Yesterday was one of those days. The kind that starts with good intentions and a tight schedule, and ends with a frazzled body, a drained spirit, and a quiet prayer of gratitude just for making it home.

I had two medical appointments lined up. The plan was to knock out my labs before the second appointment so I could sneak in a snack and maybe some caffeine. I arrived around 9:45 a.m., got called back shortly after 10, and things were moving along—until the lab tech asked me to verify my birthdate.

Turns out, the referring doctor’s office had entered it incorrectly. That one small error triggered a domino effect: I had to call the doctor’s office, request a corrected lab order, wait for it to be sent, and then email it to the lab. By the time that was done, I had to leave for my second appointment.

After that, I returned to the lab, now much busier. For me, waiting rooms aren’t just inconvenient—they’re physically taxing. I come armed with a bag of pillows and alternate between sitting and standing to manage my back and other conditions. The space was tiny, and the stress was palpable.

There was the couple struggling to communicate—he couldn’t hear well, she couldn’t follow instructions. There were people scrolling social media with their volume on, and one man having a full-blown phone conversation indoors. It was sensory overload.

I tried to channel my frustration into helpfulness. After my earlier mishap, I knew the check-in process could be confusing. When a man with a thick accent got up from his chair and accused me of jumping the line when I walked up to the desk, I explained it was my first time there and asked another patient for guidance, because the man and I were on two different pages. She pointed to the self-check-in machine. I joked, “I should’ve known—we don’t need people anymore.”

Eventually, I was called back. The tech kindly let me skip ahead, knowing my circumstances. But then came more delays—technical issues with the computer, missing emails, and my own phone struggling to resend the lab order. I was flustered, in pain, and trying to troubleshoot through the fog. Finally, the email went through, and I gave six vials of blood. Ninety minutes after arriving the second time, I was done.

I hadn’t eaten. I was lightheaded, aching, and emotionally spent. But I made it home. Praise God.

These kinds of days—where everything feels like a hurdle—have been happening more often lately. And yet, they remind me to be grateful for the moments that go smoothly. For the lab tech who was patient and kind. For the chance to help a couple of confused patients navigate the chaos. For the grace to get through it.

It’s easy to get stuck in the tunnel of frustration, to fixate on what’s going wrong. I do it more than I’d like to admit. But the Lord convicts me, gently nudging me to shift my perspective. Sometimes I listen. Sometimes I don’t. I know that when I spiral, it hurts me—and it hurts others. Repentance isn’t just a spiritual reset; it’s a relational one.

Sometimes the frustration needs to be voiced—not just to Jesus, but to people. Sometimes it stops with Him. Sometimes it spills out. That’s why we have each other. The church is one body, and we’re called to be His hands and feet. It’s hard when I feel like I’m always the one needing help. I long for the day when I’m on the giving end more often.

But for now, I’ll be thankful for the small chances to serve. To share my story. To let it see the light of day. Maybe it’ll help someone else. Maybe it won’t. God knows. I don’t. I just know I’m not meant to keep it hidden.

To think outside the parentheses, I always leave a scripture, meme, and/or music clip that inspired the title and content. Because:

“The light shines in the darkness, and the darkness has not overcome it.”  

— John 1:5

Sometimes the frustration needs to be voiced—not just to Jesus, but to people. Sometimes it stops with Him. Sometimes it spills out. That’s why we have each other. The church is one body, and we’re called to be His hands and feet.

Today’s blog title comes from Levitate by Twenty One Pilots