She came into our bathroom a little freaked out. Yes, our 11-year-old daughter, Elsa, was literally freaking out about her hair.

“It’s bumpy!”

“It’s not staying in!”

“It’s not tight enough!”

“It’s not working!”

“I hate my hair!”

She’d already worked on it by herself for who knows how long. She was coming to me to fix it, to make it better somehow.

I’m not so sure I helped.

Elsa knelt down in front of our bathroom sink. I grabbed my brush, wet it a bit, and began combing her hair back into a ponytail. She continued to cry. “It’s bumpy!” “It’s not high enough!” “It’s never going to work!” “I hate my hair!” I gave my husband the eye as I brushed and brushed some more. We are moving into those tween years, you know.

Just as I was about to put the ponytail holder in, she took ahold of her hair and let it all down. “It’s TOO bumpy!” “I hate my hair!”

(Let me be clear. It wasn’t bumpy much at all.)

She stormed her way back to the kids’ bathroom.

Crying and frustration continued.

Honestly, she was out of control.

She’d worked herself into this frenzy. Nobody else.

To us, her hair was going to be just fine. It was going to work out. She was going to leave the house with some sort of fixed hairdo. But to her? It simply wasn’t going to happen.

She tried, tried and tried again. Crying and frustrated. All by herself. Staring at the mirror, on her knees, tears streaming down.

My husband suggested she should wear it down.

“I have to run the mile for gym today! I have to wear it up!”

My husband suggested she should wear it up, then.

“It’s bumpy! It’s never going to work! I hate my hair!”

I couldn’t stand it anymore. I knew she needed help. She just wasn’t willing to accept it. So I walked to her bathroom and suggested, once again, that I could help. I tried to give her a hug, thinking she was perhaps, just so emotionally distraught that it might calm her down or bring release. Not so much. But I did talk her into giving me another chance.

I brushed. I pulled her hair back. I brushed some more. And I kept reminding her that this is totally going to work out, that it doesn’t have to be perfect, that it works better if she adds a little water to make it slicker, all the talk I thought would help.

“It’s not working!”

“It’s never gonna work!”

Finally, I had a great ponytail all ready to go.

“It’s too bumpy!”

Crying.

Frustrated.

Freaking out.

She’d crossed the line.

I left.

Her 4-year-old sister came to see what was the matter. She tried some words. She tried a couple hugs. Didn’t work.

Elsa was left to fend for herself again. Didn’t work either. More crying. More frustration.

She’d spent so much time crying in frustration and disregarding others’ help that it was dangerously close to the school bus arrival. Did I mention she hadn’t even eaten breakfast yet?

So I went back in to help this girl, this daughter of mine.

“Let’s do a half braid on top, like we’ve done before, with the ponytail in the back?”

She surrendered.

I braided.

Honestly, I think it was the best braid I’ve ever done on her head.

I bound the braid, then pulled the rest of the hair up into a ponytail.

It was cute. Just like other days we’ve done this hairstyle and she’s approved it. She persisted in crying and frustration, despite the fact that we all knew she needed to accept the style and move on.

“It’s not tight enough!”

“My hair is ugly.”

“It’s ugly.”

She put a couple bobby pins in even though I told her it was great the way it was.

At this point, she had seven minutes to eat breakfast, get her bags ready and shoes on before the bus came. So she didn’t have a choice.

I heard my husband compliment her hair downstairs.

“No, it’s not. It’s ugly.”

She was still unsettled as the bus rounded the corner, but stopped long enough for me to give her a hug on the way out.

Good thing I was in a good mood this morning. Good thing I prayed before I got out of bed. Lord, give me direction for my writing and photography and everything else I need to do today.

Truth is, I saw myself in my daughter this morning.

The enemy has been on the prowl. Oh yes, most definitely.

But I’ve also been working myself into a quiet frenzy about my writing, my photography, my work and my worth.

