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“Oh, I just love fall!” I said with a happy sigh, staring out the window at the falling leaves. In a high-pitched voice, one of my kids said, “I love fall!” and another one followed suit, “And winter, when the snow falls, I love winter!” and the third chimed in, right on cue, “And isn’t spring just wonderful?”
I have always suffered from severe anxiety. As a child, I would lose sleep over what others would think were insignificant details from the day. A questionable comment by an acquaintance or a difficult assignment in the days to come never failed to rob me of a good night’s rest.
If you ask my children what they had for breakfast on, say, the fourth Tuesday of August 2014, they’d quickly reply, “Bagels and smoothies!” It’s not because they have exceptional memories. It’s the result of everyday routines, or rhythms.
In a book club I was a part of recently, we bonded over how much we related to the central female protagonist, a woman turning twenty-five and experiencing an intense quarter-life-crisis. As everyone around her seemed to be transitioning into the next phase of their life goals, she felt like life was passing her by, lacking any direction, fulfillment, or purpose besides caring for her dog.
I first heard the story of David and Goliath (found in 1 Samuel 17) when I was a little girl in Sunday school. What stuck with me was the picture of courageous little David against a huge, nasty giant! Later, I learned the other details of the story.
Patience is not one of my virtues. In my mind’s eye, I imagine the desired outcome—an herb garden, a refinished piece of furniture, a perfectly organized closet. Once started, the true timeline becomes apparent, and in the cold onslaught of reality, my commitment wanes. Weeds sprout. Less than thorough sanding becomes good enough. And clothes no longer hang according to season and color.
I don’t want to sound preachy, girlfriends, but it’s time to retire the phrase, “I’m so busy” from your vocabulary. I’m a recovering workaholic myself, ever tempted to utter this ugly four-letter word, so I feel like I’m justified in this admonition.
I stared at my husband in disbelief. “But they reached out to you,” I said. “What do you mean you didn’t get the job?” Before he could respond, I grabbed my service dog’s vest and leash. “Callie, come,” I said. I didn’t want my husband to see me cry, but by the time we were halfway down our driveway my sobs caused severe muscle spasms in my back.
It was a Monday. Despite an enjoyable weekend that included enjoying his hobbies, attending church, and spending time with friends and one of our grown children, my husband was—in a word—deflated. He struggled to muster the energy for work. And he likes his work!