Trauma and "The Pitt"

When our kids were in elementary school and studying anatomy, Mark received permission from his work to bring in a brain from the medical school to show their classes.  I went along on those days and gamely donned gloves and held the brain while the curious kids came up to take a closer look. Thinking back, I can still feel the weight of it in my hands and remember marveling at the idea that it contained so much of the makeup of the person in whose skull it once rested. 

But that was not the first time I held a brain in my hands.

When Mark and I were first married, we moved to Nashville so he could complete two years of additional training as a Fellow in Sports Medicine at Vanderbilt University. I was ready for a change from the ED, so I applied for and was offered a job in the Pediatric Intensive Care Unit at Vanderbilt University Medical Center. My two years there were intense, and the learning curve was sharp. In addition to trying to get up to speed on the intricacies of caring for the pediatric population, I was pregnant with and gave birth to our oldest, Owen. I wasn’t prepared for the personal toll it would take on me—caring for precious little ones at work and then getting to go home to my own healthy baby. I would have expected gratitude to be the predominant feeling, but when I look back, that wasn’t it.  It was grief.  I loved my time as a bedside nurse, and especially the privilege to care for people in what might have been the worst time of their lives; I was always aware that it was holy ground. But I did have a hard time leaving work at work, so when our two years in Nashville was coming to an end, I knew I was ready to move on from the PICU.

I arrived at work for one of my last overnight shifts before we moved to St. Louis, and I remember the charge nurse seeking me out when I arrived with an apologetic look on her face.  I was being assigned a single patient that night; a little girl, maybe 7 or 8 years old, had found her dad’s gun in a shoebox under his bed and accidentally shot herself in the head. She had no brain function and was being sustained as an organ donor while awaiting the arrival of family from out of town.  Her dad was in custody, so for the next twelve hours, she was alone–aside from me. 

When trauma happens to our body’s tissues, they swell. When the brain swells, it causes a whole host of issues, including an inability to maintain vital signs, like heart rate and blood pressure and temperature. So oftentimes, once a person has been declared brain-dead, interventions are utilized to decrease pressure in the brain in order to keep things going while waiting to harvest organs for transplant. For this little girl, though, it wasn’t necessary. Some of the specifics are hazy; I can’t remember her face.  What I do remember is wishing I had a picture of her that I could see so I could picture her like that, instead of the swollen little face in front of me, swathed in white bandaging.  At least there wasn’t a lot of blood anymore. That wasn’t the reason for all of the bandaging.  The bandages were there to keep her brain from spilling out onto the bed. I don’t even remember where the bullet had entered.  I do remember holding my hand to the left side of her head–seeing and touching the gray matter of her brain–as one of my colleagues wrapped yet more fluffy white kerlix bandage around her head. She didn’t need an artificial pressure outlet placed through her skull because the bullet had taken care of that.

I don’t remember much about that night, but I literally recall how it felt under my gloved hand, and glimpses of what it looked like, how it smelled, and the sad silence of a young life ended.

I don’t remember much more about that shift except for the occasional dressing change and intense grief as I imagined the circumstances that had led up to her presence in the hospital; it just seemed like such a waste of a young life. And then I just went home. I don’t even remember if I told Mark much about it or not? I definitely know that I have thought of that little girl over the years as I see news coverage of children dying from gun violence.

In any case, it’s one of the reasons I am so grateful for the show The Pitt on HBOMAX.  I was attracted by the ads which featured actor Noah Wyle, who I had watched for years on ER. But as I watched the first couple episodes, I realized that The Pitt was more than just a typical medical drama. Mark and I looked forward to each episode, appreciating the depiction of fast-paced medical care as well as getting to know the different characters at different points in their medical careers. But it was episode 8 that really informed what, for me, has been the most meaningful part of the show. Watching the staff experience the two incredibly emotionally devastating cases–the exit of the young man who was donating his organs after an accidental overdose and the death of a young girl from drowning–moved something in me that I didn’t know was present. Like a cracked door, and then a floodgate, I began to recall some of the many people and situations I experienced over my years of nursing “at the bedside.” There were so many situations that I have been reflecting on and realizing, “huh, that was a really big deal, and so hard, and even traumatic.” I love how the show models the intentional debriefing after a death. I don’t recall that specifically happening during my tenure, but my coworkers and I certainly leaned on each other, and I know I never felt “alone” in the most awful of moments.

