He is up before the crack of dawn, preparing for the day of vast unknowns.

He may gently stabilize your grandma who has fallen down the stairs. If she’s been incontinent and vomited, he will carefully clean her up…all the while speaking to her as if she was his own respected grandma. He’ll assure that she’s as comfortable as possible, and then ask questions about her life, distracting her from her condition. When she worries, he comforts her with a promise of the best possible care.

She will get the best quality care, regardless if she’s homeless or a celebrity.

He may return to the station to start charts, and before his foot leaves the ambulance, be called to treat a dialysis patient who isn’t responsive. He treats the patient quickly and skillfully, while recognizing the loved ones panic and reassuring them simultaneously.

The patient—and loved ones alike— will receive the best quality care.

He is charting and hungry, but the next call sounds. An attempted suicide, victim is unstable and the unbearable sounds of a wounded soul escape her lips. He holds her hand and speaks gently, firmly, “Look at me. You’re going to be ok.” She grips his hand and doesn’t let go until she’s carried from the ambulance.

The patient is cared for as if she was a sister and his heart is broken with her.

Lunch is half-eaten at 3:00 pm. Breakfast was at 6:00 am.

A bullet wound. An accident or attempted murder…unknown. Careful, concise assessment and skilled care happens within seconds and while the police scene unravels.

He experiences the trauma, and yet will need to separate the needs with his emotions…until later.

The clock shows his 12hr (or 24hr or 36hr) shift is coming to an end. Late call. Car accident. He texts me to let me know dinner would not be 7:30….8:00, maybe later. The victim, dead on scene, reminds him of his son. It could be his son.

He must keep going. Famished and nauseous, he starts home and his mind is weary, yet hyper-alert, replaying all the calls of the day. Was there a better alternative care plan? Was there something more he could’ve done? Was there someone to care for the hurting when the ambulance pulled away?

Pulling into the driveway, he remains seated in his truck. Separating two lives—the transition from saving lives to meeting the needs of a family of six—it’s a tough one. Just as important, more important, but the urgency of the first flows into the demands of the next.

I serve another late dinner. He engages and laughs at the funny stories we tell about our day. There’s a sadness in his eyes…a heaviness he must yet grieve. His day is not over because the mind does not easily put down the heartaches of the day. I unpack his lunch and see food, still uneaten.

And yet, he goes on. He does what needs to be done. He gives his heart, wears compassion like a badge on his sleeve, and skillfully pours out all he’s got, with each and every need.

Skillfully caring for one patient, one loved one, one valuable human life at a time.

-A proud wife of an incredible First Responder

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“If you loved me you would stop making me late or (fill in the blank) because you know I hate it. If you cared enough, you would change it.”

“If you really loved me for me, you’d stop trying to guilt trip me and accept me for who I am!”

“If you really love other people more than yourself, you would wear a mask to protect me; I wear one to protect you.”

“If you knew the freedom that’s at stake by following mandate’s from a governor ruling with hypocrisy and inconsistencies, you’d stop being a sheeple!” By the way, shouldn’t that be goat people to be offensive to God’s people? He calls us His sheep all the time!)

I’m so over the whole mask thing; I’m so done with every single thing related to Covid-19. I’m pretty sure we can all agree on that one point. The exposure of some glaring human flaws in me during some tumultuous years in our marriage, I suddenly realized, were being revealed again as I participated in the mask debate. It’s neither the mask mandate that’s to blame any more than you can blame a marriage. But one thing is absolutely certain—marriage and the mask order have exposed something alarming in me.

It’s much scarier than a virus.

It’s more frightening than the people that ignore a Covid treatment suggestion given by the President that might have saved thousands of lives simply because they hate the President.

It’s more frightening than losing even some freedoms…and we all know that’s terrifying.

It’s the widening divide between people claiming to be one body. It’s the splintering offense occurring at a rapid rate of destruction that seems beyond repair. It’s the inability to be unified with our eyes on a common goal, and it’s a disheartening representation of Christ in us to a watching world…a world who is aware we are walking through some of the last days as prophesy continues to be fulfilled. They are wondering if it’s possible to live without fear while giving a supernatural, grace-filled love to others who are not on the same side.

