Just a Spoonful of Peanut Butter

Original Image by Daniella Segura via Flickr Creative Commons

These little buggers may look like benign legumes to you, but something inside me twinges when I look at this picture. Even now. 

I stopped eating peanut products in April 2012 when my health was spiraling out of control. Back then, everything I ate brought on an allergic-type reaction. These reactions were growing stronger and stronger, and peanuts carried a reputation. Instinct told me to stay away. 

Peanut butter remained a staple in our home until April 2013. I was on a “make aaaaaaall the things” kick and decided to try my hand at making peanut butter—trans-fat and corn syrup free. 

I soaked my peanuts for the recommended 12 or so hours. Then I slow-roasted them in the oven for 24 more hours. Once they were thoroughly dried, I threw them into the Ninja with coconut oil, salt, and honey and let her whirl. But something happened.

The notch at the top of the blade didn’t center the lid. The force with which the blade was spinning caused the notch to cut into the lid and throw hot bits of plastic into the peanut butter. By the time I realized what was happening, so much plastic had mingled in, there was nothing to do but throw it all out. 

I cried.

As 36 hours of work and roughly $20 of product went into the trash, I noticed my ears were itching. I scratched them as well as I could and went about my business. 

Later that evening, I opened the trash can to throw something away. I pressed down, smelling peanuts. The reaction was instantaneous. 

My throat swelled. I began wheezing and coughing. I couldn’t think or see straight. I don’t remember getting into the bed.

In the flashes of memory I do recall, I’m lying in bed in our dark bedroom. My throat feels thick and hot. It’s hard to breathe. Brandon holds my hand murmuring pleas. I know I may not live, but I’m peaceful. If I die in that dark room, I’ll wake in a sea of Light. 

There’s a thermometer. Brandon takes my temperature and tells me my body temp is 94 degrees. He warns me if I lose consciousness, he’ll give me Epi and take me to the hospital. He knows I hate Epi. And hospitals. 

He makes me talk to him. I want him to leave me alone. Let me drift. But he’s so scared. The fear in his voice pulls me back. I return to myself. 

Not for me. Not for the kids. For him. 

I don’t remember rallying. I have no recollection of what else transpired that night. I only remember how awful I felt the days after. Like I’d been hit by a truck. 

After that, peanuts were banned from the house.

A year later, I had another near-fatal reaction after an accidental exposure to trace peanut particles. I wanted to treat the kids to frozen custard. We went through the Eskamoe's drive-thru. I was in the passenger seat. The reaction wasn’t as fast this time. 

We drove home. When I stepped out of the car, my legs didn’t feel right. My heart was working too hard. My head went fuzzy. And then my throat tightened. I almost fainted before I made it to the bed. 

This time, Brandon performed our at-home rescue treatment (EDT) Dr. Carolyne Yakaboski had discovered and taught us the previous summer. I didn’t get quite as bad this time around, but was down nearly a week afterward. 

What was alarming was the infinitesimal amount of peanut that had triggered such a strong response. 

We became super cautious. Whenever the kids came home with candy, B searched them with TSA standard scrutiny. Micah’s teachers probably thought we were half-mad with some of our requests. But I assumed a c’est la vie attitude about it all because—what else was there to do? 

I had one other reaction to trace peanut particles in May 2015. That was my last anaphylactic reaction ever. 

God began healing me in November 2015 after a miraculous moment in a prayer session. Over the next few weeks, I tested one trigger after another. 

In early January, I had a mild reaction after breathing in peanut particles. B brought the reaction under control with minimal effort and miraculous speed, but the old trauma was relived. Even after I had successfully tested all the old foods that were once dangerous to me, I continued to avoid peanuts.  

Enter Sara, my four-year-old daughter. 

A couple of weeks ago, I had a new friend over. I told the story of how God miraculously healed me, finishing with, “I can go wherever I want now. I eat just about everything. Except for peanuts. I’m still a little scared of peanuts.”

Sara dropped her crayon and turned to face me. 

“Why are you scared of peanuts, Mama? Der just peanuts, and Jesus healed you. You should just go over to Grandma and Pops’ and eat some. I don’t understand why you’re scared. You’re not scared of anything.”

I blinked. 

The kids had been coloring. I had no idea they were even listening, much less attentively. But let me tell you something—I had no. doubt. the Holy Spirit had spoken to me through my child. 