I wish I could remember who it was who joined me in trying to clean up the trauma room after we unsuccessfully tried to save a young man who had been stabbed. We had housekeeping, for sure, but there were these carts at every bedside with metal basket-drawers full of supplies. This case had been so bloody that not only was it on the floor and the bed, but the carts had been splashed with it. My colleague and I spent some time in the quiet after the patient had died on our hands and knees trying fruitlessly to clean it all up. I distinctly remember trying to stop the sobs from coming out. I wonder now, why? Why didn’t I allow myself to express what were certainly valid emotions? Did I think it would make me less tough and somehow a “weaker” nurse?” I know better now. 

The word “trauma” has been in my vocabulary for as long as I can remember. It took on a different meaning when I started working in the ED in a literal “trauma center,” and again as I have gotten older and understood that trauma is more fully understood as “a deeply distressing or disturbing experience” that doesn’t just encompass physical injury. Watching The Pitt has helped me connect the dots between the literal trauma I saw and the sort of secondhand trauma I experienced as a result of being present in any number of intense and tragic situations. It’s been so helpful to reach back into my memories and recognize the job that I did. And it has provoked a feeling of intense gratitude for those who work in the healthcare setting in ALL the capacities and keep showing up, especially after experiencing the COVID pandemic. 

It’s not an easy watch (especially for the squeamish–be prepared to cover your eyes at some points…), but I believe it’s an important one if you want to understand a bit more about our healthcare system and the people who work within it.

A facebook friend wondered recently why so many people were being so vocal about who they would be voting for in Tuesday’s election.  I have definitely been one of those people, and I’ve spent a lot of time considering what has compelled me to share.

I certainly believed, and still believe, that Kamala Harris would have been an amazing Commander in Chief.  I am proud of how she conducted her campaign and communicated with warmth, enthusiasm, positivity, and empathy while also putting forth cogent plans for the betterment of our country and calmly pushing back on the explicit and implicit idea that a woman just doesn’t have what it takes to lead.  I am also so proud of the grace and dignity with which she conceded defeat and the hope she offered her supporters while doing so.

So those are all reasons why I’ve been “loud” about where I stand.  But there’s a bigger reason that I’ve been trying to find the right words and tone to convey.  I have been praying for grace, humility, and wisdom, and I ask for grace from anyone who reads this.

The election results in 2016 were shocking to me.  And humbling.  I had to examine my attitudes and assumptions that I didn’t even know I had made about some things. I hadn’t done the work to try to understand where other people were hurting in ways I wasn’t experiencing.  And so I tried to correct that by listening to voices I hadn’t made the effort to hear before.

This time around, I am still surprised, and I also hurt.  I feel pain for women, and the minority and LGBTQ communities.  And a general sadness at the idea that a certain coarseness of discourse has “won.” I know, with every fiber of my being that while over half of the country endorsed Donald Trump with their vote, they do not necessarily approve of some of his behavior or the words he has said, or the fact that he has used and abused women, or the constant name calling and dehumanizing rhetoric. I truly believe that.  I care about, love, and respect many people who I know voted differently from me, and I feel like I know their hearts. 

But I also know women who are so sad and confused right now--women who have literally been “grabbed by the…” and who see now that a man who said those words and who has been held criminally liable for sexual assault by a jury of his peers has been elected to the highest office in our country. And women who have held their friends as they cry after being mistreated or assaulted by men.  And women who have felt dismissed and threatened by men, told “it’s not that big of a deal….”.  *I* have definitely been  dismissed and felt threatened by men who had power over me. And so it doesn’t feel good to know that a man who has been allowed to behave badly for years not only gets away with it, but is entrusted with the future of our country even as he continues to exhibit behavior that demeans his opponents and people groups.

I’m not here to rehash all of this or argue about if character matters as long as the policy seems good (although I think it absolutely does).  I’m here to ask for something that I have no real right to ask, but I’m feeling brave.  And I’m feeling resolved.  And I’m feeling calm—in this moment.

No matter how you cast your vote, will you please speak up?  Will you pay attention to the things that are said and even celebrated?  Will you not just look away and ignore it?  Will you call it out when it’s racist or misogynistic or even just unkind? I believe that our votes are endorsements.  Maybe you feel that it’s nothing personal—just policy.  However, if you don’t speak up about the character and moral issues, the silence sounds really loud and, right or wrong, it feels personal, especially from my fellow Christians and even more so if you hold a position of leadership within a local church body.

