On the Days You Can't.

I just can't.

You ever have one of those days?

You feel like you can barely breathe and the thought of doing one more thing leaves you beyond undone. You're paralyzed. And you've hit a wall.

That's today.

Life has caught up with me. All the busyness. The appointments and therapies and specialists. The memorial service. The broken relationships. Bathing the dog. Buying the cats food. The inability to keep up with the needs of my home. The car collision center for estimate. Renewing the library books. The wedding present purchase. The wrestling tournament. The husband out of town for a week and I still have another week to get through. The diagnosis for Mike's grandmother (acute leukemia). Facing the daily realities of dementia for my precious mother-in-law. The weight of all the things that accumulate and build.

So I'm stopping. Resting. Breathing. My legs feel like lead. I hope to get to the Y so I can release some of the pent up struggle but for now I stay under the covers. The kids are fed and fine and safe. And I'm in bed. Trying to hold back the tears but I think the dam may have sprung a leak.

Tears are healing and cleansing. But at this moment I can't even cry. The exhaustion is too oppressive. the lack of sleep. My adrenal fatigue has caught up with me. And so I breathe. Put on some essential oils and take long deep breaths. And cry out to God. For help. For healing. For deliverance. For hope in this broken, shattered world. For peace that surpasses my understanding. For renewal. For grace to be kind to myself and not beat myself up for my lack and inabilities.

I light a candle and still my soul. The smell of pine permeates. I tense my muscles and hold for 20 seconds and let them relax. I put on the sounds of the ocean. I let my mind rest. And let my spirit rest.

Jesus, come. We are weak and needy. But you are strong and able. You are the fulfiller and redeemer. You are the blessing. The hope. The light. We rest and trust in you even when we can't. Even when there is nothing left to give. Even when the hopelessness promises to capsize our small boats. You are enough. More than enough. And we rest in you our Harbor. Our Rock. Our sure Foundation.

And in the moment we are reminded we are not holding onto you... but you are holding onto us.