When I picked my jaw off the floor, I said, “Well…maybe I will.”

But see…there was still the trauma to deal with. Fortunately, I had the tools. Ever since my prayer session last November, I've implemented the techniques to address issues of forgiveness and emotional trauma whenever they arise.

Two days later, I recalled the night I lay dying in my dark bedroom. I asked Jesus to show me where he was. He appeared at Brandon’s side. Jesus knelt with him, a hand on his shoulder. 

I smiled. I knew he’d been there. 

I asked Jesus for the lie I believed about that situation. He said nothing.
I asked for the truth. Silence.
“So what do you want me to do?”

Jesus hands me a jar of Peter Pan peanut butter. Red label.

Okay, then. 

As instructed, I walk over to “Grandma and Pops’.” What do they have in their pantry? Red-labeled Peter Pan peanut butter. Enough for one spoonful.

The kids weren’t around, which was good. If something went wrong, I didn’t want them to know. Especially little Sara. But I had enough faith to walk across the yard without rescue medication and to ask Mom to video my little experiment. 

I opened the peanut butter jar and sniffed. Nothing happened. Good sign.
I scooped a generous helping into the spoon, scraping the sides.
Go big or go home, right?

I silently freaked as I drew the spoon up to my mouth, then opened wide. 

This is what happened:

So yeah...I eat peanut products now. The thing that almost killed me--more than once--I eat.

Someone recently asked me how I had the courage to do it. I wouldn't have without the encouragement of the Holy Spirit through my daughter combined with the encouragement of Jesus.

Without God's help, it would've been too scary. While my daughter may have delusions of grandeur about my supposed fearlessness, I can assure you--I feel fear just like everyone else. Lots of it. It just doesn't control me anymore.

I ate a peanut butter and jelly sandwich for dinner this week. It was delicious. 

Jesus still heals, y'all. Never doubt it. 

A Breakup Letter to Fear

 

Original Image by Meagan via Flickr Creative Commons

This month, I taught a journaling class to the women of Project 41's Esther's Academy. I'm unlikely to forget the experience.

These girls are amazing--a visible testimony of the power of Jesus Christ to transform a life.

In the brief time I've known them, they've become my heroes. Though aware they're still deep in process, they continue to lean into Jesus day after day. In the face of failure, discouragement, and fear of the unknown, they continue to walk in victory.

You don't often encounter courage like theirs.

Almost from Day One, they allowed me to participate in their struggles, hangups, and hardships. Who does that?

Their vulnerability inspired my own. I committed myself to complete each assignment along with them and share a little of what I'd written at each class.

Two weeks ago, I asked them to write a letter. For therapeutic purposes.

They chose the recipient. The letter could be addressed to a friend or enemy--living or deceased. It could be to God or to a part of themselves--past, present, or future.

The chief requirement was honesty. Grit.

I think I struggled with my letter more than they did. I couldn't decide on who to write it to. Who I needed to write it to.

So I asked the Lord about it.

Over the course of the week, through various circumstances, He revealed a part of myself I thought we'd handled.

In a way, we had handled it. It no longer mastered me, but it was still there.

Fear. 

A year ago, I physically trembled every time I stepped outside. Back then, the whole world seemed out to get me. And it kind of was. Wasps, ants, heat, cold, random crop dusters loosing herbicides over nearby fields. So many things...

My case of "the shakes" ended several months ago. Then the Lord further dealt with my fear during my prayer session. But apparently, it left behind a few personal belongings in the nightstand drawer so we'd have an excuse to see each other again.

So I wrote Fear a breakup letter the morning before class. I'm good at breakup letters.

(Fun fact: I once wrote a breakup letter for a friend of mine. The recipient was my husband. We started dating six months later.)



Dear To Fear:

We've been together a long time, but you haven't been a very good friend. You've bullied me until I'm afraid of everything. Even things I used to enjoy.

I still can't relax when I go outside. I'm too busy thinking about where the wasps are. I want to go outside and not think about blankety-blank wasps!

I want to write without neurosis. To imagine teaching again without feeling nauseated. To speak when the Spirit leads without fear of being wrong. To obey God about leading worship without flashbacks to every musical mistake I've ever made. Without worrying that people won't like my voice because it's different than the current preferred style.

