It's that feeling I always have - like something's missing. It was described to me the other days in terms of Chinese medicine. Apparently, these certain people, when their qi is out of balance, they have this overwhelming sensation like something is missing..that, and grief. And when she was describing this phenomena that is so common to Chinese thinking, I felt like I was normal in the world. Only, one thing was different. The feeling was described like something was missing, but there was no ability to determine what it was.

I've always known what was missing. And it's why I've always grieved underneath it all.

From Romans 8: ...We ourselves, who have and enjoy the first-fruits of the Holy Spirit, a foretaste of the blissful things to come, grown inwardly as we wait for the redemption of our bodies from sensuality and the grave, which will reveal our adoption, our manifestation as God's sons. For in this hope, we were saved.

I've always known I was missing Him. My soul groans when I look around. I miss Him. I just miss my Friend.

There's something I've always wanted, and it's just to be lovely forever. Just to be a delight to those around me, nothing awfully self-centered, just a joy-bringer through beauty. And I've wanted it in a place where beauty is safe. Do you think it will be like that when He comes? I don't think it will matter as much what I will be like, but do you think I will be like that? I really just hope so.

Well

The wellspring of life keeps rolling. We're helping to start a new church. Redemption Hill Church. Right smack dab in downtown DC. There's twenty of us now, meeting in Pastor Bill's living room.

The discussions are refreshing. The relationships are underneath the surface, people willing to share themselves a little bit. And one theme keeps surfacing: that God uses imperfect people to accomplish his perfect plan. Yesterday, we talked about being missional - what it is and why we aren't. The definition: being missional means being outward about faith, not so inward. It means that we are not just asking the question, "What does this mean for me?" and "How do I apply this to my life?" but that we recognize that God's word causes a much broader stirring, that as He impacts my life, the world is impacted. Most people voiced the same thing: we aren't outward about Christ, because we don't feel like we have it together enough to pretend that we know something in front of other people.

That's just the thing, isn't it, though? People don't want to hear you say, "I've got it together," because no one can relate with that.

Anyway, somebody, I think, really hit the nail on the head. It's not something you try to do. It's something that happens as you press in to Christ. It's not a goal we achieve. It's not a Jesus T. It's natural. As God indwells us, we wear Him without intention. And I can't get enough of that phrase this week: "press in to Christ."
And I'm talking about His word, and I'm talking about His strength, and I'm talking about His abiding hand on your back. It's the daily grind that sometimes leaves you completely clouded, and it's the wellspring that washes the clouds of life away. How is it both? How is it both a discipline and a motivation? But it is.

There's a nurse at work. I thought of him when we were talking last night. (You know, it was actually two nights ago, but I know no one cares.) I always like it when he's in my patient's room, because I learn about how to coax them to get up, to eat, etc. He pushes the weakest patients forward because of his relationship with them. Isn't that just Jesus? I heard one patient say to him, "You're the reason we still have hope." Anyway, I have to ask Him about his faith. I think it's safe for me.

That's it for me, I think. I'm scared to be missional, because I don't know if it's considered appropriate at my job. It's not safe. Thomas says I just need to speak more, which is kinda funny, because we joke about how his wife never shuts up. I keep noticing different people saying little somethings about their faith, and I think I'm mostly just sitting back and watching everyone, still feeling out my environment.

I found last night to be something that helped me get up the next day, that helped me lift up my head and be glad that I am alive. Normal people who don't have pasted smiles were sitting around talking about things that matter. All admitting we're not there yet, and pressing in to Him together. Do you see it very often? It's the beginning of Redemption Hill Church. And I wish my parents could come next week.

"I'm naive enough to think that God can transform our capitol." -Pastor Bill

Letting Go.

The image of finding my patient unresponsive is stuck in my head. I keep seeing him laying there all haphazard.
You get jumpy about things. Like whenever I hear a loud noise, my instinct is to go help whoever just fell or is seizing. I learned to watch for chest rise when I worked at the nursing home, so I always have, but now I'm jumpy about it. Maybe that will get better.

That night, I was talking in my sleep. Thomas told me I said, "Layers," like I was giving an answer in class. And there was nothing else. After he told me that, I just kept thinking about this story I heard once about a woman who had a near-death experience. She said the singing in heaven wasn't just harmony, it was like layers.

