Therapy and Repetition

Fun fact: my mother was a music therapy major in school, but the profession of working solely with special needs students was too much for her, so she became a music teacher instead.

I think working with a majority of special needs children overwhelmed her because her heart was so big she wanted healing for anyone that struggled.

She always told me that music was special. There was something about it.

Music was what she used to teach me not to be afraid of the dark…music was what she used to teach me scripture…that taught me not to be afraid.

Over and over, lesson by lesson, note by note.

I believe there is therapy in the repetition in music. Much like physical therapy for an injury or counseling for mental health…there is healing in the repetition. It’s an exercise, an opportunity to work out whatever it is that needs to be worked out.

When a song repeats, it’s a reminder of the message that’s being conveyed. It’s a chance to internalize what’s being communicated. The therapy comes through the working out of the message.

At my home church the Sunday after mommy passed, we sang, “Death was Arrested.” I had never heard it before but I believe that song was God’s gift to me because He knew I had stuff to work out. Through that song, He gave me the gift of repetition because every. single. time. I visited my home church, that song was in the worship set. Every time. There’s therapy in the repetition in music.

Through that repetition God showed me that when we are absent from the body we will be present with the Lord (2 Corinthians 5:8) …and so because of Christ, when my mother’s life here on earth was arrested—stopped—ended—her life truly began. I learned that through the therapy that’s in the repetition in music.

Sometimes, it’s not just repeating the song, it’s repeating the words within a song. From the first word to the last, there’s an exercise. We have an opportunity to take the words to heart and apply them.

I used to be so offended when my friends would complain that gospel music was, “too repetitive.” Gospel music comes from an African American heritage and the repetition was a part of the richness of that history. Slaves would sing songs working out in the fields, songs of freedom and fortitude that would encourage them to live one more day despite the present circumstances. And it was through the repetition of the words, the verses, the songs, that they committed God’s Word to memory, sent messages to each other about escape routes, and found the will to live.

In Exodus, when the Israelites were escaping years of slavery by the hands of the Egyptians, they found themselves up against the Red Sea with Pharaoh and his army hot on their heels. With seemingly no way out, the Israelites cried out to God in fear and Moses said to them, “The Lord will fight for you; you need only to be still (Exodus 14:14).” They were completely surrounded by impossible circumstances, and they were told to just be still and let God fight for them.

That’s the message God’s been teaching me in my music therapy. There’s a song called, “Surrounded (Fight my Battles),” and it repeats the same words over and over…through that, I have learned that in the times when the circumstances around me see insurmountable and I am completely incapable, the Lord will fight for me—I need only to be still. My fight is the battle to be still, to stop trying to fix things, save myself, spin my wheels, and find a way out. My fight is the battle to be still and trust that the Lord will indeed fight for me.

There is therapy in the repetition in music.

Confidence in Freedom

There is a child who wakes up in the morning, bleary-eyed from a good night’s rest. He sits up in bed and scratches his forearm where the sleeve of his too small pajama shirt left a slight indentation on his skin. He pops out of bed knowing that he’s usually the first of his siblings to wake up, and if he’s fast enough, he’ll get first pick of the cereal options. After a quick pit stop in the bathroom he, sprints down the hallway and then down the stairs. The TV is muted, flashing images of recent news reports. Mom sits at the table and greets him with the usual, “Good morning bud,” as he reaches for the chocolaty goodness he’s been thinking about all morning…all seven minutes of it.

“Hey babe…” he stops, knowing from her tone that all was not right in his little world. “Yes, mom?” he squeaked.

“So I’m looking at your planner here, and according to a note left by your teacher, you seem to have missed turning in a homework assignment.”


“Now remember when you were playing video games with your brother and I asked you last night if there was any homework you needed to do…you told me there wasn’t.”

“Ok, but mom listen,” he said as he finally turned his attention from the box of cereal that now called to him.

“No, no. It’s time for you to listen. As a matter of fact, come sit down. I’ve fixed you some buttered toast for breakfast.”

“I hate toast!”

“I know…but you know what I hate? I hate when my children lie to me and fail to do the things they are supposed to do, so you can come have a seat next to me and eat while we discuss the consequences your father and I have arranged for you…”

His shoulders drooped and he slumped toward his mother and sat heavily in the seat next to her. His stomach rumbled loudly as he picked up the toast that wouldn’t taste nearly as good as the bowl of chocolate he’d been dreaming of. His mom raised her eyebrows at the sound of his hunger rolling around his belly. “Traitor,” he thought to himself as he sighed and took a bite.

