Posted in Faith, Health

I QUIT!

I quit something recently.  In fact, I quit two things.

And these weren’t just two small things.  They were two ginormous things that I had been doing for umpteen years.  Umpteen.

First of all, I loathe quitting.

I was that mom who never allowed my children to quit something they had committed to (like a sports season, those art lessons, their service project).

I am also a human German Shepherd, loyalty coursing through my veins.  Once something or someone makes its way into my heart and my life, I’m holding on tight.

I loathe quitting.

But quit I did.  Q-U-I-T.

And these weren’t just two unimportant things.  They were highly meaningful things that I had poured my heart into.  My time into.  Things that had breathed life into me.

Second of all, I needed to quit.

Even saying that out loud and penning it for the world to see makes my stomach a little bit swirly.

But I needed to take a big giant step outside my never-quit comfort zone and pull the quit trigger.

I needed to quit.

For my integrity.  Something even more important to me than my loyalty.
Because the time had come.
To put to death what was no longer giving me life (I’m still struggling writing that).

So in one week, I wrote some of the most difficult emails and made some of the hardest phone calls telling some of my most favorite people in the whole world that I quit.  I was done.

And these two ginormous and highly meaningful things ended just like that.  Just like that.

Third of all, it was awful.

I cried.  I cried more.  I talked to friends.  I met with a counselor.  I told God how sad I was.  And mad.  And that I couldn’t believe this was happening and that I was doing this.

I also reminded myself over and over and over again that making the right decision does not mean it’s easy.  Or happy.  It often is not.

It was awful.

It still is.

Especially now that the newness has worn off and I am left with the empty space that those two ginormous and highly meaningful things filled to the brim.

I still cry.  I still talk to friends about it.

I tell God that I’m never going to quit Him.  And that I’m incredibly grateful that He never ever ever ever ever is going to quit me.  We belong to each other no matter what else stops or ends or is over.

Last of all, it brought me space.  And room.

Space for quiet.  Room to listen to the whispers from the heart of God.

Space for what might breathe life into me.  And what I might breathe life into.
Room for my next right things, what I might miss if I stay my German Shepherd self.

It brought me space.  And room.

To breathe (as my online yoga instructor says, “lots of love in and lots of love out”).

BREATHE.

I have no idea what’s going to happen in the big picture.
I’m a little bit scared.

I’m just beginning to see glimmers of light ahead of me.
I’m a little bit hopeful.

But for now, I sit in this odd space between the definitive past and the murky future.  I like it here.

God is here with me.

That’s all I need to know for now.

Posted in Faith, Grief, Motherhood

What Kind of World Are My Kids Growing Up In?

What kind of a world are my kids growing up in?

The question that plagued me on that dreadful morning 20 years ago.

I had four little ones scampering around at the time, one toddler half-naked and being potty trained (we all remember exactly what was going on that morning, right?).

Is it a world filled with consuming hate?

ONLY and awful hate?

How would I tell them that their friend’s dad had been killed?

How would I shake my own fear of it happening again and this time it would be their dad who had worked in NYC for most of their young lives?

How? How? How?

How will they know love?

ONLY and wonderful love?

The love that casts out fear in the form of a firefighter saying “I’ve got you. Come with me”?

The love that wins in the end as yellow ribbons don every mailbox for miles and miles and miles for months and months and months?

Today, my big kids are still scampering around, albeit fully-clothed, and the world still often seems consumed with hate.

ONLY and awful hate?

But it’s not true.

It’s not ONLY.

Both hate and love exist, intertwined in all of our hearts.

Along with a million other parts.

Mine. And theirs.

All I have to do is look back at these 20 years to see all the ways hate and love (and a million other parts) have shown up as I’ve raised my fearsome foursome.

They’ve brought harm.
Pain. Heartache.

But also…

They’ve brought joy.
Healing. Hope.

What kind of world are my kids growing up in?

The question that plagued me for a lot longer than that dreadful morning and still does often.

The answer is simple. And also super complicated.

It’s the wonderful, messy, awful, sacred, hateful, loving, broken, brave, and still healing world.

It’s a world filled with us.

Every single one of us.

Posted in Faith, Health

What I’m Really Fighting For

INTEGRITY.

A word I have always used to describe my husband.

He’s even won awards at work for it.

Me.  Not so much.

I’m sneaky.