Thanks to you, I'm afraid to fail, afraid to succeed, afraid to be noticed, and afraid to be ignored. I am a hot, crazy mess.

I'm tired of trying to please you. You set impossible standards and never stop raising the bar. In short--you're a bitch, and I don't like you.

So go. We're done. I'm pretty committed to this whole God thing, in case you haven't noticed. I love Him. I'm in love. And He loves me--succeed or fail. He fulfilled every standard you've set. Neither performance nor popularity define me. I'm His. His is who I am.

Consider this my resistance. I'm already submitted to God. All that's left is for you to flee. I command you to go in Jesus' name.

Sincerely,
Melissa K.



Now, you may write this off as a silly exercise. But let me tell you what's happened since I wrote this thang:

• I'm writing again. Not my novel, but I'm writing.
• I've talked to my small group leader about leading worship. 
• I've reached out to a friend who's willing to teach me how to accompany praise and worship choruses. I hope to meet with her next week and start leading worship this summer.
• I feel easier about the idea of teaching music again if that's where God leads me.
• I'm not constantly looking for wasps when I go outside. Sometimes, I don't think of them at all.
• The chronic cold and sinus issues I've had for two months dried up the day I wrote that letter. 

Coincidence? Make of it what you will. In the meantime, I'm enjoying the extra drawer space. 

Uncaged

"He placed me in a little cage,

Away from gardens fair;

But I must sing the sweetest song,

Because He placed me there.

Not beat my wings against the cage,

If it's my Maker's will;

But raise my voice to heaven's gates,

and sing the louder still."

Last Christmas, Mom gave me this beautiful image, painted by our talented cousin Lisa Wilkes. I was still a shut-in when Lisa finished it, but she refused to paint the bird in a cage. She wanted me free. What a lovely, prophetic gift.

Today, this little bird is free indeed, which was her Maker's will all along. Mysteriously...paradoxically, my cage was the key to my freedom. (Think Hosea 2.)

Therefore, behold,
I will hedge up your way with thorns,
And wall her in,
So that she cannot find her paths.

She will chase her lovers,
But not overtake them;
Yes, she will seek them, but not find them.
Then she will say,
‘I will go and return to my first husband,
For then it was better for me than now.'

My heart was a harlot if there ever was one. But--thanks be--God is a determined lover. And His crazy, stubborn love is freedom. 

Hessed love taught me to fly. 

So, if you were wondering--no, I wasn't frightened away. You don't survive what I have to turn tail and hide in a corner when people don't like what you say. I've just been...busy.

Busy living life. 

Having fun. 

Eating in restaurants. 

That's right. I'm eating corn chips. 

With high-histamine, nightshady salsa.

Vacationing with the fam.

 

 We saw Moses at the Sight and Sound Theater. Great show!

I ate the roasted almonds. Mostly because I could. 

But also because of the smell. Mmmmm.....

Shopping. Check my $2.40 find from Banana Republic. That's right--two dollars and forty cents. *drops mic*

(That duck head sticking out of mine...*snort*)

*picks mic back up*

Dating my Superman. 

Doing fun stuff with the kids and crying like a baby because I can. 

Girls' night. (Who am I?)

Prayer group. 

Daily adventures with Jesus. 

I'll share one of my recent favorites. But first, a little backstory...

During my illness, pain was a significant problem for me. I had arthritis, fibromyalgia, and carpal tunnel, which stole any joy I took in playing the piano. So I stopped. My piano has stood mostly silent for the past few years, serving as little more than a fixture to remind me of times gone by.

Lately, quiet calls summon me back to music, most of which I've been able to muffle with practiced excuses--

"That's something I used to do."

"That was my old life."

"It's been four years, and I wasn't all that great to begin with."

"I've lost my dexterity."

"I want to focus on writing now." 

Which, of course, translates into, "I'm scared to death I'll fail." 

But when Mom came to me on behalf of a friend whose mother had just died, a friend who'd prayed for me over the years, my excuses didn't matter. Besides, if I didn't step in, my sick dad and has-never-sung-for-a-crowd-in-her-life mother would be left to sing a duet to canned music, and I couldn't have that. 

So I dusted off the keys. Opened a hymnal. And lo and behold, my brain recalled the old language. My hands remembered what to do. What's more, I managed to sing and play at the same time. 

