Catharsis

 Writing is cathartic. Spilling everything in my mind out, putting it in words, allows the "paper"...what would have been paper 50 years ago...to hold the thoughts so I don't have to. It helps to organize smelly mists swirling around in my head, congealing them into something that can be tangible, compared to something else tangible, like holding a rock in each hand and deciding which one is heavier. Then I can bang them together and maybe make a spark, or at least a noise. 

So last time I wrote, it was about the return of some grief. It's still there, I'm still wearing it around my shoulders like some sort of cloak, and that's ok. There was a prayer meeting at church last night, after a pot-luck supper. I do love a potluck supper. Someone brought pineapple casserole. YUM. The church provided fried chicken, everyone else brought sides and desserts. I contributed deviled eggs because there's never any left over so I don't have to deal with them. Also- cheap and easy. Anyway, at the prayer meeting, it was announced that someone had lost her husband very suddenly, funeral was at such and such on an upcoming day. I had to cover my face because here comes the tears. 

Not because I was feeling sorry for myself, but because someone else was having to experience something I wouldn't wish on my worst enemy. 

How do you pray for someone in such a situation? I never knew but I do now. Pray for her to have courage in the upcoming days/months/years. Pray for her to feel God's presence and comfort in her grief, and for you to be able to know what God wants you to do to help.

How do you help? Let me tell you. Bring her a bunch of those Bolthouse Farms or Naked (brand) smoothies they have in the produce section of the grocery store. She'll have plenty of casseroles and probably not be hungry. Widows lose weight. I lost 50 pounds. Another friend lost 15 that she didn't have to lose. It's really hard to swallow and you have ZERO appetite, even if you know you probably ought to eat.

Don't try to distract her from her grief, she'd probably feel guilty about that. But honor it, sit with her without talking and if she wants to talk, encourage it. Let her talk about her beloved. It helps. If you knew him well, pull out a "remember when" and "one of the things I loved about him was (this thing)" I remember being so afraid he would be completely erased, and it's incredibly comforting to talk about him.

If bringing casseroles and baked goods is how you are led to help, that's wonderful! Especially if there's kids at home, because they need to eat and she might be having trouble with that. Or not- maybe taking care of her children helps her focus and manage each day. That said, if you bring food, PLEASE bring it in a disposable container, and ready to stick in the freezer, in case she has a lot of other food. I know how wonderful it was, when I was having a horrible day even months later, to reach in and grab something I could just stick in the oven and be done with it. Or if the 15 yr old was hungry, he could do it. Consider the size of the family when you make stuff up. If there's 2 or 3, a 9x13 pan of chicken and rice is kind of intimidating. Make 2 8x8 pans, ready to freeze. Put your name on it somehow, so she will know who brought it, because she's probably not going to remember. I know I'd forget the most basic things, like my own phone number, or personal hygiene. So remembering Ms Anne brought the macaroni and cheese is kind of a lot to expect.  And please, please, don't expect a thank you note. You might get one, but there's a lot going on and social niceties really need to be set aside. 

If you're in a church, and there's other widows there, let them know, and they will come around and be a tribe. I know I have my widow's tribe. When Himself died, there was one particular woman who knew just what to say, and her help early on was invaluable. Now I'm in another town, and found the widow's tribe. We have breakfast every Thursday, sit together at the potlucks, and encourage, laugh, cry, and help each other. 

For the funeral, if there's a request for a donation to a charity instead of flowers, PLEASE do that! PLEASE! I know it meant so much more to me than a bouquet. As nice as they were, I had no idea what to do with them. Same with the plants. The peace lilies. Oh lord...Yes, they're good houseplants but just like carnations, they're funeral plants. Please make a donation. It is so much more meaningful. I got a thank you from the charities Himself and Capt loved, and that meant the world to me. I guarantee the $50 you'd spend on a bouquet that will die in a week would mean so much to a volunteer fire department, homeless shelter, or humane society.

Understand that the widow will probably never get "back to normal". She will likely never be who she was before her beloved died. She has to create a new normal, which will include spells of grief. I don't know how long that will last. It's different for every person. For me, I expect it will last the rest of my life. Himself was called Home 8-1/2 years ago. For Capt it will be a year Oct. 8, 2023. Seeing a picture of Himself, smoking a cigar on the patio, brings me both comfort and sadness. Seeing a picture of Capt on his fishing boat, wearing a broad brimmed hat and happily barefoot, does the same. I imagine Himself in a big rocking chair talking philosophy with Jesus. I see Capt standing in the sand, fly-fishing with Saint Peter. Those images are incredibly comforting but also tears-inducing. 

