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Struggle and suffering had taken me under, and I was beyond tired of running on empty. My praying and trying only led to more disappointment and heartache. Finally, at the end of most days, I collapsed into bed with nothing else to give. It seemed as if my life was out of control, and I wanted to scream, “Enough, Lord.”
Over ten years ago, when my big ones were little and my littles weren’t even born yet, we began making weekly visits to a local nursing home. We’d chat with residents in their rooms or join them in the activity center to play games (lots of Bingo!), do puzzles, or even exercise. When my kids were a bit older they performed monthly “variety shows” where everything they did was received with loud applause, huge smiles, and loads of encouragement.
In the summer of 2018, I was hit head-on and fell hard into the world of mental health struggles. I couldn’t sleep. Couldn’t think. I couldn’t follow a conversation. I got angry at little things and cried at the drop of a hat. I was easily startled. I couldn’t be a passenger—I had to do all the driving. I became terrified of spiders, scanning every room looking for them. I started having panic attacks, and where I used to love walking in the pasture among our cattle, I was now afraid of them.
Several years ago, in a sermon on prayer, my husband, also my pastor at that time, encouraged us to pray on the spot when others requested prayer. He challenged us to think about how often we casually say we will pray for others but walk away, forgetting to do that very thing. I had watched him model this point in his sermon. When a friend asked him to pray, he would often take my hand, draw close to that friend, and say, “Can we do that right now?”