My last column was about wasting time—accomplishing too little with the time I’m given.

It has been a busy spring and summer. Our youngest son graduated, a new grandbaby arrived, and three of our children are relocating in preparation for a new phase of life. We have a grad party in the works, vacation plans, work and home projects, and all the ordinary, day-to-day stuff.

Often I cope well with our busy-ness—remembering with gratitude that we are juggling blessings. But sometimes stress and anxiety get the better of me. With so much to do, I rush around barking orders and straining to make everything go according to plan.

Whose plan? Mine of course; the one in my head. This was the plan for July:

• Week 1: Enjoy time with friends and family, then finish work and home projects
• Week 2: Travel to Texas to visit friends, then to Bismarck for our grandson’s Baptism.
• Week 3: Prepare for and host Trevor’s grad party.
• Week 4: Travel for Michigan to visit my parents.

Work and home life are a given, of course, so they are not listed—as though they take no time at all.

Week 1 went well; still could feel stress seeping in as the days ticked off faster than my priorities. But last Saturday—the day before we were to leave for Texas—was perfect: sunny and not too hot, with nothing but time to take charge of The List. Jodi and I got groceries and some new flowers and plants for the yard. Trevor and I cut and hauled brush. I fed the reseeded portion of our lawn and weeded an unkempt flower bed, then began placing the new flowers in preparation for planting.

As I reached from the edge of the flower bed to set a coneflower in its place, something shifted near the base of my spine. A white flash of pain brought me to my hands and knees; I was gasping, sweating, unable to move. I hollered for Trevor, who was in the house; his headphones prevented him from hearing. The girls had left for a baby shower, so I remained on all fours, catching my breath and slowly inching my body back over my haunches in hopes that I would be able to rise.

Eventually I stood, bent at the waist, and waddled to the house. The more I moved, the more individual muscles in my back, hips, and glutes pulled into tight little knots to stabilize my lower back. I tried to rest. By the time I went to bed, I was using a tall walking stick and shuffling my feet to keep from toppling over.

The next morning, I was clearly not going to Texas. I couldn’t stand on my own and didn’t even make it to Mass. I sat home, instead, read the Sunday readings, and prayed. I could do little else.

The result? Relief and peace. Once I couldn’t possibly do all the things I had planned, I saw that none of them were as urgent as they seemed.

I write often about surrendering my time and gifts to God and trusting Him to do what’s best. But when push comes to shove, I can’t let go of the wheel. I try to push through and get it all done, at whatever cost. I can’t quit. I can’t slow down or let go.

So last Saturday, God gave me a nudge. Maybe He won’t have to try so hard next time.

This post appeared in the July 17 issue of the St. Michael Catholic Church bulletin.