I’ve considered a night, shelf-straightening job at Target just to bring in a few bucks, not to mention, I am good at shelf straightening. I’ve wondered if I should get a one-day-a-week job at my favorite clothing store, White House Black Market – for fun, to bring in some dollars while I’m in this transition period, to help other women feel beautiful. I’ve considered a job at Jimmy Johns, because they’re fun and freaky fast and I love everything about their business model. I’ve considered any sort of paid, regular job at least one day a week next school year while my daughter is in preschool so I can feel like a legitimate, contributing member of our family and society. Maybe I could be a substitute paraprofessional for special education students at our local school? Maybe I should just surrender and work as an on-call speech-language therapist at some metro clinic or hospital? That would be a good use of my talents, wouldn’t it? Everyone would think THAT was a good idea.

I’ve worked myself into this quiet little frenzy about writing, photography and staying home.

“It’s not going to work!”

“It’s never going to work!”

“I’m not good at this!”

“I’m not good enough!”

“I’m dreaming.”

“I can’t find my place.”

“I don’t have a place.”

I realize none of this is true. But just like my daughter, I’ve worked myself into a frenzy. Only I’m tying it all up on the inside, and she let it all out.

It’s going to work out. God has a greater plan and He sees it clearly. I just can’t see it enough to trust it right now.

Faith is confidence in what we hope for and assurance about what we do not see.

Funny thing is, after I prayed that prayer and before my daughter came to our bathroom the first time, I’d decided that I need to get and keep my head on straight about this writing and photography business. I told my husband that as much as it sounds enticing to find any sort of regular paying job 1-2 days/week next school year, I shouldn’t. I can’t. I felt a strong call to leave my career to pursue writing and photography, and I haven’t even given myself a full run at it yet. I’m nowhere close to calling it quits on either front. I need to focus on photography between now and early October. Then, when the weather’s cold again, I need to focus on writing – hard core, 18 hours a week – between October and mid-May.

I have PLENTY of work to do.

I don’t need to find more work for the sake of finding more work.

I don’t need to find more work to validate myself.

I don’t need to find more work to prove my worth.

I need to focus on the work I’ve already been given.

I need to focus on God’s call – to write, to photograph, to stay home – and that’s it.

Yes, I’ve been freaking myself out before I’ve barely begun.

I need to look in the mirror and see the truth.

I’ve barely begun.

Yesterday, I had a very clear vision for another adult non-fiction book. In the past two months, I’ve had vision for two additional titles. All three viable as far as I can see. That’s in addition to my children’s book series and the original adult non-fiction I’ve already decided will move forward one way or another.

God has plans.

I’ve barely begun.

You’ve barely begun.

Look in the mirror and see the truth.

What are you fighting today?

What are you crying about?

What are you frustrated about?

What are you freaking out about?

What’s causing a quiet frenzy inside?

As the saying goes, if you’re still living, your best days are still ahead.

Today, I’m coming alongside myself, I’m coming alongside you. I might not see it. You might not see it. But God has a plan.

Let’s work through it. Let’s work it. Let’s do life together.

I’m here. I can help.

My parents have reminded me more than once that I was so shy when I was younger, that they had to tell me to say “hi” to people.

Apparently, I was afraid of my own voice from the start.

Here’s the truth for today.

I’m battling for my voice, friends.

Perhaps I always have.

This is a spiritual battle. No doubt.

God vs. the enemy. They’re battling for lives. They’re battling for souls.

God created me. He’s cultivating a voice within me. He’s asking me to use that voice to proclaim truth and life to others. Truth and life to myself. He’s asking me to have faith in His creation, faith in the unique gifts He’s bestowed upon me.

The enemy. Forget that loser. Forget the niceties. He’s a beast, a deadbeat. He wants to kill and destroy my voice, my entire life for that matter. He wants to silence me with all his might. He’s on the prowl, up to nothing good. I renounce him and all his evil, scheming ways.

So many things have happened in the 15 months since I left my 14 1/2 year career as a speech-language therapist to stay home and pursue writing and photography. Beyond all the things that have happened, there’s been a behind the scenes. Behind the scenes, I’ve been battling a sense of identity, a sense of place. Behind the scenes, I’ve been asking big questions about work and worth. Behind the scenes, I’ve been struggling with my voice.

