“I know I need to do this, but I’m a little scared,” I told my daughter a few days ago.

“It’s like getting back on a horse,” Lacy said with a smile. “You always told me if you want to ride horses, you have to get back on when you get bucked off.”

I hadn’t thought about going back to Mt. Hermon this way, and when I did, I told myself, yes, you always get back on the horse. And then I remembered the time I didn’t.

I was a little girl when my dad found me walking up from the field, crying and cradling my arm. “Where’s your pony?” He asked.

“She ran off,” I said on a sob.

“You go get her and get back on,” Daddy said, growing angry.

I cried harder and refused to go get my pony because I was hurt.

“Get your horse and get back on,” Daddy insisted.

When I shook my head no, Daddy grabbed me, and spanked me, and sent me to the house.

How does a child so small remember these things? I was maybe five-years-old, but I recall the pain so clearly. And my absolute feeling of failure for not getting back on my pony.

I walked around wounded for three weeks before seeing a doctor. By then my broken collar bone was healing. My parents didn’t mean any harm. Country life was like this, you had to be tough on the farm, you always got back on your horse. But that day I got hurt, I didn’t.

Now I’m headed back to Mt. Hermon. Just for a couple of days. I can’t go for the whole writers’ conference, but I’ll be there long enough to take a social media class, meet with my literary agent, and hopefully speak with an editor as well about my new book. But I’m feeling so small right now. Like a little girl with something half-healed.

Two years have passed since I spent several days in the hospital after losing it at Mt. Hermon. My feelings are so mixed about going back. The darkest pit I’ve ever experienced happened there.

And I’m not the woman I used to be. Or the writer I once was. It’s painful to admit this, but it’s true. Two years ago, I was focused on writing fiction and I thought I had what it took to become a good novelist. Never did it dawn on me I was headed for a breakdown. And the last thing I wanted was to write a nonfiction book. Above all, a memoir. Only famous people or messed up people write memoirs.

And I’m not famous.

The other day I said to Scott, “I find myself crossing my arms whenever I’m with people now. I’ve begun to remind myself to uncross my arms. To open myself again to others.” It’s a strange thing because I feel more genuine affection for people now, but my capacity for shallow relationships is gone.

And the truth is, I’m opening a different person now. I used to open my outer layer and still have a shell over my inner layer. Now that inner shell is gone. And I miss my shell. Daddy calls it bark. The thing that makes you tough. Recovering from my breakdown, I felt like a turtle without its shell. A tree without bark. This is what my daddy used to say, “You need more bark on you.” Poor Daddy spent years putting bark on me, making me strong, covering up that sensitive little girl that was really me, and God just stripped all that bark away in one fell swoop at Mt. Hermon two years ago.

Going back there makes me think about this stuff. I’m looking for answers right now. Am I really supposed to return to Mt. Hermon? Am I really supposed to move forward with this memoir?

Yesterday we painted our baby orchard trees. Actually, I didn’t paint. Oma, the boys, and Lacy painted. I went to Sam’s Club to stock up the pantry for this week since I’ll be gone for half of it. Then I came home and cleaned up the white tree paint G2 and Cruz slapped all over each other, the sidewalk, and the house. I even found white little hand prints on the fence. John and Joey had painted each other too in a paint fight while painting the trees. The boys went to church today with paint still on them.

My son-in-law Drew stopped by while irrigating to see how things were going yesterday. “I forgot to have the boys paint our little orchard out back,” I told him. “Can you and the guys hit the trees with some paint when you’re doing the walnuts trees this week?” I asked.

“Sure,” Drew said.

“Do you think the trees really need that paint?” I asked, wondering if we could just forget the twenty small trees in the orchard behind our house.

“Well, the paint protects the little trees until they’re big enough to get their bark,” said Drew.

And I stood there thinking about bark.

A few months after my breakdown, Scott said, “God took your bark away. You’re not tough anymore.”

I cringed when he said this. I liked being tough. “I know, I hate it,” I said.

Scott looked right into my eyes. “God doesn’t want you to have that bark, Paula. You’re a better wife, a better mother, and a better writer without it.”

I know he’s right, but I feel so vulnerable without my bark. Without my shell.

So I’ve been thinking about how I can get through the rest of my life– starting with Mt. Hermon this week– without my bark. Without my turtle shell because I don’t think God’s gonna give it back anytime soon. If ever.

I don’t believe in coincidences. Today after church, Mike and Reagan took us to breakfast on Plumas Street. It was such a treat. We never do this with our boys. After chocolate milk shakes, pancakes, and BLT sandwiches with french fries, we walked down to Gaiser Pets. Out in front of the pet store two turtles scooted around on the sidewalk. African tortoises, actually, one with poop on its shell. The poop stank. The pet store guy picked the other tortoise up and strained under its heavy weight. “Eighty pounds,” he said, and still growing. It was a big turtle.

Looking at those two turtles, I decided I really didn’t want my shell back. The shell I used to have was a lot like these turtles with poop on them, and heavy to carry, too.

I live lighter now without my shell. And I feel fresher and sweeter. It’s hard to explain, but I’m no longer carrying around the crap I once carried. Funny how this weekend God gave me these two signs about returning to Mt. Hermon. First, the farmer knows how to care for his littlest trees. He paints them to protect them. They don’t need bark. They’re protected by the farmer. And second, after seeing the turtles this morning, I realized I don’t want my old shell back.

To top it off, this was in my morning devotion today: “He who was seated on the throne said, “I am making everything new!” Then he said, “Write this down for these words are trustworthy and true.” Revelation 21:5. The same scripture God gave me after melanoma and my breakdown when I realized I needed to be real and honest and write something true.

The rest of today’s morning devotion touched me so much I want to share it with you:

God Is Doing a New Thing

May God do a brand-new thing in and through you!

May He break every generational stronghold that keeps you from knowing and experiencing His great love for you.

May He move every mountain that blocks your view of Him.

May He fill every low place with pools of blessings.

And may He restore everything stolen so you can have the life He intended for you from the beginning of time.

Your Redeemer is strong and mighty and loves you deeply.

Live joyfully today!

From Blessings for the Morning by Susie Larson

Our oldest son Luke watering our baby trees. The drought has been hard on California. Please pray for rain for our orchards and if you think about it, please add a little prayer for me this week at Mt. Hermon.

Love you friends!