes flowing back through my mind, I’m aware that at some point in this process I will have to put my pen down. Or really, I’ll have to step back from the keyboard. I’ll have to submit the discussion questions. I’ll have to quit editing, quit questioning whether I’ve prepared enough, quit imagining all the things that I won’t get to say and I’ll have to commit. I’ll have to trust I’ve done the work and I’ll have to relinquish all I have and all I do to the work of the Holy Spirit.

“Faith is being sure of what you hope for and certain of what you do not see.”

That’s my own translation of Hebrews 11:1 apparently. I haven’t seen the verse printed that way anywhere, but as a kid who grew up in the church and has spent her life there, this is the version that stuck. So there it is.

My hope is in Christ. I teach knowing that I am not enough to enlighten someone else’s mind, but the One who is will be at work. Throughout this process—and during each other time where I’m teaching God’s word—I trust all I do to the Holy Spirit. He alone has the power to enlighten, and he will be working perfectly where I’m working imperfectly. Having faith means taking a leap of sorts. It’s moving from a place of surety in one’s self to a place of surety in God and the work he is doing all the time. I’m trusting that “he who began a good work in you will be faithful to complete it” (Phil 1:6). To God be the glory.

I knew she wasn’t pursuing chemotherapy, but I prayed many times for miraculous healing. Due to my own issues, I was not particularly hopeful, but I asked God for it nonetheless. When her health took a turn for the worse I felt desperate to talk with her face-to-face. I couldn’t stand to ask questions without some nuance to my voice and without being able to look into her eyes. I finally found Karen near the front doors of church and grabbed her before she left the building. I can’t even recall exactly what I asked. It wasn’t, “so you’re going to die?!” But the understanding was the same: she was not pursuing treatment this time. I looked in her eyes and understood we were going to lose her.

I took my cues from Karen, and though I felt despondent over this news, I did not fall apart. She was not falling apart—she was living! The information sat sadly in my soul, however. This spark of a woman—not easily bowled over by life’s problems or problem people—wouldn’t last much longer.

Something strange happens with a terrible cancer diagnosis, a terrible cancer fight, and it’s that you have something of a deadline. Either the one bearing cancer will die or the cancer will die—only one emerges from the battle.

In our small group from church we’ve had two beloved women dealing with cancer at the same time. One was dealt a first-time diagnosis and the other, Karen, was facing it for the third time. We buckled down in our basement on Tuesday nights, never knowing whether the evening would bring tears, great fears, or simply deep sharing as usual. It was hard. There were nights that were difficult with an intensity I’ve rarely felt, nights where we prayed and cried and laid hands on each other and prayed again and carried these cancer fears to the Lord, not knowing what the outcome would be. At times it showed great bravery to even show up. And yet we still laughed downstairs on the comfy basement couches, with candles burning, hot coffee warming our hands. We prayed together. And in the midst of cancer, we rejoiced together too as we witnessed the pregnant, growing bellies of two of our number. New life emerged and we celebrated. Other lives struggled. And one life slowly began to be extinguished.

It was only at the very end that Karen’s great internal light diminished. That woman had one of the toughest, most tenacious spirits I’ve seen. She’s the greeter. The weeder of the garden. The drink maker and server. The one with suggestions and solutions. The one riding her bike to my house far south. The one working even as she grew sicker. The one climbing mountains with zero body fat. The one praying for her girls’ trip with her daughter. The one expressing devotion to her man, after all they’ve come through. She was a fire, burning bright and hot with boldness. And then she was no more.

Back when I finally looked in her eyes for understanding that her death was coming, I wanted to say something to her and never took the chance to do it. I wanted to tell her to wait for me. I wanted to let her know that I’d be coming after her and that I was a little nervous about death and would she wait and watch for me when I arrived in glory? I never asked. Never told her that I felt reassured knowing she’d be there with a smile when I showed up. It seemed silly because I understand the truth, and that is that the comfort of seeing Jesus will quell all anxieties that day. I won’t be nervous anymore. And yet, Karen. Karen will indeed be there, and I look forward to seeing her wink at me—just like the very last interaction I had with her—when I at last set foot in heaven.

Today she is free of cancer, sin, heartache, and tears and she stands in glory. I miss my sister but I will see her again. To God be the glory.