Another child, wakes up in the morning. Stiff from the cold that seems to live in his bones. He hoped that the others that usually congregated in the vicinity would start a fire that evening. His stomach rumbled within him, as it had done last night. He eyed the satchel that lay in the corner of the alleyway across from him. He knew the woman who owned the satchel probably had something edible in there.

He’d left home a few years ago. Escaping the overbearing and judgmental environment of his family home. Here, only God was his judge and he lived according to his own compass. He’d picked a couple pockets yesterday and gotten enough to have some McDonalds. But if he could find something in that satchel, he wouldn’t have to work as hard today…

In Romans 8:20-21 we read: For the creation was subjected to frustration, not by its own choice, but by the will of the one who subjected it, in hope 21 that[h] the creation itself will be liberated from its bondage to decay and brought into the freedom and glory of the children of God.

Many people view choosing to follow Jesus as subscribing to a long list of rules and regulations, or signing up to be judged as not good enough for all eternity. In truth, following Christ is subscribing to following two rules: Loving your neighbor as yourself and Loving God with all your heart mind and strength. It’s signing up to be liberated from judgement for your actions and instead being judged based on the actions of Christ who died for all mankind. It’s signing up to live in the freedom and glory of the children of God.

When you think of children who grow up in the confines of a loving family that guides, directs and corrects a child in order to give a child the best possible version of life…versus a child who grows up in an environment based on changing whims of society…which child lives in true freedom? Boundaries and rules are not put in place to enslave us, but to free us from the consequences of living outside of them. May we not see the boundaries our Father has given us as prison bars, but a doorway to living a life free of the baggage of consequences. May we rest in the confidence that we are children in the confines of a loving family that guides, directs, and corrects us because of the great love our Father has for us.

Well Guarded

The act of loving someone is, in essence, giving them access to the most easily wounded and slowest healing parts of you.

The scariest part is knowing someone can hurt you, but hoping that they choose not to. Ultimately, you’ve no control over their actions.

Guarding your heart from people is nearly impossible and requires…being less…so as not to get hurt. Less open, less vulnerable. Less hurt.

But Jesus didn’t lead with less, He led with love. A love so big and so vulnerable it forced Him to face ultimate rejection.

So I think guarding your heart is more about being clearheaded and knowing that hurt is possible, but being resilient instead of closed off.

A heart that can withstand pain and yet continue to love regardless. That is the heart of Christ. So should our hearts be.

A well guarded heart is not a closed heart, but one that is aware of the dangers of loving others, readies itself, and loves big anyway.

Dying Moments

A woman, standing in her home in the dark, dressed in a nightgown. A man enters her home in the dark of night and raises a revolver to her chest. He shoots. The cylinder releases six bullets and each sinks into her torso. Her body hits the floor and warmth leaves her body like the blood that pools beneath her. Each wound is a hole that shatters the image of what was once whole. Now it’s true. She is broken. She isn’t enough; and the darkness that’s creeping and taking over is validation. Right before she is overcome and air leaves her lungs for the last time, she thinks she imagines the smallest light. She hasn’t the strength enough to open her eyes or attempt to move. She hasn’t enough fight left in her; she wasn’t enough to begin with. Hasn’t enough. Isn’t enough. Never enough. But the light grows and it nears her. It joins her, bleeding, on the floor and she can feel its warmth. She feels the light overpowering the darkness. She feels the heat as it enters each wound. Each hole is filled with light, with warmth. She hears the words that answer her frustrated and scrambled thoughts. “I am…I am…I AM. I am ENOUGH.” That’s when she is whole again. That’s when healing comes.