I’m riding a fine line between being totally confident in who and where I am, and utterly unsure.

Again, I’m certain this is an issue of faith. I’ve taken a leap of faith, and the enemy is coming on strong with his totally weak, but believable voices of doubt and fear. This is perfect timing for him to ride in on his black horse and kill God’s every plan for my life.

The enemy will not win, friends. He will not win. But he’s still trying.

After months of writing and editing, just two days before I was scheduled to present my first two children’s book manuscripts to my writing group, the manuscripts fell flat to me. Mind you, I’ve worked and reworked these babies up and down the past four months. I’ve edited, edited and edited some more. Both manuscripts have made me cry (in a good way). I’ve been certain there’s something unique about them. I’ve been certain that somebody, some agent out there, will see the beauty in what I’m trying to convey. But last Tuesday? They fell flat. Completely flat. By the time I got the manuscripts to writing group, I’d nearly talked myself out of presenting them to the group because I just wasn’t sure anymore. Fortunately, my writing group knew this presentation was coming and wouldn’t let me out of it. But today, I’m afraid to open the manuscripts back up because I don’t want them to fall flat again.

Yesterday, I published a post on my personal Facebook page in which I complained about having to wash grass stains, mud stains, and dirt stains out of my son’s WHITE baseball pants, something I’ll do 2-4 times a week for the next four months. I thought we’d gotten smarter after last year’s BLACK baseball pants, but not so much. There I stood at the sink, scrubbing for 20 minutes, followed by a several-hour Oxi-Clean soaking, followed by a machine wash and line dry. So I shared this post and it felt real. It felt like I was sharing my truth. But I’ll be honest, I fell in the Facebook trap. I put my voice out there, and then I doubted it. Was I complaining for complaining’s sake? Was I not grateful enough for all the wonderful things that come from my son’s participation on the baseball team? Should I have ONLY shared the awesome things about baseball season starting instead of this very real, but probably silly baseball mom annoyance? I got to overthinking. I got to doubting my voice. I deleted the post. I wrapped two red rubber bands around my phone so I wouldn’t go into Facebook and start doubting my voice again.

I’m doubting the internal voice that’s been telling me for years that I should get my hair chopped off. “Chopped off.” Those aren’t pretty words. That’s not the most eloquent way to say I’d like to get my hair cut VERY short. But that’s the brutal truth of it. “Chopped off.” Since we had two rounds of lice through our house three years ago, I’ve worn my hair up 80-90% of days. I haven’t gotten my hair cut in seven months. I’ve worn my hair up 100% of days since I returned from Africa. I want to wear more than ponytails and buns, especially as I approach 40, but I’m super low maintenance when it comes to hair. Even though my husband strongly prefers long hair, he’s given me permission to cut it. He knows I’ve been talking about this for three or four years, and thinks I really, truly want to do this. The haircut appointment’s made April 26th. I’m 80-95% convinced I’m going super short. But I’ve not fully convinced myself. I’m not sure I can trust that internal voice.

This morning as we were getting ready for the day, my husband initiated a conversation about shoes and clothing items he’ll need to fit in one of our upcoming monthly budgets. When he said “NEED” I assumed he’d mention dress jeans, dress shirts, and casual, but cool short-sleeve shirts he’s been talking about needing for business trip nights out. All things he legitimately and likely needs right now. Instead, he started with shoes. Boots, in fact. He has two pair of boots, both he’s purchased in the past four years, one that still seems and looks brand new to me. Needless to say, a difference of opinion on “NEED” vs. “WANT” boiled to the surface. I dove too far into detail about the condition of his current boots when all he WANTED was new boots. Things went too far, too quick. Words were said. He apologized. And I felt bad for having expressed any opinion in the first place. Why should I stop him from getting new boots if he wants them? After all, he’s the one bringing in all the money right now. And I’m not. I doubted my voice.

Sometimes I don’t know. I really don’t know.

Sometimes we don’t know. We really don’t know.