Miracles happen every day, folks.

On the ride to Winnsboro, I tried not to think of past funeral performance debacles. The words of a former professor echoed in my mind--"Music is a service profession."  

This is service, not performance. It's an expression of love, not a reflection on myself.

We arrived 15 minutes before go time, which in music world is the same thing as arriving late, and were ushered into a small, enclosed room, invisible to the attendees. I sighed relief. 

Two reasons:

1) Singing in the face of grief is hard for me. I just...can't. I'm too empathetic to keep it together.

2) I prefer invisible service. Nothing says, "I love you" quite like doing something for someone that no one else knows about. Which I suppose I'm ruining now...

Oh, well. I have a point.

We all served above our abilities. I hadn't accompanied anyone since 2011 and I played...well. Not perfect, but well. Mom has never sung so beautifully in her life. Dad's cold? Helped him sing the strongest bass line he's managed since his neck surgery several years ago. And God surprised us with a gift. The funeral director who oversaw the music is an outstanding tenor. He sang along with us.

Y'all, God isn't looking for professionals; He's looking for people to say "yes." In our weakness, He shows Himself strong.

On the way home, I felt God smile, pat my head, and say, "Good job, Baby Girl." 

I live for that, just so you know.

An update:

 

These days I eat what I want and do what I want. I'm medication free. My pain's gone. My energy's back. Most nights, I sleep like a baby. And I *ahem* use the bathroom like a normal person now.  

Brandon's in a fun season. I love watching him grow and exercise his faith. Second to being God's child, being Brandon's wife is the highest honor I enjoy on earth. 

I plan to get back to writing--the dollar-earning variety--soon. I'm still trying to figure out where it fits with the rest of my responsibilities. But I'm determined to give this writing career thing a real shot before I agree to head back to the classroom. Which means I have to sell a few books by this time next year. So yeah...feel free to peer pressure me back into the habit. I'm still debating whether I should work on my short story collection or my novel. I don't feel there's a wrong choice, but there might be a more strategic one.

Pretty soon, I'll move my blog to my own domain. You can support me by subscribing and sharing when I do. 

For the month of April, I'm teaching a journaling class for Project 41's Esther's Academy. Enjoying that. Love the awesome women in the program. After the class ends, I'll focus on developing the prayer ministry for P41 and nurturing my friendships with the women. 

I fall more in love with my new family all the time. When I think of the gift God has given me in them, I get weepy. Every time. Two of the women have become good friends of mine. I'll travel to Brazil with one of them in September. The Lord has called me to short term international mission work for the first time in 16 years. I'm thrilled and terrified. 

But ya know...that's life with Jesus. In or out of the cage.

 

Here for the Comments--My Response to the Response to My Food Journey Miracle Post

My recent post about my struggle with food received an overwhelming response. Not all of it positive.

I posted my story in the mast cell groups on Facebook. While most who took the time to read were encouraged and/or happy for me, some just weren't.

I don't blame them. Not at all.

Mastocytosis/Mast Cell Activation Disease affects every aspect of human life. There's no square inch it doesn't attempt to claim. To make matters worse, there's no cure, so it's a disease without much hope. Outside of Jesus, anyway.

And let's face it, Jesus causes trouble wherever he goes.

I thought I'd address a few of the comments made, not because I believe the people who made them will read my response but because you may need to. Some of the questions the comments imply may resonate with you. 

And deep down, who doesn't love a good Facebook debate?

The Comments

"I can't believe I wasted time reading this"


As someone who has battled MCAD, this comment translated as, "I came here looking for real hope, and you gave me a fairy tale." Do you feel the despair in that? Doesn't your heart break just a little? Mine does. 

To this commenter, I would offer this quote by G. K. Chesterton: "Fairy tales are more than true; not because they tell us that dragons exist, but because they tell us dragons can be beaten." 

Jesus slayed the ultimate dragon when he gave his life on the cross. His life was for us, and His life makes us whole. In mind, body, and spirit. God is on mission to redeem it all.