Note: this piece was written the evening of Karen’s memorial service in early November 2019. I sat on it for months before sharing it first with Kevin. I wanted his permission to share these thoughts publicly. I could’ve kept this to myself, but why? For what reason? No, instead I’ll post this as I miss my friend and I’ll enjoy remembering the special person she was. I’ve posted two images that feel so VERY Karen to me. First, she was always taking care of us at church events in a behind-the-scenes manner. You can’t even see her face, and she would’ve been fine with that. In the second shot she’s there, in this special group of women who truly loved one another, and she’s cheering on the bride-to-be. Again, a very Karen thing to do.

I am a fan of a good ballad song. I am a belter of show tunes. The louder, the better, in my opinion. The generation just behind me lovesloveloves their low-key music. They love it moody, soulful lyrics, with a giant dose of nonchalance and a whole lot of easy listening. MEL-LOW.

I am 1000% not that girl.

The other night—I can’t recall why exactly—I got started on 80’s ballads while I was doing dishes. I pulled out my cute bluetooth speaker, turned it up to 11, and serenaded the house—and probably the bike path along our backyard. By the time Jeremy’s D&D guys were arriving I was really into it. I was self-concious enough to control my moves, which were already mortifying my 15 year old, but I couldn’t stop/wouldn’t stop with the ballads. They were joy to my soul.

Zephaniah 3:17 has something to say about God’s love for us and I’m pretty sure it’s saying that God is jamming out over YOU with the passion of an 80’s rock ballad.

The LORD your God is in your midst,
a mighty one who will save;
he will rejoice over you with gladness;
he will quiet you by his love;
he will exult over you with loud singing.

Exult is a weird word. Thanks for that, ESV (English Standard Version, a translation of the bible). It means to be highly elated or jubilant. Think along the lines of the Huskers scoring a winning field goal or you getting that job or being at the best concert with the best friends. Lots of energy. Lots of joy. Lots of high fives.

But wait, there’s something here for the emo among us. If the thought of God 80’s-rock-ballading you is terrifying and unsettling, read the few lines ahead of that. God has GLADNESS for you. Over you. In you. He also stills your ever-moving, ever-wandering, ever-anxious soul. “He quiets you by his love.”

Not every moment is a Broadway-belter. In fact, those moments are rather rare, even for me. In between those times are miles and miles of indecision and confusion. And Zephaniah 3:17 is saying that the very God of the universe will save me. He actually rejoices over me. He quiets me. And yes, he looks at me and breaks out in song over his incredible love for me.

Do you believe that? Do I believe that? How would my world look different if I remembered that the God who created mountains and oceans and all the creatures in them, the planets and stars and all of the cosmos, also really really liked me a lot. He likes me more than my husband, more than my mom and dad, more than my best friend on the best day of our lives. He is here with me and saves me from my troubles. He is here with me and rejoices over me. He settles my heart and then riles it up again but with his profound love and EXUBERANCE over me.

What in the world? Truly, we Christians are either right or we’re absolutely crazy. There’s no in-between here. As for me and my house, we will serve the Lord.

I get a little weird every December. A bit itchy. Out of sorts. For sure seasonal depression is a giant contributor to my mood, but it doesn’t entirely explain why I feel like my soul is wearing ill-fitting, scratchy clothes. The month contains two rather large celebrations on the Tredway Family Calendar: my birthday and Jesus’s. And there are so many traditions—which I love—and lights and delicious foods and smells. It’s almost sensory overload, but most of the time I’m down for that kind of fun.

No, the weirdness is connected to the church and to the celebration of the Advent season. We spend a lot of time counting down the days until Jesus is born. Every year, every single year this is our tradition. I finally put my finger on the weirdness of it this year and it’s that we’re all pretending, to a certain degree. We are REMEMBERING something. Something big. Something earth-shattering and life-defining. The world was marked when God became man. Marked with a giant indelible marker, all creation shifted. My discomfort with the month is the same discomfort that kept leading my mind to considering Easter in the middle of the all the red and green plaid and the scent of evergreen. Christians, we live out Christmas and Easter EVERY SINGLE DAY.

The birth of God as a man is celebrated in our spirits every single day.

The death and resurrection of God as a man is celebrated within us every single day.

We are Christmas and Easter celebrants every time our lungs take a deep breath and every time we blink.

Perhaps this explains my December itchies. It all feels a little off to sing with gusto the Advent songs and then quit singing them on December 25, as though that day ends the party. It feels strange to light a candle of waiting, and another of joy, and yet another of peace, when truly, every day we might light a candle with those names as we mediate on who Jesus was and how his birth, death, and resurrection has perfectly covered our sins.