So here I am. On the upper level of a high-end grocery store. Oddly enough, this is one of my favorite places to write. It’s fairly quiet here, but there are enough people to remind me I’m among the living.

I promised myself I’d write and work on my books every Tuesday and Thursday between the first week of January and May 10th, my daughter’s last day of preschool. I haven’t kept that promise 100%, but I’ve written most days and made a lot of headway. Where the books are going and the timing I had planned isn’t as crystal clear with my dad’s lung transplant in the wings.

More fire. More refining. More defining.

My voice. His voice.

Knock the enemy dead.

When I sat to write at this high-end grocery store this morning, I looked left to a meeting of elders. Honestly, I have no clue why they were there or what they were doing. But I kept noting this man across the table. He held a book. He read aloud. I sensed his wisdom, his kindness, even through the paneled-glass windows. I’ve never seen the man in my life.

As he exited the room, he laid his hand on my shoulder gently, far more than a split second, and said “Good Morning.”

Good morning. I see you.

Good morning. You’re here.

Good morning. Wake to the voice inside.

Good morning. Wake to your life.

Good morning. Trust God’s got this.

Good morning. It’s another day.

Good morning. It’ll all work out.

Good morning. Your voice, your place in this world is important.

Good morning.

As I drove east that Friday morning, I couldn’t keep my eyes off the sky.

There it was.

A big “A” painted across the golden sunrise.

Perhaps it’s narcissistic to believe in a God who paints initials in the sky. Perhaps I’m a dreamer. Perhaps I’m desperate, seeking signs anywhere, anyhow.

Perhaps God moves mountains, levels valleys and paints the sky to show his love afresh and mercies new. He’s behind us. He’s with us. He’s for us. In and through it all.

My “A” faded as the spring sun rose higher and higher in the sky.

As I made my way further east and closer to the University of Minnesota, it occurred to me that it wasn’t just ANY Friday, it was GOOD Friday.

Good Friday, the Friday Christians mark as the day Jesus died on the cross to save humanity.

Good Friday, the Friday I happened to be joining my parents for one final day of appointments that ultimately determined my dad’s candidacy for a lung transplant.

For the most part, we don’t get to choose our hardships, our struggles, our burdens here on earth. They’re offered to us as an opportunity to draw closer to God, our Heavenly Father. Whether we like it or not, whether we accept it or not, His goal is to develop a relationship with us. He loves us, and will literally bend over backwards to draw us in, nearer to Him, this way or that way, whichever way He deems fit.

Sometimes it’s beautiful.

Sometimes it’s painful.

Always, it’s for our greater good.

For God works ALL things together for those who love Him.

Rain or shine.

Sunrise or sunset.

Seen or unseen.

He’s working. Rest assured.

I parked.

Got turned around on my way down.

Came out the wrong side of the parking ramp.

But I wasn’t late.

My parents were waiting on first. I passed them unknowingly and went straight to third. A few texts and a couple redirects from the happy, shiny, high-tech medical people holding iPads for check-in, and we were united on third, right where we needed to be for appointments one, two, three and four on this good, Good Friday.

Appointment 1: We sat at a long, rectangular table with Amy, the respiratory therapist. There was my dad with his oxygen, my mom and me. Then there was another lung transplant candidate on oxygen, and his sister. My dad and the other candidate shared their stories. We talked about exercise, “prehab” and rehab and how they’re supposed to get 30 minutes of exercise 4-6 times a week even though their lungs are failing, they’re on oxygen and they can barely walk down the driveway or take a shower without losing their breath. We talked about all the respiratory rehab they’d need post-lung transplant. Amy demonstrated a bunch of exercises they could do between now and transplant. She was energetic, and I could tell she’s great at her job. I know my dad is active and faithful to get as much exercise as he can, both now and post-transplant, so I’m not worried about that at all. It was good and hopeful. But if I’m completely honest, the contrast between this and my Africa mission four months prior, was stark. Africa and Lung Transplants. Night and day mission fields. (Or maybe not?) I don’t appreciate this mission field nearly as much as Africa, God. I don’t really want to be here. I don’t really want my dad to NEED a lung transplant. But here we are. Here I am. I will serve with all my heart.

