I don't feel particularly focused today.~Journal entry, August 13, 2025

I'm about to go meet my husband in Italy soon. I realize that looking toward travel brings a need to be more alert, to notice things more aptly. I won't have the comfort of my mother tongue, so must sharpen my focus on foreign words, foreign signs. I must rev up my trust in God, walk toward my opposite from anxiousness to following the clear-voiced command from God not to fear. I couldn't quite get any words around an essay to write, so turned to poetry, rather an unfamiliar communication style, not unlike my limited Italian. Another author, Ericka Clay, has encouraged me to start trying my hand at poetry. You will love her work at erickaclay.com. She is a talented, prolific writer and Christ follower. She even offers many of her books for free.

Here's my go at encapsulating my thoughts and feelings in a different genre. Thank you dear readers for being here. I appreciate you. 

When I am among the trees, especially the willows and the honey locust, equally the beech, the oaks and pines, they give off such hints of gladness. I would almost say that they save me, and daily.~ From Thirst by Mary Oliver

I always try to get the window seat on flights. I can rest my head against the side of the airplane and look down on the world, witness a new day in the sky. When I flew into New Mexico, I caught my breath. I'd forgotten the subtle colors of the desert--lavender, umber and terracotta brushed over the landscape. Remnants of sunlight grazing the earth. I'd forgotten how much I missed the mountains. Living in the Lowcountry of Charleston, those rugged peaks had been wiped from my mind from years past residing in the west. Yet quickly the memories surfaced, like a latent image bubbling up into reality from a chemical bath. I traveled to New Mexico with my two sisters to visit our brother-in-law, our late sister's husband. David invited us to visit him at his cabin in the mountains, a short drive from Taos.

David's a mountain man. Fit and strong, his Texas accent still intact after decades in New Mexico. He'd been married to our sister for fifty years, Mary Anne the oldest of us four. He loved her well. Loves her still. We were there to enjoy the fresh air, the quiet, and each other. David drove us around on the black ribbons of highway cut through the mountains--towns like Red River and Eagle's Nest. We visited the St. James Hotel in Cimarron where gunslingers like Kit Carson and Wyatt Earp laid their heads. The days were cool and the tree-covered mountain ranges seemed to embrace us with their presence, the sky nearly always clear blue, the clouds unblemished, bleached white.

But Noah was different. God liked what He saw in Noah.~Genesis 6:8 (The Message Bible)

I continue to realize that I am under construction. I exist inside the architecture the Lord designs for my life. Some of the rooms in this complex are deeply in need of refurbishment. The anxiety room, for instance. At times, I experience stifling anxiety. Panic sets in and my mind circles with thoughts of all the bad things that could happen, might happen. I forget what is true. I don't like this room much, yet I sometimes fail to realize the reconstruction that has already taken place--much healing from childhood trauma, safe people in my life that have taught me to trust, coping skills that greatly help reduce my fears, and the Lord Himself comforting me. I run my fingers over the freshly painted walls. I note the large window constructed just for me so that I feel the warmth of the sun shining in, can view the sunset in the evenings. Yes, there is more renovation to be done in this room. The Lord reassures me that the place is coming together. 

I take my Bible from the shelf. The Message Bible. The one written in contemporary language by the late Eugene Peterson. The Word acts like smelling salts, bringing me back from the paralyzing feelings and taking me to the realm of truth that imbues the Lord's Shalom peace. Here are some points I needed to review:

I keep hearing this phrase in my mind: "The anatomy of rejoicing." I don't know what it means.~Journal entry, June 19, 2025 

I'm really bad at rejoicing. I overthink and often dwell on what can go wrong. I asked God for help. He must have known I needed some rejoicing lessons and planted this phrase in my mind.

The first lesson began by returning to that verse in Philippians 4:4. "Rejoice in the Lord always, and again I say rejoice." How many times have I sung this Scripture song by rote, even thinking it was cheesy and fake and saccharine? And yet, I knew in my spirit that rejoicing in the Lord was none of these things. I sensed the Lord reminded me that even when things do go wrong, I can always rejoice in Him, in His attributes. I can always depend on Him to be perfectly loving, to provide and protect, to strengthen and sustain, to offer a way through, to supply peace when I feel anxious and overthink. "Can you not authentically always rejoice in me?" He seemed to ask.  

Lesson two presented itself in the next portion of the passage (5-7) in Philippians: "Let your gentleness be evident to all. The Lord is near. Do not be anxious about anything, but in everything by prayer and petition, with thanksgiving, present your requests to God. And the peace of God, which transcends all understanding, will guard your hearts and your minds in Christ Jesus." The comfort that knowing the "Lord is near" felt reassuring. Even in the natural, having someone near, feeling someone's hand in yours, is all it takes sometimes to try something new, to take a step, to get better at something. I could do this. I didn't have to be bad at rejoicing.  

As I enter "young old age," I surely need and crave God's reassurance. I have no appetite for the fast lane.~Journal entry on my 70th birthday

Over the last decade, I've had an intermittent dream. It probably emerges in the night watches when I'm feeling stressed or afraid. In the dream I'm speeding, not completely in control of the car, at times almost veering out of my lane into traffic, my heartbeat racing. I always wake up before I crash, thoroughly relieved that I'm not actually driving, my hands gripping the steering wheel, white-knuckled. 

Last week I had this same dream, yet this time there was an intervention as I swerved and careened down the highway. A giant-sized man came and stood over my car, bent down and placed his hands on the sides of the vehicle, almost like that intimate gesture of tenderly cupping a face. My car had a moon roof. I lifted my head and peered up through the square opening and met the man's soulful gaze, his eyes hazel, glistening. His cheeks were covered with a dark, neatly trimmed beard, his skin brown. I could almost sense his kindness emanating through the steel doors that he held in his palms. I felt deeply grateful that he had slowed my pace, steadied me.