However I feel in December—which really doesn’t matter much—I don’t want to let go of the sweetness of Christmas or the devastation of Good Friday or the utter and complete joy of Resurrection Sunday. All those events are knocking around in my heart daily. Jesus is with me daily through his Spirit. I carry his birth, death, and resurrection in my spirit because, no matter what month is is, I believe that he is the Son of God and that his sacrifice gives me life. Life forever.

Do I think we should ditch a full month of anticipating the Christ child’s birth? Absolutely not. If anything, I’d advocate for Christians to become way better at remembering. We could probably use more traditions, more attention to the historic church calendar, more singing at the top of our lungs and more wrapping gifts to create memories for our children. If Christmas and Easter actually do live within us, life is worth celebrating indeed.

Diabetes takes up a certain percentage of my brain all the time. However, I’ve had type 1 diabetes for so long now that I have an auto pilot mode. I can be sitting in a group of friends, listening and laughing along with them, pricking my finger for a blood sugar while simultaneously counting carbs and making estimates regarding my activities for the next three hours. That’s what I do ALWAYS. I don’t get a break. I can’t ever stop thinking about what my blood sugar is doing and how food and exercise (yes, laundry is exercise too) will affect my being. So that’s my baseline, all that brain work.

But there are days when the baseline percentage doesn’t even come close to cutting it and then I find myself utterly distracted by diabetes care. Another way to rephrase it is that some days diabetes require much more of my focus.

Sunday was “change” day for my sensor (which usually lasts one week). I woke up, changed the site, and planned for a day of increased calibrations-—a little more attention paid to matching numbers from the sensor to my blood glucose. It also ended up being change day for the infusion set I typically wear in my abdomen. That little cannula delivers insulin from the pump to my fat layer and I have to rotate it every three days. I changed the infusion set around lunchtime and continued on my merry way—-diabetes present but not front and center—-until things went haywire that afternoon.

A really good Sunday afternoon involves coffee and random shopping with a beloved friend. If we can get this time we take it and we make every second count with laughter and conversation. If I could go back to Sunday I’d understand that my CGM, which was refusing to calibrate properly, was taking up a huge percentage of my brain power. At the time I acknowledged that something wasn’t working properly and pushed through our soul-refreshing time anyhow, but I didn’t fully realize how it cluttered my brain and pressed in on our fun time. Usually I can troubleshoot a diabetes issue and in a few hours normalcy will resume. This time I’m looking with more scrutiny and I can see that the last two days have a been a cluster and it affects me.

It’s Tuesday morning now and I feel like I have a minor version of the flu. My head aches. My body is so tired. I feel sluggish and out of sorts and frankly I think I will take a sick day. Because, since Sunday afternoon, nothing has been normal or routine about diabetes in my body. It’s been a bit since diabetes has thrown me this out of whack, but I’ll take in my present reality and remind myself with patience and grace that having a chronic health issue leads to days like this one.

So Sunday night was not really fun. No matter what I tried I couldn’t get my sensor to work properly. I’ve only been relying on a sensor for the past 11 months, so at that point I removed it and resigned myself to poking my fingers for the next 12 hours until I could put a new sensor on in the morning. (Sensor placement isn’t a nighttime activity unless you’re a T1 who doesn’t care about sleeping. Calibrations happen frequently the first 12 hours so you’d get awoken quite often.) The next morning was a brand new day and the new sensor worked and I was back in business. It wasn’t until lunchtime Monday that I questioned how long I had been fighting elevated blood sugars.

Back in business? Not really. My glucoses had been above normal since I changed my infusion set the day before. Again, troubleshooting time. Here’s what that looks like:

PMS elevates sugars. Is is that time of the month?
Stress elevates sugars. Did our weekend travel affect me?
Sickness elevates sugars. Am I coming down with something?
Bad insulin elevates sugars. Was my insulin in the sun while we were driving?
Poor infusion set placement elevates sugars. Did I place it in a scarred spot on my stomach?
Kinked infusion sets elevate sugars. Without x-ray vision I won’t know until I remove the set.