We do need to come together as a country.  We need to see each other as humans first, and I think we are all going to have to put forth more effort than we might think we should have to for the time being, which means, perhaps, going the extra mile to speak kindly or to push back or seek clarification when something questionable is said, even just in our conversations with our families, friends, and colleagues. We can do these things even as we hope and pray for the best for our country and its leaders, new and old.

To Those Who Have Loved My Kids:

I love my kids so much.  But I am not blind to their weaknesses.  I see areas of life in which they struggle now, or that may cause issues as they grow, and I fret, and I pray, and I add millimeters to the furrows in my brow.  They are each so different; I see bits of Mark and me evidenced in different ways in each, but also find myself wondering of all three of them--where did you come from?-- as I see something utterly unique in something they have said or done.  When they were really little, and even up to a few years ago, I didn’t have enough margin in my head to see some of these things, which is why I’m glad I have pictures.  Now they’re big enough that I can see forward into futures I hope they might have, to the people I hope they might be, and the responsibility of parenting seems so present and real.

Don’t get me wrong—it always has been a responsibility, and always challenging in different ways.  This is just a new place I am as I appreciate where we are as a family. 

In any case, as I look at where we are and where we’ve been on our parenting journey, I am grateful for much.  Not least of which is that we are not alone.  We are part of school communities and church communities and friend groups that are a goldmine of “how did you handle it when…?” conversations. 

But even more than that, I am grateful that Mark and I aren’t the only adults my kids have in their lives.  I have seen adults drop to the ground and sit and talk with my upset child as they sat alone.  I have received a text from an adult to simply tell me my child was “cute” as they were both at an event I wasn’t attending.  I have watched in wonder as a friend of mine sat and listened to my child-with-many-words talk as if there weren’t another thing in the world that needed doing.  I sat quietly and observed a teacher at church meet challenging behavior with love and understanding that allowed me to see my child in a new light and to change how I handled parenting at home.  When unable to execute some basic mommy-ing after I broke my wrist, I saw my child thrive as a friend of mine took care of some things I physically couldn’t.  I stared open-mouthed as my normally quiet and retiring teen not only said hello but gave one of those weird guy-hugs to an adult leader one morning as we walked into church. 

And these are just a few examples.

A scripture verse I come back to over and over starts like this, from Isaiah 43:4--

Because you are precious in my eyes, and honored, and I love you….

It strengthens my heart every time—God sees me as precious and honored, and He loves me!  When we sing Good Good Father with the kids at church, I always remind them of who they are because of Jesus:  LOVED.  That’s the only identity that matters to them.  I desperately want that for my babies.  Heck, I desperately want that for me!

But I forget.  And even though I love them desperately, my actions are not always from love, and I say hurtful things, and just generally do a poor job of letting who I am in Christ shine through as I interact with these not-so-little people that God has entrusted to my care.  And it’s in those moments where I am reminded, and so grateful, that we are surrounded by people who—at times--do a better job of reminding my kids of exactly who they are in Christ, than I do, simply by seeing them and loving them well.  Time—big or small--invested in kids is never wasted; it matters, and I'm so grateful for the many people who have impacted our family.  

Nothing New?

Is there a thing of which it is said, “See, this is new”? It has been already in the ages before us.

Ecclesiastes 1:10

I just finished watching The Vietnam War on PBS.  It has ten segments, and I already feel I need to watch it again to try to understand more of the complicated history that led into what Americans know as "Vietnam".

There are so many things that I felt as I watched.  But as I watched episode 9, "A Disrespectful Loyalty (May 1970-March 1973)", I had an uncomfortable sense of deja vu. I listened to veterans discuss their involvement with protests after returning home from fighting honorably during their tours.  I watched footage of protests in cities across this country calling for an end to the war.  I heard recordings of private conversations between political leaders that made clear the efforts to mislead this country and the world.  I watched angry people marching in the streets with signs calling into question the integrity of the media and insisting that Americans must support the president.  I heard opposing views of patriotism:  one veteran said, 

...and being a citizen I had certain responsibilities.  And the largest of those responsibilities is standing up to your government and saying 'no' when you think it's doing something that is not in this nation's best interest...I served my country as honorably when I was in Vietnam Veterans Against the War, as I did as a United States Marine.

while many Americans echoed President Nixon's call for "Peace with Honor" and decried any war protest as anti-American and anti-military.

I also watched footage of protests that got violent, and even deadly--like  the one at Kent State in which the National Guard shot 4 students who were either there to protest or in the wrong place at the wrong time.