Standing on a platform after fighting and wrestling with the person you loved most. Your partner–now gone. You tried to grab hold, but they maneuvered and slipped through your grasp. You’re left standing, scarred and bruised from the struggle, alone on the platform, and anyone that walks by might see. They might see the why’s. Because on that platform, the light hits you just right and it’s so unforgiving. It highlights the why’s in ways you didn’t think possible…and now everyone can see that you weren’t good enough. It’s visible that what you have to offer is a sad, pathetic, excuse for worthiness…so of course you weren’t chosen. Of course you were left standing there. Breathing heavily, first in fear, now in defiance, your stance moves from one of vulnerability and offense, to an angry and bitter defense. “Yes, I’m broken! Yes, I’m imperfect, what, you’re not?!” The words are a rage filled cry that come from a depth you’d never acknowledged you had. As your thoughts quiet, and the adrenaline dissipates, you realize your ragged breaths are not the only ones present. There is a slow and steady breathing beside you. How long it’s been there, you have no idea. Deep and calm, just hearing it brings your pulse rate to a slower rhythm…and reason comes to you. He too, has visible scars, though healed over time. The more you look at His scars, the less yours ache. His stance is neither offensive nor defensive, just confident. You feel the desire to adjust your own. Your breathing slows to match His pace. His confidence becomes your own. His presence and the look on His face imply that whatever happens next, you are not alone on the platform.

Naked Lady, Atlanta Airport

At the Atlanta airport yesterday I was sitting at a burger joint finishing up my meal when I heard a commotion and curiously looked up from my plate. To my surprise, there was a completely stark naked woman strolling down Delta’s B Concourse. She was screaming as she walked. Walked, not ran.

Call it instinct, but I was ready to hit the floor because in this day and age you never know what a commotion in an airport might mean for your safety. I expected to hear a thud or a thump signifying that airport security had intervened and were in the process of detaining her. I heard nothing but her continuous rant as she strolled on past our point of visibility.

Somewhere in graduate school I learned that laughter is one of people’s go-to responses when they are uncomfortable. It’s why you see television captions read, “nervous chuckle” when there’s a depiction of someone in an uncomfortable situation. So, it’s no surprise that as the scene transpired, my lunch bunch all turned to each other wide-eyed and open mouthed…and laughed.

We laughed at the incredulity of the situation. We laughed at the lack of urgency with which airport personnel seemed to be escorting this woman.

As we gathered our things and exited the restaurant, we cringed as we watched people’s reactions throughout the concourse. It became clear to us that this woman was allowed to walk a pretty far distance judging by the faces of people around us, snippets of conversation, and people huddling around phones in little pockets as we walked.

By the time we were seated at our gate, we laughed in disbelief that apparently, this woman walked the entire concourse. My main question was, “How in the world did they allow her to get so far???”

I attended Orange Conference 2017 (#OC17) this week with a team from my church; we were on our way home when this little incident took place. One of the main things I think we as people wonder in situations like this is, “Why?”

The way we figure out why in our society today is the internet. We soon discovered that the proper terminology to search online was, “Naked Lady Atlanta Airport.”

Sure enough, people had begun posting what they witnessed.

The video that came up showed this woman as she was disrobing in the middle of the walkway, her clothes and purse strewn around her. The video had about 3 seconds of R rated material before you saw a woman and man rush to bend down and pick up articles of clothing and attempt to hand them back to her. They both stood shoulder to shoulder, cocked their heads to the side and seemed to try and engage the woman as she continued to rant.

The conference theme this year was, “For Our Neighbors,” a plea for ministry leaders to approach not just ministry within the church being neighbor-minded, but to approach the rest of their lives with that mindset as well.

When the video ended, I realized that of course, I had not gained any more information about, “Why” this woman was causing a scene. I did however get a real life picture of what brokenness looks like. Then I got a real life picture of what being, for your neighbor truly meant. For that woman and that man it meant engaging in someone else’s mess and simply seeing if there is anything that can be done. It meant standing shoulder to shoulder in that endeavor, because you can’t do ministry alone. Standing shoulder to shoulder because when you do that, you also help shield that person’s mess from exploitation.

When that woman (prayerfully) regains her faculties, she’s going to be grateful for the people that stood shoulder to shoulder and blocked her mess from being broadcast, at least from that one camera phone.

As a student ministry leader I was convicted by two strangers in an airport who leaned in to a woman’s very public struggle. There was probably not a lot they could offer to the situation, but they offered what they could and in that 30 second video clip, it was enough.

Being neighbor-minded isn’t glamorous but it’s what Jesus called us to do. I’ll be the first to admit I’ve got work to do in that area.


A cold panic washed over her as she turned into the complex. She’d had such a great day leading up to this moment. She took her new car for its first drive along the beach. Windows down, radio blaring. It was surreal, a girl like her, enjoying a Saturday afternoon rather than wondering aimlessly around town, sitting in restaurant booth after booth until closing time, then finding a safe place to catch some sleep before the cycle began again in the morning.