Ticking through that checklist I decided that I’d change my infusion set. It was high time to get those numbers down, I was starting to feel terrible. I didn’t think the insulin had gone bad—and insulin is like liquid gold these days, you don’t want to throw out a good vial—so I marked the box and put it back in the refrigerator to test on another day. I put another infusion set on my stomach, careful to try and get a good spot (which is a crapshoot, but oh well) and within a few hours? RELIEF. My numbers went from sky high to normal and remained there for hours throughout the evening.

Sounds good? Just wait.

My numbers around suppertime were so good and steady that I required very little insulin. Like almost none at times. Every so often the pump would give me the teeniest bit but I didn’t need more until… until I did. My daughter and I went out for pumpkin spice lattes on a cold and rainy night. I paid an exorbitant amount of money for the decaf coffees and a few snacks—and moments later realized they had given us grandes instead of talls. So basically we had vats of sugar. Normally this would elevate my glucoses but I could roll with it. What happened last night was that it completely shocked my system as I had no extra insulin on board.

Also—human error here—I forgot to bolus for the sugar I consumed.

An hour after I crawled in bed I had what I can only call “diabetic thirst.” It’s a thirst level that is unparalleled, unmatched, starvation-thirst. And it’s very familiar to me. I’ve deduced that having high glucoses makes me crave sweetness, too, so what I want in that moment isn’t water—it’s sugar free Powerade. Lucky for me I had picked up some that day (it’s a T1’s BFF on a sick day). I also had a near-crushing headache. Those two symptoms sent up an alert in my brain and I reached for my glucometer. 450. WHAT. I can’t even remember the last time I saw a number that high—it’s been awhile. And to have gone from an 80 glucose to 450 in such a brief amount of time? Well, that’s why I’m feeling like a train hit me today.

I did all the things on my checklist at that point and I did them quickly. Peed on a stick—yup, big ketones staring at me. Dosed a bunch of insulin to bring down the high and to cover what I had consumed. And then, didn’t want to do this one, but I rolled out of bed and began pacing the basement (to get the heart pumping, which will flush the ketones faster and get the insulin working right away) after filling Jeremy in on what my body was facing. He knows how to troubleshoot with me, and also knows how to keep me calm during these high ketone moments (which will send a T1 to the hospital pretty darn fast). I began pounding the sugar-free Powerade and—this is my latest top secret helper in ketone dilemmas—I took half a Xanax. I could write more about the role of meds in treating a chronic illness sufferer’s anxieties, but that would be a post all to itself. Another time perhaps.

After 60 minutes no ketones. Not a trace. I went from a high level of ketones building up in my body due to little insulin on board earlier, to successfully flushing them out. Exhausted I got back in bed and asked Jeremy to wake me in another hour to check my blood sugar. He did. And then he woke me again two hours later to check again. To go from perfect numbers to crazy high numbers—with a giant dose of insulin thrown in—often means one thing: you’ll drop low in the night. Since I don’t want to die and Jeremy still wants me around, having him check on me makes sense. My numbers came down beautifully in the night, but again I found myself in the low insulin swing this morning. This up and down of glucoses, of insulin, is what has left me wiped out. Say nothing of the lack of solid sleep.

Damn you, diabetes. You are a prickly SOB.

I look around me and am amazed that most of the world eats food and never thinks of carb counts. Most of the world can go for a run and not fear death on the other side of it. If I didn’t know better I’d be mad about all this, but here’s what I know: everyone has something hard. I see you guys going through cancer (and Liv and I prayed for you this morning on our school drive). I see y’all with the broken marriages and kids who are hurting inside. I see you guys with depression and you guys with anxiety and you guys with mental illnesses too many and too confusing to name. I see you in the quiet gatherings fighting addictions and I know it’s a daily, moment-by-moment fight as relentless as diabetes. I see you with the existential crises that feel weightier than health issues. I see you with the unfulfilled longings and the daily aches. And I see you, too, my fellow humans who are fighting chronic pain and disabilities you’ll never be free from this side of glory.

This is my story, but it’s not the only hard thing. It’s my hard thing—one of my hard things—and boy am I grateful that it’s not always this hard either. Now if you’ll excuse me I’m off to check my blood sugar and lay around like a slug.

I haven’t stopped looking at your Facebook and Instagram posts. Well, that’s not entirely true. I quit both platforms for almost two weeks and that felt hard. I am a person who is constantly seeking connections. My initial desire was to rid myself of extraneous information in order to live more fully in the 3D world. Instead of trying to get filled up by social media stories, I wanted to seek face-to-face interactions. And instead of creating art with parameters issued by Instagram, I wanted to see if words and pictures would float to the surface of my creative soul once more. I also wanted to move away from the FOMO (fear of missing out) and jealousy I felt when inevitably fun friendships and moments surfaced on your Instagram feeds. Was that too much to ask in a period of five weeks? What did I discover and why did my fasting period last only briefly?