"Unless you have a disease that can be cured by...science...we are all stuck with mast cell. Some people needs their meds to live. This gives false and dangerous hope to people. Unbelievable... I have seen firsthand what a supposed cure can do folks. Putting the word cure on an illness known to be incurable except for periods of remissions can and does cause false hope. Wording is everything. There was no disclaimer...only stating cure. If anyone and I include myself in this.. Wants to say what is helping them as far as diet, supplements Et al then cool, but, unless it has been medically verified as a cure with accompanying information this becomes another blog with the supposed miracle cure. As a scientist, I aware people for reasons still poorly understood can heal. Hope is good. Proclaiming you have a cure without science not so much"


I agree--"wording is everything"--though even the best of us get it wrong from time to time. But the careful reader will notice I never used the word "cure" in my story. Rather, I spoke of healing. Why? Because I want to be clear. While medication, diet, and lifestyle modifications helped, these things did not end my disease. Jesus did. He healed me.


"I'd like to give my view on this as an atheist (and I know a lot of you are already placing labels on me for using that word, but please do not prejudge). I do not believe in prayer or a supreme deity that has the ability to heal us....but...I do believe that prayer can certainly be viewed as a form of meditation and there has been verifiable scientific study done on the effects that meditation has on the body. The most recent National Geographic has an article on the mind body effects of being in nature...scientific data. Including changes in EEG brain waves and drastic reduction in cortisol levels in the body. Doctors are actually writing "prescriptions" to patients to spend time in a natural setting for healing purposes. From my own personal experience, I can slow my heart rate purely by relaxing my body (I suffer from SVTs) and to some extent slow the progression of Mast Cell attacks the same way. This has been seen by multiple ER docs while I was hooked up to monitors. Then there is the whole epigenetics issue. Scientists have shown that these switches can flip back and forth quickly to stimuli and rapidly affect how our body reacts...or over reacts. She is not claiming to have been healed overnight. Nor did she do nothing but pray, she also modified her diet and tried other avenues of improving her symptoms. I believe placing this is the realm of religion is what is bothering some of you, but if you look deeper and place what she is saying in a more scientific framework, maybe you can understand better..."

I appreciate this person for coming to my defense. Truly. She was kind when others were not. Elsewhere, she chastened those who left--in her words--"incredibly rude comments," some of which were deleted by the moderator. That being said, we aren't on the same page. 

2015 was a rough year for me. Though I continued to lean into the Lord day after day, my thoughts weren't always positive. During the weeks before I was healed, I struggled with restlessness, guilt, anxiety, and shame. I was tired, beaten to a pulp by this monster of a disease. My mind did not heal itself. Jesus healed me.

"I always have to wonder, if you are "cured", perhaps the diagnosis was incorrect all along."


I expected this one from the beginning. Before Jesus healed me, I told Brandon and my mom that when He did it, people will say I never had the disease. People tend to reject what they don't understand.

But MCAD isn't a diagnosis doctors toss to the masses like beads and candy at a Mardi Gras parade. It's difficult to obtain, which is why I had to travel all the way to Minnesota to get it. 

While I'm sure God had more purposes for my Mayo Clinic adventure than I can imagine, I understand at least two--Gastrocrom (a medication which allowed me to eat without absolute misery) and that diagnosis. He wants the world to know no disease is incurable when it comes to Him. 


"I'm happy for you Melissa. It seems like your body has calmed down by making nutritional changes. The jury is still out on mast cell disorders, so thinking positive is a good thing. My fear however would be that your overzealous claiming of healing might turn around and bite you - should you regress, relapse, get triggered again etc. I've seen many women in this group already speak of going years "ok" than not ok. For me, EVERYTIME I have gone there - psychologically, emotionally etc and believed "I'm completely better now!" Or "I'm finally coming out of this!" --WHAM. I've been sent back to reality. So I learned to be "cautiously optimistic" and to speak about "improvement" and not black or white declarations that only kick my ass later. Just my share/2 cents. Mast cell (so far) keeps me humble."


I totally understand the warning. I've been in remission. And yes--I thought I was better, then BAM! But this isn't remission. I'm healed. Thank you, Jesus! 

"I am taking this with a grain of salt..be careful with the word "cure." Glad you feel better..please be respectful of all here. Religion, politics cross over many people's comfort level. And seems to imply we are all in the same boat and all able to pray our way to wellness. That is simply not the case. And can lead to blaming those who don't believe to the degree you do or in your religion. Makes me squirm a bit...got my armor on for the replies with this one..I will remove this post if the comments become attacks or too controversial."


Writers, to publish is to give readers permission to quote things you never said and infer meaning you never intended. 