A widow needs to learn to be able to have the sadness and grief without being told it will pass. No it won't. She will learn to be able to talk about her beloved without crying, but probably not immediately. So let her, and keep a couple of tissues in your pocket when you go for a visit. Some women are able to wear their emotions out there, and are unafraid to show them. Others are like me, mortified at the idea of being so publicly "irrational" (there's nothing irrational about it, but it is still horrifying to let people see me acting such a way). Either way, try to be comfortable with it. If she's a hugger, give her a hug. If not, give her a tissue. If you can, offer a cup of tea. 

Does any of this make sense? Does it help? I hope so. 

Slammed again

A couple of days ago, Himself's (husband #1, who died in 2015) father passed away. It's hard on my boys, who were very close to him. I (and they) know he's gone to his Heavenly reward, and it's not "good-bye", but "see you later". What a tremendous comfort. Really it is. It has also recalled a lot of hard feelings for me- missing Himself, missing Capt. Being a double widow is not easy. In fact I'm feeling down right whiney about it. This too will pass, just like everything else. I know it's not good-bye, it's see you later for both of them. 

But (you knew that was coming), there's still stuff to deal with. I joined the choir at church, and looking out into the congregation there are many elderly couples, married for 50+ years and I wonder if they have any idea just how blessed they are. I wished for a 25th anniversary. While Himself and I were together for 30 years, on our 25th anniversary there was a massive crisis at work and all the plans I'd made had to be cancelled. He promised we'd do it on our 30th, but we only made it 28-1/2 years. Then I hoped for it with Capt. We would have been late 70's for a 25th, but that's doable, right? He passed away a week before the 5th anniversary of when we met. So, do you see why I'm feeling sorry for myself right now? 

Am I going to get the privilege of getting old with someone? It is a privilege, you know. Not a right. When people get married, whether it's young like Himself and I (I was 21, he was 22), the expectation is for 60-70 years together, grandkids and great grandkids, holding hands with each other on the front porch with family all around. That was a dream we both had. 

When Capt and I began our relationship, we were going to travel, see the world, do the things that didn't happen when we were both younger. Some of that was done, with trips to Honduras and St Croix, plans to go to Cozumel and possibly some work in Nicaragua. A couple of weeks before he died, he knew it was coming, and told me to travel when he was gone. I thought he was being morbid. I HAD PLANS.  

Apparently, so did God and they weren't the same as mine.

I tell myself getting mad at God for all this is silly. His plans aren't necessarily the same as mine but they're always good. He knows what he's doing, and has it all figured out. I am supposed to trust that, and I'm trying. 

But I have to admit that I'm still human. It still hurts, and doubly so because Capt's death brought back all the feelings of Himself's death and a huge part of me wants to scream IT'S NOT FAIR only with some choice words added in. 

I'm not special that I should not have to suffer now and then. God has done a LOT for me. He has taken care of my children even when they have tried as hard as they could to mess their lives up. He has seen to it I am well provided for, have friends, and everything I could want, except for the one thing I would really like.  However, I am sure there's a very good reason behind the (how do I say this)....noticeable lack of companionship. Perhaps He is protecting me from something. Maybe He has something planned beyond my imagining. I don't know. I'll go with the protection because I don't want to be all hopeful then disappointed. At any rate, I'm not going to push the issue. I am not going to go out and do the modern thing and get online to look for someone. I'm just...not.

I am changing my name back to what it was prior to Capt. It's my children's last name, and I kept my business in it, because paperwork and such was ridiculous for making a change. I have thought long and hard about it. I talked to a few people, worried that it would be considered disrespectful of him, then decided he's busy fishing with Peter and a few other apostles, probably telling them how to fly fish. He isn't worried about anything, especially his last name. So, there it is. 

In the mean time, while I am very busy feeling sorry for myself, I am going to have a glass or two of white wine and watch some Masterpiece Theater.  I have begun looking after myself without wondering what anyone else thinks of it. I hired a personal trainer and am paying him an exorbitant amount of money to get me fit (it's working!). I went to Spain with a friend. I watch PBS and have a glass or two of cheap white wine. I am living life as a single person now, but with many good memories. I'll be fine. It's how I do things.