Yesterday, my voice teacher told me that singing is about trusting and letting go. Trusting that your voice knows how to do it, and letting it go. She's telling me about the anatomy of the voice, and it's amazing. Your larynx opens and closes hundreds, even thousands of times in one second depending on the pitch that you're singing. It's the same about running. Your legs know what to do. Actually, once you start walking, and I assume it holds true for running, it's a reflex. There's no brain involvement at all, just spinal cord. And breathing - well, it's all automatic. You don't have to control anything. You just let go and run.
 
Dead people usually look...dead. Shriveled. Dry. He looked like he was sleeping. Perfect. Peaceful. He had been working so hard to breathe for so long. He was labored at baseline. Then nothing. No movement. No more labor.
 
All of it helps me let go, and you have to let go, else you can't go back there again. But I went back twice already, and it wasn't so bad. I still like my job. It's a battlefield, and you question your decisions. But sometimes, you just have to let go.

Today

I lost a patient today. It's the first time at this hospital. I mean, yeah, I've had patients die here before, but they've been hospice beds. Today, I lost a full code. Actually, I'll be honest. I lost one of both today.

There's nothing like walking into a room and finding your friend unresponsive. He'd had trouble breathing on and off all day. I kept trying to get the doc to order different things. He wasn't interested. I bypassed him and got help from other people. Everything helped temporarily. I watched him so closely all day.

His CK was high from the labs we drew during the code. Maybe he had a heart attack. Maybe it wasn't respiratory. I can't say.

It's a hard lesson, and I'm not even sure what I'm supposed to learn. Should I have called a rapid response earlier and convinced the resident to take him to the ICU? Would that have saved his life? How much of it was out of my hands? How much?

The Solomon of nurses told me I practically ran the code today. It's not true, but looking back, I bet nobody would've guessed it was my first code. They always told me during mock codes that I wouldn't have to worry about pushing meds. Someone with know-how would be pushing. Except in the PICU. In the PICU, they told me to slam everything. So that's what I did. Epi in. Atropine in. Bicarb in...atropine...atropine. "How many atropines?" "We can only give three." And then, "After this bicarb, I'm calling it unless anyone has anything else." And that's when I swore, and somebody thought I stuck myself. It felt like ten minutes, but it was 45.

The guy asked me if it was my first time at the morgue. I told him it was my second time that day, but he wasn't listening. He wasn't asking for an answer. He was asking to fill his own ears.

Another one down to AML today.

Wrote this Yesterday

Today, I am tired of death. My patients' bodies are shutting down, and it makes me tired. Striker makes me tired, because he is tired. And his wife is tired. Baby makes me tired, because she is tired. AML is terrible. It takes healthy ones, defeats them over and over mentally, physically, emotionally, and then it kills them. Tonight, I am just tired, and I am going to go to bed now.

In other news, today was my first day as charge nurse, and it wasn't terrible.

A family lined the halls that day. All the same family, watching waiting. Then, when it finally came, a soberness rested on the whole place.

A young one died that day on our floor.

One nurse said, "I just don't get it." She didn't say, but I know she was talking about life and God. We're okay when the old ones die. It's part of the reason we work here. But the young ones take us deeper to ask questions about who is ruling the universe.

I've been thinking lately about how God is King. It changes everything. Everything. If God is king, then all the stuff that I think matters really doesn't. All of the stuff I think about on a daily basis has very little to do with reality. The world is upside down.

Words

I just watched a movie about cooking and blogging and butter. It was lovely, and a couple of tears surfaced, though none dropped.


I met some people at work. One was the nicest man, and I wish I could have him over for Thanksgiving dinner. I don't know if I'll ever hear from him again, but I have mixed feelings about this. Oncology nurses face attachment issues, and everyone has his own opinion about what "too attached" means. If I see him again, I may understand more about that.


I think about people I've cared for in the past, and I have no regrets about attachments. I only feel honored to have cared for them. Sometimes, tears surface or even drop for them, but I am not a mess. My life has more meaning, because I cared for them. I think of the man whose hair I cut during his induction chemotherapy. I think of Norwegian man. I even think of yellow man who was more obviously close to death than the others. None of them are living now, and soon, my Thanksgiving friend will go, too. Normal people don't understand what an honor it is to care for these. They think about is the pain I must feel.


I met someone else at work that helped me remember simple math. If I expend more energy than I take in, I will lose weight and be tired. At work, there's very little replenishing built into the system for nurses. Bottom line: I need to eat more, buy more plants, and take more baths.


Recently, a friend asked me if I'm doing what I'm made for. I think I was wrong when I said, "Not yet". It's like sentences. Every word is important. And this word in my life is part of my testimony.


"They overcome him by the blood of the lamb and by the word of their testimony." Revelation 12:11