When driving down the road, she almost couldn’t believe how different her life was now. The Taylors had graciously taken her in and welcomed her into their family. She was still struggling to get along with the two Taylor siblings, but at times she could tell they were trying.

Last month they had moved into a new house. She didn’t even know they made houses that big, but now she had her own bedroom and shared a bathroom with Lynn. Robbie had his own, but that was probably for the best. 

Two weeks ago, the Taylors had come home with a new sedan. As they all gathered around to, “ooh and ah,” at the new car smell. Mr. Taylor caught her eye overhead, winked, tossed her the keys and said, “Wanna take old Gracie for a spin?”

He always named their cars.

“Me?!” She’d answered incredulously. 

“Happy Birthday!!!” Was Mrs. Taylor’s giddy interjection.

Robbie clapped her on the back in affirmation while Lynn smiled shyly from her mother’s side. 

“Give Old Gracie a whirl and let us know how she rides!”

In a daze, she sat behind the wheel and slowly backed out of the long driveway and waved as she waited for the private gate to open.

It was there that she now sat. The daze of this morning now gone. In the excitement, she’d left her phone in the house. Ever since the move she had always driven with one of the Taylors who had a gate opener. Now, completely on the outside with no way to get in. Her stomach twisted into knots as she stared at the wrought iron gate with the Taylors happily inside of it. Fear and anxiety settled in like an unwelcome companion. She couldn’t bring herself to call the house from the gate intercom. She wondered if it were all just a mean trick to play on the poor little orphan girl. She pictured them laughing at her expense, tucked away in comfort. Comfort she dared to think she could actually have. As she looked at the gate, for the first time, she noticed a design in the iron. It gave her a semblance of hope. It was a long shot, but she certainly had nothing to lose.

She rolled down the window and entered the numbers 32484 into the keypad. She heard a squeak and then felt a rush of relief as the gate slowly opened. She floored it through the entryway and watched as the gate closed behind her in the rear-view mirror. As the iron clanked back together she saw the design take shape as it reformed the scripted word, Faith, once more.

Ephesians 2:8New International Version (NIV)

8 For it is by grace you have been saved, through faith—and this is not from yourselves, it is the gift of God—

When I was doing my devos last week I came across this verse. It’s one of my favorites, which is weird, because I struggle to understand it. I don’t usually like or enjoy things that don’t make sense to me. Like math. But it was almost like BECAUSE I struggled to understand it, was one of the reasons I liked it so much.

Then, all of a sudden, it finally made sense to me… For it is by grace…by as in the vehicle through which we travel…plane, train, or automobile, it is by grace that we travel…THROUGH faith, the gateway…that leads to our salvation.

Grace is the vehicle, faith is the gateway. It reminds me to be grateful for His grace and my salvation…and to extend grace to others, if that’s what I’m riding in!

Twirl on Them Haters

In John chapter 12, Mary was being criticized for her actions.

Mary had her own mind and was doing her thing. She had an expensive box of perfume; it was hers, no one else’s, and she decided to offer it to honor Jesus. Her actions weren’t harming anyone, but some people hate to see a woman make her own decisions and do what she deems right. 

In John 12:7, Jesus’ response to her critics was, “Leave her alone.”
When critics come at you for doing something they don’t value, for doing something that means something to you, remember Jesus’ words. He defended Mary, He knew the true value of what she was doing. It wasn’t in the expense, it was in her willingness to give. 

When the critics thought she was crazy or stupid for giving away wealth, Jesus knew her heart. Her intelligence and her decision making skills were never in question to Him. Her worth and her value remained in tact in His eyes. 

“Leave her alone.”

When the voices of critics grow loud and distract you from your purpose, from giving that which you know is valuable and worth it…

“Leave her alone.”

When your inner monologue, your stream of consciousness, grows dark and heavy as you forget your value your worth…when the negative self-talk is screaming you down from the heights you are meant to soar…

“Leave her alone.”

Jesus explained to Mary’s critics that her actions were an intentional part of both of their lives. Do what God intends you to do, the haters have no power there.  