And I struggle to always tell the whole truth and nothing but the truth when it does not fit my “get ‘er done” mentality.

TRUE STORY AND CONFESSION:

My son’s health insurance needed to be cancelled and I called up and told the people on the other end of the line I was him and cancelled that baby on the spot.  They didn’t even, or probably weren’t allowed to, question my high voice and my masculine name not matching.  He gave me permission to do such a thing, but I didn’t really think long and hard about this little fib.  Not a good look for this Dolly Mama.  Not a lot of integrity for sure.  I kind of feel bad about it as I write this.

NOW BACK TO THE POINT.

My husband doesn’t tell little white lies or big whopper ones. He’s as honest as the day is long.

No wonder he’s won awards at work for integrity.

No wonder I trust him implicitly.

But did you know that honesty is not the same as integrity.  Yes, it’s a natural result of integrity, but it’s NOT integrity.

INTEGRITY is when we live according to our deepest values.

When our outsides match our insides.

When all the parts of us are working together in harmony (they are “integrated”) and not separated and fighting against each other.

When we are the SAME in our homes, in our church, in our neighborhood, in our activities, in our workplace, in our social media posts and in our time alone.

INTEGRITY.

A word I would like to use to describe myself.

Maybe even win awards for it some day.

Recently, the rubber has met the road.

I have not been living with integrity.

I believe and value one thing and then I live, work, spend and serve as if I value something completely different.

It’s been kind of awful.

I have been hiding.
I have been pretending.
I have been trying to please others.
I have been anxious.

It’s come to a head.

I can’t do it anymore.

But the pressure to continue to do so seems insurmountable.

Outright pressure.
Unspoken pressure.
Internal pressure.

So I am on the mission to fight for it with all my might.

Have all the parts of myself aligned and working with each other.

My inside and my outside.
My feelings and my actions.
My heart and my mind, my soul and my spirit.

What I’m really fighting for is me. The real real me. The me that God made and loves and cheers and delights in. The one that is an absolute beautiful mess.

So here’s my first step. Speaking out what I value.

It’s scary.
I am afraid of being judged.
I don’t want people to think ill of me.

All the normal-ish and crazy reasons I keep going down the lack-of-integrity slide.

So here goes.

Right now, in my life, these things are what I value most:

  1. Freedom (mostly the inside kind)
  2. Becoming my true self and helping others to do just that
  3. Living with and under radical grace
  4. Questions more than answers (a posture of constant learning even if it’s downright hair-raising)
  5. Allowing God to be Himself, and not who I’ve told myself He is (mostly to fit in with others)
  6. Living in the gray, nuanced, complicated, and messy and forgoing the black-and-white
  7. Eliminating hurry and scurry
  8. Being present to joy
  9. Telling others about the unconditional love of God AND deeply knowing it myself
  10. Becoming healed, whole and integrated (there’s that word)

Looking at this list, it seems easy, right?  NOT SO MUCH.

Because, I like to: 

  1. Stay safe.
  2. Protect myself.
  3. Judge others to make myself feel better.
  4. Have all the answers
  5. Tell God who He is.
  6. Live in the BLACK and WHITE.
  7. Hurry and scurry.
  8. Think about the past and the future (I spend most of my time there).
  9. See #5.
  10. Stay in the same, comfortable place I’ve always lived in.

I know it’s going to be a rough road ahead.

I have some big changes to make.

Both outside ones and inside ones.

I’m a wee bit terrified.
I’m also a whole lot excited.
I’m wondering what my next right step is.
I’m trusting God will show up as I take one. He always has.

And I’m beginning to see the INTEGRITY light at the end of the tunnel.

The one I might just get an award for.

Even if I have to give it to myself.

From my heart to yours.

P.S. Want to hear a funny story about my lack of integrity this week?

I’ve been on vacation and posting all the wonderful pictures of sand castles, family time, ice cream, and sunsets. Meanwhile, I’ve been riddled with an outbreak of horrendous poison ivy for most of the time, been miserable and staying in the air conditioning.  I only went to the beach once. So there you have it. Finally called the doctor today and got me some meds.  Never have I ever had poison ivy on my nose and a few other unmentionable places.  YIKES!  I don’t think the foraging for blackberries was worth it.

Posted in Childhood, Family, Grief, Motherhood, Thanks

Two Spoons

I could see that she was holding back tears as she walked down the steps of the school bus and into the passenger seat of our family minivan.

