Category Archives: peace

Good Healing

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Photo by CongerDesign on Pixabay

A week ago today I was doubled over in severe pain, heading to the ER.

Turns out that diverticulitis and a clot in an oh-so-tiny vein are the Dastardly Duo. And while all the pain was zero fun, I’m thankful for a clear diagnosis. Clarity is never overrated, y’all. And in this case, clarity gave me peace in knowing what’s wrong so that I can take better care of myself.

Now, while clarity is a blessing, getting to clarity is usually the tricky part. I’m not afraid of doctors or medical facilities, but being in health facilities puts me on my Ps and Qs. Navigating countless doctors and medical moments as my late dad’s primary caregiver for many years “learned me good,” to borrow his phrase.

So, while my husband drove me to the ER, I breathed this prayer: Lord, please surround me with people who are knowledgable AND kind. Who will really see me, and not dismiss me as just another body. Amen.

And God showed out in answering my prayer . . .

The nurses brought their A-game with great communication and needle pricks as gentle as possible. The ER doctor was respectful and clear as a bell in guiding us. And he wasn’t playing around – he ordered a CAT scan and other tests to get a solid diagnosis as soon as possible.

I was satisfied. I thanked God out loud and deep inside myself, for placing medical professionals around me who were exactly what I prayed for.

But, God wasn’t done.

While we were waiting for my test results, the janitor appeared outside the door with her cart. She was short like me and Latina. Like everyone else who worked there, she wore a blue mask for safety. In a gentle voice, she asked, “May I clean your room, please?” We smiled as we agreed.

She thanked us and started working right away, wiping doorknobs and countertops. When my husband removed our belongings from a counter to be helpful, she insisted, “No, that’s not necessary. You don’t have to move your items for me.” And, as soon as she finished, she insisted to my husband in a mama-like tone, “Now, put all of your items back!” which made us all laugh out loud together.

That laughter seemed to be an invitation for her to talk with us. But, she wasn’t talking just to talk.

She started beaming about God’s goodness in her life.

It couldn’t have been more than five or six minutes tops, but in that time we learned so much about this petite, humble woman named Carmen. As she mopped the floor, we learned how incredibly grateful she is for her job. How she lost both of her parents at a young age. How a loving grandfather raised her and, when he died, how an equally loving cousin finished raising her. How she’s now happily married with three children.

How everything she does – including her work as a janitor – is from a heart overflowing with love. And how that love brims over because of how deep and wide God loves her.

She was so genuine. Even with a mask on her face, we could see the brightness of her smile. Her eyes literally sparkled. The joy was all over her body. She was filled with Light.

In sharing her story, Carmen ushered in God’s love. She reminded us that He was already in that tiny room with us. While still riding waves of pain, I also felt joy. Calm. Peace.

We thanked Carmen for blessing us in sharing her story. And after she wished us well and moved on to the next room, I started wiping my eyes. As tears of gratitude fell down my cheeks, my husband wiped his own eyes and said, “Yep, I know. Same here.”

A stranger touched our hearts in a way we won’t soon forget. Carmen made one of our toughest days also one of our most blessed days. And while I’m so grateful for the medical team’s work to heal my body, meeting her – even for just a few minutes – was good healing too, from the inside out.

xoxo 

Loved

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February 14 gets all the attention when it comes to love. No shade, but I’d argue that another day outshines Valentine’s Day for celebrating love. And not the fleeting kind, but the steadfast, love-you-even-if-you-act-a-pure-fool kind of love.

There’s a type of love that knows no end or beginning. Love that is secure, unchanging. A sacrificial love that doesn’t do one-ups, I-told-you-so’s, or you-owe-me’s. It’s pure and proven. And, best of all, it’s available to everyone.

God’s love, y’all. And, especially today on Easter Sunday, I’m reminded of how much He loves you and me.

Now, I love my fellow human beings as much as humanly possible. Buuuut, we all know how hard that can be. This world can be rough. Folks can be incredibly cruel and make us feel insignificant, uncertain, and alone. If I’m being honest (and I am), I cannot begin to imagine giving up any of my children, God-style, to save the rest of the world. It’s why I’m glad God is God, and not me.

So, any reminder that we’re all His children also comes with the reminder that we are all loved. A grace-filled two-fer. And Easter is the icing on the cake, the ultimate remembrance of how deep God’s love runs for each and every one of us.

So, take heart. Be encouraged. And know that today, of all days, is a day to remember you are so very loved.
xoxo

P.S. Click here for one of God’s love taps. (I don’t own the rights to this goodie … just sharing it.)