I'll think about it tomorrow, for tomorrow is another day.

You know you're old when doctors are all younger than you. 

I had a Procedure today, one of those mildly unpleasant ones that involve fasting for 2 days (clear liquids only), half a day of ingesting a month's worth of laxatives, and some sweet, sweet propofol. I was HONGRY afterwards but felt like I'd had a stiff martini, so rather than indulging in the Niffer's burger Dad had offered, he drove me straight home and I had some leftover stew. Of course, stew is always better as leftovers than the first day. I also ate a whole carton of ice cream (ok relax, it was a pint, not a half gallon) and had several cups of coffee. And a nap, coffee notwithstanding. 

There are more Procedures on other parts of my 58 year old body, planned for next week. Might as well get it all done at once, right? Fortunately none of them involve fasting and laxatives. After that, a sweet year of nothing much unless Something Comes Up which, at 58, can do. Whatever. We live in a fallen world where bad things happen like diseases and infirmities and calameties, (calamaties? Ca-lam-uh-tees? Bad Things.) I can point to my life and show a few, though to be fair, in spite of dead beloveds, horribly injured children, and Japanese beetles eating my roses in spite of the traps THAT DON'T WORK, life's pretty sweet right now.

I am, as I like to recount every morning, ridiculously and utterly without merit, blessed. I have had the immense privilege of being loved by 2 men. I have gotten to see my children come through very hard times with a strong faith in Christ (It does NOT get any better than that.) Most mornings I can thank God for all that but occasionally there's a big fat WHY ME? I didn't do anything to deserve any of this. It just...fell on me like manna and quails in the desert. And I am grateful. 

mmmm braised quail and figs.

Sometimes, this melancholy bent of mind kicks in and says "This is just a chance to catch your breath. Something bad is going to happen, you know" and yes. I know. I also know what can be lived through. How bad it can get and yet, survival happens. If something terrible should happen to me, I know where I'm going so really it's not that bad. My kids will be fine, they don't actually need me now. The only thing I fear is a long drawn out painful bit. I'm a wimp and The Good Stuff doesn't work on me, pain-wise. 

My much-wiser-that-me youngest son reminded me to take it a day at a time. Jesus says in Matthew 6:34, 

"Therefore do not worry about tomorrow, for tomorrow will worry about itself. Each day has enough trouble of it's own."

So I try not to do that...worry about tomorrow. I mean, God said not to and who am I to argue with Him?

Time to get up!

My brain woke me up at 4am. "Get up!" it said. *whine* I thought. "NO. GET. UP." it demanded. Or maybe it was my bladder. I don't know. They're easy to confuse at Dark:00 am.

Capt. was not a morning person. Bedtime at night was a very reluctant 11:00 or midnight, and getting up was an even more reluctant 8am. Funny thing was, even though he'd complain like a child about going to bed at night ("I can't sleep if I go too early! I wake up at 2 am and can't go back to sleep! <etc>...), as soon as his head hit the pillow he was OUT. How do men do that? Himself was the same way. Lay down, go to sleep. All 4 of my sons, same way. Lay down, go to sleep.

It takes me more time than that, and a certain orderly ritual to tell my mind it's time to sleep. I MUST READ. Even if it's only 1/2 a chapter, laying there, book in hand (and yes, it must be a book, with paper pages and a pretty bookmark. None of this electronic e-book thing, even if it has non-blue night mode or whatever), reading with the bedside lamp. In years past, there was the warm presence of a softly snoring man. Now there's the warm presence of a softly snoring dachshund. Also male, also goes to sleep almost immediately. He has to arrange his blanket Just So, but then after circling 3 times he's out. 

Once my brain says GET UP, that's it. There's no laying there, possibly going back to sleep for another hour. It starts clicking and whirling and thinking too hard. If I stay in bed, it goes into dark places and worries about things over which I have zero control, and the only way to stop that is to GET UP. 

The coffee maker is set to start it's Oh-So-Vital job at 5am. Getting up at 4 means I have to *gasp* WAIT for the Elixir of Life and Productivity. I don't like that because I am a spoiled princess, but for obvious reasons, wait I must. But only a few minutes. I remind myself during those minutes that I didn't have to walk 2 miles to a muddy river to get the water. I didn't have assemble the coffee components while groggy, nor milk a barn full of cows.