Appointment 2: We sat at a small, kidney-shaped table. Just me, my mom, my dad and the lung transplant team’s dietician. I’m sorry, I don’t remember her name now, but just to give you an idea she was 32, smart, lovely and also clearly skilled at her job. We reviewed numbers, data gathered from blood draws earlier in the week. Everything looked good. She got out a 4-page brochure for review. Rest assured, we’ll get the big binder of dietary suggestions and requirements when we’re in the hospital, post-transplant. NO cold deli meat post transplant; must be fully steamed prior to consumption. High-potassium foods may be restricted. Absolutely NO seafood for at least one month post-transplant; it’s deadly for lung transplant patients. Food safety is of the utmost importance. And NO ALCOHOL post-transplant. Ever. For the rest of your life. Never. Ever. Oh boy, my dad’s pre-dinner rum and Diet Coke enjoyments are in jeopardy. He wasn’t too happy about that, but we joked and had fun. Even still.

Appointment 3: We sat at a round table. Just me, my dad, my mom, a transplant social worker sitting in, and my dad’s transplant social worker, Liz. Let’s just put this out there. Liz was amazing. Lia IZ is amazing. LOVED the woman. ADORED. We talked for a long, long time, completing a case history, a current life status, or something of the sort. We talked about everything from my dad’s lung disease diagnosis of hypersensitivity pneumonitis, to past and current work, hobbies, things my dad can no longer do because of his lung disease, and things my dad would like to be able to do to after his lung transplant. We talked about my sister who has a diagnosis of schizoaffective disorder – bipolar type, and her two young children; I assured the social worker that I think she will RISE to the occasion when my dad gets his transplant, and be able to manage without the usual level of support she receives from my parents. It was Good Friday, after all. We must believe in RISING to any occasion, otherwise what’s the use of hope? Did I mention Liz was amazing and that we talked about a million things? Let’s just say there were some reminders about that “no alcohol ever again in your life” rule. The way Liz looked at my dad when we were talking about the alcohol situation – the way she whole-heartedly understood that his rum and Coke is a simple life pleasure here and there before dinner – was priceless. She got it. She understood. She reminded him he’ll have to find some other simple pleasure to replace the rum and coke after golfing with the boys. And that’s when I could have lost it if I hadn’t a grip on my emotions. Liz with her head tilted, eyes glistening, smiling at my dad sweetly, assuring him he’ll indeed, find another simple pleasure. God knew we needed more than simple earthly pleasures. Good Friday, indeed.

Appointment 4: My mom and dad sat on one side of a small, rectangular table. Me and Diane, my dad’s transplant coordinator on the other side. We stared at a big screen on the wall; a long list of tests and labs ran down the left side. Diane reviewed each test, each lab, with us quite extensively. No need to labor over the results again. Everything looked good except the heart and lungs. No surprise, but good news for lung transplant candidacy. After we reviewed all the data, Diane urged my dad to get a new style of oxygen tanks. She didn’t like the way he looked when he walked down the hall into the office. “You look a little blue,” she said. She’d brought in a bigger tank, he’d been using it all appointment and felt much better by the end. Diane assured my dad she’d get doctor’s orders for increased oxygen, that he should arrange for new new tanks by early week. She told us the team would be meeting to review my dad’s case six days later, and that she’d call with news. YES or NO, he’s a lung transplant candidate.

My parents received word from Diane late Thursday afternoon, March 31, 2016, that YES, my dad was determined to be a candidate for a lung transplant. He had a tooth pulled last week, and will have surgery to place heart stents on April 18th. One month after that, he will be officially placed on the national lung transplant registry.

Good Thursday.

Good Friday.

Good every day that we are saved.

Good every day that we are given the choice to ACCEPT or REJECT the life we’ve been given on earth, the life in eternity we claim through Jesus.

God will reveal His majesty, His plan, His bountiful blessing however He deems necessary.

Life is hard.