Still Here

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Dad slipped away quietly one year ago today. And, oh, how I miss him.

I remember that day in vivid detail. The steady rain. The chill in the air. How I knew he’d passed when hospice’s number appeared on my phone screen. How I let it go to voicemail because I was taking our teen to school, and my mama heart knows when to delay hard moments.

I hesitated before calling because I knew that, after 12 days of incredibly gentle and beautiful hospice care, Dad was gone. Calling hospice would – and did – make it all real.

In that moment, I felt so many emotions. I remember feeling heavy loss and sadness, but also humbled that I would be the one to see Dad and stay with him until the funeral home arrived to help us with next steps. I remember answering the kind hospice worker’s questions, pausing ever so often to hug another staff member at the memory care home who came to say goodbye to Dad and offer condolences. I remember being comforted by staff and comforting them, too. How I stroked Dad’s snow-white hair one last time and kissed his forehead.

I miss Dad and will always miss him. Yet, I’m very, very aware that he’s also still here, with us.

He’s with me every time I cook his sweet potato pie. He’s in my kindergartener’s mischief, my teen’s mathematical graphing with perfect lines, my daughter’s creative expression. He’s in the work my sister does so beautifully on behalf of schoolkids each day. He’s in every single one of his grandchildren’s smiles.

We all had to let go of Dad’s physical presence with us. Yet, these moments remind me that he lives on in all of us. That he’s still here. And that, even in missing Dad, he’s really not far away at all.

xoxo

Running

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Sooooo, is it just me, or has 2024 arrived with some sass and major attitude?

As 2023 faded away, I had high hopes that the new year would at least try to be on Santa’s Nice List for 2024. At least start out on the good foot (nod to The Godfather of Soul James Brown).

But, nope.

I’ll spare you all the details. But, let’s just say that flu, seriously ill loved ones, and sleep deprivation are just a few highlight reels this year … and we’re only 2 weeks in.

Yet, even with its bumpy start, 2024 has also found me hopeful and thankful. Growing up, I recall elders insisting that “God knows how much we can bear.” Their words meant little to me as a child. As an adult, I know their wisdom is spot-on . . . especially when it feels like life is piling a lot on us, without any signs of letting up.

Life can be hard, y’all. We know this. But, when I look back and inside and all around me, I can’t deny the blessings of God’s mercy, love, and grace in my life. They’re there, way too many moments to count. So, yes, more than anything, I am hopeful and thankful . . . even in my weariness and frustration and sadness at times.

Photo by Bruno Nascimento on Unsplash

So listen up, 2024: It’s still early. You’ve got lots of opportunities to turn yourself around. And, I’d certainly appreciate you doing so. But, even if you decide to keep running toward Santa’s Naughty List, I’ll keep running toward hope and gratitude.

xoxo
P.S. Cue up this goodie* when the weight of the world gets a bit heavy.
(* I don’t own the rights to this song. It’s just a fav.)

A Fond Farewell

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As 2024 peeks around the corner, the optimist in me hopes for a kinder, gentler year ahead. After all, this year arrived with its fair share of Goliath-sized mountains to climb. Only a few weeks into 2023, Dad passed away. COVID-19 flanked our family, making me so ill I missed his funeral. Friends and loved ones visited the hospital a lot this year, and some are no longer here to see 2023 end. And, when the autumn leaves began taking over our yard, a health concern found me lying on a biopsy table.

Yet, this year also brought mountaintops, blessed moments of rest and joy after navigating life’s ups and downs. Hubby and I celebrated our 25th anniversary. Our kiddos are healthy and holding their own, in and out of school. Gatherings found us surrounded by love and joy with family and friends. That health scare I had? Thank God, I’m A-okay. And just this week, Hallmark Mahogany featured my writing as a guest post.

As the youngins say, life be lifing. But, it’s still life. And, this year often reminded me that life is such an incredible gift. Understanding this is how Dad could genuinely say on Day 3 of hospice, “I’m blessed. We’re blessed.” He knew, and was forever grateful, that life itself is a blessing. And especially because he’s now flying high with Mom, I’m clinging to the wisdom in his words a little tighter as this year passes the baton to the next.

So, farewell, 2023. Even when it hurt, thank you for reminding me of how precious life is, each day. You made me climb some rugged mountains that brought me to my knees … and, you lifted me back up with mountaintop moments that brought greater peace, strength, and gratitude for God’s blessings in my life. Because of you, this is my warrior song* as I look to the new year ahead.