I decided, a while back, that if I believed in reincarnation (which I don't), then in my last life I must have been an Amish dairy farmer, due to the regularity of waking up at 4am. Granted, the 4am wake-up call is probably due to the 8pm bedtime, but it's a self-perpetuating cycle, isn't it. I try hard to stay up until 9 or 10, but honestly, why should I? 

4am is a great time to get up! It's before the sun or birds are up, and there's something really sweet about having open windows, and hearing the first birds yell about whatever it is they're yelling about. 

HEY...I'M UP! ARE YOU UP YET? 

I AM NOW! IS BOB UP YET? 

YEAH I'M UP! WHERE'S JOE?

I'M DOWN HERE BY THE POND!  and so on.

The first ones up are always the wrens. They like the front porch, and will peer through the window, probably wondering where Capt. is. They were good friends.

A goldfinch on a sunflower, in the front yard

Isn't it wonderful how systematic and reliable God is, when it comes to the natural world, the rising and setting of the Sun, the phases of the moon? I'm always enchanted by a good full moon even though it's happened every single month of my life. The dependable regularity of the seasons...you know it's Spring when the pond peepers and whippoorwills start up every night.  Mankind can make a mess of things, but the seasons happen, the sun and moon do their things, the tides rise and fall, and the wrens yell first thing. Comforting, isn't it.  It's a testament to God's reliability even when things seem to be going sideways.

 Lord, you are my God; I will exalt you and praise your name, for in perfect faithfulness you have done wonderful things, things planned long ago. Isaiah 25:1

And so here I am, at 6 am and already finished my second cup of coffee. The dog, who probably has more sense than I, is asleep next to me on the couch, snoring softly and twitching a bit. The sky has lightened and the birds are telling each other whatever it is birds say. #3 just butt-dialed me on his way to work "Sorry, Mom! I didn't mean to get you up!"....no worries, I'm up, have a good day!

This is a magical part of the day. No phone calls except accidental ones from my favorite people. No noise from the road yet, just Dad ripping by in his golf cart, on the way to get the newspaper. I love it. Maybe that's why I am up at 4am.

Recovering

 I still have a hold-over cough from the Flu That Knocked Me Down. Or maybe it's allergies. Who can tell? The privet is blooming and that usually does a thing to me. Benadryl at night and Zyrtec in the morning means I can function with minimal noise.

Anyway, part of my morning routine is to spend a bit of time thanking God for whatever it is I am thankful at that moment. Today that means breathing, tasting food, and the myriad gifts that allow such luxuries as travel. 

Getting to see a whole different part of the world, where things are done a bit differently from here in the Deep South USA, only actually not that differently. People in Barcelona are unfailingly polite and friendly. Very Southern. There's a quiet "oh, disculpe!" ("excuse me!") if we bump into each other in a crowd. I was warned, pre-trip, about rampant pickpocketism there, but nary a pocket was picked. People smiled, and smiled back, asked where we were from, offered opinions about foods and politics, all very Southern, from my perspective.

Children stayed up a lot later than we were accustomed to. 11 pm, and there were young ones shouting and playing on the plaza below our room. When my kids were that age, bedtime was no later than 9pm. Ever. More for my sake than theirs, to be honest. 

I have a thing about cathedrals and the ornateness of them. I was raised in austere Presbyterian churches. Minimal ornamentation, all of them. When visiting a cathedral I was hit by the sheer...overwhelming....

Little nooks for particular saints, gold leaved, statues, each one with a small bank of candles in red glass jars on a rack for people to light in honor or whatever....not real sure. A small sign and box on each rack asking for 1 euro to light

Beautiful stained glass windows, 

 seats for families indicated by painted coats of arms, 

 all really lovely and interesting and through my head was the thought "how many homes could be built with the gold on this stuff?" but that wasn't the intent, I don't think. These were built for the Glory of God, and that's not a bad thing but still. My austere Presbyterian sensibilities had to set aside their prejudices and accept the beauty for what it was and that it didn't care what I thought about it all.

The whole city had these little pockets and pieces of beauty. Why should a lightpole be plain when it could be amazing? 

Why should the hinge on a door be plain when it could be beautiful?

