Sometimes, I don’t like my kid.

There. I said it. The thing you’re never supposed to say.

Don’t get me wrong, I love my son second only to God and my husband. I would do anything for him. I’d die for him. But. Sometimes, I just really don’t like him. We are in a tough season. Probably every season is hard and jokes on me, but it feels really hard right now. Everything is a battle. Everything is a meltdown. His whole world has changed so many times in the last year, I can’t really blame him. But yikes, I’m exhausted. I don’t want to miss a moment, because we only get a few, and I’m also kind of ready for this particular stage to end.

Of course, at this moment he’s in my bed, asleep, snuggled right up against me just perfectly sweet and innocent and my heart might explode with how much I love him. I could hold him forever. His laugh, his “Mommy, I just love you,” they make the darkest days bright again.

So, how do I reconcile that with earlier in the evening strongly contemplating locking him in his room and walking away (I didn’t). What does this mean about unconditional love? I know I will love my little boy, no matter what, forever. And sometimes I don’t like him.

And I couldn’t help but wonder….. does God ever not like me while He’s loving me unconditionally. I can throw some pretty awesome tantrums as well. And some days are hard listening days for me too.

I believe love is a choice. Most days, I don’t have to consciously choose to love Kellen. His sweet little heart and goofy spirit is so evident and obvious. Other days, I have to work to see the sweet heart because it just ain’t showing itself. My love never wanes, but my ability to see Kellen through his behavior does.

But, God can always see me. He never has to actively choose because He always chooses to see my heart and my goodness even when it’s not obvious. It doesn’t mean He thinks sin is ok, but my sin doesn’t alter His ability to see the child he created. Sometimes, I don’t see the child I created because I remember that baby being a lot more smiley.

So, what my brain came around to was this: it’s just the difference between unconditional love and perfect love. God’s unconditional love is perfect. Mine is not. I will pray and work every day to love more perfectly, while also understanding that I’ll never reach the standard because I can’t on my own. I can only love perfectly because of Christ in me. The more I accept His perfect love, the more it radiates from me.

Here’s the other conclusion I’ve come to. It’s natural to not like your kid sometimes. It doesn’t make me a bad mom. It might make me a good one because I can admit I’m flawed and human and really friggin’ exhausted. I think most moms have felt that way from time to time, I know a lot of the moms I worked with at capstone talked about feeling that way and many friends have too. So, I think the only moms that have never disliked their kid either have way more dependence on Christ than I have figured out yet, or they are lying.

Pat yourself on the back, Mommas. The only thing you really have to do is love them well, and you’ve got that down.

I used to run half marathons. I keep my distance to a 10k these days, per the request of my knees and my back, who both believe that I am 85.

Running was, and still is, a therapeutic experience for me. Actually, that is not totally true. In high school, when I played soccer, running was plain old torture. Drill days and timed running days were my least favorite. I am not fast, but can sprint if needed. I played sweeper and forward, so I was used to running a long time, but not necessarily always quickly. Running was used as a punishment in soccer too. I still remember the many many suicides we had to run because our manager left our soccer balls on the field at an away game. The injustice of the situation just fueled my deep hatred for running.

I occasionally ran in college, but never enjoyed it and really only did it because I hate the gym slightly more. Post college, I worked a few years in a job where I got paid NOTHING and lived in my college town that all my friends had left, in another state from my family. Depression started to set in and I was miserable but didn’t want to admit it. It’s one of the darkest periods I’ve ever been in. I would have a bill to pay and only three dollars in my bank account. I sat in my apartment with nowhere to go. My mom would come visit and I would sob for days after she left. I had no direction and felt like a failure every day.

I don’t remember the timing of everything anymore, but a few things happened that started to save my life. My cat, Mia was one. Running was another– discovering running was a total accident and mainly happened because I was so poor.

In my depression (and it’s taken me a while to admit that’s what it was), I gained a lot of weight. I didn’t have the energy or desire to take care of myself. And because I believed I was failing at life, and I was voted most likely to succeed in high school, I really didn’t believe I was worth taking care of. I had done nothing to prove I deserved care.

I remember taking a directory picture for church, and I stepped up by myself and sat on the little stool. The photographer goes, “Where’s everyone else?”

“Um. Just me.”

“No family?”

