Yesterday, I got a text from our nursing agency. “Well, I spoke with [Nurse]. She is not interested in picking up any time with Catherine.”

What? I felt like I’d been punched in the gut. The nurse had told me the night prior at her orientation that she’d start on Sunday. I had liked her. Based on her smiles and conversation with Catherine and responses, I thought she liked us and would be a great fit. She even only lives ten minutes away from us.

After reading the text, I felt a feeling swelling inside of me that I didn’t really understand. It started in the pit of my stomach and grew out to my shoulders. It was black and hot and then it coiled itself up back into the pit of my stomach where it sat like a hard rock. I had felt the feeling a few months ago when I got let go from my job – much more intensely in that situation, of course. The feeling had the same character, though. It was the feeling of rejection.

Why?

All I wanted to know was why she didn’t want the case. Had I done something wrong? My mind raced through as much of the orientation as I could remember. I’d tried a new format and used a checklist. There is simply so much to remember to tell nurses about Catherine and we’ve oriented so many nurses. Even Sarah thought the checklist was a good idea. And so did the nurse. She said it was very helpful and asked me to leave her a copy when she started. Had I asked her something that offended her? Was the house too messy? Did she not like Catherine? How could you not like Catherine? She’d told me she thought Sarah was very smart, so I didn’t think it had anything to do with her. Could she not say yes, because she hadn’t met Brian? He was at class and we were eager to get to meet her so we’d decided to orient any way. I had told her how much he loves Catherine and what a great dad he is and that he was the “strong and silent type.” Did that cause her concern?

Why? Why didn’t she want to work with us?

I texted the agency back and when I didn’t hear back quickly enough, I called. The coordinator didn’t have any good reasons. “She said it was too much for her.” What does that even mean? I pushed a little and heard that Catherine was too heavy. “It’s one lift. I can run downstairs and lift her so she doesn’t have to do it if that’s all that’s standing in the way.” Our coordinator said she’d call and see if that would help. In the pit of my stomach – the same place the rejection feeling came from – I knew it wouldn’t. We’d been rejected for some unknown reason. And sure enough, the coordinator let me know a short time later that the nurse had turned off her phone.

I could continue to fight it and wrestle for a satisfying answer to the “Why?” I could try to convince the nurse that we were a good place to work. I’d even made that a point on the checklist – that we care about the nurses and want them to feel comfortable so they could watch TV, use our WiFi, put food in the fridge, use the microwave – and to let us know if they needed anything at all. The reality was that it didn’t matter. I’d learned that several months ago when the rejection stung more intensely. It never matters why because if you have to talk someone into it, it’s never really acceptance. The rejection always wins. And truthfully, rejection is almost always about the person doing the rejection rather than the one being rejected. It never feels that way though. Never.

So, when Brian got home, I told him what had happened. “Oh well,” he said. “Oh well?” That’s all he could say after my body was feeling all this energy spinning around? Granted, I knew some of that energy was connected to the more significant rejection I’d felt earlier in the summer. But seriously…. “Oh well?!”

Waking up this morning after some good sleep and seeing the sunshine, I realized he was right. “Oh” is the statement of recognition. Acknowledgement. Matter of fact. And “well” is the statement of what will be in time. It will be well. There is no space for the why. It ceases to exist or even matter. So, yes, rejection happens. The why doesn’t matter. And it will be well… in time.

Some days, I don’t know what to write. And when I don’t know what to write, I simply don’t. I’m learning that there is a discipline writers follow to write every day – even if they wind up throwing it all away. That’s always seemed remarkable to me. I typically wait to hear God speak and then write down what he says – more or less. Today, I’m trying it the other way to see what happens.

I’m aiming to write several days a week – not always in my blog. Every day seems a bit much right now. And I have other things I want to write, so there are days set aside for those writings. For example, I have been writing to Sarah since she was born. I tell her about what she’s naturally good at doing and what sort of things I want her to know when she grows up about how her early years were so powerful. I always wished I had something like that to reference, so I figured I would give that to her. I don’t know when I’ll give it to her – maybe as a graduation gift? Or maybe there will simply come a time when it seems she needs to read it. I’m open to how that unfolds.