The words came tumbling out like a waterfall, “He broke up with me at lunch.”

My heart sank as I watched her body curl into a ball and her head flush against the window, tears flowing freely now.

“Oh honey. I’m so sorry. I know how much you liked him.”

I laid my hand on her arm for a moment and she wrapped herself further into a ball. Silence ensued for the rest of our drive home.

She bolted into the house and to her room, shutting the door. I followed her up the stairs, and as I rested my head on her closed door, I could barely make out muffled sobs.

My heart sank even more. My girl was hurting. And no matter what I did or said in that moment, it probably wouldn’t help at all. She was suffering the normal heartbreak that comes with first kisses, first crushes and first rejections.

I would just let her be for now, alone with her own heart and all the feelings that were new and confusing and downright difficult. It was the best and only thing I knew to do. It seemed to be what she wanted and needed the most.

I meandered to the kitchen, not sure what to do with myself. I wanted to run right back upstairs and wipe her tears away with a kiss, a hug, an emotional bandaid, an “I love you” or one of the other many mom tricks I had up my sleeve. Not this time. Instead, all I could do was pray (and I sure did) and feel awkward and start to make dinner.

Time seemed to march ever so slowly that afternoon, normal when pain is loud for us or someone we love. Time feels achingly long and almost cruel. Why can’t it pass quickly so that we are on the other side of loss and grief and back to our hopeful selves?

How I wished that for her that insufferable day.

Right before dinner, there was a knock at our front door. Odd at that time of day.

I glanced through the window and right in front of my own teary eyes, one of my daughter’s best friends was anxiously standing there, carrying two spoons and a huge container of my girl’s favorite ice cream flavor.

I opened the door, gave her a quick, thankful hug and whispered, “She’s up in her room.”

I heard another knock, footsteps, a door open and then shut again.

Talk about strange and hard for my mama self, yet somehow wonderful and what I hoped for all at the same time.

What I couldn’t do anymore as a mom (as much as I desperately wanted to), her friend was able to do. Listen. Relate. Comfort. Eat ice cream out of the container right before dinner.

All so normal for that season of her life.

I kept milling around the kitchen, gratitude welling up inside of me for this friendship that my daughter had.

The kind that goes to the grocery store instead of her dance practice.

The kind that shows up instead of stays away.

The kind that hangs out with the tears instead of just the laughs.

I heard the front door close and a car pull away.

In what seemed like only a few moments, her friend was gone again, just like that.

Had it been enough for that very miserable afternoon?

I wondered what would happen next.

Only moments went by when I heard the familiar creaking of my girl’s door opening and loud footsteps down the stairs.

She bounded into the kitchen, hair a mess, eyes all puffy, but the next words out of her mouth were priceless.

“I’m going to be okay, Mom, even if I’m not right now.”

She threw her arms around me and we hugged for a long time and as I held her close, I knew deep inside that it had all been enough.

“What’s for dinner?” she quietly asked.

As we unwrapped ourselves, I whispered one last thing into her ear, “I made your favorite.”

Posted in Faith, Health

Huge and Lopsided

It’s raining today.

The tree stands there.

The huge, lopsided evergreen tree stands tall outside my window.

I stare and gaze and am lost in a myriad of thoughts about this tree that is the always-green focal point of our back yard.

How does it feel to be a tree, doing nothing all day?

When we moved here, I had visions of this tree.  It was perfectly-shaped.  I made mental plans to put lights on it as soon as the darkness of the time change came upon us, a symbol of beauty and hope in the middle of the black and cold of winter.

But the stress of the move pushed the thought to the side and “naked as a jaybird” is the way the tree stayed.

One morning, I woke to the sound of crackling and crashing.  An ice storm had come through in the middle of the night.  Branches were sagging under the weight of the thick, sparkling crystals, many snapping and plunging to the ground.

This tree was no different, looking haggard and strong all at once, the watery frozen glaze enveloping every needle and branch.

I turned my back for a moment when I heard a snap, crackle and pop.  A huge branch from an even-taller-and-more-mighty tree had come tumbling down, side-swiping and decimating some branches on this perfectly-formed tree.

I stood there, my heart breaking just a smidge for this tree and for me.

My silly, important plans, and hopes and dreams for this flawless evergreen.
Gone just like that.