2024, you’ve got next.
xoxo

* I do not own the rights to this song. I just adore it.

Knowing

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Years ago, I worked for a large school district. Whenever we hit red tape and roadblocks, my mentor Carol would smile at me and ask, “Can you live with ambiguity?” And each time I’d reply with a grimace and mutter, “Nope.”

I’m one of those recovering perfectionists whose comfort zone is clarity. Understanding who, what, when, how and why is my jam.  Frustration often creeps in when details are MIA. When Life brings questions I can’t answer. And, I’m sure I’m not alone . . .

Everyone keeps asking what I want to be when I grow up, but I have no idea. I’m only 15. When will I know?

Why was my best friend just downsized? She and her husband have a baby on the way, and she’s been so dedicated to that company for years.

Is it time for me to leave my full-time job and start my dream business?

For those of us whose comfort zone is all about having answers at the ready, not knowing can stress us out.  But, no matter how much we try, Life’s questions can’t always be answered how or when we want them. Some questions stump us. Keep us up at night, or wake us up early in the morning, our minds racing way ahead of our alarm clocks. Often, we must allow time to pass so that we can live into our questions, for answers.

And, sometimes, answers won’t come at all.

When this happens, we have a choice:  

Remain frustrated in not knowing the answer,
or trust God who literally knows everything.

My fav Scripture reminds me that God knows the beginning, middle, and end of our stories and that He has our backs:

“For I know the plans I have for you,” declares the Lord, “plans to prosper you and not to harm you, plans to give you hope and a future.” (Jeremiah 29:11 NIV)

Jeremiah helped me get through some of my biggest Why moments. When we lost Mom unexpectedly. Caring for Dad in our home when our surprise baby blessed us. When COVID-19 kept me from Dad’s funeral.

But not just big Life moments. So many smaller ones, too, that often feel bigger than they actually are, but can still make me feel out-of-sorts. Jeremiah’s words remind me to rest in knowing that God knows all and holds us in His perfect love every day, in every way.

I breathe easier when I remember Jeremiah 29:11. Hope you will, too.

xo,
karin

Both/And

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Since losing my dad a few weeks ago, I’ve been living in the Land of Both/And. It’s where two diametrically opposed feelings co-exist. Both gratitude and disappointment, both acceptance and sadness, both peace and grief. I’m feeling it all.

Dad was blessed with 92 amazing years. His heart and mind were as beautiful as his good looks. And, his legacy of kindness and love impacted so many. He was my buddy from Day 1, joking how I’d hang onto him as a little one and refuse to let others hold me. His sense of humor, sometimes sprinkled with naughtiness, kept us all giggling. A master storyteller, he shared the most fascinating, inspiring stories of his life. Dad was my first role model of love in action as a Christian, husband, father, and so much more.

When Mom died, I had a difficult time accepting it. Her death was unexpected and shocked us all. I wasn’t ready, and I fought the grief. Dad’s death was a completely opposite experience for me. I could see him slowing down, ever so slightly, over the last few years. Most recently, his 12 days of hospice care prepared me well for what was to come. I got to love on Dad each day and say goodbye. So, although I really miss him, I’m okay knowing that he’s okay. Both/And.

I wish I could end this post right here – that I’m fully at peace, even in my grief. But, there’s a plot twist: I missed Dad’s funeral. Had no idea that COVID would be the culprit that literally put me on my back minutes before heading to his service that day.

My hubby, kids, and I were all dressed and almost ready to leave for the funeral with the rest of our family. Just before our meet-up time, I suddenly became extremely warm and sick to my stomach. I couldn’t keep anything down. I eventually collapsed back into bed, completely weak, sweating. Just sick-sick.

I cried hot tears, realizing my body would not cooperate. My hubby and sister tag-teamed me and insisted I stay put, that my health was first. I disagreed, but it didn’t matter. I was so weak that I couldn’t even open my eyes to view the service online on my hubby’s phone. I could only listen, catching bits here and there. I was miserable, inside and out. Later that day, an at-home test confirmed it was COVID. I thought, “Really, Lord? I’ve. Never. Had. COVID. And it shows up now like a raging bull, of all days, TODAY?!?”

Once-in-a-lifetime moments like funerals never offer do-overs. I lay in bed, heartbroken I wasn’t celebrating Dad’s life with my family and community. I wasn’t there to comfort my teenager at the church and cemetery. I missed hugging Dad’s sisters, Mom’s sisters, so many cousins who traveled near and far to be with us.