It’s harder to write when you don’t have God whispering in your ear. I may have to get some writing exercises to see how this progresses. I think I have to be open to how all that unfolds as well. And as I think about it, we have to be open to how everything unfolds. Stress seems to come from resisting the way the unfolding is occurring or from trying to make it unfold in a certain way. Reflecting on this metaphor a bit, I think about various things that unfold – a rose bud, the wrapping on a package, a table cloth, a love letter. We don’t usually restrict or try to control the ways those things unfold. So, why do we do it with our lives? God probably just laughs at us.

Can you imagine if you were looking at a rosebud every day trying to get it to unfold and blossom in the way YOU thought was best or that you wanted? Can you imagine opening a package and trying to unfold it exactly how you wanted rather than being focused on whatever was inside the box? What if instead of just opening up the tablecloth and putting it on the table, regardless of how it unfolded, you studied each fold and debated whether it was a good fold or a bad fold in your head? What if you tried to pull it a certain way as you unfolded it only to realize a wrinkle had formed in the middle – deep within the folds you could see? You’d get out the iron, right? (Not if you’re me! My mother will confirm it’s true that the iron doesn’t fit my hand.) And I feel pretty confident in my belief that no one pays attention to the folds when he or she is unfolding a love letter. We just want to see what beautiful words were written to us. We stay focused on the prize at the end – not the process of getting to the prize.

I think God’s prize for us here on earth is abundance and peace. He says that’s why he came to earth. If we focus on that prize, rather than the manner in which he has wrapped those gifts, we can simply observe the glorious unfolding and watch as the gifts appear. Sure, there may be some wrinkles we didn’t know would be in there – maybe even some stains we can’t remove. And we may have to figure out how to deal with those. Overall, though, we’ll get to witness the extraordinary blossoming that is occurring and we’ll get to experience the abundance and peace that are our gifts.

I keep a quote on my desk from Anais Nin. It seems quite relevant today:

It takes courage to push yourself to places that you have never been before… to test your limits… to break through barriers. And the day came when the risk it took to remain tight inside the bud was more painful that the risk it took to blossom.

I hope we can all watch with anticipation as our gifts from God unfold before our very eyes without getting too caught up in the manner in which things in our life are unfolding. If we can do that, believing that the gifts will show themselves even if the unfolding is messy or confusing or not as we would have done it, I believe it’s possible to keep hope alive and keep a spirit of thanksgiving in our hearts.

Take this post as an example. I had no idea where it was going. And look what just unfolded.

“Mom, you can teach Catherine the basics while I go play on the playground. OK? I’ll be on the playground. Have fun Catherine!” Sarah’s voice trailed off as she ran across the tennis court to the gate leading to the playground. We had just finished playing some tennis together while Catherine sat under an umbrella shielded from the sun.  For about 5 minutes, we got Catherine on the court also and Sarah tried to hit balls with her. You can probably imagine how that went. 

In Sarah’s mind her sister just needed some more basic info and then they could play together. My mom brain thought it was cute. My mom brain also thought it absurd.

Or was it?

Left alone on the court with Catherine in the hot sun while Sarah bursts off to the playground, I had a few choices. I could pack her up and take her inside for Sarah to come home a little later. I could set the tennis gear aside and go for a quick walk. I could just stand there and wait. Or – like my brilliant daughter suggested – I could teach Catherine the basics. 

I realized how strange it must look when someone walked by and looked at us on the court. I had Catherine’s hands on the racket showing her the shape and size. I dragged her fingertips across the strings explaining that was the part that hit the ball. And then I let her feel the fuzzy ball. She really liked that and kept her normally curled fingers open wide to feel the rough texture of the ball. I even saw her smile. Then I put her hand on the grip and explained the need to shake hands with the racket, just like my mom had when she declared I needed to learn a lifetime sport – either tennis or golf. 

I thought we were done. And then an image flashed before my eyes – hit the ball and let her feel that. I popped a ball into the air and gently tapped it against the strings toward the fence. Catherine smiled again. 

I kind of beat myself up for not being willing to teach Catherine tennis when Sarah suggested it. I have to confess it seemed rather silly and a waste of time. Contrary to many people’s opinion, I do go through times thinking a lot of what we do with Catherine is wasted energy. I get really down on myself for thinking that way. It’s important to be real about it though. It happens. I’m not always the mom so many people think I am. 

So we hit the ball a whole bunch more times as I realized three profound truths – 1. Always start with the basics, 2. A little child would lead me, and 3. Sometimes you just gotta fake it til it’s fun. Who knows where any of these might lead us.