It’s been 8 years today since my father passed away. The sting of death has diminished quite a bit, but I don’t think it gets easier, it’s just different. A tinge of grief hits me whenever my kids reach new milestones. I think about the way he loved them so well when they were little.
We love everything about Nebraska, with its family friendly atmosphere & down to earth, unassuming people. You could be standing next to a millionaire in the Runza line and not even know it. They would probably offer to hold the door or acknowledge you with a one finger wave (the cordial kind, not the road rage kind) as you pass by with your bag of frings.
“Work, work, work, work, work, work, REST.”
My friend & mentor had us clap out the rhythm while saying these words out loud at our women’s small group.
“Work, work, work, work, work, work, REST.”
At the time I rolled my eyes but participated. I knew what lesson was about to follow and I didn’t want to hear it. I sat at a table surrounded by women – half of them empty nesters, the other half exhausted moms like me who were lucky to have their shirts on right side out. As a Mom of two littles born 16 months apart, I felt my insides beginning to crawl as she talked about the importance of developing “sacred rhythms” she called it; finding the balance between work and rest just as God had done at creation – 6 days of work, 1 day of rest.