Now let's discuss the idea of "pray(ing) our way to wellness..."

If anyone could've earned healing by faith, prayer, or specialness, it would've been Jenny. 

Before her, I'd never encountered such indomitable faith. Oh, how she loved our Lord! How she sought Him! She was humble enough to seek prayer wherever she went. Churches, communities, and even Dodie Osteen prayed for her healing. Until a few weeks before her death, Jenny believed she would live. Not hoped. Believed.

The woman was so magnetic that people sense her pull in photos. People who didn't want to like her couldn't help themselves. Few love others like she did. She was often the sickest person in the waiting room at MD Anderson, yet she stopped and prayed for people every visit. People who got to live. Before she let hospice put her into an induced coma, she prayed for and blessed everyone at her bedside. She sent me a goodbye text telling me how much she loved me. Jenny went out thinking of and serving others.

If we could achieve our own wellness, Jenny would've been here to celebrate her daughter's fourth birthday four days ago. But after two years of intense suffering, she died. 

Did I survive because I'm so much better than her? Because my faith is stronger? Absolutely not. And if my prayers achieved all that, Jenny would still be here.

This commenter didn't need her armor. She got no argument from me. 

Healing can't be earned. It can only be received.

"I am glad you are doing better, but to claim that God healed you leaves a lot of Christian people who are dealing with the same thing out. I find it distasteful that God would pick and choose you and leave everyone else to suffer. I think there are are too many variables to leave it to "God fixing everything".... Could have been shots finally registered in your system after all that time, anxiety dying down after postpartum time frames end, allowing you belly time to heal after a severe infection.... Ect.... Too many variables to leave it at "God chose to heal me over everyone else."


This commenter doesn't understand my God. And frankly, I don't either.

Human inclination is to fear what we can't control and to dismiss what we don't understand. 

We can't control God, nor can we understand him. So we fear and dismiss him. We explain him away.

And guess what--I've done it, too. 

I have no idea why I lived and Jenny died. I have no idea why some are healed and others suffer all their lives. But that doesn't mean God didn't heal me. And it doesn't mean He doesn't want to heal others. 

Truth be told, these thoughts aren't all that unrelated to some of my own, which have led to questions. Lots and lots of questions:

1. Did Jesus ever turn anyone away in the gospels? Did He ever say, "No, I'm not going to heal you. It's my will for you to be sick. Your illness brings me glory?"
2. Does illness bring glory to God? OR is it possible to suffer with something that doesn't glorify God in such a way that God is glorified anyway? Isn't that kind of the spirit of Romans 8:37?
3. Does God send illness? Is sickness of God? Or does the enemy send sickness and then God uses it for His own purposes with the intention of drawing us to Himself and with a heart to deliver us from it and all lesser loves? 
4. Does God want us to cuddle our sickness and hold onto suffering because He worked it for good in our lives? Do we need sickness to maintain our sanctification? Should we? Or do we just need Jesus? 
5. Is sickness the best way to experience the nearness of God? If so, what does that say about the saints in the Bible? They weren't sick. Are sickness and pain the only ways to cultivate humility and dependence?
6. Can we best fulfill the Great Commission when we ourselves are sick?
7. If it was God's will for people to be sick, wouldn't Jesus have been going against God's will by healing them? Wouldn't we be going against God's will every time we prayed for healing?
8. In Scripture, Jesus doesn't only heal believers. Many he healed weren't believers when he healed them. Some left him, healing in hand, without a thank you. So what does it mean that He didn't do many mighty works in Nazareth because of their unbelief (Matt. 13:58; Mark 6:5,6)? What role does faith play?
9. The mission stated over and over again in the Gospels is to preach the gospel and heal the sick. Preach the gospel and heal the sick. Preach the gospel and heal the sick. When Jesus sent out the twelve, he told them, "Heal the sick, cleanse the lepers, raise the dead, cast out demons. Freely you have received, freely give" (Matt. 10:8). This doesn't sound like a pick and choose kind of God. So what's the deal?
10. Could the gap between what we see in Scripture and our experience be our fault? As in the fault of the Church? If so, what does this say about our will versus God's will? If not, does the God who is the same yesterday, today, and forever carry out his will differently now than he did in the first century?

