Scribing the Journey »

I stopped at Office Max this morning and bought some highlighters.

It seems like such a small thing, so insignificant, yet somehow, I believe these highlighters are magic.

At least I hope. 

It wasn’t the iridescent display of colors that attracted me, nor the little dispenser of page markers each of them had somehow fitted into their caps.  It wasn’t that I even needed new highlighters because I already had some in my bag, perfectly good ones left over from last semester.

But it was the new determination I needed. 

Because honestly?  Last semester was the hardest thing I’ve ever done.

And there were times, especially staring, with #2 pencil in hand, at a two hour long comprehensive final exam, that I was truly tempted to quit.

Or when, with red-faced embarrassment, I couldn’t find the correct lever to raise or lower the bedside tray and finally the mother had to help me.

Or the time I put too much goop (yes, that’s the medical term) and nearly caused a poor unsuspecting gentleman to live with permanent dentures.

But there were other times.

Times like the second clinical when I realized my patient was on a medication that had chemical properties very similar to another one he was allergic too.  When he found out the tingling in his fingers wasn’t the paralysis progressing upward, but instead an allergic reaction to the medication, the relief and appreciation he expressed made me smile.

After that, I was referred to as the “rock star” but I never felt like one.

Instead, I picked up a food tray and delivered two tiny slices of bacon to a starving boyish man.  After checking his dietary restrictions, I collaborated with his mom to find him the perfect cinnamon roll the town had to offer and his excitement upon the delivery of a still-warm cinnamon roll made me realize that I could start to enjoy this job.

And the time when a patient told me at the end of my shift, “Today was the first day since the accident that I forgot I was paralyzed. So thank you for that.” I walked out the big front doors into the bitter wind and I’m going to blame the tears pooling in my eyes on its bitter sting, not the overwhelming sense of purpose I had just discovered.

And another time, when the priest came by to sprinkle Holy Water on the patient before surgery and after the Catholic wife walked out of the room, how the husband asked me to pray with him.  That prayer wasn’t anything special, and it definitely wasn’t recited like the previous one, and even though I held hands with another man, I remember how it never felt more right.  He whispered to me, grinning, before I left, “Thank you.  I feel so much better and I didn’t even have to be sprinkled with water.”

So yes, this is a calling, this nursing thing.

And there are times when the stress and chaos and mental trauma of it all nearly make a person quit.

But then God supplies a moment.

Just a tiny bit of hope that gives new determination to continue.

I’ve found those moments in my inbox from you, dear friends.  And in my post office box.  And in the encouraging words from my family.  And the listening ear Southern Gal supplies so graciously.

And now, looking back, the new highlighters most definitely aren’t magic.

But it’s the little things that matter the most. 

And as cliche as that sounds, it was the biggest lesson I learned last semester.

I lean over porcelain sink and stare long into the mirror, deep brown eyes watching fingers briefly touch the lone wrinkle across my forehead.

Another year past.

Here, I linger.

I stop short and stare into the face of the days, a grand total of 365 yesterdays.

Taking a deep breath, I expel slowly and close my eyes and pretend for just a minute that time is frozen, that the small man behind the face of the mantel clock has taken a short vacation and I am just able to relax and stop in the knowing that life isn’t slowly passing by.

What’s the purpose of it all?

I throw the question into the coming year’s face. All we do is get older, change just a little bit more, get a little bit pudgier, find another gray hair, another wrinkle, another friend, another career, more opportunities, but really… when we stop and consider it, what is the ultimate purpose?

I don’t know, but I can feel it.

Two thousand twelve wants to change me.

I hear someone in the living room say “only ten more minutes” so I hurry outside and start the car so it’s warm for the getaway once we’ve welcomed the new year. The wind chills me as I run, then I stop suddenly and stare into the darkness, into the shriek of wind running recklessly through the trees around the house.

It is here I want to stand, arms crossed against my chest, push myself into the wind, this wind circling the earth, around and around like hands on a clock, time marching on… and like I said, I want to stop it all here, stand stoic against this bitter earth breath and freeze this moment.