Why should the wall of a building be ugly block when it could be plastered with an amazing image? What a wonderful sensibility! It was fun to turn the corner in an alley and find a dragon, or a small courtyard with a beautiful fountain.

This is a city that recognizes it's special, like an old woman who's lived an interesting life and recognizes she's beautiful.

Barcelona, Spain

I did it! I traveled to Barcelona, Spain for 10 days, with a sweet friend and we had an absolutely amazing time. 

I also brought back a 10+ day flu that knocked me flat on my back and is still shaking me like a German Shepherd puppy with an old rag. 

Yes, I have a bajillion pictures. No, they aren't here because they're on the other computer and being shaken like a rag in a German Shepherd puppy's mouth means I'm too addled to put them up just yet. You'll have to trust me, it's a beautiful city. Absolutely unequivocably (dang it I've tried 4 times and still can't spell that right) gorgeous. The people are kind and friendly, the food is glorious, and the graffiti is, mostly, limited to the metal roll up doors covering the shop entrances. 

The food. Oh my word. We dined. I knew when planning the trip that I intended to eat and did we ever. Tapas are a glorious way to enjoy a meal. Small plates of delicious goodnesses meant to be shared while enjoying wine. Ham croquettes, pan de tomate (tomato bread, a food that is greater than the sum of it's parts), grilled vegetables with romesco sauce, delicious delicious olives, Iberico ham, manchego cheese marinated with herbs and olive oil, and breads. The breads. I had croissants for breakfast, snacks, and whenever. Basque cheesecake made with gorgonzola, parmesan, and marscapone cheeses...sounds weird as heck but oh my goodness. Gelato...

Ok here's a gelato story. There was a little store just down from the hotel. In the evenings we would get a cup of gelato. I saw what was labeled as "Pesca" so asked for that..."Pesca (PESS-ka), please" and the girl working there looked confused and slightly horrified. My friend, who's far better at Spanish than I, started laughing at me. "You just asked for fish!" But...I was confused. She said to the worker "she means Pesca (PESH-ah)...PEACH". oh...ok well, I didn't know but now it makes sense. The worker laughed, I laughed, and now I have my language butchering story to tell.

We walked everywhere. 5-6 miles a day, in a gentle amble, in and out of stores, museums, cathedrals. The first day we found ourselves wandering into the chapel of the nearby hospital, drawn in by the sound of this ethereal singing. We found ourselves in a tiny sanctuary, with a circle of blue-clad nuns singing beautifully in this acoustically glorious room. We stood quietly and listened, and yes, I felt like God was there with them, this worshipful angelic singing. 

We walked to the Mediterranean sea. It was like a lake, very calm. The beach was rocky with pebbles and we picked up bits of sea glass, all sorts of colored pebbles and some very coarse sand. We sat and watched young children hurl rocks into the water, and I gave a mental "Hello! I'm here!" to The Capt. That day was capped with a 60-day dry aged Galician beef steak and red wine. OH my goodness.

We took a cooking class one night, and learned how to break down a cuttlefish for seafood paella, make a strawberry-tomato gazpacho, and Catalan creme- which is like creme brulee but much lighter. There were 4 of us, my friend and I, and a mother-daughter duo from New Orleans, and our Chef teacher. The paella was amazing, as was everything else. Also, wine was involved because it's Spain.

We visited the Sagrada Familia, Barcelona's iconic Gaudi Basilica, always under construction. It. Is. Stunning. There's so much to take in with it, small details everywhere and it's simply enormous. I can't even begin to describe it other than to say it's mind bogglingly complex and beautiful inside. The windows, soaring ceilings, absolutely amazing.

I probably have events out of order, but those are bits of what we did. There were street musicians everywhere, all the time. New Orleans jazz, classical Spanish guitar, soulful saxophone, a Catalan 10-person band, some guy beat-boxing the Bee Gees (ok yes that was as strange as it sounds). Our room overlooked a big plaza with the Barcelona Cathedral on the other side. At night, the windows were left open and we could hear a woman playing guitar and singing, as we went to sleep. (5th floor, no one was going to sneak in)

The hotel breakfast was delicious. Every morning I had Iberico ham and croissants, strong coffee, fresh fruit. Yes. I love Iberico ham. acorn fed, dry aged, dense and sweet, and sliced paper thin. 

