Ever have one of those maddening weeks where you dread each day what may be coming up next?

When you see the storm approaching, and there's nothing you can do about it?

When you tense to hear that a spouse’s job—through no fault of his own—is taking a bad direction, and you relive the times (yes, more than once) when your family was jobless and moneyless and even homeless, and you develop an instant headache fearing you may be going down that terrible, torturous road again?

That you remember losing your home, then moving 2,000 miles away. Then moving again. And again. And again. And again. And again. And now, just as you feel secure and solid, you wonder if the world isn’t about to cave in yet again? and closer?

When you look at the budget and your tiny bit of savings and realize it’s all going away far faster than it should? That just last year you thought, “For once in 23 years it’s all working out!” Then you realize that here in year 24, it’s all going downhill again? That bills are suddenly bigger, gas is suddenly more expensive, and even though you’ve always been frugal, Greece’s most drastic austerity plan may become your family’s austerity plan?

That you look at the future and see huge expenses looming and there’s no way in sight to meet them? That dread that hangs over your head, as if shoving you into the hard ground?

Yeah, one of those weeks.

Then ever had one of those days when you hit upon an idea that just might let you earn a few more dollars while still staying at home to take care of your family? And find two places immediately that you can apply to? And then have someone contact you that very day, someone you knew years ago, asking if you want to do a little bit of freelance work on the side again?

Then pick up your van from the repair shop, and the mechanic tells you there’s no charge because even though he spent time working on it, checking things, and tweaking here and there, it really wasn’t worth charging you for it? And now you can afford the tires for the van?

And then, over the peaks of the mountains where you were sure you saw a storm approaching, you begin to see a little bit of sunlight break through?

We call those “tender mercies.” Signs that we haven’t been forgotten. We may be allowed to suffer, but our past sufferings haven’t been forgotten.

There still may be a storm coming, with cold and rain and snow and immense fear and worry, but maybe—just maybe—this time the sun will come out just a little bit faster than last time. 

(All of these photos were taken by me at various times, looking out my bedroom window as I type, and being absolutely amazed at the cloud shows outside. Thanks, Dad, for making me always notice the clouds.)

On fevers, Dwight Shrute, and pleas for deliverance . . .

I knew I was very ill, not mad, when Dwight Shrute showed up in my nightmare. It was just after midnight, and there he was, stating the phrase he had earlier on that night’s episode: “Look at this face—this is the ghostly apparition you see right before you die!”

Yep. I'm ready to die.

My kids are fans of “The Office.” 

I am not. 

Now, I’m not . . . even more so.

I shivered in bed, even though I had three blankets. Every joint ached. I had a high fever, I know. But I couldn’t push Dwight away from me. For at least an hour I shook in bed, wishing I was magical enough to send ibuprofen through the air to my bedside. 

It took me that long to realize I had something better than magic—prayer, and I hadn’t even used it yet. You would think one’s first impulse when seeing Dwight Shrute next to the bed would be to cry out, “Dear Lord, save me!” But oddly, it wasn’t. 

(Is it because Dwight looks like my other nightmare, Newt Gingrich?)

But after a weary hour, it was. My prayer was simple: help me push away Dwight so I can get to the bathroom! About ten minutes later, I felt stronger and braver, and Dwight had stepped away from my bedside to let me pass.

An hour after I downed my pills, the man with boxy glasses and menacing stare, along with the orange shirt, had faded away. Instead I dreamed of America’s Funny Home Videos, each one starring my family members doing something potentially dangerous, but escaping just before the gratuitous groin injury. Instead of the usual manic music in the background, there was a softer melody that slowly overwhelmed the dream until it woke me up.

I listened to it again for another minute until I recognized what it was: “Jesus Savior, Pilot Me.”

Prayer answered.

I grinned. Not only did He know my pains, understand my fear, and know how to succor me in my illness, He was also powerful enough to destroy Dwight Shrute. 

Now that’s a God worth worshiping!