Can we speak truth in love when we are afraid our liberties are being stolen? Will we keep our eyes locked on the mission of the church to share the hope of the gospel, or will we become distracted because we’ve begun to lose sight that those with differing opinions do not need to be proven wrong?

We’ve had those days in marriage too. I read it in the Bible, ya know, how he should treat me and love me. He should love me as Christ loves the church. (Never mind that God never said to give me flowers for no reason and let me know when he’s late for dinner.) I tried my best to convince him how he needs to love me so I feel loved. I had lots of facts to back me up. I had passion. (Did I ever!) I had a strong defense and was positive I was right, and sometimes I stooped really, really low. I attacked his character. My goal was to get him to understand my way and what was quite obvious to me, the right way.

You can give me a thousand reasons—as porous as the cute fabric masks— why you don’t think they protect others. You can share video posts from medical professionals, insanely low effectiveness rates against the transmission of virus, and more data proof than I need that you are right. I’ll probably agree with you on most of it. You can show me how our state’s governor can’t be trusted because of unbelievable hypocrisy. I’ll definitely agree. You can talk to me about how our freedoms are at stake. I’ll nod my head. Then you might say the church is under attack. This is where I’ll sit up straight, and start interrupting you because I’ll be so excited that the focus of our conversation is now narrowed in to our biggest, scariest problem. But, how I think it’s under attack might be different than the way you do if you think it’s merely our freedoms under attack. Freedom to worship, yes. Victorious battles are won when the enemy rises up from a source that no one guarding. Scarier than a tiny virus that can destroy a respiratory system is a deadly immune response where the body literally attacks and destroys itself.

That’s what I think a marriage and the mask mandate have in common. Neither one is the actual problem, but when the focus of unity in a marriage or in the body of Christ is ignored, we will self destruct. Cunning and wise as a servant, it’s obviously a pretty victory. We are looking outward to those that obviously want to destroy two precious images of Christ: marriage and the church.

We’re missing something not so obvious, but possibly more dangerous. We attempt to convince others why they are wrong and we are right. Regardless of whether it’s a way we want to be treated in a marriage or because of our decision to wear—or not to wear—a mask. In both instances of disagreement it starts with a simple inward examination, “Search me and change me, God.”

We are fools if we think name-calling, character assassination, and righteous indignation will somehow result in a disagreeable person saying, “Hey! I want to be on your team! I want what I see in you that I don’t have.” (By the way I tried it and have proof it doesn’t work. 😉) In the same way, spiritual shaming with Bible verses might trigger spiritual abuse. In the past I have heard many stories of preachers doing exactly that.

Please stop that. There is nowhere that reads, “If you love your spouse, you will avoid her pet peeves to show her you care.” Nowhere in scripture does it say, “Love one another by wearing a mask.” What God speaks of is taking the log out of your own eye before poking fun at a speck in another’s eye. He speaks frequently about the absolute necessity of humility and unity in the body sent into a mission to represent Himself. Shaming will not benefit our cause.

How are you handling these discouraging times? I’ve done my share of posting “proof” on social media and arguing for what I believe is the proof of hidden dangers in this time. It became so hard to engage and the constant I am right and you are wrong! argument was seriously killing some joy in my life, so I took a couple practical steps attempting to keep my eyes focused on the real mission: unity in relationships and sharing the hope of the Gospel. I’d love to hear what is working for you!

1. I have one social media platform that I struggle to not get sucked in to debate, hard feelings about posts and articles shared, and a desire to share what I believe is the Truth. A friend suggested Settings > Screen Time > App Limits. I’ve found if I only have a short block of time, I skim over comments, posts, and articles that I really don’t want to engage in.