My heart was sick as I thought: what is happening in our country today is not new.

I am not a historian, and I've heard the sayings "history repeats itself," and "those who cannot remember the past are condemned to repeat it."  So I'm not sure why what I saw and recognized was so jarring to me.  Perhaps it's the helpless feelings I have with increasing frequency as our country seems more and more divided over race and politics.  Or maybe it's that it doesn't seem as if we---as a country--have learned anything from our past.

But, ever the optimist, I saw hope as I watched the final segment: "The Weight of Memory (March 1973-onward).  As I watched, one of the former anti-war protesters became teary as she recounted words she had said and things she had done and offered an agonized apology for it all.  I was encouraged by her softening, by her understanding that as much as she had been certain at one time of this absolute point of view, she had grown and learned, and her thoughts had evolved.

It is humbling for me to glimpse how much I don't know and understand.  But I feel motivated and energized by all the ways that I can continue to grow in knowledge and understanding of this very messy and broken world.  But most of all, I am filled with hope because while, as Solomon observed in Ecclesiastes, "nothing is ever truly new" (v. 10 NLT), he spoke of the things of this earth.  And I, as one saved by Jesus Christ, can choose to see things from a greater perspective--one in which I am assured that our God did "something NEW" (Isaiah 43:19) in the life, death, and resurrection of Jesus, and continues to act each day, so that in spite of the chaos surrounding, I can also see hope spring forth in conversations I have with people or stories I hear of healing interactions, or kindness shown in spite of unkindness.  I have a responsibility to seek these things out and be obedient to God's call in them, but He is good, He is sovereign, and He has overcome it all.

What is a Love Story?

I took my kids for a quick visit with some of their cousins at my mom and dad's this past weekend.  They ran around my childhood home, creating "escape rooms" in the basement, performing puppet shows, throwing water balloons, making jelly soaps and bath bombs, and driving Grandpa's tractor.  We also made our usual rounds--eating lunch at The Old Dairy, pizza at "Aurelio's", and visiting with my bonus-grandma, Mrs. Snowden.

We did make a couple new stops this time.  We drove to the town a few miles over for lemon soft-serve ice cream, and, on the way home, stopped at the cemetery to visit the grave of my bonus-grandpa, Mr. Snowden.  He died in February of 2016 at the age of 96.  Mr. and Mrs. Snowden were our neighbors for as long as I can remember until they moved into a smaller home several years ago.  Mrs. Snowden always had the most beautiful flowers around her house.  She never got mad when I "popped" her unopened lilies' buds or poked my small fingers into the snapdragons' "mouths."  She allowed me to spend (what seemed like) hours gazing on her multitudes of treasures from their extensive travels that were displayed throughout their home.  She taught me to do cross-stitch and shared many of her beautiful creations with our family over the years.  When my mom came home after working a night shift as an ICU nurse, Mrs. Snowden would get me off the bus from half-day kindergarten and make me chicken noodle soup and hot dogs for lunch, serving me milk in a special strawberry shortcake glass.  Mr. Snowden taught me what it looked like to be a truly good neighbor.  While he spent a lot of time working in his own yard, he also spent hours maintaining common grounds and inviting many others, including my dad, into service with him.  One of my favorite memories of Mr. Snowden was when he "rescued" me as I feared I had clogged the kitchen sink at the house where I was dog-sitting.  He calmly turned on the garbage disposal and made no comment about why I hadn't known how to work it.  His kindness and respect for me in my youth made me feel dignified even in my panic.

"Love you Mr. Snowden.  Thanks for a ride on the glof crat! Love Owen"  This was placed on a table at Mr. Snowden's visitation a year ago.  

Ryne and Mrs. Snowden

They were there for my brothers' and my own weddings, and were one of the first visits we made when our babies were born.  My kids have grown up feeling loved by Mr. and Mrs. Snowden, and, I think, seeing the love I have for them as well.  So, now, for them, visiting Grandma and Grandpa also means visiting with Mrs. Snowden.  She knows all their names and remembers their interests.  This past weekend when we were there, a gentleman who lives in her apartment building came by as we were chatting and watching the kids interacting together.  She told him, "These are all my grandkids."

I am not totally sure why this fills me with such emotion as I type.  I don't know if it's this stage of life I'm in--looking back on my childhood through not only my own memories but also from the perspective of one parenting kids and understanding that what we are doing now is creating memories for them--or just my own deep gratitude for all the ways in which I have been blessed to receive love throughout my life.