A tree bends low, shivering in the transparent wind.

Thirty five to forty five mile an hour wind, I recall the nearly mechanical weatherman saying.

A branch snaps, brittle brutality.

Yes, two thousand twelve not only wants to change me but wants to break me.

The house is only fifteen feet from where I stand and warm light spills through the front door across my feet.

Just fifteen feet and I’ll clap and yell and the new year will be here, and I won’t wonder about the purpose of it all. I’ll just forget it all, I tell myself.

Later, after my shower, I glance at the clock.

12:49 A.M.

After I close my Bible.

1:05 A.M.

And I lay awake.

1:47 A.M.

2:15 A.M.

Eyes wide, questions circling.

2:50 A.M.

The purpose?

Shortly after I hear the clock in the living room chime three o’clock, I turn on the bedside lamp and flip pages and it stands there, the answer:

“But from that Garden beginning, God has had a different purpose for us. His intent, since He bent low and breathed His life into the dust of our lungs, since He kissed us into being, has never been to slyly orchestrate our ruin. And yet, I have found it: He does have surprising, secret purposes. I open a Bible, and His plans, startling, lie there barefaced. It’s hard to believe it, when I read it, and I have to come back to it many times, feel long across those words, make sure they are real. His love letter forever silences any doubts: “His secret purpose framed from the very beginning [is] to bring us to our full glory.” (1 Corinthians 2:7 NEB). – Ann Voskamp, from One Thousand Gifts

So I commit to 2012.

My word of the year.

Purpose.

I commit to finding little pieces of that purpose… that wild, marvelous plan He created for me when He bent low from the heavens and breathed life into my soul. I commit to living that purpose, that fullest glory He has planned for me, arms spread wide in delight to all the blessings He gives.  I commit to being willing to follow where His purpose leads, whether that be reaching out to the world with a smile or writing words of encouragement for others or just sitting silent, basking in the warmth of His love.

I commit to His purpose. 

Photos Graciously Offered by Kelly Sauer 

Anger poured red from my knuckles.

I sat panting on hard concrete, sweat dropping from my hair to my hands, the sting of salt on open wounds making me grimace. The dim light of evening, silently peeking in through a single window, cast an eerie glow over the concrete walls.

The boxing bag swung beside me, blackness shadowing this person I’d become. This person I didn’t recognize. This person I didn’t want to be.

The timer sounded the start of another round.

Slipping the tight boxing gloves on, I stood to my feet and worked through the near exhaustion.

This was a pain I could handle; that I could deal with.

The pain of life? Well… that was a different story.

My world two months prior, unbeknownst to me, had started to unravel. And due to circumstances, I had to walk through the corridors of my college for the last time after handing in my resignation.

I was at rock bottom.

So I swung fist and I bled pain all over those concrete floors.

I stayed in quiet, hurt world for a while.

Then my dad suggested, “Call up a friend. Go out and have a good time.”

So I went to eat out with one of my friends, and as I gripped my Pepsi, he said, “What’s up with your hands?”

“Been doin’ some boxing,” I shrugged.

“You should come over and practice in my basement,” was his reply and I was shocked, but I thought about how it would be easier to share my pain with a friend than all alone.

So we boxed. I took a punch or two. I delivered a lot more.

And the pain slowly started to heal. Our boxing matches reaffirmed a friendship I had lost in the business of college life. I started to connect with life away from career and goals, and started to learn who I was again.

During those weeks, my sparring partner took a lot of punches. Angry ones. And after, panting from exhaustion, he spoke of Jesus.

Jesus? I’d forgotten about Him.

Today, I glance at my hands typing these words, and I realize they show no scars. The anger is healed. My life is renewed.

But that Man, the One who died for me, the One my friend reintroduced me in his basement, the One who still takes angry punches from me sometimes…. He’s got scars.

Many years ago, He dripped blood so I don’t have to today.

This is a repost from nearly a year ago.  I’ll be posting new content after the first of the year. Happy New Year everyone!