This was the first of the Capt ordered trips. I couldn't have asked for a better traveling companion. She and I shared the same easy-going, no real plans sort of philosophy. Other than the cooking class and tickets to the Sagrada Familia, we did nothing by a plan. "Where to today?" "I don't know, let's see what happens if we wander this direction..." We found tiny shops, beautiful alleys, little bits of beauty tucked away from the crowds. We found crowds, musicians, parks, and you know, I felt completely safe the whole time.

There's this thing going around on the internet about how gorgeous the Barcelona policemen are. I saw that and though "Ok so they found a couple of pretty ones but the rest are normal." Nope. The Barcelona policemen are, to a man (and the 2 women I saw in uniform), absolutely stunningly handsome. I have never seen such. In fact, most of the people I saw were attractive. I thought that was interesting. But, it's a walking city so everyone, young and old, was pretty fit. But those policemen. Holy cow. 

So I have a lot more to say, and many many pictures to post, but I am still a bit dizzy and recovering from the flu I caught while there. Fortunately I didn't start feeling weird until the evening of the very last day, which made the trip home SUPER fun. I'll talk about that another time. 

 

Philippians 4: 12-13

Well, it's been a bit since I've written. There's a combination of reasons. I haven't felt like it much, alternating between being busy and being depressed. Yes, depressed. Oh I know, God is with me and all, I get that. I know He is. I also know that currently I feel at loose ends. After Himself passed on in 2015, I spent nearly a year trying to gather my wits, help my children recover, generally try to do everything for everyone else and ignore my own needs. That certainly kept me busy. Then when I felt like they were all managed, I started school and that kept me busy for another couple of years. Capt came along, more busy, more someone else to fill my time and energy.

Now? The kids are not kids. They're all grown men living elsewhere doing their own grown-man things. I am at loose ends. Time is being (sort of) filled by (sort of) taking care of whomever I can help (sort of) but it all feels like I'm doing things that can be done by anyone else with half a brain. Loose ends is putting it mildly. More like...purposeless. Anything I am doing is either for my own household of me-and-a-dog, or doing something that really is a thing that people are handing to me in order to keep me busy. Housesitting for someone (actually kind of fun, but c'mon. Anyone could do it), "babysitting" a 12 year old who annoys his father. That starts tomorrow and I'm going to put him to work doing things I could more easily do with the tractor, but he needs to do some work.

Historically, when I have found myself in such a place, I've charged ahead and tried to solve the issue myself. In retrospect, that hasn't always worked out well. So now, I am trying to do that thing we are admonished to do in the Bible...be quiet and wait on the Lord. But how do I know if I am waiting, or ignoring an open door? 

So I pray. A lot. I read. A lot. I do the small things that need doing...pull a weed, trim a bush, point to the manure pile and wheelbarrow and instruct a 12 yr old on the finer points of composting. (He's going to love that. I just know it.) And I wait. 

How do I wait? How do I keep from getting impatient and charging full steam ahead into disaster? One day at a time. Today, I can wait. I do all things through Christ, who gives me strength. Including wait.

 I know how to live humbly, and I know how to abound. I am accustomed to any and every situation—to being filled and being hungry, to having plenty and having need. I can do all things through Christ who gives me strength. Philippians 4:12-13

I am working on the humbly part. Humility is not my default position. But through Christ, who has walked beside when I was a wife and mother, held my hand when I was filled with fear, thrown me a lifeline when I was in the bottom of a pit, I know I am not alone in this new chapter of my life. He doesn't ask me to have everything planned out for the next 40 years, He only asks me to trust Him. There are SO MANY bits in the Bible about trusting Him. Over and over and over. It's easier than you think, and we make it harder than it should be. 

But, for today, I can trust Him. I don't have to worry about tomorrow or next week. Today, I know I can trust Him, to open doors that need opening, closing the ones that He wants closed. He has closed many doors for me, and in the past I would refuse to accept that and force some open. That never turns out well. So for now, I am working on accepting the closed ones and waiting on some to open somewhere down the line. 

That doesn't mean it's easy to accept. I don't make things easy. Never have. I want what I want and sometimes, often, what I want isn't the same thing as what God wants. My job, as I have learned from trying to be the captain of the boat, is to allow GOD to captain the boat, and wait on His commands. It's not easy. But, I can do all things through Christ who gives me strength. For today.