Solo car rides are generally therapeutic – perhaps in the same way as a “runner’s high”, which I generally miss out on because I’m experiencing a combination of nausea and internal dialogue of I hate this My lungs hurt I hate this I think maybe I’m dying. I’ve put 3500 miles on my car* in the past month, so I’ve had plenty of therapy time. Because my most re-visited blog posts are generally those I composed while spilling my emotions like a crockpot of lentils in the back of the car, I’m staying up late after another car therapy session to lay it all out before my logical brain decides it’s all too silly to worry about.

*which I also paid off this month! Woohoo!

I crave routine. I’ve taken on travel PT partially for the adventure, and partially – perhaps even primarily – to challenge my reliance on predictability and planning. I’ve been mourning the loss of routine especially keenly these past 2.5 weeks, as I’ve moved twice, changed jobs, begun to find a new flow as a roommate with some minor additional expectations, and stayed steadily behind on emails, online courses for work advancement and church position training. I’ve fallen grossly and gut-wrenchingly (I can’t stand being late – part of my addiction to plans) behind on other self-assigned tasks like reading books, practicing music, organizing photos and videos (from LAST Christmas), and #TherapyThursday educational videos.

I’m feel as if I’m not keeping up with anything. Every pot on the stove is boiling over, and it’s not so much a question of how I’ll save the meal as it is a question of if I’ll ever want to cook again, or just rely on the scant nutritive value of microwaveable Hot Pockets for the foreseeable future.

The past few weeks have challenged me in the greatest way.

There were not enough hours in the day. I felt pulled and stretched thin, to the point of rupturing holes that would allow all the to-dos to slip through, falling short of what I had promised to others, what I had promised myself I could offer them.

I was forced to stop promising. To stop telling myself that I could be the answer to all the problems. To face head-on the temptation to consider myself the savior, the solution, the missing piece.
I was forced to admit that I was failing.

I’d had a plan – and it was a good plan, let me tell you, a fantastic plan, a plan to make all other plans obsolete. The Plan was to finish my job in eastern Wisco, move home with the parents as Mom started her new medical treatments, help out at Dad’s office in his busy season, be the helpful daughter.
Then I got word that my friend from work was sick. Really sick. Can’t-go-back-to-work-for-6-to-12-months sick. And since I have the same job title she does, they called and asked if I could step in. It seemed it must be a God thing: a position for which I was trained not only in profession, but in specific diagnoses, in facility. A timeframe that lined up nearly perfectly. Good friends in the area, and a housing situation that was flexible and affordable.

And so, after much inner turmoil and angst, I’m back in Antigo; like a bad rash that just won’t stay away. 🙃

And once again, a lesson learned: God has it all in control. He will never require me to save the day… but He offers the gift to be a part of the solution. And in His grace, He helps to humble me before I am convinced that I have the power to fix the problem.
“I can do all things through Christ…[His] strength is made perfect in [my] weakness…” (Philippians 4:13; 2 Corinthians 12:8)