Roadside assist

A slipped disk, an urgent-care-level migraine, a job change for the first time in five years, plus four straight weekends of guests and/or travel - that was my month. How was yours?

If my wildest dreams are even slightly true and someone actually wonders what happened to my amusing yet inspiring posts on Sundays, now you know. They took a back seat on the cheese wagon that barely contained all the competing priorities of the past month. Not anymore. Today the bus is empty. There’s a West Coast Swing dance social in the second row, but she disembarks at 10pm. I don’t see Jason anywhere in my oversized rearview at the moment, but I suspect he took shelter under a bench. He hid out with the chewing gum. Maybe he’ll emerge if I firmly shut the folding doors. 

Enough of the metaphor. I don’t regret our choices. The relational investments we made were invaluable. The professional trajectory we changed will pay off. The physical impediments we faced (yes, both of us) were impossible to predict. So, I don’t regret our choices. My body does, though. So does my mind.

I’m worn out physically & mentally. The mental drain of increased demand under decreased capacity was immense. By the fourth weekend, my emotions were wrecked. God bless my husband because he managed a road trip to his in-laws (6 hours each way) with a wife crying to quit her job, sell the house, and live alone in the mountains. “Honey, that’s completely irrational; maybe you’re just tired” is what he didn’t say. These 25+ years are no accident.

The past month magnified a deep-seated feeling I live with every day - inadequacy. Most days, it’s a lie. Recently, it was true. I legitimately could not perform what needed to be done without help. A lot of it. I needed help lifting my legs to climb into bed without crumbling to the floor. I needed help meal prepping my lunches because raw chicken + nausea = pukeville. I needed help believing I could glean relevant themes from a 400 page government publication at work with my vision phasing in and out. Beyond all of that, I needed help with the most crucial, fundamental, core value I possess. Nurturing loved ones is what I do, it’s who I am, it’s why I care to get out of bed. Feeling inadequate to bear the emotional weight of my friends puts bearing the weight of my own body to shame. Chronic pain destroys both.

I sincerely hope you don’t have to know the soul-crushing truth of chronic illness. I hope you don’t have to feel its reality as the one suffering or as the one supporting. But I bet many of you do. If you don’t now, you probably will. So hear me when I say the worst part of it is feeling like a burden. The pain, whether physical or mental, is hard enough. Add to it the secondary effects of diminished capacity. Now add to that watching loved ones pick up the slack. The combination isn’t additive, though. It’s exponential.

That last operation is a doozie. So if you have chronic illness in your life as the sufferer or as the supporter, take a long look at the burden factor. Is it as high as you think it is? Does it need to be? Maybe supporters are happy to help. Perhaps they aren’t and they feel guilty about it. Maybe sufferers compound the burden with pride. Perhaps a humble “thank you” could cut it down. 

Caregiver fatigue is a vast & complex topic. These simplistic questions barely scratch the surface. I am fortunate to weigh down my family as the exception rather than the norm. This last month was very heavy. My yellow submarine of priorities got detoured down a dirt road of potholes. Thankfully, roadside assist came to fix my flat. It might be time to downsize to a Suburban. Jason certainly deserves a heated bucket seat.

You keep using that word

Inigo Montoia GIFfrom Inigo GIFs

Churchgoers, be honest. Doesn’t your mind start to wander during the songs that use the word holy a lot? I’m not talking about the 7-11 worship songs, the ones that repeat 7 words 11 times, although those also send my train of thought off the tracks. I’m talking about praise songs emphasizing the quality of God’s holiness. If they’re highly repetitive too, my mental grocery list grows in a hurry.

For me, worship is about slowing my thoughts to appreciate the voices around me expressing words we collectively believe. When I hear holy for the umpteenth time, I start to wonder “what does that even mean?” It must be important because not one, but two depictions of heaven in the Bible feature angels singing “Holy, holy, holy” around God’s throne. Not quite 7-11 but it’s on the way. If God’s holiness is so exceptional, so powerful that heaven declares it “day and night,” there must be more to it than “I’m better than you.”