Perfection wiped away in a flash.

It’s raining today.

The tree still stands there.

The huge, lopsided tree stands tall outside my window.

It does nothing all day. So it seems.

But is this the truth? No it’s not.

It’s drinking and growing and reminding and teaching.

Teaching wise truths to little old me.

That…

Drinking deeply from the good soil, the soil of a Loving Gardener, gives me strength.

Growing doesn’t only happen when it’s sunshiny and happy, but also when it’s stormy and weighty.

I may be lopsided and have scars (even forever), but I am still full of life, both inside and out.

Perfection isn’t the key to beauty.  Being myself is.  Others can still play in my branches no matter what.

I don’t need “extra” twinkly lights to be a symbol of beauty and hope.  I already am.

This tree.  This tree outside my window.

She’s you and she’s me.

Posted in Celebration, Faith, Family

Is it wrong?

I fight a silly battle in the weird places in my head.

Something in me feels like it’s kind of wrong to have pleasure. Or JOY.

It plays out in normal and odd places.

Eating a brownie with ice cream (guilt staring me in the face).

Watching my kids enjoy each other’s company (thoughts careening through my head, “What about all the moms whose kids aren’t even speaking to each other?”).

Having the rest I need (accompanied by the niggling feeling that I should be working. ALL. THE. TIME.)

Getting flowers from a friend for no reason (when people live in squalor and alone).

Why is it fair that I have JOY?

It’s a battle that rages inside of me.

I try to make peace with those voices in normal and odd ways.

Reminding myself that my life isn’t a bed of roses all the time.

Wondering how much is too much pleasure and too much pain. Have I had enough of both?

Riding the merry-go-round of indulging and restraining and balancing and being thrown off the whole crazy ride.

Writing posts to figure it all out. Is it wrong to have pleasure? Sheer, unbridled pleasure? How much? How often?

Once upon a time, I read a book called the Celebration of Discipline. It talked about fasting and prayer and meditation and worship and all those very holy practices that guide us to a healthy spiritual life.

I am all good with that. DISCIPLINE. Hard stuff. “No pain, no gain” material. Somehow, it feels right.

But the last chapter did me in. It’s titled, “The Discipline of Celebration.”

What? What is that?

Easy stuff? Celebration? Joy? No pain period. Is this even allowed? And a spiritual discipline at that?

I guess it must be. It has to be.

Why else would God make laughter and singing birds and flowers and kisses and friendship and tickle fights and waterfalls and rainbows?

It’s seems like pretty big deal in this life.

Even Jesus talked about it and lived it.

He didn’t stop the woman from breaking open her whole bottle of perfume and pouring it all over his feet. Lavishly pouring it. NO SKIMPING. AT ALL.

He made it the very point of the whole story about the Prodigal Son. Kill the fattened calf. Rings on hands. Best robes. Big parties. FEASTING. Redemption.

He healed people and they thanked and praised Him and He straight-up received it with gladness of heart.

In the end, He told His friends that He wanted His JOY to be in them and for them to have it to the FULL. Not just a little. But a whole bunch of JOY.

This isn’t the easiest for me.

I wish it were.

But I’m working on it. One normal and odd step at a time.

I have to. I’m reminded every time I sign something.

JOY.

It’s my middle name after all.

By the way…

I took a huge step just the other day.

Check out my sheer delight in NOT tipping over.

Posted in Anxiety, Celebration, Faith

An Oral Burst of Hope

When I hear out-of-my-control things on the news or from a friend or family member, or experience them in my own life, I barrel quickly toward fear and anxiety.

All the “what-if” thoughts careen into my head and heart.

Depending on the day….

I run the other way and pretend it doesn’t exist.
I get angry and try to come up with a plan to fix it.
I just take a nap or watch mind-numbing television.
I become completely paralyzed, staring out the window, unable to do anything.

Super rarely I…

STOP
breathe
pour out my heart
connect with God

what I actually might need more.

Not too long ago, one of these “doozies” reared its ugly head.

It was something with one of my kids.

It kept coming up over and over and no matter what I tried, the problem just wasn’t getting fixed or even getting pushed in the right direction.

It was NOT for lack of effort on my part.

I had tried my usual…

fleeing
fighting
fainting
freezing

along with better tools like…

counseling
talking with friends
prayer
you-name-it.