Life is easy.

Life is ugly.

Life is beautiful.

Life is disgusting.

Life is inspiring.

Life is downright mean.

Life is kind.

Life is distress.

Life is peace.

Life is confusing.

Life is clear.

He writes our names in the sky through it all. God, our Heavenly Father. He promises the ultimate hope. On earth, as it is in heaven. Both here, and there.

He has a plan. Life is no mistake. It can’t be.

He’s writing my name. He’s writing your name.

It is written. It is written, indeed.

Live every day as if it is your last. ACCEPT what you have been given. Receive it as a gift.

Breathe it in.

Breathe it out.

LIVE.

 

 

 

Other posts in this series:

Who Is Your First Responder?

How I’ve Been Doing the Past Three Months

The Consequences of Letting My Tank Run Dry

It’s Okay to be Mad at At God

I’m Gonna Have to Sit this One Out for Now

This is the first post in a series titled “The Ultimate Hope: A Lung Transplant for My Dad.” It’s similar to the series I’ve been writing through my husband’s eye cancer journey, but different in that I won’t be writing as frequently, and posts will be much more personal than medical because we have a separate CaringBridge site set up that will detail medical updates. If you would like to follow my dad’s medical journey, click here and sign up to receive CaringBridge updates via email. This is my journey, as daughter, through my dad’s lung transplant. My goal with these posts is to process my personal experience through writing which is always a release for me. But I will also be looking beyond my personal experience for big-picture implications and inspiration, and hope to share insight with those of you who follow along. Thank you for joining, and thank you in advance for your grace. My words may not always be perfectly poised, as life is not perfectly poised right now. May my words communicate what they need to communicate. May my life communicate hope, help and love.

In honor of World Bipolar Day, I’m sharing a post written by my younger sister, Tiffany, who has a diagnosis of schizoaffective disorder, bipolar type. Tiffany has shared a monthly guest post on my blog since February 2015. The purpose of these posts is to raise awareness of what it’s like to live with mental illness. I’m also hoping the posts will help readers recognize that we all have hopes, dreams, challenges and mountains to climb regardless of our mental health status. If you’d like to read the posts I’ve written about Tiffany’s journey and all the guest posts she’s shared on this blog, check out the mental health page. Without further ado, here’s Tiffany.

I’ve had some major ups and downs with my emotions lately. The word hope has entered my mind a number of times because sometimes that’s all we have. Please join me on a journey as to what my life has been like lately.

My mental health worker came over, and we were discussing how my thoughts are all over the place lately. I can’t concentrate on anything. I’ve been writing short journal entries, but nothing worth sharing with anyone. I told her that maybe all these thoughts will work together.

I met with my psychologist and felt happy to be seeing him. I get to talk and receive feedback from someone who is getting paid to talk to me. He can’t complain about me giving too little in the relationship. He pretty much knows every detail about what’s been happening in my life. He told me that it’s natural to be feeling low self-esteem because of everything that has been happening. After doing a life satisfaction questionnaire, I found out I am around 60%. He asked, “If you had one wish, what would that be?” Hmm…I sat there for awhile. Maybe for my dad’s lung transplant to be done and for him to be healthier again? After leaving his office, I realized this – my one wish would be to be loved for everything I am, and to be loved back in return, in a romantic sense. To have a perfectly-feeling family. What would you wish for if you had just one wish?

My ex-boyfriend just moved back from Montana. We have only seen each other briefly, one day, over the past year, but we kept in contact while he was gone. Some kind of sparkle, or hope, he gave me each day. Last week, I went into Target and walked up to the pharmacy counter. I looked to my right and my ex-boyfriend was standing there with his mom. I said “Hi.” He said “Hi, Tiff.” He did NOT look at me like “I am so excited to see this girl.” I started to shake and felt extremely dizzy. He asked me if I was cold. I said, “No, I am just nervous.” We said goodbye. I walked away and attempted to calm myself down. I was glad that my mental health worker was waiting in the car so I could explain to her what just happened.