2. Think before sharing and commenting. Don’t believe for a second that what we share will change the minds and opinions of others. Most of us have researched to the nth degree, and are pretty firm on our beliefs. I’ve started asking myself “Will this help someone?” and “Does this encourage and share hope?” God knows that cuts out 90% of my social media shares! 😅

3. Keep the focus on the mission. Always. Know these current events are also dangerous because they are distractions. Remember… the enemy is cunning and we are not as wise as we think. If he can instigate a battle where we focus on a bomb coming from a distance, we lose sight of guarding our hearts among each other and he’ll have a hey day as we turn on and destroy each other while simultaneously destroying the image of Christ.

4. Unity is more important than being right and relationships are more important than our defense. Let go of your need to be right. It’s pride and it looks just as ugly in print as it does coming from our mouths. Repent every time you feel indignation rise up.

5. Speak truth in love. Never have I heard of condescending speech and a resulting joining of the other side. Show me respect, and I’ll take notice of your opinion because it’s rare and I’ll probably listen to what you have to say. I’m appalled at how those of us who call ourselves believers comment in the same name-calling, character attacking way as unbelievers. We leave out the F-bomb and that’s sometimes the only difference. Truth in love, my friends. Speak it humbly, and your words will command respect.

Now, a little shocker just for fun. I wore a mask to church today. I’m mostly an AM (anti-masker) so did I violate my stance by appearing as a PM (pro-masker)? By the way, I’m purposefully using those labels because we’ve already labeled each other in many harmful ways, and this is one of them. I don’t think I did. I wasn’t wearing it “for you, because you’re wearing it for me” and I wasn’t technically wearing it because of the new mask mandate. I was wearing it simply in and out of the worship service for one reason: the Biblical mandate that commands us to meet together to worship. I don’t know if it’ll make a bit of difference. I don’t care if you wore one or not, and it doesn’t matter to me at all. My perspective is that if following an order into a place of worship helps keep the attack off my church family’s house, I’d wear one in and out each Sunday for a year. I don’t want church doors closed ever again, and if it helps to keep the doors wide open? Mission accomplished.

Step out in humility and speak Truth in love as you share hope today! Keep your eyes on the goal, focus on the mission—whether bare-faced or covered—stay the course! You are loved, my friend.

I jumped into the murky homeschool waters like I do all challenges I’ve decided are noble and/or necessary—with the adventurous spirit of Huck Finn. My binocular scope seems rosy-lensed in retrospect. “If those moms with nine kids, color-coded lesson plans, and daily menus can find it within themselves to personalize curriculum and still find time to milk their little goatherd and make soap in their spare time, I can surely homeschool 3rd, 5th, and 7th graders for two years!” My mantra was adopted from the little praise jingle…Oh yes I will. Yeeess…I will! (Too bad the rest of the words of surrender were not entertained at that time. But, they would come.)

I ambitiously started pinning cool (I guess they say “sick” these days) science projects. Pinterest has the sickest art ideas that got pinned too. And organizational inspiration for my school space. And school began.

Now is probably my cue to let you know this was not mandated keep your kids at home because of the pandemic of Covid-19. Nope. It was 3 years ago that my 39 year-old realtor husband decided to chase a long time dream of his. He would go to college—not back to college—but with the assistance of a tutor, he would go way, way back to multiplying fractions, and learn the essentials he missed in high school. Then, and only then, he would enter a college campus for the first time in his life. I’m all about pursuing your dreams and the necessary sacrifice if your dreams are fundamental to your purpose. And that’s how my children happened to be educated for 8 years at a great private school…to being a project of attempted academic, social, emotional, and spiritual growth by one little large-headed lady. My tune went from the energetic, suitcase-swinging of “I have con.fi.dence in CON.FI.DENCE AAALONE” of a petite ex-nun in The Sound of Music to the sorrowful wail of “I’ve got friends in low places…”

Ok. Not quite. My friends were still great and encouraging…but there was yelling. There were locked bedroom doors and British Drama binges and warnings to stay away as the Spanish dialogue enthralled me. I mean, I don’t know Spanish, but that was all that was left in my genre. Desperate times really and truly do equal desperate measures. It wasn’t whiskey I reverted to, like in the country songs, but it wasn’t good. There was even some all out sobbing behind those doors as I accepted that I. Can. Not. Do. This.