Holy means “pure, separate, set apart,” which lacks luster at first glance. It’s a definition by negation - being holy is about NOT being something else. The Greek root hagios literally means “different.” Call me a heathen, but “different” doesn’t seem worth proclaiming in heaven for all eternity. Training my voice, ears, mind, & heart on “different” for an entire 3 minutes every other Sunday is…challenging. I must be missing something, something in addition to the basic Christian reverence I clearly lack.

Maybe what I lack is the frame of reference. Take pizza, for example. Pizza is undeniably good. But have you ever tasted pizza after a 6-week strict diet? That first bite is rapturous. So what is the basis for comparison from which God is different? I think we do it a disservice by making the basis 99% goodness compared to God’s 100%. Summa cum laude vs. magna cum laude hardly warrants cosmic worship, regardless of what universities say. 

I missed the basis of comparison Ephesians has to offer when I firstsped through its famous command about holiness in my studies -

Not very illuminating on its own. The verse suggests righteousness as a component of holiness, but there’s another $5 church word. It smacks of perfectionistic GPA obsession if taken alone. Zoom out from the verse, though, and the basis of comparison lies eons away from magna cum laude. 

So I tell you this, and insist on it in the Lord, that you must no longer live as the Gentiles do, in the futility of their thinking. They are darkened in their understanding and separated from the life of God because of the ignorance that is in them due to the hardening of their hearts. Having lost all sensitivity, they have given themselves over to sensuality so as to indulge in every kind of impurity, and they are full of greed. 

That, however, is not the way of life you learned when you heard about Christ and were taught in him in accordance with the truth that is in Jesus. You were taught, with regard to your former way of life, to put off your old self, which is being corrupted by its deceitful desires; to be made new in the attitude of your minds; and to put on the new self, created to be like God in true righteousness and holiness.” Ephesians‬ ‭4‬:‭17‬-‭24‬ ‭NIV‬‬

Futile thinking, dark understanding, hardened ignorance, insensitive indulgence, pervasive greed, deceitful corruption. We’re not talking about salutatorian here. Read further to learn what lies at the other end of the spectrum - truthful speech, healthy anger, honest work, selfless generosity, constructive words, complete kindness, total compassion, and humble forgiveness. The difference is not subtle.

I overuse the word “spectrum” in my writing, but the habit paid off this time. Spectrum is the perfect word here because its meaning derives from light, an attribute of God found throughout scripture - 

How much of the color spectrum can you see in total darkness? None. Zip, zilch. Were it not for God’s light, His holiness, we wouldn’t even know a spectrum exists. We would wander around in the dark harming ourselves and each other wondering why our natural inclinations cause so much pain and suffering. God switches the light on. He is the light! Thanks to His being different, we can see there is a difference. 

The notion of being lost in selfish darkness with no guiding light to follow is a horror. Like the thought of being buried alive beneath suffocating, shrinking blackness, it’s enough to make me tremble & sweat. God turns on the light. He is the light! He is holy. His difference inspires angels to declare it day & night. It has inspired artists of word, music, color, and shape through the ages. It inspires my voice to agree with others’ on a Sunday morning singing “holy, holy, holy is the Lord God Almighty.”

Confusion, chaos, & cold brew

There are two types of people in the world - measurers and tasters, those who make plans and those who ignore them. I am the first, and Jason is the second. There are people who detest chaos and people who thrive on it. I am the first; I try not to resent the second. Some of us get a thrill out of completing lists; others relish trashing their lists for something shiny & new. I am the first. My work requires the second. That’s a big problem for me.

I asked for blog suggestions last week, and a friend (thanks, Tammy!) gave me two: (1) constantly changing work environments and (2) good coffee. One of those is a source of deep angst in my life, the other of superficial appreciation. I’ll write about both!

