Motivation

One week.

Tomorrow will be one week since we said goodbye to Derick.

I’ve done this before.  I know I can do it again.  My sister, Carrie, and I have got to a couple of spin classes this week.  I’m totally out of shape but my legs don’t get sore like hers. I’ve done it before.  My muscles remember how it’s done. I know I can do it again.

Then what is it about this deployment that makes me feel so alone and unmotivated?  I know I can do it again.

We’re broke again.  But we’re always broke when he leaves.  It takes a month to get a paycheck when he switches to active duty.  

My kids are older, more self-sufficient. That should make it easier.  But it doesn’t.

I think it’s time to admit I’m struggling with me getting older.  I love watching my kids get older!  But me… that’s another story entirely!

Two years ago, on November 30 I was 39 years old.  I don’t remember if I was in very good shape or not.  But when I missed the bottom step to my basement early that morning, it didn’t seem to matter. I couldn’t walk. For months I used crutches, walked with a boot, wore a brace or simply limped along.  

Two years ago, on December 1 my brother-in-law, Chad, died.  Suddenly, I didn’t care if that I couldn’t walk. My injury paled in comparison to the incredible pain that my family was experiencing.  My limp seemed to come as much from emotional agony as physical.

They say time heals all wounds.  But what that’s not quite true. What if some part of that injury continues to fester.  My ankle has never been the same. It feels good most of the time. But any high impact exercises, and I’m back to square one.  Practically using the crutches all over again.

Sometimes I feel like that about Chad.  I don’t know that it’s really about Chad.  But those two days, two years ago - November 30 and December 1 - seemed to be a turning point for me.  And not necessarily in a good way.

I have grown tired.  My patience is wearing thin.  I want to be disciplined, but mostly I just don’t care.  I want to be disciplined to clean my house and read my Bible and eat healthy and exercise and budget wisely.  I know that I’m not perfect. I know that even if I’m trying my hardest, I will have times that I just don’t measure up.

But the fatigue has been gripping.  An invasive, clinging vine that has intertwined its weedy tendrils into my very soul.  It’s not just fatigue but depression and apathy.

Why does it matter if I’m disciplined in eating healthy because I know I can’t keep up with it.  An I’m not gonna lose any weight. So I might as well give up now.

Why does it matter if I make a budget, we won’t follow it.  We always seem to end up broke anyway.

Why does it matter if I read my Bible today?  Later I won’t remember what I read. And besides, when I pray, it feels like nothing happens anyway.

I turned 40 in July and still, I could hardly walk because of my ankle injury the previous fall, let alone run and ride my bike.  All motivation seems to have disappeared. Instead, in its place is an expectation of failure.

I know that all of these emotions that I’m feeling right now are magnified by the fact that Derick isn’t here. That doesn’t make it easier. But at least this way I don’t feel like I’m going crazy.

Now I’m going to write a verse that should be encouraging to me.  It is encouraging to me. I’m going to read it before bed tonight because even without motivation or discipline, I do still know that God’s word is true.

Psalm 121

“I lift up my eyes to the hills. From where does my help come?

My help comes from the Lord, who made heaven and earth.

He will not let your foot be moved; he who keeps you will not slumber.

Behold, he who keeps Israel will neither slumber nor sleep.

The Lord is your keeper; the Lord is your shade on your right hand.

The sun shall not strike you by day, nor the moon by night.

The Lord will keep you from all evil; he will keep your life.

The Lord will keep your going out and your coming in from this time forth and forevermore.”

I’m sorry if this was a little too personal or raw… Sometimes the ritual of writing it out is rather therapeutic for me.