In Summary:

Notice I have all these fabulous questions and no easy answers. I can't offer a satisfactory response to any of them because God is mystery. But here's what I make of my experience with the information I have at this time:

God did not send my sickness. Neither did He waste it. God used my physical sickness to rescue me from sickness of mind, body, and spirit. My sickness was the fastest, most efficient way for God to do this and make me usable. My sickness did not glorify God; I glorified God by leaning into Him through it. God never smiled at my pain; He smiled at what I did with it.

The enemy sent my illness and used it to try and kill me. Again and again and again. He did this because I'm dangerous. He failed because God didn't allow it. God is sovereign.

And yet other dangerous, usable people die. I don't know what this means. But I do know God is sovereign. He is the head of all principality and power (Col. 2:10). Not a moment of this storm was outside of his perfect control, and his character and attributes do not change with circumstance.

God healed me. God used prayer to heal me. My healing would not have happened outside of persistent, fervent, expectant prayer. My prayers. Prayers of family, friends, and elders. The prayers of many.

These prayers kept me alive, kept me close to Jesus, and helped me navigate the path laid out for me. The path led me to a group of people who operate in the Spirit of God. They saw my plight, had compassion, and rescued me through more fervent prayer. They had faith for me when I didn't have it for myself. Enough faith for me to expect something to happen.

My healing was intrinsically tied to deliverance, which was brought about in a personal prayer session (Sozo), a ministry of the group mentioned above.

My healing glorified God. My liberation unleashed more of the Holy Spirit into the world. Now whole and operating in the power of the Holy Spirit, I can better fulfill the mission--preach the gospel, heal the sick and brokenhearted, proclaim liberty to the captives, help the blind to see, liberate the oppressed, cast out demons, raise the dead. Make disciples. Make disciple-making disciples. 

I'm called to give as freely as it has been given to me. Which, you gotta admit, has been pretty freely, so I best be serious about this, yo. 

The miraculous bolsters faith in the miraculous. My prayers are not what they once were because I now believe in the impossible. I ask for impossible things. I believe for impossible things. The impossible has become my new normal.

I know that not everyone I pray for will be healed and delivered, but what do I lose by praying? What do I lose? Time? Energy? Who cares? I get God! Even when the miracle doesn't come. And now that I know it might, by the grace of God I'll never stop asking.

I want to do this thing in such a way that if I'm wrong I'll be the most pitiful fool who ever walked the earth and when I see my Jesus face to face I'll have nothing to regret. And who knows? Maybe one day I'll get to see God do something REALLY cool like raise somebody from the dead!


So yeah...that's where I stand. At the moment, anyway.

Now that I've closed my most recent Facebook debate, let a new one begin. And in the spirit of full disclosure, if you comment, especially if that comment is nasty or despondent, you'll be put on a list and prayed for. You've been warned.

Food--The Struggle (It's Been Real, Folks)

 

Original image via Flickr Creative Commons courtesy of Michael Stern

 

It Begins

My first systemic reaction to a food happened right after Christmas in 2004. Brandon, my family, and I were vacationing in Branson and were watching a movie. Along with everyone else, I was popping pistachios.

Then something odd...my ears swelled, grew hot, and began itching. My throat followed suit. I put the pistachios away, popped a Benadryl, and didn't think about the experience again for over a year.

Over the course of 2005, I  sometimes felt unwell after I ate--weirdly sleepy, grumpy, bleh--so I began The Maker's Diet with my parents to clean up my eating. That seemed to help. For a while.

Discovery

Then in early 2006 (a particularly stressful time in my life), itching, hives, swelling, shortness of breath, etc. became common during and after meals. I don't know why it took so long for me to stop living in denial, but eventually I was able to associate the way I felt with food.

Within a few weeks, I eliminated wheat, dairy, corn, soy, and tree nuts from my diet, and I stabilized. For a while.

Spring came with a case of hay fever from HELL. I went about either drunk, sneezy, coughy, sleepy, and sensitive to light and noise or knocked out cold by Benadryl. I wish I were kidding.

Original image via Flickr Creative Commons courtesy of NIAID

The Allergy Shots Experiment

So I saw an allergist. He prescribed daily Claritin, Singulair, and an inhaler along with weekly injections to treat my environmental allergies. (He didn't want to touch my food allergies. They scared him.) I improved. For a while.

