On Mattering

A few weeks ago, I started a job doing legal transcription. I was excited by the idea of it being a step away from medical, something interesting and different. When my editor sent me my second case, I was intrigued by the idea of it being a murder case and set straight to work.

I loaded my files and was surprised when the first one opened as a video. Generally, the files come only in audio form. I pressed play and the image of a black man in an orange jump suit came to life. He was so big, so tough looking, the scowl on his face revealing nothing. I listened intently and worked my way through the first few hours of the video.

Tough, a gang member, robbery, murder, drugs, guns, money; all things I would expect to hear in a case like his.

I was amazed at the way the cops unraveled his story, how every lie he told fell apart. His world fell apart at his feet, right before my eyes. It was only a matter of time before the truth began pouring out....and my heart began to ache for him.

As the truth began to reveal itself, the young man retreated to the corner of the room, hugging his knees against his chest, sobs racking his enormous body. He sobbed about his involvement (he had not actually been the murderer), he cried about his future, and he sobbed about the deceit by his so-called friend and brother that had landed him there in the first place. Most devastatingly of all, he cried for his mother. Rocking back and forth on in the corner of the dingy interrogation room, he pleaded with the detectives that he would tell them the truth if they, in turn, promised that he could give his mother a hug. (Much to my relief, the detectives vowed to make that happen.) The rough exterior gone, the vulgar language melted into tears; this hard, rough, man wanted not his freedom, not his friends, not his girlfriend, but his mother.

Tears began to pour down my cheeks as I listened to his pleading. I felt his tears in every inch of my being. His sobs spoke to the mother in me and I felt the familiar fierceness I often feel when I think about my own child and how intensely and wholly I love her. While his actions were inexcusable, I couldn't shake the actual physical pain I felt in my heart for him. I felt his longing, and it will haunt me forever.

I know many mother's, including myself, that worry unceasingly that what we are doing actually matters. Does my child need me? Am I ever doing enough? Does what I'm doing actually make a difference? In that young man's tears, I understood that, yes, I am and yes, it makes all the difference.

In the Snow

On Christmas morning 2008, I lay snuggled under a mass of heavy blankets waiting for B to come home from work. A quick glance at my phone told me that it was nearly 8am; he was a good 2 hours late coming home.

With a shiver, I slid off the bed and wandered over to the kitchen window of hopes of seeing any sign of my husband. There was only white. It had been snowing in Wyoming for days. What once had been my car was now just a cotton-colored mound. The wind had made snow drifts around the house and all over the roads that were easily 4 feet deep, if not more. The all night howling of the wind had made the roads nearly uncrossable.

My phone chirped from the bedroom and I rushed to answer it. It was B, he was stuck 100 yards away in a snowdrift and he couldn't get out. I quickly pulled on his heavy coveralls, his roommates snow boots, stuffed my hair under a hat and began treking my way up the hill to where he was, snow shovel in hand.

With every step I sunk deeper and deeper into the snow: Knee-high, thigh-high, waist-high, the snow seemed to suck you down with every passing moment. It took me nearly an hour to walk the short distance. My face was soaked and wind burned, my eyelashes were frozen, the wind making it impossible to see more than a foot in front of my face. I let out a cry every time I stumbled and landed face down in the snow. I felt angry, beaten, and forgotten by the storm. The sheer frustration of not even being able to walk felt almost unbearable.

I finally made it to my husband, he was in even worse shape than I was. He had been digging himself out for hours, only to have all his progress constantly undone by the fierce Wyoming winds.

For the next few hours we took turns digging while the other rested and tried to warm themselves inside our vehicle. With neighbors been far and few between and the snow storm raging on, it felt as though we were invisible, that no one would ever see us, that we were hopelessly stuck.

After a time and many, many silent prayers, someone did see us, tied chains and ropes to our vehicle, and quite literally yanked us out and saw us home. I have never felt more grateful. Someone saw our plight and pulled us out. We were rescued, and I felt that rescue in every part of my body as I peeled off my dripping wet clothing and put them in the washer.

I am having a day today where I feel like B and I are stuck in that snowstorm again, that we are digging and the wind keeps blowing and burying us deeper and deeper. I am feeling forgotten and stuck; I have that invisible feeling again. That feeling where it seems like we are going to be buried so completely that no one will ever see us. The only difference is, this time I have already attached the ropes, I have sent an SOS into the sky, I am screaming at the top of my lungs, and no one is listening. We need someone to pull us out.

I know that this will pass. I know that we are ok. We ARE ok. But today, I am feeling buried. But just as the snow, sweat, mud, and tears came out of our clothes that day, this, too, will all come out in the wash.

On Worry

It's been a long week.


The week was bookended with a sick baby, loads and loads of tiny frustrations mixed in the middle, and significant lack of sleep making me want to rip my hair out, or at the very least sit on the floor and sob. Which I did. Twice.



I am struggling to find balance in an already complicated situation (who's life isn't complicated, though?). I am terrified to fail as a wife, as a mother. I am terrified that I may lose myself. I worry about this predicament we are in, I worry about this, I worry about that, and I worry about everything else in between. I have been completely consumed by things I can't control, things that I just need to have faith will work.

Worry. Worry. Worry.

In an email to Ashley, I expressed my frustration and irritation and insurmountable worry. So much my stress has revolved around this move. I told her that I knew that we made the right decision, that it was what we were supposed to do, but still my fear was consuming me.

And Ashley, with her talent for saying it like it is (and bless her for it), said this:

Can I be really blunt about something? If you know that you are supposed to be there don't you think it might be a little bit offensive to the Lord that you are worried? It is. Imagine you telling your little Olivia that you would help her and then she continues to worry that you won't. How sad as a loving parent. So don't worry sister, it is just such a huge energy drain that you don't need right now.

She could not have hit the nail more squarely on the head. Brilliance in tender mercies.