It’s Okay

You’re feeling great, moving confidently in your purpose, passion burning, goals met, connections made. Everything is in motion. Then it all comes to an abrupt halt.

You’re feeling great, moving confidently in your purpose, passion burning, meeting goals, making connections.  Everything is in motion.  Then it all comes to an abrupt halt.  Something unexpected happens and no matter how you try to press on or press through you simply cannot. It’s impossible to move forward.

The block could come from financial struggles, health crisis (yours or a loved one’s), failure in a relationship, or even an unexpected global pandemic. Don’t panic.  It’s all going to be okay.

If your finances collapse and you need to take a job unrelated to your dream in order to stay on your feet– it’s okay.   

If you become physically or mentally unwell, and you need to take time to overcome it— it’s okay.

If someone you love is in crisis and you need to give them your time for a while—  it’s okay. 

If the world comes to a standstill and you don’t have it in you to figure out how to carry on with remote technology or without one-on-one connection or you feel stressed, overwhelmed– it’s okay.     

As someone who has faced each of these issues in the past few years, there were times when I thought if I wasn’t pushing towards my goals every moment then everything I had built so far was completely lost. But I discovered that when you are pursuing your true purpose, you do not have to blast your way through to it and struggle over every little move or lack of movement. Your true purpose will still be there when you are ready to get back into the swing of things. Don’t misunderstand me, building your life towards your purpose is hard work, there are times you have to fight your way towards your purpose, but you’ll never have to fight something into being your purpose. It’s a natural extension of yourself. It’s always been a part of you, will always been there waiting for you to discover/rediscover it. It will always be there for you. You’ll equip yourself for it again and pursue it. It may take a little extra time and effort to get it back to the shape where you left off, and it may not be going in exactly the same direction it once was, but it’s okay.

After the struggle, after the crisis, after the failure, after the pandemic, when you look up from the bottom and, if for some reason your purpose is NOT there, then it really wasn’t your purpose at all. And if it was not – it’s okay. Don’t get discouraged, just take time to regroup, rethink, restructure. And start again. It’s okay.

Your purpose does not depend upon any monetary condition, any state of health, the presence or absence of any person, or the condition of the world at large. Your purpose fits you no matter the shape of your life, no matter the shape of the world. It will be there when you get back. Don’t worry. It’s okay.

Red Brushstrokes

Photo of the actual oil painting referenced
is courtesy of Steve Scheibe at visibleinvisible*.

In December, I attended an art show of a new friend*.  His lakeside gallery was filled with beautiful watercolors, silk banners, stone lithographs and more.  In a small sun-filled corner was his latest commissioned project currently in progress.  Around the easel were photos of the subject and all the requisite tools of an artist: containers of paint, brushes, rags, drop cloth, etc.  In the center of it all the client’s requested seascape was forming on an oversized canvas.  Brushstrokes had created the silhouettes of cliffs, trees, the horizon, and rock formations.  But to my surprise, it was all done in red paint.  Not what I expected. He explained this was a special technique and when he later applied the familiar hues of sand, water, and sky, the red base underneath would bring warmth to the entire composition. Layers would also be added in some areas that needed intensity in their depth. The idea completely intrigued me – setting down a foundation to make what was later placed over it feel warmer and stronger.

For weeks afterward I thought about it and I found myself comparing the painting to my life as I face challenging times.  Do hard times just hit me free and clear?  Do I just hold my breath hoping it’s not too destructive this time?  Or have I laid a foundation that lessens the impact of these challenges, making them not quite so dark and damaging but allows warmth and strength to seep through?  

When I freely give control of the purpose and design of my life to God, I also take the responsibility to follow and keep up with Him as He moves.  I need to create a base that helps me hold onto Him as He adds to and subtracts from my life, or when He takes me in a direction I haven’t anticipated and don’t understand. That base layer – my red paint – shows through and helps me stand firm.  That layer is more than just having a positive attitude or reciting affirmations.  I must deliberately lay down thick, red brushstrokes of hope and grace.  Hope that comes from remembering His faithfulness to me in the past and trusting He will continue to do good things now and in the future.  Grace that reminds me that I don’t have to be perfect and I am not relying on my own abilities to get everything right.

When I intentionally build towards His purpose for my life and I equip myself with hope and grace, I can pursue it with a sense of warmth and strength, even when my life is not picture perfect.    

*Steve Scheibe is an accomplished and awarded artist with over two decades of professional art experience. On his website, visibleinvisible, he has posted “An Oil Painting in Progress” which follows the development of this project. While you’re there, please browse through the rest of his site and enjoy the other excellent artwork Steve has produced.

Grace & Grief – Part Two

The morning started with me picking up my father’s ashes. By the evening I am miles away standing and watching a storm brew over the ocean.

Read the introduction to this non-linear series here:  Grace & Grief Series


The morning started with me picking up my father’s ashes. By the evening I am miles away standing and watching a storm brew over the ocean.  The rain slowly, relentlessly drums on the window.  My friend, Sandy, is tucked into the couch with her nose in a book.  I am at the table with my laptop, tapping away at some journal-entry-turned-stream-of-consciousness when I realize I am typing in rhythm with the rain.  I return to the table and think about this first day of our getaway.  Sandy’s plans for a solo day trip for a wedding at the beach morphed into long-weekend treat for me to escape the grief of these eleven days since Dad’s death.       