That last question is answered by a broken washer and dryer. When our almost 20 year old washer wasn’t carrying out its duties properly, and then our refurbished dryer smelled like burning materials, we were done. Time for new equipment for our very non-handyman household. I researched and researched, but in the end I wanted to know what my friends and family’s experiences and recommendations were. So I turned to Facebook. As much as I love all of y’all out there, the vast feedback I received wasn’t all that helpful. (I’ll post an explanation on this below.) Breaking my social media fast almost meant I was fully back on board with online interactions as it takes a lot of willpower for me to stay away. BUT. My cousin Mark teased me by asking why I was online when I said I’d be off, and that little nugget of a challenge convinced me to go silent on the platforms again. Only, at that point I started reading whatever I wanted and only interacting on my type 1 diabetes support groups.

In the end, I did learn something incredibly timely about myself: I do not need to save the world.

That’s embarrassing to say out loud because, on one hand, I don’t believe I’m what everyone needs in order to be happy. On the other hand, I believe strongly in cheering on your successes, mourning your griefs, celebrating your birthdays, and rejoicing in your beautiful vacations. I LIKE ALL THAT. No, what I mean is that the sun doesn’t rise and set based on my attendance in your life. I missed more than a month of Facebook birthday celebrations and that was the hardest part of reading-but-not-participating.

My scrolling life, while still in play, changed as well. Without having dropped little comments on your queries for good pediatricians and without engaging in battles over what Christians should and shouldn’t do (on every topic under the sun, which is absolutely exhausting and at times utterly pointless), I wasn’t as invested in Facebook. I actually began to see Facebook as the dumpster fire it largely is. Aside from those moments of knowing a bit more about someone’s actual life, Facebook is a trainwreck.

I tend to be a sponge emotionally. It’s both my superpower and my likely undoing if I’m not mindful of protecting my mind and heart. I care a lot about people, and I’m calling Facebook—and heck, Instagram too, and definitely Twitter (which I backed out of because to me it feels like a punching match all. day. long)—dumpster fires. I’m the kind of empath who will check out everyone else’s posts and pet projects and terrifying new stories and I will soak that stuff up. I will not only weep over the deaths of children I know, but I will start carrying the grief of lost children in around the world. I want to not only fight the injustices of child welfare policies in my city or racial hatred taking place down the street, but I will be tempted to pick up the fight for every other injustice I read about. I’ll be brought to tears by the meals, childcare, lawn mowing and floor scrubbing of my phenomenal church family, but then I’ll also get verklempt by all the other stories friends are posting as well. In short, I’m not built to handle so much. My sponging tendencies mean that the world according to social media is far too much world for me.

When I halted my social media posting, I began to question why I posted certain things. I’ve maintained a blog since 2001; I’m no stranger to sharing my life publicly. The blog served (still serves actually) as a journal for me. It’s my own space on the world wide web where I can write whatever I want and post whatever images I like. There’s a freedom in that. As an extrovert and verbal processor, I could write quips on Facebook daily and I enjoy the interaction with friends. Life is funny and it’s fun to share that stuff! But do I need to? No. If the cost is my emotional wellbeing then it’s a resounding no. (Note: if you’re a dear friend and you’ve wondered why I’ve messaged you so many times in the past month, well, here’s your answer. Verbal processor here!) Also, why am I posting to Instagram? I am absolutely confident that a large percentage of my loved ones post to document their lives. However, if I’m being honest with myself, at times I’m posting to prove my worth:

I’m a good mom. See? We did fun stuff this summer.
I like cool things. See? We ate at this restaurant.
I hang out with really great people. See? We did this. And this. And this.
I have an awesome husband. See? He did this.
I have an awesome kid. See? She did this.

Bragging is not my only reason for posting. There are many times I post something my husband did because I’m incredibly grateful for his kindness, or the beauty of the flowers he picked out for me has stunned me. I like to post events with my daughter so I don’t forget them, and I do like to show the fun travels or adventures I’m having with people I love. That’s all fine! But I’d be lying if I acted like my motivations were pure all the time. And I’d also be lying if I pretended like I wasn’t hurt by the times where I’m not invited to the party or where my kid is not accomplishing what your kid is. I long to not be blown into heart spaces of less confidence or less joy, but there it is: sometimes social media illuminates the gross parts of my soul.