After the panic attack in Target, I questioned what I was wearing that day. I did NOT feel comfortable or confident in myself. Why couldn’t I have been wearing something cute, something smaller, something new? Why did my ex-boyfriend have to catch me on one of the worst days of my life? There was no sparkle in his eyes when he saw me. Maybe there wasn’t too much sparkle in my eyes either. I questioned the way I looked. I look in the mirror and don’t see the pretty girl I want to see, the confident girl.

I’d like to share another experience I had in the aisles of Target during a prior visit. Instead of feeling unlucky over everything that has happened, we’re lucky there is hope. I ran into a friend of mine the other day in Target. I had not seen her for a year, possibly longer. I yelled her name and proceeded to walk up to her to talk. She has a boy my daughter’s age who was standing next to the cart. He looked taller, but I could tell that something was going on. She told me her son has cancer, and just got done with a major appointment. That same day, my dad was entering into a five-day series of serious medical testing. I just looked at her with tears in my eyes. We exchanged numbers and proceeded on. The next day I called my friend and explained to her that I wasn’t really sure what to say about her son and the cancer. She said, “No, you’re fine!” We decided we’re going to get together soon. We seem to adapt when life doesn’t take us on the path we have planned.

One day I was having a bad morning. I spoke with a family friend who calls me often, especially when my parents are out of town. I was so stuck that morning. Stuck in my head. After we talked, I called a good friend who brought sunlight into my day. I took some time to pray after talking to her. That moment I felt free of anything holding me down. I felt confident that everything was going to be alright.

A few days this month, I was feeling hopeless. I always think of my kids, and they seem to give me some kind of major hope. I walked around outside my town house and asked people what gives them hope everyday. I was moved by the responses. I asked my daughter first. Her hope is to play with friends everyday. I guess I wish the same thing, but I enjoy spending time with her too! Another girl’s hope is for her mom to not put so much pressure on her, and to not be so angry. She wants to go to college and be a scientist. A younger boy hopes for a good education and wants to get through school. As adults, our hopes for each day change. Maybe they don’t, depending on our situation? We are all unique and have our own way of perceiving life. A couple adults I talked to just wanted their kids to be okay, or for their kids to behave, or to just make it through one more day. My mental health worker sat with me as I was analyzing the idea of hope. She asked me what hope I had for my life. After a few minutes, I came up with this – to feel happiness, to live in harmony, friends and family who understand me and allow me to be myself, good health and proper support, respect and inspiration.

Sometimes I just sit and stare off into nothingness. Some days I keep busy as much as possible. Everything depends on the day and what’s going on. Sometimes hope is all we have. No matter how old we are or who we are, we all have hope for something. A friend suggested to find hope one day at a time. Having expectations for any given situation can leave a person hurt. When there are no expectations, anything that happens is alright. So find a little HOPE to get through the day.

Tiffany

I have to be honest. I’ve been struggling with something significant these past three months. Today, I would like to share that struggle. Some of you might relate.

Recent life circumstances have caused me to think HARD about the definition of WORK.

What is WORK?

I “stopped working” at the end of December 2014 to stay home and pursue writing and photography.

Since then, I’ve been through two months of eye cancer with my husband, two months of spring cleaning, three summer months of caring for our three children, four months of crazy-good chaos, and three months working on four books I hope to have published someday. Add to that daily care of our children, tending to and working on our marriage, kid paperwork, homework and activities, household chores, keeping up with finances, a sister who’s battling schizoaffective disorder-bipolar type, a dad who’s going through testing to determine if he’s a candidate for a lung transplant, and a mom who’s trying to help them all. Add to that a small photography business launched in hopes of it becoming something bigger, editing someone else’s book, and now, volunteer work on a mission advocacy team at our church.

I earned VERY FEW DOLLARS in 2015.

I haven’t earned ANY DOLLARS in 2016.

I’ve struggled with this definition of work, this WONDERING if I’m WORKING, this WONDERING if I’m WORTH anything, for three months hard now.

