Where can I go from your spirit?
Or where can I flee from your presence?
If I ascend to heaven, you are there;
if I make my bed in Sheol, you are there.
If I take the wings of the morning
and settle at the farthest limits of the sea,
even there your hand shall lead me,
and your right hand shall hold me fast.
If I say, “Surely the darkness shall cover me,
and night wraps itself around me,”
even the darkness is not dark to you;
the night is as bright as the day,
for darkness is as light to you.
— Psalm 139:7–12

God saw all that he had made, and it was very good.
— Genesis 1:31

“You made this bed, you have to sleep in it.”
— (Parents everywhere)

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I had one of those days. You know the kind—and I bet you’ve had them too. One of those days where it feels like there’s a giant ‘L’ stamped on your forehead, silently broadcasting Loser to the world.

It started with the little incident that got everyone at Bethel moving after church a couple of weeks ago. Between the heat, standing for an hour, and my middle-aged, disabled body, I ended up in a not-so-graceful slump into the chair beside the baptismal font. (Don’t worry—I really am fine. My Nurse Practitioner had me checked out from tip to toe.)

Then came the insurance saga—helping my dad deal with a vehicle he hasn’t driven in about ten years. That’s meant piles of paperwork, revised again and again, which somehow only show their errors after I sign them. Each revision triggers a flurry of terse emails—on both sides, to be fair. My patience has left the building.

Then there was the “command performance” in another denomination where I was politely (and not so politely) dissed for being both in ministry and a woman. (That story probably deserves its own blog.)

Then I drove a long way to visit someone… who was sound asleep.

And as I walked out of that hospital room, I caught a glimpse of myself in the mirror—lunch spilled down my shirt. And when did I start looking this old?

When I got home, I flopped down and whined to the dog and the kitten. They listened just long enough to get fed. Supper was, understandably, more compelling than my tale of woe.

In that moment—dog and kitten heads down in their bowls, the house looking suddenly shabby and chaotic, me staring at lunch stains—I felt like I was failing at everything. Church. Home. Pastoral care. Even basic self-management. It all felt like a race I was losing.

Now, I know: sober second thought always paints a different picture. I do have so many meaningful, life-giving things in my world. But when all the “issues” seem to collide at once and the pressure mounts, those stressful moments start to dominate our inner narrative.

There’s solid research behind that, actually—studies showing we’re more likely to recall stressful or negative experiences than the good and supportive ones. It’s like our brains are hard-wired to lean negative.

And turning that mindset around? It’s hard work. But it’s also our work.

As much as I wish God would magically make me feel perpetually happy, capable, and affirmed, that’s not how God operates.

Instead, God shows up in those messy, dark, stained-shirt moments and says:
“Oh—that’s not what I see. I’m right here beside you.”
Even the darkness is not dark to you;
the night is as bright as the day,
for darkness is as light to you.

God sees us—not just how we feel, and not just what we do. God sees the whole of us. And, honestly? God is still pretty delighted with the creation.

So, friends—what if we tried, together, to make a different kind of bed to lie in? One woven with God’s vision of us?

Let’s make a bed with eyes that see us whole and complete, even when we feel like a disaster.
Eyes that don’t prize youth, beauty, or health, but see the divine imprint in every wrinkle and scar.
Eyes that don’t count achievements, but still call us wonderful.
Eyes that looked at creation—at you—and said:

It is good.

Blessings today.
And remember—you are Loved.

~Rev. Lynne