And, while I see — and am even grateful for — God’s wisdom in keeping me from spreading COVID to countless folks at the funeral, it still hurts. I feel sad, even shame and guilt. How could I – the one who cared for Dad for so many years – not be there? It just feels all wrong.

My siblings and I were always a tight team when it came to supporting Dad after Mom died 15 years ago. As his needs changed, I became his primary care helper, eventually moving him in to live with us. During his final years in a memory care residence nearby, I saw him regularly. And when he received hospice care, I was with him twice a day.

I share these details not for accolades, but for context. To miss celebrating Dad’s life after being there with and for him so long, front and center, feels like a cruel joke. It’s like I ran a marathon with Dad all those years, but COVID didn’t let me cross the finish line. It stole my ability to honor his beautiful, extraordinary life with our family.

God gave me time to say goodbye to Dad, and I’m grateful. And, I know he’s happy with my mom, brother, and so many loved ones in a Far Better Place. I have peace knowing all of that. I just don’t have peace missing our family’s farewell moment, our celebration of Dad’s life together.

Both/And.

Yet, even as I wrestle with peace, I’m choosing to lean into Both/And. I’m relying on James 1:2-4 and remembering Mom’s wisdom that “time takes care of everything.” James and Mom have been right many times in my life. I’m trusting that, down the road apiece, this experience will be one of those times, too.
xo,
Karin

Grace and Time

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As 2021 exits not-so stage left, I remember my late mother’s steadfast faith and her frequent reminder that “time takes care of everything.”

She was so right. Time allows us to look back on what we’ve lived through – doors that opened at just the right time, battles we won, battles we didn’t even have to fight. And, all of it because of God’s grace.

I’ve witnessed proof of Mom’s wisdom countless times.  And, I have lots of stretch-and-grow marks that reflect the gift of time and the power of God’s grace . . .

. . . From being a shy kid, to playing piano solos for hundreds of folks at a time

. . . From growing pains as a young wife, to being happily married for 23 years and counting

. . . From uncertainty as a first-time mom, to trusting that we could expand our late-40s-sandwich-generation lives for baby #3 (and did)

That’s just a tiny sample, and I’m sure you have your own.  Reflecting on moments over time and remembering God’s grace through it all especially help me on tough days.  And, let’s face it: 2021 gave us a bunch of tough days (#pandemic).  We’ve had to push through a LOT.  And it seems that 2022 will require more pushing.

Like every December 31, we don’t know what the new year will bring our way.  But, I’ll keep trusting in God’s abundant grace as time takes care of so much.  And I pray 2022 brings you incredibly beautiful moments through God’s grace and time’s gifts.

xo,
Karin

A Kind of Kindness

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Writing again feels so good. I’ve been navigating a swept-away season since the birth of our LO 3 years ago. Stretch-and-grow moments have been plentiful since then. Time for capturing those moments here? Not so much.

But, seasons change and mine is evolving again. So, onward we go. And, I’ll start with a lesson that still requires lots of practice:

While this idea is pretty universal, it’s especially for my fellow people-pleasers. We’re often described as “thoughtful” and “kind.” But, extending kindness to ourselves with zero guilt? Well, that can be a pretty tall order for us.

I struggle with this often. A prime example: When to schedule a long overdue medical procedure. My body tells me almost daily to be kinder to myself. Sometimes it’s a whisper; other times, a shout.

I know I’ll feel better once it’s done. But, I’m stuck on how to fit a procedure + recovery into my work sked and a multilayered calendar. (Fact: When moms are out of commission, a lot can happen in several days. IJS.) Balancing What’s good for everyone else? and How soon can I feel better? feels like herding cats … pretty impossible.

See, we people-pleasers hate being an inconvenience, especially to those closest to us. We usually adjust for others’ comfort. We often sacrifice our own needs to ensure theirs are met first. In our hearts and minds, not putting others first feels strange, wrong, unloving.

And unkind.

It’s how some of us end up delaying a medical procedure for 3 years.

So, I get it – even as I’m still working on living the lesson: Self-kindness requires mindful courage rooted in honoring my own worth. Making tiny and not-so-tiny decisions based on what I need isn’t selfish. And being kind to ourselves is one of the greatest kindnesses, indeed.

About Those Masks … (1.5-min. read)

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mask pic for oct 2017 blog

Every October 31st, we went a-begging for candy. And what fun it was: Putting on makeup and wigs and masks and whatever else was required to become a werewolf, princess or superhero.

By the time I was about 10, I preferred to be any character that didn’t require wearing a mask. More specifically, those plastic masks with a string of rubber stapled to it to hold it in place, circa 1980. Continue reading →