Most days, I can’t believe how exhausted and hollow I look and feel. Two days before this article was due, I told my husband how much I was struggling with the deadline. “I’ve got nothing,” I said.

“Then you should write about that,” he said. “When you’ve got nothing.”

After I shattered my humerus last summer, no one expected anything of me. I couldn’t cook, clean, or wash and dry my hair. People drove me to occupational therapy. Neighbors stayed with me if family wasn’t available. Like a toddler who needs a babysitter, I couldn’t be left alone.

After my daughter’s death in June, my responsibilities increased — her three young children live with us now — but some days it’s difficult to crawl out of bed. I should wear a sign around my neck that says, “Don’t expect too much from me. I’ll only disappoint.” Thankfully, three of our adult children also live at home now, so we outnumber the little guys.

Grief drains me. It delays my responses like an engine that won’t shift out of first gear. I can take forty-five minutes to eat a bowl of yogurt. Deadlines fly by. My life is on hold. People are waiting for me. I am waiting for me. The inability to concentrate and achieve the goals I’d hoped to crush this year rubs salt in wounds that won’t heal.

I’m slogging through molasses.

I belong to a writing website where one of my favorite features is the ability to submit 250 words each week on a theme and receive feedback from other writers. Yet I can’t seem to focus on the excerpts of other people’s work and provide helpful observations (it’s hard enough to focus on my own writing), so I’ve quit participating.

Tragedy has severed the continuity of my life; it canceled my routines and stole the things that brought me joy. I don’t recognize this until I notice the book I forgot I was reading, or remember the recipe I forgot I’d been making each week, or someone mentions the TV series I forgot we’d been watching.

So I’m looking for reminders of what made me, me.

In a professional manuscript assessment, the editor challenged me to think about the unique insight one of my characters might have as a cameraman who sees the bigger picture, through particular angles, and knows where to focus. What might he see that others miss? This resonated with me. So, in my latest draft, I’ve leaned into my knowledge of photography to write this character.

It awakened a part of me that had been dormant. I had pulled my camera out only twice since my accident. It felt even heavier than before.

But recently, after weeks of rainfall, quirky red mushrooms sprouted up in our backyard, and I had an itch to photograph them with my macro lens. I’ve owned it for years, but it always kicks my butt. The extremely close-up, detailed images have a large magnification and a shallow depth of field. When I download them, I often find one sharp speck and everything else is blurred out.

Despite the losses, I’ve gained a stillness in body and spirit conducive to wielding that perplexing lens. I took nine photos and deleted only one. It felt exceptionally satisfying.

I often question our physical, financial, and emotional ability to navigate this new, upside-down life, and fear takes root. I have to lean on my favorite verse, 2 Timothy 1:7 (KJV): “For God hath not given us the spirit of fear; but of power, and of love, and of a sound mind.”

Most days, I’ve got nothing. A friend invited me to a Braves game, and during our conversation, I realized how many of my sentences included the phrase, “I was having a bad day.”

Like Moses in the battle with the Amalekites, my hands are heavy. As Aaron and Hur lifted Moses’s arms when he couldn’t, Jesus supports me. It’s the only way I’ll prevail.

Thankfully, Jesus is everything I need, and He’s got my back; He’s in my corner.

He hasn’t forgotten who I am, because He knows I am His.

So if you’re slogging through molasses too, feeling hollow, exhausted, or like you have nothing left to give, hear this: God hasn’t forgotten you either.

He sees the pieces of you that feel broken or blurred, the tiny specks that matter most, and He is holding them. Lean on Him. Let Him lift your arms when you can’t. Even on the days you’ve got nothing to give, God is working.

He hasn’t forgotten who you are, and He will carry you through, one small, steady step at a time.

 

Listen to Dawn’s devotion here or wherever you stream podcasts.

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