It took me years, decades really, to learn that the “other type” of people, the tasters, aren’t inferior. They don’t need to be fixed or rescued. In fact, if a list gets boring enough, even hyper-planners like me can enjoy an interesting distraction. Any “two types of people” statement is either a joke or a lie. Change tolerance is a spectrum, not a binary state. So is attention to detail. My band in the spectrum feels right to me. The other bands feel wrong. Worse than wrong, they can seem outright cruel when it’s my well-formed plan they lob in the trash.

I crave stability & consistency because feeling lost & confused is scary, terrifying even. In my defense, it’s a survival instinct that generally serves species well.

 But as a a middle class American in the 21st century, my survival isn’t at stake when Lucy moves the football on me for the 50th time at work.

My reputation is at stake. My sense of competence is at stake. Maybe my actual competence is too. The way I react to difficulty when I’m scared & confused is…suboptimal. I can’t find the right words. I can’t reason through problems. I make more mistakes, and I have less patience. Then I look over to see all the “other types” who weren’t going to execute our real plan anyway just blithely pivot like there was never a football in the first place. See what I mean? Suboptimal.

The upside is I’ve been this way over four decades now, and I’m starting to figure out how to work with it. I practice 3 steps as I gaze at the sky after whiffing the ball thanks to a taster:

1 - Switch my perspective

Put myself in “their” shoes for a minute. Imagine they see a rigid, inflexible grump who wants it her way or no way at all. Realize that’s partially accurate. Wonder what makes them feel lost & confused. Maybe it’s executing an intricate plan laid out months ago, i.e., my specialty. Appreciate that it takes both types, the whole spectrum, to run a successful business. Applaud them for adapting to changing circumstances.

2 - Protect my peace 

I heard this phrase from a coworker, and it resonated in my bones. I Googled its origin and instantly put Protect Your Peace: Nine Unapologetic Principles for Thriving in a Chaotic World on my reading list to pick up after I finish The Let Them Theory. Not having read the book yet, I only have my response to those three little words to share. It’s simple - go where my gifts shine. I have a choice about the demands I’ll tolerate. There’s no law saying I must fulfill every role in every circumstance to be a good person. I made up that law for myself, and the Supreme Court of Carrie needs to strike it down.

3 - Stretch myself 

This follows #2 for a reason. Only AFTER I mentally advocate for my peace and well-being do I consider potential for growth. Could the changes I face lead to better outcomes? Do I have the resources to scale the cliff of incompetence and learn something new right now? If not, where can I get them? How can I reframe my confusion & fear as opportunity & adventure? A healthy degree of discomfort in life is good.

I will never let a post go by without pointing to Jesus. I believe Christ is the ultimate resource for both peace and growth (my #2 & #3) through change. He gave us the preeminent example of switching perspectives (my #1) by becoming one of us in flesh & blood. My Lord is never-changing but ever-interesting. Confusion & chaos are nothing to fear with him! Easier said than done, but I’m trying.

4 min you can’t get back

 

My Thursday - 

• Nervously awake in fear of missing early alarm
• See time of 4:45 and relish shot at another half hour of sleep
• Lie awake for 20 minutes
• Get up annoyed
• Find dusty to-go coffee cup on top shelf
• Start large K-cup brewing (with difficulty because coffee maker doesn’t seem to appreciate being awake yet either) & put on happy face for Jason even though it’s his fault we’re up at this ungodly hour
• Ask him if he’s nervous, tell him it’s a nothing burger, remind him not to swallow any toothpaste, & ask him to take out the trash for the last time in 6 weeks
• Reach for coffee but see no elixir of life in the tall morning chalice
• Mutter “I hate this stupid machine”
• Mash buttons
• Step aside as Jason mansplains “Just do this” and presses same 3 buttons I did the first time and every time for the past 5 years (plus one extra)
• Hear coffee start to drip
• Grit teeth
• Dam the torrent of sarcasm flooding my soul
• Say “thanks”
• Grab car keys & backpack loaded with Carrie-tainment for the day
• Savor sound of my IV drip that will soon parallel Jason’s
• Wonder if he might actually have some magic touch with our moody machine because its drip sounds more like a flow 
• See the coffee truly is flowing…over the edge of my cup all over the counter and floor
• Realize the first attempt did work after all, the cup was just too tall to see it
• Accept that we would be late to the surgery center