A couple weeks ago, I took a short walk with one of our neighbors. Our kids rode their bikes while we chatted. I don’t remember the details of the conversation, but one thing stuck with me. At one point, my neighbor said “Oh yeah, you don’t work anymore, do you?” I responded with “Yeah, I don’t.” The conversation continued.

I didn’t correct her, nor did I correct myself. But I should have.

Her question and my response hit home hard.

None of it was ill-intentioned.

It’s just awfully coincidental that “You don’t work anymore, do you?” was the question swirling in my mind prior to her asking. HER question confirmed MY struggle.

“Oh yeah, you don’t work anymore, do you?”

Honestly? I didn’t give her the right answer.

The better answer would have been “Yeah, I stopped my work as a speech therapist, so I’m not getting paid right now, but I AM working. I’m home watching our kids full-time. I’m also a writer and I’m working on four books I hope to get published someday. I also launched a photography business last summer and plan on doing a lot more photo shoots this spring, summer and fall.”

Unfortunately, I wasn’t able to give my neighbor a better answer because I haven’t been 100% confident that my WORK is WORTH something.

I’ve been asking big questions…

Is WORK only WORK if it’s paid?

What about all the stay at home moms?

What about the worker who’s laid off and actively seeking employment?

What about all the people who do volunteer work? Don’t they call it “volunteer WORK” for a reason?

What about all the retired folks who “don’t work anymore,” but are active, fully-functioning, contributing members of society?

What about the spouse who’s providing endless hours of care for her failing husband?

What about the grandparents caring for their grandchildren?

What about the artist who’s yet to be discovered?

What about the writer who’s working on her first novel?

What about the musician who’s playing the streets of Nashville for coins in a guitar case?

What about all the staff at orphanages around the globe who work for little to nothing but a meal and maybe a place to sleep?

What about anyone else who knows in their heart they’re doing hard and worthy WORK, but aren’t getting paid for it?

What is the definition of WORK?

Is WORK only considered WORK if it’s paid?

Are we only WORTH something if our WORK is paid?

Turn these questions personal, and here’s how they sound…

Am I working? (Because I sure feel like I am.)

Does my work only count if it’s paid?

Am I only worth something if I’m PAID for my work?

Notice the difference between question two and three. ONE is about the worth of my work. The second is about MY worth. I have begun to confuse MY WORK with MY WORTH. I have begun to believe that my WORK only has value if it’s paid. Culture and recent experience tells me that WORK can only be defined as WORK if it’s paid.

But my gut, my heart? They’re revolting against this notion.

I KNOW I’ve been working these past 15 months. I know I’ve been working these past three months as I’ve been writing and battling these questions of WORK and WORTH. In my heart, I know WORK has a much broader definition than the way it’s typically defined in our culture.

I’ve not arrived yet.

But I’m beginning to realize it’s up to me.

I get to decide.

I have to decide.

Am I working, or am I not?

Is my work worth something, or not?

Am I worth something, or am I not?

I looked up the definition of work this morning. I had to.

Type it in.

Just do it.

Type “definition of work” in Google search.

(Then make sure to click on “Translations, word origin and MORE DEFINITIONS,” which is immediately below the first two noun and verb definitions of work.)

See what you find.

I thought I’d start this post with the various definitions of WORK. Little did I know, there’s not enough room in this post to share all the definitions of work. I’d have to plagiarize because there are SO many definitions, noun AND verb. “Earning an income” is just ONE of MANY, MANY definitions of WORK.

Yes, I had to do it.

I had to KNOW if WORK is more than earning an income.

I had to do it for myself.

I’ve barely been paid anything for 15 months now. But I know I’ve been working. I know I’m working.

My heart tells me so.

In this season, I’m learning about the hidden, the unseen, unpaid WORKER. I’m learning for myself, and I’m learning so I can become an advocate.

We’re working warriors.

Culture tells us our WORK isn’t WORTHY unless it’s paid.

I beg to differ.

The value of WORK is more than a paycheck.

The value of WORK lies within us.

The value of WORK lies in what we have to offer the world.

I decide.

We decide.

God decides.

Work it. Paid or unpaid.