“Nope. Not here. It’s just me……”

A friend of mine saw the exchange and told me I could be in her family directory picture with her husband and kids. Which was sweet….. but did not help the situation. Somehow we got the dumb picture taken and I never went and picked up my copy of the directory because trauma shame.

I decided to go buy myself a new outfit: what better way to attract a fella and ensure that I never had to take a directory photo alone again?? When I got to JC Penny (because it was that or Walmart), I was dumbfounded by the size of pants I needed. It was bigger than it had ever been. Somehow, I didn’t lose it in the dressing room but definitely did when I got home.

Those two instances spurred me to do something. I couldn’t change the job situation, I still had no idea how to meet people…. but I could do something about the weight. I couldn’t afford a gym membership, and running is pretty free after you buy the shoes, so running it was.

I wish the rest of the story was that I started running and I found myself and got thin and everything became sunshine and rainbows. That’s just not the story and that really only happens in Disney movies.

I signed up for a half marathon, because go big or go home has always been my MO. I couldn’t afford the entry fee to a race at the time, so while some friends registered for a fun race in Nashville, I just decided I would run at the same time, but here in Searcy. So, race day comes, I get up and when they start, I start. I ran the bike trail in Searcy by myself. Miles 1 and 2 were awful, they always are for me. I found a stride in 3-5. Mile 6 was torture. Up to this point in training, I had only run 10 miles, so I logically knew I could do that much. Running is mostly a mental sport though. It was a fight the WHOLE way. I remember being in mile 9 and being convinced I couldn’t make it. Somehow, I got to mile 12 and could see my apartment down the road. My gps watch glitched and I ended up actually running 13.5 instead of 13.1. Let me tell you, the extra .4 makes a big difference when you’re that tired!

Y’all. I felt like I could do anything when I realized I had done it. I stretched and walked around the parking lot of my apartment for a bit to cool down. When the adrenaline of my feat died down, I was ready to go in and that’s when my body realized I lived on the second floor.

Those stairs felt insurmountable. My body was done. I had pushed through every bit of strength and endurance I had because I was determined to get the 13.1 miles. I was spent. I was done. I was empty. But I wasn’t home yet.

The stairs were torture. I could barely walk the next day.

Anyone ever sprinted the last part of a race and then realized the finish line was further away than what you thought? I’ve done that one too. And then being depleted, have to keep going.

The race doesn’t always end at the finish line.

I feel like Covid just did the sneak attack like my stairs did. We are done. We are empty. We used up everything we had to survive. And then when we thought we were done, here comes another marathon. And worse? We have zero clues where the finish line is. It’s survival mode right now.

That’s also life, right? While there was a huge mental shift for me and my confidence after finishing that first half marathon, life was not automatically easy. Accomplishing something that felt so hard and so impossible when I started was so exhilarating and gave me enough breath to keep moving in some other, more significant areas of my life. It was a huge turning point. And, I still had to figure out how to fight through other battles and make more significant shifts in my career, thought processes, faith….. Maybe that’s why I kept running? I still need the reminder that some races are just one foot in front of the other until you drag your broken body across the finish line (or up the stairs).

Life is hard. And you can do more than you think you can. I truly did not believe I could run 13.1 miles on my first run of training. And I couldn’t at that point.

I don’t know what marathon you are facing right now. Maybe it is COVID. I know that’s at least part of it for all of my fellow mental health professionals, medical peeps, teachers and parents. Maybe it’s some other chronic illness, loneliness, addiction….. there are so many hard things in this world.

So, when something sucks and it can’t not suck, what do you do to still be ok? The short answer is lots of little things. Small changes, small actions that create moments for traction and breathe. Little bitty pieces of renewal. When I first started running, it was really running a little, walking a little. It took me awhile to be able to run further than a mile without walking. And then I hit a wall at 4 miles and just could not go further than that for the longest time. So, I would create short goals, notice a landmark up ahead and tell myself I could stop there if I needed to. Then find another. Then another. And eventually, I was running 13.1 (or 13.5 to be exact) without stopping.

Find small places to catch your breath. Do something that renews you, not just vegging out after a long day. Veg for 45 minutes instead of an hour and spend those 15 minutes listening to a podcast that builds you up. Don’t scroll social media aimlessly, set a timer. You have to find what works for you, which will be different than what works for me.

Breathe Deep. You will make it. One step, one stair at a time. You are made for this.

Here’s a little definition of irony…..Missing the sermon on rest because you are taking care of (wrestling) your three year old in the pew.

