“Nice Sweatshirt…”

My transport driver was small, quiet.  There had been no fuss.  He walked with me out to the van, let me in, locked the door, climbed in behind the wheel and started the engine.

“….but I don’t agree with it.”

I leaned forward toward the wire-meshed separation.

“You know what it says?”

“I was a medic in Somalia.”

Of course he was; God doesn’t miss a trick.  Of all the transport drivers in NC…


I had only been trying to sleep…this time.  It had been a full-on attack of crazy making:  being fired in a hostile manner but not told why; being called a liar from someone I trusted to ‘have my back;’ “failure to make payment to the IRS” in spite of all my efforts to get it done right….all on top of weeks of little sleep and 4-hour commutes.  Friends said, “I don’t open your emails or answer your calls; your life is too hard.  It depresses me.”

I just wanted to sleep…immediately…and so deep I wouldn’t think or be aware.  I took a pill but kept thinking.  I took another.  Still thoughts.  I remember 7 of them.  Then the vodka.  Two gulps.  I sort of remember the throwing up.  When I told the ER doctor, “next time I’ll sip instead of gulp,” he dropped his head, took a deep breath, and wrote the orders.

Hence, the transport.


After a few hours of silence,

“My kids hate this sweatshirt.”

“Yeah…I’m not crazy about it, either…but I can understand it.”

I had designed the sweatshirt to read “I don’t matter” in 5 languages…including Somali, when I saw the profound place I was in in my life.  I simply wanted to acknowledge the truth of my emptiness without drawing any reaction.  Sometimes you want to make a declaration without actually making a sound.

However, my awareness was not acceptance; I was not at the end of the process:  I needed to be completely broken…before I could be reborn.  The firings, accusations, financial crises,…they were part of the breaking process.

When one deeply desires to be who she is meant to be in this creation, and she is already way off the path, it takes some major upheaval to get her from where she is to where she needs to be.  She has to get to the point of believing she doesn’t matter before she can know how much she does.

(Thank You, God.)

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