One night
in the dark
on my knees
tears pouring out
making one last-ditch effort telling God I was super serious this time,

the word “Hosanna” flooded my mind and also my mouth.

I wasn’t sure why.

I had to check it out.

What did this word that I had heard so often in my churchy life even mean?

Thanks to ever-helpful Google, I found that “HOSANNA” was originally an appeal for deliverance, a cry that shouted

PLEASE SAVE!!
PLEASE SAVE!!

Over time, it developed into an expression of

joy and praise for deliverance
that was anticipated and WOULD be granted,

an oral burst of HOPE in God, an “anchor for your soul” kind of HOPE.

Being the “doer” that I am, I came up with a “Hosanna List,” that “doozie” being at the very top.

I keep adding other (lots of other)…

completely-out-of-my-control
hopeless
desperate-feeling
only God-can-fix-this

things.

I only have one word for them:“HOSANNA.”

PLEASE SAVE!
PLEASE SAVE!

I would imagine you have your own “Hosanna list.”

If it’s not written down, it’s swirling around in your head.

Take courage, my friend.

We have a God who not only CAN SAVE, but WANTS TO VERY MUCH!

It’s HIS JOB.
It’s HIS WILL.

There’s nothing too small or too great!
There really is great hope!

HOSANNA!
PLEASE SAVE!

Posted in Anxiety, Family, Health, Motherhood

the craziest, bravest, most out-of-the-box thing

There was this mom who had four kids not in diapers, but not quite teenagers yet.
One early summer day, her left leg collapsed.
 
After one bajillion tests for all the things related to left legs collapsing, the doctors were flummoxed.
 
In the meantime, this mom of four kids, during all the thousands of tests, freaked out on the inside.
She was sure she was going to die.
 
She was sure she was going to leave her four kids without a mom.
 
Her brain took her to places that she’d never even knew existed before.
 
Scary, fear-mongering, awful awful places.
 
She could barely get out of bed.
Her four kids ate the “snack that smiles back” for breakfast.
They did NOT do their summer transition homework.
She felt like she was watching her life from a blurry distance.
 
Her husband didn’t know what to do to help her.
 
One late summer day, she mustered up some gumption and went back to the doctor.
 
“What is wrong with me?” she begged while sitting on the crinkly, sweaty paper.
 
The doctor told her words she had never wanted to hear and thought she would never hear. “I think this is a simple nervous breakdown and some serious anxiety.”
 
She did not like that answer. It was the worst. She was strong. She was capable. She was smart. She had her “ducks” and her kids in a row.
 
But she felt weak. And unable to cope. And helpless. And her ducks and her kids were not even in the same area anymore, much less in a row.
 
One day in the early fall, this mom of four kids did the craziest, bravest, most out-of-the-box thing she had never ever done before.
 
She got help.
 
Did you hear me???
 
She got help.
 
This help-everyone-else, never-need-help mom GOT HELP!!
 
She nervously picked up her phone and dialed a strange number given to her by a friend. She said words she never thought she would say.
 
“Hello. I have four kids. I am not okay. I need help.”
 
The kind and gentle voice on the other side of the phone uttered,
“That’s what I’m here for. When do you want to come in and talk?”
 
One day lots and lots of weeks (maybe even months) later, after lots and lots of talking and learning and her sweet husband praying his guts out (because she was having a hard time there), and also getting some meds (imagine that), this mom of four kids began to heal from things she didn’t even know were broken and she began to actually live inside her beautiful and messy mom life again.
 
For lots of more years, she kept talking and getting help and, one day sitting in a grocery store parking lot, she realized it was not the worst thing that had ever happened to her.
 
In fact, it was the best.
 
P.S. She still gets help when she needs it.
Posted in Celebration, Faith, Family, Grief, Thanks

The Gifts of the Darkness

“What gifts?”

A question I have asked myself over and over and over again this week as I settled my mind on “springing ahead,” even the clock speaking of the hope of longer daylight and warmer spirits.

“What gifts came as a result of the darkness of this year of all years?”

I am usually someone who rushes over the grief and wants to spring right to positivity and happy things. I like that. I’m definitely a “spring-forward” girl.

But I am learning that it does NOT work. I can’t just rush to JOY. Nor should I.

So when that question came, I paused. I really paused.