Sermons on rest just piss me off. And not in the convicting, ‘man I really needed to hear that and make some changes’ kind of way. In the…. ‘must be nice for you, shut up and pour me some coffee’ kind of way.

I KNOW. I need to rest. You don’t have to remind me. The brain fog and dark circles under my eyes are reminder enough. I even know it’s commanded by God. I KNOW. Sabbath. Keep it Holy. God rested on the seventh day, so should we. I KNOW.

But….. how?

Now, to be fair, the answer may have been given in the sermon…. but I wouldn’t know. K has been extra needy the last few weeks. He doesn’t want to be alone, he ends up in our bed or one of us ends up in his, every night. He just did not want to go to “little church,” as we call it. He cried, sad, pitiful crocodile tears, so we let him come to “big church” with us. So, I spent the whole time giving him a pen, making sure he didn’t draw on the chair, picking up the pen from the floor, keeping him quiet during the 3-minute silence time at the end of the sermon, taking him out so he could move and run for a minute, picking up the pen again…. I hadn’t packed snacks or toys because I hadn’t planned on him being in there with me.

The only thing I heard from the sermon was that God commands rest, no matter what. Even if it’s busy season at work, even if you’re a mom, even if you’re stressed out and stretched too thin…. Rest is a command. So, this got me thinking. If that is true, but there is literally no end in sight, how in the heck do I follow this command? How do I find rest when this season of life legitimately doesn’t hold space for much?

I’m an introvert. I am social and can do the energetic thing, but it exhausts me. I need alone time to recharge. And y’all, alone time is virtually non-existent. This is a piece of motherhood that NO ONE talks about and it would have been real helpful for me to know walking into this adventure. I get the 2.5 minutes from daycare to work and back each day, by myself. I can’t even pee by myself. Either the toddler or the cat follow me, or I’m trying to reply to text messages in between sessions. I’m always “on.” I am always being needed.

I’m a full time trauma therapist and am also trying to get my own practice off the ground. I’m a mom of a full energy, always moving toddler. I hear my name 17,000 times a day. I’m a full time wife, I try to participate in mission-oriented things and prayer groups, I try to keep up friendships, though most of that is text check-ins. And I love it all. I know there will come a time when K won’t say my name a million times a day and I will be sad. I try to remember that when I just want to scream, “WHAT WHAT WHAAAAAAT?” I genuinely care about all of my clients and want to be available. I really love my husband and my friends and my family.

And good night. I’m tired.

But here’s the thing that I’m wondering…… does that ever change? I know K will get older and do more of his own thing. But does the demand ever go away? Won’t things just ebb and flow? As he gets older, he will do more things, have friends. They will come over, I will care about and love them. I will continue to give freely. I will have more time for my husband, maybe my practice will grow?

It seems to me, work-life balance is a misnomer. We just go through seasons where more is needed in one area than the other. I will never be able to divide my time evenly between work/home/mission/etc. The balance, it seems, must be internal. Is that then what rest really means? Having an internal balance?

Ok, but then, how the heck do I do that? It must be doable, or God wouldn’t have commanded it.

I have this conversation with my clients all the time. Most of my clients are women, moms, working moms, all the things. And none of us seem to know. I talk to them about practical things. Finding the routine regular stuff. Deep breathing when you go to the bathroom, if that’s your only break. Getting up 10 minutes earlier to stretch or have coffee by yourself, being intentional with friends, using your commute to listen to refreshing podcasts or uplifting music. All good things. But, as established previously….. I can’t guarantee I will be alone to deep breathe while I pee.

I actually had about 15 minutes of space last night. Instead of cleaning, I went for a walk and just kind of let my brain process. I prayed in the way that I pray, which looks more like processing sometimes. And here’s the answer I came to.

I can’t rest.

Like literally. I cannot. Oh, I’m sure there are places I could manage time a little better and have more space. Or I could get up earlier and do more. And I need to do those things. But none of that will actually help me rest. I am an introvert and have no way to be introverty right now.

So, I can’t keep this command. On my own, I am failing miserably at the whole “rest/sabbath” thing.

But, God.

God can help me wake up feeling rested, even when I was awake 5 times in the night with a needy toddler. God can give me peace when work is overwhelming. God can literally give me breath when I can’t find the energy to take it.