I chose a challenging, but well-respected video curriculum for my 7th grader as I felt she needed the constant verbal and visual instruction. I chose a cyber school for my advanced, self-motivated 5th grader, and a mixed plan for my hands-on 3rd grader that had some issues focusing on any squirrel or leaf outside a window that caught his attention. I felt confident that I could quite easily guide a 3rd grader. The eldest was an artistic, color outside-the-lines personality that despised the droning voices of video teachers, and the tech-challenged mom couldn’t begin to understand the cyber program to save her life or sanity. The 3rd grader was so needy of my attention and trespassed my personal space circle all day long. I was the only income earner (working after school and weekends), helping my husband with homework after his school day, and running the house. I was supporting all six of us financially and emotionally and barely surviving.

Fast forward three years later: The adult graduate is a Paramedic and loves his job with the exception that few seem to realize the jeopardy that is being placed on available medical care during this pandemic. The protocol for exposure to the virus will be an isolated 14-day quarantine. This means one patient without forewarning of symptoms can (and has) placed every EMS worker, nurse, Dr, and surgeon within relative contact that day of exposure is effectively be wiped off the schedule for two full weeks. As a wife of a medical worker, that stresses me out for him! That’s not the crazy news. I am still schooling my kids at home. Our intentions were to have our kids return to the private school after his graduation, but they are still here. Other than the fact that we can’t presently socialize outside our home, cyber classes continue as before.

Girl, this is why I want to talk to you. I have a message for the me of three years ago that might encourage you to not repeat some of the hard-learned mistakes I made when I jumped in those homeschool waters all fool-hardy. There were leeches in there that my rose colored glasses camouflaged. I had no Huck Finn raft, you know?

This is for all the adults with kids at home instead of school. I’m pushing a raft your way. It’ll keep your head above water. You can do this, and you can do it better than I did.

1. Lower thine expectations. Right now stop those Instagram searches of lifestyle posts the cookie-making counters have no crumbs or sprinkles. Sally wiped them all up. Stop watching those silly videos where they show you the “before mess”—a few toys on the floor. Fake vulnerability. Your washcloths are about to get folded with the creases all unaligned and you just need to say, “Thank you, Sweetheart. You are so helpful!” In 24 hrs you get to fold them again.

2. Stop trying to get them ready for an Ivy League school in the few months they’re home. Any academic loss will not permanently disable a student that works hard. If you want to teach them anything other than what their teachers require, teach them perseverance and the characters you will quickly see are lacking. (Oh, yes you will.) Don’t hold off on those issues and make the teachers deal with it later. They’re the fruit of your loins—not those of Mr. Smith and Mrs. Jones.

3. Don’t compare your child with siblings or another child. Your voice (maybe your memes suggesting that they are driving you up a wall and down a cliff) becomes their inner voice. I learned that this destructive habit of criticism I hoped would be constructive, never was. Instead, affirming the good and blessing our kids produces a desire to become what they believe we see. If you need reminders…Post Its. Accept Calgon’s offer to “Take me away” before addressing your child when you’re in over your head. Before addressing your child, always pray for wisdom to see deeper than the surface action or reaction of the behavior.

4. Listen. “Look at my face, Mom!” I hear that and I know my child knows that when our eyes are on a phone, distracted by the news, and deep in thought, he knows I will really hear him if I’m looking at his face. More than anything, the silver lining in all of this chaos and time spent in close quarantined quarters is that we get the gift of getting to really know our kids again. To know is to listen.

5. Above all, through it all, and over all…it’s more than okay to admit you can’t do this without help. Surrendering our deception of self-empowerment and letting our kids see our humility and dependence on a Higher Power is essential to reflecting faith to them. They become gentle creatures of love and support when the harsh and critical demands crumble into heaps of God-dependent requests.

Blessing your every day opportunities to be a purposeful parent—now and always.

Cheryl Peachey

It had been years since I’d been ferried by ferry in fair weather. The fourteen square mile island of Isleboro, Maine sounded just like the type of scarcely populated island we could explore at our leisure without bumping into people. Now, we both like people. But we all know that sometimes we need a respite from all the peoplely-people, and we sought out as many off-the-beaten paths as possible because those were the destinations that excited us most. Isleboro was exactly that.