Jason laughed. I laughed. Well, I burned my fingers snatching away the tall cup to replace it with an empty one. Then I misjudged its height yet again as I moved it toward an empty bowl and knocked its bottom against the edge spilling hot liquid on my toes. At that point there was nothing left to do but laugh. Swear and then laugh.

Three days have passed since that fateful morning, and I haven’t had 60 seconds free to come back and write. I had aspirations of tying the jovial narrative to a meaningful insight by way of illustrating pain is relative. I had three supporting examples: (1) Jason’s post-op isn’t going at all like my coworker’s did after his shoulder repair. (2) My children’s favorite fight when they were little was whether “that hurt or not” after their silliness turned to madness and caused injury. (3) I wish I could just be happy like everyone else. Pain is relative. It was going to be an award winner.

Now it’s 5:30 PM on Sunday, I still have chores to do, the dogs make themselves sick eating figs every 2 hours outside, the fig tree is afraid Jesus might stop by, and I’m regretting my choice of hobby. Plus Jason is miserable. He can manage the pain with Tylenol and immobility, but he can’t sleep and the internet only lasted him until roughly 3:15 AM Friday. So, how am I going to turn this post into something you don’t resent for stealing 4 minutes of your valuable time?

I can’t. Here’s my feeble attempt - laugh at yourself. Be kind to yourself. Serve those around you when it’s convenient and when it’s not. I babysat some friends’ preschoolers yesterday while their family got moved to a new house, and I don’t regret it. My back does. This post does. But Jason & I have our priorities straight. Have a great week! I hope your 4 minutes with me were well spent.

Oldest child v. youngest child

Water cooler talk at work this week turned toward birth order. A bunch of software developers and data analysts gave free rein to their childhood baggage. Most topics with any potential for discord are off limits at work, but somehow “who has it better - oldest sibling or youngest sibling?” slipped past HR. It’s a spicy question!

“The youngest child gets to do whatever they want! Parents just give up on enforcing rules.”

“The oldest gets a big deal for all of their birthdays & milestones! The youngest gets an ice cream cone.”

“The baby of the family never really grows up! They forever wait to be taken care of.”

“The firstborn tries to be the parent! They always think they know what’s best for everyone.”

“Helloooo? Does anyone even care that some of us are middle children?? Of course not.”

It got heated. The other firstborn and myself fanned the flames because we were up against five baby-of-the-family nemeses, and the temptation was irresistible.

“Just look around. The oldest children are the team leads around here. What does that tell you?”

Fourth of July fireworks got nothing on the nerd explosion that followed. Lights and colors rained down in smoking arcs from lofted bombs of engineer outrage. It was beautiful.

To be honest, no one actually got offended. All the teasing fell just shy of real insult. I was surprised by the passion, though. The emotional response of boring engineers at 6am on a Tuesday was telling. People feel strongly about the claim they had it easy. I kept one tiny detail to myself throughout the melee - something I didn’t want the other camp to know and I hesitate even now to admit. The hoard of babies made great points.

My kids have had more time with their grandparents than my younger brother’s child has. That’s just a fact. I threw our daughter a private concert for her high school graduation, and for our son’s I got yard decorations. To be fair, she was (and is) a musician so renting an event hall and hiring a back-up guitarist wasn’t that extreme. And he graduated in 2020 at a time when we thought someone arriving in the night to stand up plywood letters in our lawn might actually kill us.  So it’s not exactly apples to apples. I carry serious mom-guilt over that one though.