My dependence on Him is almost 100 percent for rest right now, and He can meet me there. I just have to ask and trust and He will make a way. He will either show me spaces I have missed, or He will supernaturally give it to me. I cannot do this on my own, I NEED Him. Which, is kind of the point of the whole thing, right? That’s the Christian walk. That’s the relationship! With God, ALL things are possible. He can give me rest when rest is not there. I just have to be bold enough, brave enough, humble enough, to ask.

On my walk last night, I heard Him say, “I have your rest. I AM your rest. I can give it to you. Do you trust I can?”

Man. So simple. Yet, so hard to comprehend.

In Exodus, Moses tells the Israelites, “The Lord will fight for you, you need only to be still.” I have always thought of “fight” as action. But I could replace that word with “rest” and that means He is in the battle I am currently in. I’m not fleeing any kingdoms or crossing any seas. I’m worn and tired. The battle currently is for breath. And He is breath. The Lord will rest for me, I need only to be still.

I can’t do it. Somehow, that is refreshing. He can meet me where I am and give me rest and renewal in my little introverted soul until the tides shift and the needs change. And then, He will meet me there too.

So, moms…. ease up yourself. We can’t do it all. We. Just. Can’t.

But, God.

I’m sitting in my son’s bed, typing this on my phone, waiting for it to storm. He has woken up no less than 5 times since I put him to bed. It’s like he knows it’s supposed to storm later in the night and his body is uneasy.

More storms. More rain.

The phlox we planted barely survived the last deluge. It was under water for two days in a low spot on our front yard. We got home for the day and I saw they were completely submerged. We had been afraid of that when we planted though. That area is always under water when we get a lot of rain.

I should also mention that my son loves the rain because jumping in puddles is his absolute favorite.

I love the rain too, for that matter. The sound of it, the energized anticipation of a potential storm. I did love rain better when I had the space and time to cuddle in a blanket with a good book. While my life is full of cuddles, I am rarely alone or with a good book.

Hence the reason I am sitting in my son’s bed. He has been very needy at night for a long time now. I can’t remember the last time I had a full night of sleep without a little hand wrapped around my arm or a little foot lodged in my rib cage.

I’ve looked at the radar a few times and each time I do, the severe threat is less, but the rain is still coming.

The poor phlox.

A few days ago while I was worried about the phlox, my 3 year old had run inside to get his boots and come running back out to splash in puddles. I put my boots on and splashed with him, which always just increases the giggles ten-fold. When he saw the area in front of the house where it was flooded, his eyes grew huge. Puddle heaven. He shrieked and laughed with pure, uninhibited joy. He ran full speed through the water, he jumped, he threw sticks…..

Where I had seen worry, my son had seen adventure.

Ugh. I wonder how many times I do that in life? I wonder how many adventures I miss because I’m looking through my lens of worry?

I used to be ridiculously anxious, so nervous to try new things or step out of my comfort zone. And while I am much more open now, I still prefer a plan and for things to line up neat and pretty.

I prefer no change once something has been set into motion.

I prefer the phlox that I plant to grow.

Easier? Yes. Cleaner? For sure. Aesthetically pleasing. Yes sir.

Shrieks of laughter and little boy giggles.

Nope.

Just some dumb flowers.

It’s not to say it’s wrong to desire order and neat, pretty things. But at the expense of joy? Well that means my priorities are backwards.

I know many times I make a plan and get so stuck in it, I can’t see an alternative. Most of the time, the plan is a good one. Well, good according to my human knowledge and vision.

God’s vision is eternal and almost always, His plan is way messier, way crazier and definitely not as pretty and put together as the one I have.

But, oh is it good. So very good.

Laughter screams and muddy face kind of good.

Jesus wasn’t kidding when he said our faith should be like that of a child. Because my son was safe, and loved, he saw adventure. And even me, a not even close to perfect parent, would willingly sacrifice the phlox for my son to squeeze as many pure moments out of this life as he can.

How much more must our Heavenly Father have prepared and be willing to give to see us have joy? He gave his son.

I pray for eyes like my son. To see more beauty in the mess, the torrent. To find adventure in the unplanned. To endure the flood with hope and anticipation for the awesome puddles.

Beauty from ashes. Puddles from the downpour.

Ok, I know. Blogs are so 2000. But I am not about making videos of myself. I don’t really even like to facetime or video chat. Words are my thing, and even though they are sadly becoming an outdated medium, they are still my medium of choice.