Reducing social media usage is wise. My guess is that it’s wise for all of us to pause and ask ourselves why we’re participating and what we’re giving up in the process. I have a phone in front of my face a lot because I can do a lot on this device. I use it for work—both paid and unpaid, for staying in touch, and for entertainment. But I also misuse it, and it detracts from my family life mostly. I am eager to be necessary and connected, but I find that my Facebook and Instagram usage ends up creating false importance and false connections. I am not going to pretend to have this all figured out—if anything, the waters are more muddied now than ever. For one thing, if I write something on my website and actually do want to share it with the world, how do I do that? Answer: by utilizing social media. I long for work and friendships with lasting meaning though, and I’m more than a little tired of scattering pieces of myself all over these platforms. Where do I dig in? With whom do I invest my heart and my friendship? Where do I expend my emotional energies? And how to I protect my mind, my family, and my time?

Before I write about laundry, I want to express that I’m talking about myself here. If sharing these thoughts compels you to apply a critical eye to your own social media usage, then that’s great. If you’re content with what you’re doing in life, that’s also great. I’m not questioning what you’re doing but I am questioning myself in order to make wiser choices in my days.

*******

Quick post script about washers and dryers. It’s true that older models are likely a lot longer lasting than the items on the market today that have digital components that are more complicated to fix. However, my older machines are dying and it’s no longer cost effective to pour money into them, especially when Jeremy and I are not skilled enough to repair them. I have been reading about Speed Queens for YEARS and they were top on my list until I discovered that the current models on sales floors aren’t so great. Go read about it yourself. You’ll also find that Speed Queens are tough on clothes and since absolutely no one in my house has a job in agriculture or landscaping, we don’t need a bruiser of a machine. Speed Queen devotees, I hear you, but seriously, read up on the models you can buy in stores today and make that call for yourself. I read review after review of machines and we finally pulled the trigger on Electroluxes after asking a multitude of questions at a local store with salespeople that know their stuff. One of the biggest reasons we went with these machines was that the doors were reversible. Our washer hookup is on the right, our dryer vent is on the left, and there was no way I was going to deal with battling doors every time I moved a load of laundry. Bad elbows and no hands means you consider these things. A huge shoutout to my girl Maralee whose advice was of chief importance here. (She also always remembers to protect my elbows in the name of longevity and I love her for it.) Maralee knew I’d need doors in the right places, and she also was emphatic that I get pedestals so the front-loading machines would be at a less back-breaking height. I’m only now beginning to take good care of my body, so Maralee, I love you for thinking this issue through with my needs in mind.

And that, friends, is the conclusion to my washer-dryer decisions. Now if you’ll excuse me, I need to throw some wet laundry into my new snazzy dryer.

I want to ask you questions and I want to share experiences, only I want to do it in bite-sized forms. I mean, it seems kind of silly to write a whole blog post about how Target’s remodel is throwing off my home-away-from-home shopping experience, and it also seems like petitioning you all regarding “your favorite song to dance and/or run to” won’t actually work from a blog post. You all don’t even know I’m writing this because blogs are—let’s face it–—exciting no longer and hardly anyone checks them. I’m not cut off from communication by any means, but it’s kind of fun to see what new music would be recommended from my childhood friends versus my uncles (who are rocking it at this Facebook thing, fyi).

If you’re reading this, leave a comment with some new music for me, and perhaps you can tell me what genre it is as well. Anything in the last 10 years is considered new to me. Please. Send help! My iTunes albums are a mess of things from college, Jeremy’s classic rock, soundtracks, and seminary classes. I also have old pastoral interviews from years ago when we were looking for a new pastor. Those stir up more than a few emotions when they come on while I’m washing dishes.

It’s crazy how music can affect our moods so greatly. Today I was cutting vegetables for a salad when Philip Philiip’s Gone, Gone, Gone came through my earbuds, and my heart instantly felt a crushing sensation. Tears slipped onto my cheeks as I remembered Livia, Jeremy and I dancing to this music with our two little boys, our foster children for a mere five weeks. These little guys were a really sore bruise on my soul for awhile until I ended up with some information about their family. The soreness has been relieved by knowing that they’re with their mom (that not knowing business is for the birds), but the rush of feelings came back strongly as I remembered how suddenly they left our home.