At church last Sunday

 A few weeks ago, I accidentally shared some pictures taken of my extended family.  I really only meant to share one picture with my parents in the foreground with my brothers and I and our families in the background.  I had posted it with this quote from Don Snyder: "Let us hope that we are all preceded in this world by a love story."  When I did, I was thinking mostly of my parents and their marriage that has lasted 48 years thus far.  However, my friend Linda commented on my post that the pictures showed "a three generation love story."  I've turned that over in my mind since then, not unaware that I am blessed to come from where I did, to be born into the family I was, to always know that I was loved and accepted.  And so, I gained a deeper appreciation for the family "love story" that has not only preceded me, but still surrounds me.

And after this past weekend, when Mrs. Snowden claimed my children as her grandchildren, I realized it goes further still.

I cannot claim any credit for the blessing of how my parents raised us.  And, I cannot say that I always felt "blessed."  I was typically teenaged and sullen at times and remember feeling weighed down by the parents who never seemed as cool as my friends' parents and certainly (in my mind) didn't understand my life.  My upbringing didn't prevent me from being diagnosed with depression as a senior in high school, or from experiencing periods of that same depression with the delightful addition of anxiety in the years since.  But I look back and see how my parents responded when I was diagnosed--by literally stopping what they were doing and just being with me as we took the first steps together to get help.

My family--then or now--is not perfect.  But my parents created every opportunity they could for us to be loved, whether it was by our family's relationship with the Snowdens, or by insisting we spend time together as a family.  And this past weekend, as I watched my kids experience the fruit of that, I was immeasurably grateful.

adventures in being still.

It's not supposed to look like this.

I knew there was a problem as soon as it happened.  I had been tugging a mattress from its position while assisting a client at The Sharing Shed when the handle on which I'd been pulling snapped, sending me flying backwards onto the concrete floor.  I landed on my outstretched left hand and felt the crush of said wrist.  I immediately scrambled up, my left arm held instinctively in the air, showing an off-putting concavity to the normally straight line of my wrist.  My former ER nurse's mind knew it was bad.  I hurriedly walked over to where my phone sat, grabbing it up before collapsing back onto the closest couch while speed-dialing my sports medicine specialist husband.  (of note--amazing to have such a nice couch on which to fall, so thank you to whichever generous person donated it!  It's also not lost on me that it's pretty cool to be able to call my very-appropriately connected hubs in this situation and let him do all the pertinent decision making.) In short order, he was on his way to collect me.  In the meantime, our church's Family Minister, DJ, took over with our client and my friend Tanja drove up with her boys, who were there to serve.  She found me some ice to wrap around my rapidly swelling joint and then held it there, because by that time I was unable to move it from a vertical position.  Mark arrived, eyed my wrist and my now tear-filled face, and bundled me into the car as DJ offered to drive our two boys, who were there serving, home when they were done.

Doesn't do justice to the swelling.

It was a long ride to the ER, as every bump and curve caused more pain in the arm I was still holding upright.  Thankfully, the wait in the ER wasn't too long.  In short order, an xray confirmed what we'd known, that it was broken.  Unfortunately, it wasn't a clean break; I had smashed the "distal end of my radius" as well as breaking off the tip of the ulna.  I mean, why do it if not really well right? (eye-roll)  A very kind nurse brought me more ice and my first ever percocet while Mark was frantically texting his colleagues who specialize in hand and wrist stuff.  (again, so grateful for this!)  He was able to reach one who would actually be in the same office space with Mark the next day and was able to see me to try the least invasive method of reducing (pushing/pulling the misplaced bones back into the right spots) my fractures.  A tech came in to apply a splint for the night that would offer support and hopefully some comfort for my broken wrist.

And then we were on the way home, and I started making calls--to my friend who, along with her hubs, had driven up to retrieve my van and who I asked to drive me to my appointment the next morning, and to my parents who were anxiously waiting to hear from me after being updated by Mark via text.

I was met at home by my three wide-eyed and curious kids.  Ryne stated his intention to sleep with me while Maddie had made me a sweet card. But she also told me, "I'm just really glad it wasn't me (who broke her arm)."  Oh, my girl. (shaking my head)  And Owen, my oldest, was even more generous than usual with his hugs and cheek kisses.