The residents and visitors of Isleboro ferried to and from Lincolnville Beach. It was amazing that, with creative strategy, thirty-plus vehicles fit onto it, not to mention several hundred people on foot.

On the way over we could get out and enjoy the trip because there were only a few cars. On the way back, we were sandwiched close enough that a claustrophobic person might have panicked.

The picturesque Grindle Point Lighthouse was the first sighting from the sea. I got so excited snapping photos that I didn’t hear the ferryman asking me, oblivious at my boat front perch, to please give him room to prepare to dock. I’m not sure how many times he asked me. I guess I understand a little why my children don’t hear me when they’re excited.

We found a little-used back road and thought that that one might be the one for us. It surely was. Our draw to Maine was the craggy shoreline and everywhere we went, whether hiking or driving, was always as possible to where mountain met sea. A truly spectacular experience to hike through evergreens elevated by jagged cliffs, and to hear seagulls and glimpse the ocean below. We pulled over often on that gravelly back road.

If I blur my eyes, I imagine this scene as an old oil painting created by one of the past generations that left most of these island summer homes to family.

A glimpse of the corner of one such estate. I wondered which of these summer homes both John Travolta and Kirstie Alley called their own vacation homes.

Our Airbnb host recommended packing a picnic lunch since there is only a deli on the island. We found a quiet grassy spot for my cucumber sandwich and the man’s nitrate-laden manly sandwich. I balanced my meal with a glass of jarred Starbucks frappucino. Living loose. We saw no moose.

Instead, we watched these people prepare to go boating from their waterfront property and imagined what kind of jobs or bloodlines these boaters had. Chomp. Chomp. Sip. Sip. Probably with no similarity to ours.

No matter. Every moment on this little island was a little piece of heaven. Quoting Arnold Schwarzenegger on some movie I watched in another lifetime….”I’ll be back.” (Please use the accent if you know it.)

Saint Mary of the Isles was built for the summer help that catered to the wealthy summer families. If I lived on the island, I imagine I likely would have been employed cleaning toilets for the wealthy landowners and then I would have attended mass here on Sundays. The closer gap between classes today does have its advantages regardless of how far back the long fascinating history of Isleboro travels. In August, 1692, English Captain Benjamin Church chased off both French men and Native Americans. A Church Brat. He did collect a large quantity of beaver and moose pelts though, so my disappointment at seeing no moose on the loose is not so far fetched.

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We missed that sweet ferry by one car. The lineup was early for the departure time we wanted, so being that we were the first car for the next departure and the lighthouse was located beside the ferry dock, we explored every bit of the Grindle Point Lighthouse and museum. The original was built in the 1850s and rebuilt about 30 years later using the same foundation. To go to the glass top of this rare square-shaped lighthouse, you had to go down into a basement where we saw many ancient sailing artifacts including the compass pictured above.

I laughed out loud, in that musty old basement, as I found the irony in this story. Proof that, regardless of the times, people had and will have the same relationship challenges. The museum keeper was a retired librarian and historian who shared the history of the school where she had worked for many years prior as a librarian. It is a public school, previously a summer house that was donated by a wealthy benefactor so it had bathtubs and fireplaces amidst classrooms. A 2018 graduating class of only four seniors, two being female graduates headed to Yale. I thought that the teacher-to-student ratio is probably more important than I had imagined. She probably never met a young-ish couple before that asked so many questions and seemed so old-ish. It was so fun.

Waiting on the sun-soaked rocks for the ferry, I saw this lady that appeared to be in her 70s must have had the same idea. She snored softly but somehow awoke and was in her car waiting to board the ferry before I was. Summers in Maine suddenly felt like a blissful way to grow old.

The ferry is coming! Back to Lincolnville and life that is dictated by clocks, watches, and cell phones. Isleboro felt like a journey to a little land where time had no meaning. For us, we had traveled back in time to a little piece of heaven.

Next stop: The Rockland Breakwaters