Today, on the way to see my Dad at the nursing home and meet with Hospice, I realized that I have been holding my breath for nearly three months. Not literally of course but emotionally. Watching my Dad go inch by inch has put me on high alert, dreading the call informing us that he has passed away.

I love my Dad fiercely, but I am not the one who has numbered his days. However, my actions seem to indicate that I think I have. Sadly, I've been here before.

About nine years ago, when one of our daughters was going through a difficult time, I turned into a well trained watch dog. Nothing was going to get past me. My hyper-vigilance turned me into a woman that I no longer recognized. And since God wasn't moving quickly enough for me, I thought I needed to take his place. How kind I was to give him some time off from being omniscient and omnipresent.

I did a wonderful job playing God. I became bitter, cold, distant, angry...a dead woman walking. And oddly enough, things didn't get better they got significantly worse. Seriously worse. Fortunately, I didn't get what I deserved...God's wrath. Instead, he poured, no he flooded me with his grace. And while I wanted to run from him, I couldn't shake him! It took two years before I let myself be carried away with his grace. Two years...

So, here I am again. Ever the watch dog. Except it has taken me much less time to figure out I can't sustain this and I am not supposed to.