After a long night of squirming on the couch, morning came.  My kids are pretty self-sufficient.  (I can't imagine how different this would look if they were still clingy toddlers!)  So, they got their breakfast while I made my coffee and laboriously changed my clothes.  I delegated my other morning "chores" to the kids while I fussed about what to do with my hair.  I finally asked Maddie to help, and she did a passable job with the flatiron.

But then she wondered what we were going to do about her own hair, which I typically braid for her each morning.  Knowing my friend Dorinda would be coming to take me to the doctor, I suggested that Maddie ask her for help.  

I think it turned out pretty well, which could be problematic in the future when Maddie comes to me for help and says, "but that doesn't look like when Ms. Dorinda did it...."

We made it to the doctor's office, and after getting my wrist injected with lidocaine, the surgeon was able to get things back in place.  In the pictures at left, you can see on the top one where my two arm bones are not at the same level and there's a shadowy line through the top of the bone on the right.  In the lower one, even though my hand is at an angle, things are much more matched up.  And, almost as soon as the doctor manipulated the bones into place, I felt relief from  much of my discomfort.  Truly, the worst part of the whole experience was when the very sweet receptionist asked me if Dorinda, who is my age, was my daughter.  Granted. I hadn't slept the night before....but, OUCH!

So, now is when, for me, the hardest part actually begins.  I like to take care of things, and for the next couple weeks, I literally cannot do that.  For one thing, it hurts.  But more importantly, I could mess things up and necessitate surgery.  So no working out, and I had to pull out of a relay race I was going to do with some friends.  But I can already feel myself surrendering.  I'm embracing asking my kids to do all the things I have previously done myself because it's easier than nagging or because I want it done "the right way"  (my way....).  I'm letting myself need my husband.  I mean, I always do, but I often blow through all of the stuff that needs doing without allowing him be involved.  I already feel like we are more of a team because right now, I'm forced to rely on him, and he's more than meeting our family's needs.  I'm grateful for the opportunity to watch him care for us.  And I haven't yet agonized (too much) about asking friends for help.  Even in the haze of pain on Wednesday night, I knew that we had people.  My worried boys didn't just get a ride home on Wednesday evening, DJ stopped and got ice cream with them.  When my friend stopped to pick up my van keys from our house, she lovingly but firmly told Maddie that "even if your mom isn't home by 9:30, you still have to go to bed."  So, as I sit here with my bum arm elevated and sitting on a bag of frozen corn while typing one-handed, I am not thrilled about my circumstances, but I am grateful for the many blessings these past few days have brought--the greatest being the love and support from our family, co-workers, neighbors, friends, and church family that reassures me that we are not alone.

It Wasn't About the Chairs.

Bob and Kathy (not their real names) were our last clients of the morning.  They came to us seeking some living room furniture and other things to furnish their new apartment.  As we talked and completed paperwork, it became clear that Bob had recently experienced some sort of physical crisis that had significantly impaired his mobility.  I don't remember how they found their way to our door, but I could tell that Kathy was incredibly stressed.  As someone else helped Bob look for a recliner, she proceeded to tell me that she really needed some chairs for their kitchen table.  We moved toward the back of the warehouse and she continued to talk about the chairs in a slightly agitated manner, her speech coming faster and faster as we walked.  I showed her the chairs that were available and watched her frown as she barely glanced at them.  "Kathy," I said, trying to catch her eye, "are you OK?"  Her eyes filled with tears and she whispered, "no."

I suggested we have a seat on one of the couches that cover the warehouse floor and she sank down and proceeded to spill their story, how Bob had been diagnosed with a progressive neurological disease and she just wasn't sure how to handle it all.  We sat together as she expressed her fears and concerns for their future even with their shared faith in Jesus.  There wasn't really much for me to say as she poured out what she must have been holding back for quite some time.  When she finally fell silent, I asked if we could pray together.

We did send Kathy and Bob home with a recliner and several other pieces of furniture, but it was clear that the Sharing Shed had served them in more ways than that.  We see families in crisis, like Kathy and Bob, who humbly come to receive material things, but I am constantly reminded that the most important thing we will ever give them is our time and a glimpse of how our heavenly Father cares for, listens to, and loves us.

 But certainly God has heard;

            He has given heed to the voice of my prayer.

      Blessed be God,

            Who has not turned away my prayer

            Nor His lovingkindness from me.

Psalm 66:19-20

Come and see what God has done, and be a part of what He might do through the Sharing Shed.  There are so many who will come through our doors, and there will never be too many people to sit and listen to them the way our God listens to us; would you consider joining us?