I do tend to think I know what’s best for everyone. Frankly, you could strike through “I do tend to think” in that sentence and it would still hold. I do push for my ideal state to become reality. I do get frustrated when my altruistic plans meet obstacles, especially in the form of dissenting opinion from less aware or less invested parties. That means I spend most of my life frustrated.

But I’m not a control freak, dammit. I’m not! I only drive toward what I think is best because I want to protect the people around me. It hurts me when they get hurt. I feel their anger, their fear, their sadness, and I can’t shield myself from it because I’m a big sloppy empath. People share their problems with me. I feel their pain, and I try to prevent any more. That’s the pattern of an advocate not a control freak! Right? Right??

If you’re not convinced, don’t worry. I’m not either. You also need not worry I’ll unpack four decades of family dynamics in this 5-minute read. Well-meaning micro-management is nothing new, and there are countless verses & adages that speak to it. 

---

My emotional support water bottle

(If a bottle like this isn't familiar, you don't know enough Gen Z.)

I think I must be blogging wrong because friends reach out after my posts asking “Are you okay?” or saying “I’m here for you.” I tremendously appreciate it, of course (please don’t stop!!), but I also wonder how even my best attempts to be positive come off as a cry for help. My two favorite animated characters are 

1. Eeyore -  
   
   
   
2. Sadness - 
   
   
   

if that’s any kind of indicator. (Vintage Maleficent too, but we won’t go there.)  Okay also Lego Batman - 

I digress.

The point is I’m well aware of my pessimistic (or what I call ‘realistic’), perfectionistic (better known as ‘driven’) nature. Wish I could say I’m comfortable with it, but that would be a stretch. I can say I accept it, though. Sometimes.

An interesting part of being a melancholic is its osmotic nature. I take up or let out hope depending on my environment. Apologies for the biology metaphor, but I think hope being water fits on multiple levels. True of both, we can’t live without them. In their absence, the building blocks of life dry up and die. Like water, hope moves from high concentration to low, even through walls within us and between us. As water circulates nutrients through our bodies, hope carries sustenance to our souls.

Here’s a nerdy one. The transfer of chemical energy that keeps us alive here on Earth is a cycle of water splitting (photosynthesis) and reforming (cellular respiration) at the atomic level. In nature, each kingdom takes up more than it puts out of some chemical energy, and it yields more than it consumes of another. Other kingdoms do the reverse. Good ole water is one of the transport vehicles. If I squint really hard, I can see hope working the same way between individuals at different times & places.

So when I’m parched, admittedly too often, I look for a drink. I run my inner dowsing rod over the world’s barren wasteland of false hope hunting for God’s thirst-quenching stream. My interactions with friends, family, & coworkers provide the tap. I mentally replay preceding days and weeks sipping from acquaintances’ life stories - their hard-fought wins, their well-handled losses, their deliberate courage, their conquered fear. I soak it up.

I strive to fuel the cycle, not just draw from it. I share my own stories of courage & fear, wins & losses, aiming to offer at least a drip. So “am I  okay?” I mean, I think so? Am I “crying for help?” In a way, yes. I need your hydrating narrative in my life. When you can be Tigger or Joy or Unikitty, please do! I’ll do the same for you. 

On second thought, hope better resembles a nuclear reaction than a cellular one. Unlike water, it multiplies as it spreads. That’s what I need. That’s why I blog. 

Jesus answered, “Everyone who drinks this water will be thirsty again, but whoever drinks the water I give them will never thirst. Indeed, the water I give them will become in them a spring of water welling up to eternal life.” John 4:13-14

Grow Up Already

What’s the difference between a cluster of stylish, chattering women and a shiver of sharks? One travels in fierce, loyal packs that smell blood a mile away. The other lives in the ocean. 

