Have you ever been down and gotten lucky enough for someone to recognize that you needed a lift?
Recently, Hubby discovered a calf that was stuck in a hole. He rescued the poor guy from a situation where the calf couldn’t see a way out.
The crazy thing about Hubby finding this calf was that if he hadn’t paid attention to the entire herd, he would not have noticed the mama cow off by herself. Hubby knew she had a calf and it was odd for her to be alone.
When he sought out the cow, he discovered the hole AND the problem.
Walking through the field the fallen calf could not be seen. It was not until Hubby investigated the lonely mama’s situation that he recognized the cause of her duress hidden by the tall grass around the hole.
(The orange arrow marks the calf’s location.)
Because he took the time to see what was wrong, Hubby was able to lift the calf from the hole and reunite the mama with her baby. He found a way to relieve their stress and help resolve their problem.
How are you at recognizing there is a hole in someone’s day?
The topic of this post popped up frequently in some pretty impactful places for me in the last few weeks. It all started when I shared my feelings in the post, “I am Not Okay – Stuck on Repeat.” Seeking out help from nutritionist and trainer, Denise Coots, spoke volumes about how lost I was feeling. I had allowed myself to get to the point where I lost touch with my self-value and was exhausted by the disconnect. I can honestly say that meeting with Denise and the kind support of others who read my post has bolstered me significantly and life has been much easier to keep up with ever since.
My friend Sheila told me that she really appreciated my post and related because she sees a therapist to help make sense of her emotions sometimes. Sheila and I agreed that the negative stigma of seeing a counselor is so unfair. She beautifully stated that sometimes we need someone separate from our everyday lives to help us release everything we are holding in. We need a “trained release recipient.” I told her I LOVED that idea and needed to share it!
The following evening, I had dinner with my friend Tricia, who happens to be a licensed therapist. She and I always have a terrific time talking about our families, but after every visit, we agree that our times together are good for our souls because we discuss whatever we are struggling with emotionally and professionally. I mentioned to Tricia the stereotypes that people have about seeing a professional counselor and the fact that many believe friends and family are enough. She told me that very stigma is a constant challenge in her career and stands in the way of her attempts to help others find the healing that they need. And sometimes the family or friends that people open up to are like Lucy, from The Peanuts cartoons. They are willing to listen for a price or their prescription for getting better is to get over it. Clearly, those are not “trained release recipients.”
Two days later, I said hello to a fellow parent watching his child at gymnastics. I could tell he was new and nervous. He wasn’t sure where to sit and kept a vigilant eye on his daughter. I asked how his day was going. He told me, in an agitated voice, that all the people watching those little girls made him nervous, but he had promised his daughter he would let her try gymnastics on the day that he had custody. It was a statement that shared A LOT of information about his situation.
He had several tattoos on his arms, including two from the Army. I thanked him for his service to our country. He turned to me and told me I was really smart. I wasn’t sure how my gratitude made me intelligent, but I thanked him for the compliment. He told me that he knew I was smart because I identified the one thing that meant something to him besides his daughter.
He immediately told me he moved to Missouri to be near his daughter because her mother was from here. Continuing, he told me that he was getting medical and psychological treatment at the local V.A. Hospital. Without prompting, he shared that he never thought a therapist could help him. He always thought going to a psychiatrist made him seem crazy, but the doctors there were helping him feel like he could be normal and maybe find love again someday. Wow! That was A LOT of unsolicited information. Clearly, this dad was seeking connections with others, and the inspiration about “trained release recipients” continued to come my way.
If you have found yourself in a situation where you feel completely lost or need a voice of reason that hasn’t already spoken to you, I encourage you to find a “trained release recipient” who will productively listen to your problems and guide you to solutions. There is nothing wrong with asking for help from a certified therapist, counselor, or nutritionist. Seek out someone who has the skills and training to help establish a healthier, happier existence. Positive purpose is often found when you connect with someone who has the expertise to motivate your intent and energy in productive ways. Let go of the stigma of just-get-over-it and get yourself a “trained release recipient.”
By: Melanie A. Peters
P.S. Charlie Brown was on to something when he stepped into Lucy’s office; he was just a little misguided. He should sue for false advertising.
Last summer as my friend Jackie was recovering from a very serious health scare, I pleaded with her to tell me how I could help. She said, “I don’t know what to tell you. I’m not a parrot and I can’t just say what you want to hear.” I told her I didn’t want her to be a parrot, I wanted her to be honest with me about what we needed to do to get her back on track. I asked her to give me two or three things I could do to assist in her recovery. And that’s where we began.
I think we’ve all been in situations where we didn’t know where to start or what to say. Sometimes finding a starting point seems harder than reaching the finish line. All too often, we play the role of the parrot telling others what we believe they want to hear because it’s easier than asking for what we really need.
When I had wrist and elbow surgery last December, I had friends and family ask how they could help. I didn’t want to be a burden, especially during such a busy holiday season, so I just told them to pray for me. (Prayer is always a GREAT idea.) However, once my arm was in that cast and I was feeling the pain of recovery, it was a whole lot easier to ask for what I needed. We shouldn’t have to feel pain in asking for help.
What the heck is a “sabbatical”? This was the question my kids asked as I planned a mini-vacation for myself. I explained to them that a “sabbatical” was my time to recharge after surviving the spring semester. According to Merriam-Webster’s online dictionary, a sabbatical is a break or change from a normal routine (as of employment).
What does “sabbatical” mean to you?
After subbing the last 13 weeks of the school year for junior high language arts and fulfilling my duties for our farm, I needed a break from the “normal” routine. I needed a complete reset, so booking a cabin for a couple of nights made perfect sense. My packing consisted only of comfortable clothes, food, books, wine, and melatonin. I was bound and determined to relax on my “sabbatical.”
The hardest part about taking the sabbatical was my guilt. I felt terribly guilty about leaving hubby and the kiddos and neglecting my responsibilities at our home and farm. I felt guilty about missing baseball games and gymnastics practices. I felt guilty about leaving my dog. I felt guilty about the fact that I had no purpose other than to rest. I was crazy.
Taking those 72 hours to relax, recharge, and rediscover my motivation was the healthiest thing I could have done. I now believe that is what a sabbatical should do.
Listening to the radio is often frustrating because I feel like the same songs are played over and over. Like most people, my drive times are pretty consistent. Two days a week I drive my son to his 6:00 p.m. practice. When we get in the car, we jokingly place bets on what songs we will hear first because they are always the same.
In the past few weeks, there has been one song in particular that I haven’t minded being on repeat. It is “I Am Not Okay” by Jelly Roll. (If you haven’t heard it, please give it a listen, but be sure to listen all the way through.)
While singing along with the gravel, grit, and pain in Jelly Roll’s voice, I started to feel something loosening in my heart last week. I looked at my 11-year-old and sang, “I am not okay. I’m barely getting by. I’m losing track of days and losing sleep at night… I know I can’t be the only one who’s holding on for dear life.” My sweet boy laughed at me and said, “Mom, you are okay.” As I sang the rest of the lyrics to him via my in-car concert, I felt like I couldn’t stop until the last verse. When I got to the last verse, I couldn’t go on. My heart hurt too much to sing.
As we pulled into practice, I told my son to go on in. I would be in shortly.
Intentergy 