First, I need to speak of the darkness.
Of the soul.
Of the cocoony, wintery, messy, middle-of-the-muck-and-mire-stuff.
Of the death of life as I knew it almost exactly a year ago.
Of all the loss in every facet of society and in my little world.

Losing friends to this monster (youngish ones).
Not having family reunions on both sides.
Isolation and disconnection.
The tearing away of peace of mind.
All the complicated choices to see people safely.
The sheer exhaustion from the stress.
Judgment from everywhere, even my own, about all. the. things.
Lack of motivation.
The constant survival mode feeling.

It’s all been hard. Too hard in many ways. DARK. Really dark.

But my heart (my spring-forward heart) also sees the gifts that can only come as a result of the darkness.

Even the darkness of a horrible-terrible-no-good-very-bad year.

The dark night of our collective souls.

I’ve been watching our rhododendron sleep through the winter, the buds closed tight, hunkering down.

At one point in the coldest and snowiest and darkest of days, the buds were covered with ice and the leaves were droopy and frozen.

I stood there looking at it through my big window, marveling that when the light and the warm and the spring finally comes, each frigid bud will burst forth into all the purple blooms that shout beauty and hope.

The blooms are the gifts of the darkness.

So right back to my question.

“What gifts?”

“What gifts came as a result of the darkness of this year of all years?”

Then another, more clarifying question came as well.

“What gifts do I want to bring with me out of the darkness and into the “spring,” into the light?

To be honest, there are many.

Plenty of rest for this recovering-workaholic.
Moments to stare out the window at my sleeping rhododendron covered in snow.
The freedom from all the soul-killing expectations to be busy, busy, busy.
Deep connections with those most important to me.
White space that grants margin for creativity.
Extra time with the Tender Lover of my soul.
Long walks in every kind of weather and the appreciation of nature that comes with them.

Simple thankfulness for things like paper towels and meals with friends.
Discovery of parts of myself that I hadn’t known before and I now like (a lot).
The narrowing of priorities to what really matters.
Deep empathy from and for others in suffering.

There are more and more and more.

Life-changing “terrible gifts” (as CS Lewis calls them) that have only come as a result of the darkness.

Gifts I will continue to unwrap for the rest of my days.
Gifts I will hold onto like a treasure box only meant for me.

Gifts.

Terrible, beautiful, sacred, horrible, hard, holy, very very good gifts.

The gifts of the darkness.

Have I hated this year?
A resounding YES in many ways.

Do I wish it never happened?
A thousand times NO.

I’m peeking out an my rhododendron on this bright, sunny day.
It’s reaching for the light and its leaves are glorious.
The buds are still closed, not quite as tight, and I can see their faint color through the green.

Soon, the purple will unfurl into all of its goodness.

It won’t be for a few more weeks, but I can feel the gift of incredible beauty as if it is right now.

Posted in Faith, Grief

Deeper

Lots of us feel stuck in a pretty bad place.
It doesn’t seem like there is any way out.
It feels like no matter how hard we try, it’s like quicksand that might swallow us up.
It feels lonely and even black there, like a pit so deep that even if we climb and climb, we would slide back down into the darkness.
 
We might have jumped into this “pit” because of our own unwise decisions.
 
Perhaps we have been pushed in by someone else’s unkindness, even cruelty.
 
It could be overwhelming circumstances that aren’t going the way we think they should or hope they would.
 
It’s probably some odd combination of the three.
 
No matter what, we are in a very deep pit, longing to get out.
 
In those seemingly endless and desperate moments, the only sure thing is that we are not going to be able to climb out on our own, no matter how hard we try.
 
We may even wonder if we are in a hole so deep that we are beyond rescue. It feels hopeless.
 
THIS IS JUST NOT TRUE. It’s just not true at all.
 
There is great hope.
 
We are not alone.
We are loved.
 
We are never “in too deep” that God cannot rescue us. This goes for all those we love as well.
 
The son who is on the is suffering panic attacks.
The spouse who is enslaved by addiction.
The friend who is fighting a debilitating disease.
The person in the mirror who is not sure if God listens anymore.
 
No matter if the pit has been jumped, slipped or been pushed into.
 
The God who hears our cries and loves us beyond measure is right there in the midst of it.
 
His fierce love will make a way out.
 
He will come to the rescue.
None of us are ever beyond His reach.
 
We can rest in that safest of places today.
 
From my heart to yours.