I’m a little old school. I still prefer a paper book to an e-reader. Though I have an e-reader because it’s way more convenient for travel. I still have a paper planner too…. though I keep track of some things in my phone. I think I’m just a stereotypical x-ennial, not really a millenial, not a generation x-er either. I’m happily right there in the middle of progressive and nostalgic.

Call it what you will, it feels like balance to me.

Balance is something that tends to allude me. As a full time therapist, full time wife, full time mommy to a toddler, supervisor, friend, daughter….I live out a lot of pieces of myself and still have to maintain some piece that is just me. It feels like something I am always working toward and never quite getting.

I think it’s because in my head, all these are different pieces of me, when in reality I AM all these pieces. It may sound the same, but the latter is a more integrative identity, where I am all these pieces instead of having to make space for all these pieces to be part of me.

Tomato, to-mah-to….

The same semantic difference also applies to how I look at therapy, and really, the world. We are shaped by the things that happen to us, but our identity is the sum of all the things and how we decide they fit into our story. We get to assign meaning to the experiences we have. We just don’t usually know, or feel capable of, that power when the experiences we are going through are traumatic or hard.

I have an intensive therapy practice called “Out of the Ashes,” and it’s name comes from my favorite way to describe redemption…. the best part of our identity.

Isaiah 61:3 “…to bestow on them a crown of beauty instead of ashes, the oil of joy instead of mourning, and a garment of praise instead of a spirit of despair”.

There is a lot of debate about whether mental health and faith belong together. There’s disagreement from both sides – the therapists and from the churches. I find myself in the middle, yet again, unable to see how they could not flow out of each other.

But that’s my lens and that’s a story for another day.

The question I am asked most often, as a clinician and as a Christian, is some version of “why do bad things happen?” “If God were real, if He were good, why would he let X, Y, Z happen?”

I don’t even pretend to know all the answers to that question. As a therapist, I hear and see the very worst every day. I know that evil is real. And…… I also get to see healing, redemption and things learned that never would have been if that bad thing hadn’t happened. Does this mean the trauma is worth it? No, I don’t really think so.

What I think it does mean, is that purpose can be brought out of destruction. Hope can be sifted out of the darkness. Beauty can rise up out of ashes…. and beauty can rise up because of the ashes.

Ashes in Biblical times were symbols of mourning, sorrow or regret. People would wear sackcloth and cover themselves in ashes or sit in ashes. Today, I see ashes as those hard, bad, gut wrenching times that bring us to our lowest or most painful place. As a trauma therapist, I’d call those times of trauma.

The world if full of ash. So. Much. Ash.

And God is bigger.

His power is shown when beauty is made from ashes. The absence of bad things, never has and never will be the proof positive of an Almighty Creator. How much more powerful is it to take these bad things and create something beautiful out of it? It is the miracle born of tragedy that seems the most revealing of God’s power, grace and love, to me.

He has always been a God of process. There’s a focus today in some church on instantaneous healing, that the bigger the faith and the bigger the God, the bigger and quicker the miracle. God is big either way, but sometimes the only way we humans can learn what we need to is through a process.

So, it’s all real and it’s all part of who we are. Our identity, rooted in Christ, flows out of it all. I am a mom, and I am a therapist. And when they are in balance, being a mom makes me a better therapist and being a therapist makes me a better mom…. because I am fully embracing all the parts of ME. My life has had some ash and it has had some beauty and I can embrace all of it as part of my story. I lean on my faith and I have awareness of my mental health. They are different, but flow in and out of each other.

Who we are is not based on one hat we wear, one experience we lived, one thing we have been told or one single relationship we invest in. Who we are is all those things, and most importantly, the beauty that we choose to glean from it.

This blog will venture into the different pieces of me: Mom, Wife, Therapist, Christian, coffee….. some things I know something about…. others I know nothing and will just process out my lostness, ha.

If 2020 has taught us anything, it’s the importance of community and healthy conversation. Because we saw what happens when neither exist. I hope this will be safe place of laughter, tears, hard questions and the silliness that exists when there is a toddler present, ha. Reach out with your comments or things you want discussed.

Welcome!

“This won’t be the last time you see me.”

I looked into his deep brown eyes. They always held equal parts kindness and mischievousness. Today I saw equal parts fear and determination too.

I knew it was a lie. But, I knew he believed it.

“It better not be.”

“I promise. You will see me again.”