One Year Later

I still remember what I was wearing. The same jeans I always wear when I want to accessorize with black. Threw on a tank top and a jacket because the Florida weather was just cool enough to get away with it. I had just gotten a new pair of Chuck’s on sale at the outlet mall over the weekend and I still had a little Christmas money left over. My plan was to shell out some cash and finally get my diplomas framed. The one from 2010 sat lopsided in a cheap Wal-Mart frame on the floor of my childhood bedroom. I saw it every time I went home to visit and shook my head at the fact that I hadn’t gotten it framed yet. The diploma from 2012 was still in the cylindrical cardboard container it arrived in.

I drove past the framing store every time I got Chick-fil-A, so on that first day back to work after Christmas vacation, I had resolved to get it done. I remember feeling so relaxed as I sauntered into the store, it was a beautiful day with a nice breeze. I remember walking around the entire store before getting up the nerve to talk to a staffer because I’m an introvert and I’d rather walk around the store until I figure things out myself before having to ask for help.

My phone was in my right back pocket and I found it odd that it would be buzzing so relentlessly as I was talking to the very helpful sales associate. After all, it was the Monday after vacation, everyone was back to running their routes, all was well. Well, it should have been.

When I stepped out of the store and checked my phone, the initial barrage of texts had little, yet terrifying information. What did he mean mommy fell, was it from her back? Did her foot go numb again? Pray, yes, ok that’s not a good sign. Ambulance? Ok, did she break something???

When under stress, my body defaults to logic. Emotions are a bit too much for me to handle so I put them in a nice little compartment for later. At this point, logic said, “Don’t call the person reporting the emergency, call the person who needs to know about the emergency most. Daddy. It’s afternoon, he’s probably at the gym. God, please don’t let him still be at the gym away from his phone… Oh good, he answered, he sounds out of breath, he must be walking down that long Motorola hallway to the car. God please let him drive safely. Do I need to come home? Call me from the hospital so I know if I need to come home.

I remember getting back in my car and driving towards the Chick-fil-A. “You need to eat, if you end up driving home, who knows when the next meal will be, eat now while you wait so you can function properly when you need to.”

I was too stressed to go back to the office so I drove past the church and straight to my apartment. I remember sitting on the couch, praying. I tried to eat what I could until my dad called back. “Your mom is very sick.”

I remember arguing with him about me driving down, I live 1.5 hours from home. He didn’t want me to get in an accident on the drive down. I was coming regardless, so I just instructed him not to call me until I got to the hospital. I picked up my keys and my purse. I remember pausing in the hallway, trying to think if I should bring a change of clothes. No time for that. I think I grabbed a charger and then I left in my jacket, tank top, jeans and Chuck’s.

I think about that day every time I wear that jacket. I think I’ve worn the Chuck’s maybe once since then. They’re pretty sweet with zippers on the sides. I don’t think I ever got to show them to her. I used to love buying new things and showing them to mom, she always had such an appreciation for it. She appreciated things, but she didn’t let them rule her.

She didn’t have any designer clothes. Any designer purses she had were gifts, most from me. One time someone gave her a really nice leather purse and she didn’t even know it was name brand. She made a home for us out of every day, run of the mill things, nothing fancy, even though she had an appreciation for the finer things in life.

A few days after Christmas that year, we were in the family room watching the latest version of Cinderella. We all know the story. After the death of her mother, Cinderella’s dad married a prideful, selfish, and greedy woman who had two children of her own. They moved into Cinderella’s home and had no sensitivity towards the fact that the place they lived used to be a home filled with a specific brand of love. As tragedy would have it, Cinderella’s father also passed away and she was left to fend for herself in her childhood home with the three intruders. The greedy step mother had acquired so much debt that they needed to sell household items for money.

There was one conversation where Cinderella expressed that her house was all she had left of her parents and that she needed to keep it at all costs.

It was then that my mother walked into the living room and said, “Pookie, sell the house, split the money with your brothers. Don’t love the house.” I laughed. That was my mother, instructing her babies to never be so attached to things that you don’t move forward with your life.

Never in my wildest nightmares would I have thought that one year and nearly one week after that conversation with my mother, would I no longer have a key to my childhood home. The place where my diploma sat for six years, untouched. The place where I thought I could always come back to and just be me, no matter what.

But mommy’s lesson still stands. It is just a house. The special brand of love that once flowed through it, though altered, can survive outside of those four walls. It must. One year later, that love is struggling, but I am praying that it will eventually thrive once more.