Truth be told, that’s a hurtful stereotype. Ten shabby-chic ladies with San Pellegrino between almond-manicured fingers & beachy waves framing bronzed cheekbones may well open their toned, James Avery ringed arms to this dowdy engineer. I’m sure the fact that I regress to a sad, teenage pariah in their presence & drip jealousy all over their eco-friendly flats makes me the life of the party. What’s the statute of limitations on childhood rejection? Thirty years must be getting close.

After just such an encounter last weekend*, I gave my social distress a day to reach equilibrium and then I tried to put my meltdown into words.

• Me - “I desperately want to fit in with the popular girls. And I really, really don’t.”

• Son being more mature than his mom - “What do you mean by ‘popular girls’?”

• Me reeking of stale insecurity - “Beautiful people having fun & being fun in a big group. That’s just not my scene and I so wish it was. Like so extremely much.”

• Son doing his best to understand - “Okay. What exactly is your scene?”

• Me answering from pure anticipation - “Watching game 7 of the NBA finals with my family of course!”

• Son stating the logical deduction - “So you’d rather be with them than with us?”

• Me suddenly stumped - “Well…no. Of course not. That’s not…I don’t want to talk about this anymore!”

• Son seeking reason where none exists - “I’m really just trying to understand!” 

And that, my friends, is how you know the better parent raised your kids. (Jason also feels the same way in reverse, so it works out.)

Let’s conduct a little post-mortem here. I didn’t get outsmarted by my barely-legal-drinking-aged progeny. Not in the way it looks, anyway. I don’t want to trade one scene for another. I want to have all the scenes! I want to be everything, everywhere, all at once rather than the creature I am with inclinations and limitations. It’s a logical desire but an absurd expectation. To illustrate, here’s how the other half of the Kruppa Troopas processed my meltdown.

• Daughter - “Dad, do you ever feel out of place in social settings?”

• Jason - “Sure.”

• Daughter - “Does it bother you?”

• Jason - “No.”

End of story. God, what I wouldn’t give to be that man. Ack! See? I did it again! Envying something I’m not rather than valuing what I am, wanting everything when I have so much. (For real though, Jason’s tough not to envy.)

It reminds me of the narrative a prophet told King David after David took the wife of his loyal soldier and had the solder quietly killed when pregnancy ensued. The prophet Nathan told David there was a scandal in the community that needed his wise judgment. A rich man had needed to butcher a lamb for some guests but wouldn’t use any of his own. Instead he took the only lamb, a beloved family pet, from a poor man to feed the guests. Nathan asked David what should be done to this “rich man” given the cruel circumstances - 

David burned with anger against the man and said to Nathan, “As surely as the Lord lives, the man who did this must die! He must pay for that lamb four times over, because he did such a thing and had no pity.” 2 Samuel 12:5-6

Nathan promptly dunked on David with a resounding “You are the man!” (v.7). Then Nathan laid into Israel’s king for a solid two paragraphs of tongue lashing worth three millennia of preservation. Plus such a list of excruciating consequences that you actually start to feel sorry for David by the end. A little.

I’m not suggesting that introversion is like royal riches and extroversion just a solitary lamb, but I do see a similar conviction in Nathan’s story and mine. Not that social sensitivity is a king’s quality and compulsive confidence a poor man’s pet, but holding one while craving the other is patently ungrateful. 

So I’ll take the advice of Kruppa Troopas and biblical prophets alike, the wisdom of the ages and of Gen Z. I’ll apply the takeaways that I can’t help but see - (1) be myself and own it, (2) applaud others doing the same, (3) replace envy with gratitude, & (4) grow up already. I can do that.

* To be clear, the wonderful women last weekend did open their arms to me, and my meltdown was completely my fault. I was the shark not them, my mental comparison the blood in the water. 

(PS The eco-friendly flats in the pic are mine, as are the Crocs. I drink San Pellegrino and wear James Avery myself, but I’ll never understand the meaning of ‘shabby-chic.’ That and bronzer will forever remain a mystery to me.)