He hugged me and I didn’t even attempt to hide the tears rolling down my face. Residential treatment is no place for stoicism. 

I knew it. I knew it in that moment. And I can feel it like it was yesterday even though it was 7 plus years ago. I would never see him again. But, I would hope.

As a therapist, you care about all of your clients, otherwise you are in the wrong profession. However, some of them worm their way a little deeper into your hearts and leave marks that will be there forever. This kid was one of them. 

Kid. He was 23 and I was only 28. He had a kid of his own. So, I guess I shouldn’t call him a kid. He was hardheaded, stubborn, always causing trouble. I got so many phone calls about him, write ups I had to deal with.  He got delayed twice. I remember getting called because he pooped in a food container and threw it in the fire. He drove me up a wall. 

And I loved him. 

The troublemaking turds were my favorite, which is good, because I got A LOT of them. 

He was as kind and sensitive as he was trouble. He cared so much and felt so deeply, the drugs and alcohol he had become addicted to were the only way he knew how to manage everything he felt. He didn’t show many people his heart at that time, though it was obvious if you paid attention. I was one of the lucky few that got to see the real him.

I fought for that kid. I worked hard for that kid. When he first got there he made me guess what he was thinking by playing songs that shared his thoughts. For two weeks, he refused to talk to me in every session because he was mad at me. I walked him out to the gate in the rain and left him there. I told him not to come back until he was ready to do something different. I had zero power to make that call, but he didn’t know that. 

He also spoke of his love for his son, the pain he felt for the bad things he’d done… the fear he wouldn’t be a good dad. In family week, we end the week with a group where the family writes affirmations to each other and read them. He included me and wrote about how much it meant that I never gave up on him. I still have that paper. 

But, there he was, standing in front of me, telling me he was leaving treatment without completion. We both knew that meant he’d probably go to prison. I knew that meant he’d probably die. A heart like his does not survive prison. I did everything, including beg, to convince him to stay. But his stubborn stupid beautiful mind was made up.

As he told me I would see him again, both of us crying, I  wanted to believe it. I desperately wanted to believe it. But, I knew it wasn’t true. 

And, I hoped.

I let go of the hug. I told him he was good and that nothing would ever change that. I told him I believed in him and nothing would ever change that. And then I turned away and walked inside. I wiped my eyes, sucked it up and went and finished family week with a different one of my residents. By the time the group was over, he was gone. The last time I saw him was through the window, outside, hands in his pockets.

Today, I found his obituary.

I’m still a therapist, but I left that treatment center a few years ago. In the seven or so years since that day, I have thought about him many, many times. I googled him periodically to see if he was in jail or worse – always holding my breath until the search results came up. 

It had been years since I had looked him up though. I got married, changed jobs, had a kid. Life got busy in a different way and great lengths of time would go by when I wouldn’t wonder about him. But he had been on my mind for several months. I had a nagging feeling and a sense of dread, so I would push thoughts away and move on. But today, I googled him.

And there it was. His smiling face, along with his obituary. He had died 6 months earlier. 

It’s a weird feeling to lose a resident. He is the first I’ve lost, though I don’t know how because it’s unfortunately common when it comes to addiction.  I felt numb. Sick. An odd sense of relief because I don’t have to wait for this day anymore.

Because I knew this day would come.

And just as equally, I hoped I’d see him again.

That’s hope though. It leaves you open for awful heartache and disappointment, but without it, you just cannot live. Life without hope means certain pain and disaster. Hope may still mean pain, but it is the only way to allow space for miracles, for joy. It is the birthplace of faith and contentment. It is a life vest in uncertain and tumultuous water. It is breath.

I know this because literally yesterday, another former resident of mine texted me a picture of his new baby girl. Sometimes, hope turns out fairly beautiful.

Honestly, his death still feels surreal. And it may seem stupid to some that I still care this much after all this time. But, if you knew him, really knew him, you would too. You couldn’t help it. When his guard came down and he laughed – really laughed- everyone else did too. I hope and pray he found peace. I am grateful he got so many more years with his family, with his son. When he came to treatment, he was not far from death. I’m glad he got more time. I’m grateful I got to walk part of his journey with him.

I’m sure I will still think of him from time to time. After all, you never forget someone who lights poop on fire. It will just be a little sadder now. 

I hope I will still see him again, fully restored, in heaven.

I hope I never lose another resident or client.

I hope.