What happened to them was unfair, and that’s all I can conclude. Their mother was in conversations with caseworkers at the state and once they had enough evidence of neglect to present to a judge they were removed from her care. They lived with a couple who had no children, and no previous fostering experience, and moved to us as they had completely overwhelmed Foster Family #1. We were better prepared to care for two very little boys, and with much fear and trembling said yes to them staying with us. The five weeks here were filled with me learning the ropes of their daycare situation, us taking them to the doctor many times for a variety of illnesses, us getting sick as well, and lots of Dr. Seuss books and bath time games. I envisioned having them stay with us for around a year. They left us to return to mom after five weeks.

What did a preschooler and a toddler learn about life after two months away from their mother in two different homes? What did their mom learn in that time? Why did the judge agree to their removal and then only weeks later return them? I can’t understand it. I also can’t see the bigger picture. How does God see all this and what benefit was it to our hearts and to these sweet little boys’s hearts? Again, I do not know. What I do know is that it has changed me. It has changed me profoundly and I’m not the same woman I was before ___ and ___ came into my life. They have names. They were real and we really loved them. Through weekly prayers and our memories we love them still.

When life leaves you high and dry
I’ll be at your door tonight if you need help, if you need help
I’ll shut down the city lights,
I’ll lie, cheat, I’ll beg and bribe to make you well, to make you well
When enemies are at your door I’ll carry you way from more
If you need help, if you need help
Your hope dangling by a string
Ill share in your suffering to make you well, to make you well

So I would do it for you, for you
Baby I’m not moving on
I love you long after you’re gone
For you, for you
You would never sleep alone
I love you long after you’re gone
And long after you’re gone, gone, gone

**The Christmas-in-July photo shows the ornaments we hang on our tree every year to remember our little guys! We have other ornaments for our first and last foster babies and for the one miscarried Tredway in glory now.

I’m lost in the disorientation of summer time. The sun had been high and bright all day until I slipped under my covers to take a nap, and then the sun, too, slipped under its covers and out came a disorienting afternoon thunderstorm. The sun and I are both up and at ‘em once more, but time seems off-kilter. I move, often motivated by a checklist and a strong sense of duty, but in my shapeless afternoon the checklist seems insignificant. The hours slip by unnoticed, a book in my hand, sounds of music and typing coming from my husband’s office down the hall. My daughter, with her allowed once hour of television per day, has somehow expanded the hour and I can’t muster up concern. She’s two flights below me, engrossed in Star Trek Voyager and I don’t mind. Ah, lazy summer days. My body and brain are receiving a rest that was unasked for but embraced nonetheless.

The rest of today follows the pattern I’ve been feeling in the past several months, and I’ve described it as a lull in life, a “selah” from the Psalms if you will. I’m not sure that the word selah is completely understood, but some think it means to pause or to take a break. Like a little breath, if it’s truly a musical notation. I feel like I’m in a stage of life that is a little uptake of breath, a bit of calm, a period of pausing.

What happens when a duty-bound, responsible, checklist-making woman takes a breath?

I don’t know exactly, but here I am.

Will the world fall apart?
Will I miss out on opportunities?
Will I forget something or, and this is far worse, will someone forget me?
Will I be seen as lazy?
Will I forget to be goal-oriented?
Will I be more content?

Yes. I can answer that last one already. This selah is surrounded by space that breathes of contentedness. I have strived for decades to reach particular goals, and I’ve largely been good at it. So what happens if I’m not immediately in pursuit of something? Can I truly sit here and read a book and then get takeout for dinner and the world will keep spinning on its axis?

Yes to that question, too.

I don’t know how long this break will be, this space of breathing in and out and not always achieving. I don’t know its length but I do know it’s content. Right now it’s making dinner without feeling the pressure of an activity coming right after it. It’s hanging out with my animal-loving kid, carting her from pet-sitting to the zoo and back again. It’s talking with her, and talking with my husband, and watching tv shows together, again without any pressure of significant deadlines. It’s reading a book, finishing it, and picking up another one. It’s reading out loud. It’s listening to podcasts. It’s conversations with friends or family over an iced coffee or a last-minute run to Marshalls.

So for now I march to a different drumbeat that doesn’t feel like a beat at all. Bring on the summer sun, and let the days come.