To Redefine

We have all heard the saying, “Everyone grieves differently.”  It’s the saying that gives people permission to feel and act on feelings as part of a process that may take days, months, or even years.  Losing mommy at the beginning of 2016 plunged my family into the grief process.  However, it’s now nearly 11 months later and truthfully, my grieving process has only just begun.


I am a textbook firstborn child.  I was an honors student my entire life, got a full ride to college–dean’s list, cum laude, then a graduate degree in ministry. I had to get the good grades, I had to meet expectations, I had to fit the mold as it were.  I did it dutifully, with no regrets.  After all, the mold was fine, there was nothing wrong with the mold. The mold was crafted by loving parents, supported by a community made up of friends and family…the mold worked.  Until it didn’t anymore.


Right now, I’m tired of the mold.  It has lost some of its meaning with the absence of mommy.  It doesn’t make sense trying to run the same routes when your personal cheerleaders are not there anymore.  When the one person who steadily cheered you on regardless of any situation is no longer in the stands, running is no longer fun.


There’s nothing wrong with the routes to be run.  The other people cheering from the stands don’t mean any less, but that integral piece meant so much, that running the race without her just doesn’t make sense right now.


That’s not to say that the race is over. Surely not.  There are goals to be met, people to see along the way.  But what it does mean, is that right now is the perfect time to stop running and rest.


Sometimes people don’t understand rest.  They think rest isn’t good for you because it doesn’t look the way they think it should.


My rest was always coming home to my family, kicking off whatever pair of shoes I was wearing and leaving them under the coffee table until I finally remembered where they were.  My rest was curling up in a corner on the couch and deciding what movie to watch with my dad while he ate pistachios in his chair. My rest was celebrating that mommy made it to Christmas vacation without strangling any of her students.  It was decorating the Christmas Tree with 29 year old ornaments and helping mommy string lights on her keyboard and daddy’s fish tank. It was dancing to Christmas music with my brothers in the living room because they never judged my dance moves.  It was kissing my mother goodnight on Christmas Eve and saying I’d be back after spending time with good friends.  It was waking up on Christmas morning and reading Luke chapter two around the Christmas tree and then going back to sleep! It was asking, “what time are we going to Grandma’s house?” and then all of us not being ready when we said we would be, except for daddy. He was always ready.  It was going to Grandma’s house and seeing whatever family/friends happened to be there that year…and then eventually the singing would start. It was mommy singing Jesus What a Wonderful Child while my aunts and uncles sang back up.  That was my rest, and I will never ever have that kind of rest ever again.


So, to me, it makes complete sense not to pretend that this Christmas is like any other. I have no desire to run the routes that I’m used to running because I know that my rest, the way that I am used to getting it, is not coming.


I have incredible friends and family that open their hearts and their homes to me and I’m so thankful.  But honestly, I don’t want it. I want my mommy and no one can give me that.  Anything other than that would be a sad comparison.


I don’t want to make arrangements so that I can spend Christmas Eve with friends and family because I won’t get to kiss my mother’s cheek and say, “see you later.”  I don’t want to laugh and be merry because when it’s over, I won’t be able to sit down on the couch and leave my shoes under the coffee table until I remember where I left them last. Mommy won’t be singing in grandma’s living room this year. Therefore, I don’t want to participate.


It’s not that I want to be sad and depressed and cry alone.  No, I just need to recover and redefine what my rest looks like.  No one can do that but me.  People can say that I need to be surrounded by others so that I feel loved and supported, people can say that I need to try to be as normal as possible, but that’s not true. I know myself, and I know that I need rest and I won’t get it at home.  At any of my homes.  I’ll be standing in someone’s kitchen knowing that everything is different and my world is not right. I’ll be sleeping in someone’s spare bedroom and it’ll be a reminder that I no longer have a key to my house and can no longer wake up in the bedroom that sometimes (even nearly three years later) I still dream about waking up in.


So I’m leaving.  Just for a couple of days. I’m going to somewhere I’ve never been (because I couldn’t afford a ticket to London) so that I can walk around and not feel responsible for or to anyone. No one will feel obligated to cheer me up or distract me, including myself. I can be as happy or sad as I want to be. I can sleep or shop or take in some sights.  The one thing I will do though, is redefine my rest.  When your rest is defined by one thing for nearly three decades, it will take some time to figure out what it will look like from here on out.  So, the journey begins.

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