I awoke prematurely from a heavy sleep, realizing my husband had already left for the dinner leaving me with the two youngest girls, 4 years old and 8 months old. As I came to, nausea swept my body, accompanied by shaking and chills. I put the baby in her playpen, too weak to hold her. Her cries continued as I lay on the couch helpless, barely able to move. My condition frightened my 4 year old as my hands started stiffening so that I could only text for help by moving my whole arm. All I could do was ask for her to bring me a cup of milk. "I can't do it" came her tiny reply, and yet as the baby's cry quieted to the occasional shudder, she soon returned with a gallon of milk and a cup. I managed to swallow four cups, one after the other, until my fingers could move again, and thanked her for helping me. Finally, a bit of relief came as my body rid the stomach of whatever toxins had assailed it, but leaving no strength in the wake.
By the time their father made it back home the worst of it was over as he calmed our ruffled feathers. It would take a week for my strength to slowly return.
Ironically, before this happened I had the intention to write about burnout, having seen it happen so often around me as people push themselves or are pushed to their limits.
Folks, we do not know from whence where our strength comes until that strength is taken from us and we experience what it means to be completely and utterly helpless. Let's use our experiences of lack to really think about where our strength comes from and what kind of nourishment we need to be strong again.