As I prepare for bed I notice my cell phone is lit up, indicating an unseen message sent at least an hour earlier.  The text is from my sister:  MOTHER HAS HAD A STROKE. ON THE WAY TO HOSPITAL. WILL LET YOU KNOW WHAT’S GOING ON WHEN WE KNOW.  My mind goes blank.  I call her back and get the details and we try to determine whether I should leave immediately or wait to head out on the three-hour trip the next morning.  There’s not enough information yet. 

As I wait to hear back, I make a shallow attempt to pack some of my things.  Sandy calls her husband and they decide I should take their car and worry about getting her back home later.  Close to midnight the call comes. Mother will not make it.  I am needed.   Sandy hands me the keys to her car and says, “Please drive carefully.”    

It’s a long drive, very late at night, and it turns violently stormy.  Windshield wipers are on full force and seem to set the pace for the speed of both the car and the tumble of thoughts about losing both my parents almost back-to-back.  My phone’s headset is my only connection to the real world that I am driving toward.  I conference call in to my family and listen in on consultations with the medical personnel at the hospital. I chime in now and then with what I know first-hand of her end-of-life preferences.

 “She specifically said she did not want any heroic measures.”

I take my foot off the accelerator and change lanes to pass by a serious road accident, red and blue lights flashing everywhere off the wet pavement.  The irony of the moment is not lost on me. 

It becomes more and more obvious that Mother is, in essence, gone.  Only a breathing apparatus is keeping her alive. 

“Don’t keep her going for me.”  I try to be firm and unemotional.  “It’s okay if you want to let her go right now. We had a really good visit last weekend. I don’t want her to have any suffering on my account.” 

The doctor assures everyone that Mother feels no pain, is not in distress, and that it is no problem to wait. 

“Don’t wait for me,” I repeat.  I am outvoted. 

A plan is developed where someone in the family will meet me at a Park and Ride lot about forty-five minutes from the hospital and they will drive me the rest of the way.  I tumble out of the lonely little fishbowl of a car into the warmth of family to share this newest loss.  At 3:00 a.m. we pull into a parking spot at the downtown hospital. It is cold and dark and damp.  On my own I never would have been able to navigate these streets or find the off-hours entrance into the building, or the room where I needed to be.  Her room. 

When I step into the world of the Intensive Care Unit, it feels like I’ve dived into the deep end of a swimming pool.  The loudness of the outside world halts abruptly.  I am underwater, moving slowly. Sounds are muffled.  The dim lights are almost like waves.  The edges of the room are bathed in dark sepia tones. A soft light glows down between the Gothic machines on either side of the bed.  The “ch-ch-ch” of the breathing machine catches my attention and my eyes follow along the labyrinth of tubes to the unwanted reveal of the face of the patient.  Mother. But not Mother.  She looks as if she is taking a nap, but uncomfortably.  Her gray-brown bangs are pushed roughly back from her forehead.  I reach out to put her hair in place properly, but it won’t stay.  The thought crosses my mind that she must have been attached to other equipment for a while. 

I take her hand in mine and say, “Mother, it’s Pam. I’m here… and I’m not wearing any socks.”  There is soft laughter from those who know the running joke between us.   I try to kiss her cheek but the side guards on the bed prevent me.  Someone pulls them down.  I stroke her face.  I tell her I love her.  I look at everyone.  They have been waiting for me and, when I finish saying good-bye to her, it will be the end.

 “This is so surreal.”

Everyone tears up and nods their heads.  I know that Mother is not there.  I know she left long ago.  But I am not quite ready yet.

“We should sing grace.” 

April 2015. Mother at the beach.

Mother’s tradition on holidays and at big family gatherings is for everyone to hold hands around the table and sing grace.  We all gather around her bed.  I take my mother’s left hand, my sister holds the right.  My older brother always starts us off. He looks at the unbroken circle of family and chokes on his grief.  My younger brother looks at him, smiles and nods encouragement, “You can do it.” Soon the song softly fills the room. 

For health and strength and daily bread we praise Thy name,  O Lord.  Amen.”

I look around the circle too.  They are my mother’s children, their spouses, their children, and their children’s children. We are all singing our good-bye.  I hug each of their necks as they depart.  It comes down to the four original kids and three spouses to close out the chapter.   

When the staff come in to remove her breathing tube, I step out into the hallway.  I watch as one of my tears splashes in slow motion on the tiled floor. Back in the room it is oh so quiet as the seven of us wait.  And, just as we did just eleven days earlier with my dad, we watch as life ebbs away and leaves the mortal shell of my mother behind.  3:30 a.m.

I choose to return to the beach and finish the long weekend.  I walk what feels like miles in the damp, cool sand.  I stand ankle-deep in the waves.  The wet breeze circles around me and I sway with the motion of it, the ebb and flow of life.