A few months into treatment, my allergies worsened. I became increasingly sensitive to the foods I knew I was allergic to. New foods piled onto the "no-no" list. If I had to walk across campus while staff was mowing grass? Asthma attack guaranteed. And then I began reacting to the allergy shots themselves.

At first, it was just localized swelling and itching at the site of injection. No big deal. Normal, even. Later, I had systemic itching. Oh well. Pop a Benadryl. Whatever. After that, full body rashes. Not pretty, but not life-threatening. Go back to the office. Get a steroid shot. Go home.

The day my tongue and throat swelled was a different matter. After an in-office dose of Benadryl failed to bring my symptoms under control, I was given an injection of Epi. The nurse told me this was normal. That some people need Epi every week after injections.

Uh...no thank you.

When I became pregnant with Micah, I used my pregnancy as an excuse to stop treatment, and I never went back. And I got better. For a while.

Original image via Flickr Creative Commons courtesy of Greg Friese

 

The Descent

After pregnancy, things went back to normal...but worse. In June 2009 when Micah was three months old, a few soggy chow mein noodles hidden in a sub par chicken salad sent me to the ER. That episode ended with two Epi injections and a frustrating 10 days of steroids during which this breastfeeding mama had to pump and dump several times a day. Good times.

The next eventful moment happened in January 2011. Brookshire's began carrying pre-made gluten free muffins in the bakery, so Brandon brought some home as a treat. Which they were...until two hours later.

Guys, I'm not a puker. I have a gag reflex of iron. I once went 10 years without a good purge. Even now, I have to be pretty sick to toss my cookies, but that day...I tossed my muffins. Again and again and again and again.

In two hours I puked 11 times. That may be more times than I've puked in my life outside of that day. Each heave was so forceful I was sure something would hemorrhage. Every time it ended, I collapsed onto the floor beside the toilet unable to move.

I don't know how to describe that level of misery except to tell you that I wanted to die. I prayed the Lord would take me. No other pain, no other emergency has ever caused me to pray that prayer.

There was no relief. I couldn't pick myself off the cold bathroom tile. I think Brandon eventually did it himself after he jumped a few flaming hoops to get me the anti-nausea medicine I needed.

Unfortunately, I believed my little puke-a-thon was the stomach virus of the apocalypse. My mistake.

As my friend Tim said the other night, "What you believe matters."

Once recovered, I ate another muffin. Two hours later, I start puking again. As if the first mistake wasn't enough, I used the anti-nausea medicine too soon, thereby trapping the offending substance (teff flour) inside my body, which forced it to run its course.

Take my word when I tell you this was a bad decision.

A few days after this, I caught an actual stomach virus, then another virus, then the flu. Then I got pregnant. Oh boy.

I stayed sick until week 26 of my pregnancy (which amounts to six months of constant illness), at which point I perked up. Until I had Sara.

During labor, I had a systemic reaction to the epidural, which didn't even work in the end. Man, oh man, was she worth it, but dude...

 

The Plummet

After her birth, I wasn't the same. I knew something was wrong. Suddenly, it wasn't just what I ate. It was what I touched. What I breathed. But I couldn't think about me. I had a sick baby to take care of.

Things spun out of control. I couldn't safely administer Sara's medicine because I reacted to it upon skin contact. I lost several more foods. Anaphylaxsis became a common occurrence. I lived off Benadryl. And I bought a medical alert bracelet because I never knew what would happen, when, where, how, or why.

When God healed Sara of RSV and her chronic ear infections, I snapped. Like a twig.

One afternoon, I ate a coconut macaroon for a snack and immediately had an anaphylactic reaction. The next morning, I awoke to pain. Tissue pain. Muscle pain. Bone pain. All of it. Pain which never left. Which I still have to this day, to a lesser degree.

I began to reject all food. Even water made me ill. After several days of being unable to eat and too slow to drink, I dehydrated and had to be given IV fluids.

Elders from our church prayed for me. Within a couple of days, I was able to eat again, but everything gave me trouble. I might eat one thing one day and reject it the next.

We struggled for months to figure out what to do. We tried fasting, supplements, liquid nutrition, amino acid powder. I dropped a lot of weight very quickly. I remember wondering if I would die of starvation.

In September 2012, we learned of the GAPS diet, which is a gut-healing diet. I followed it to perfection, practically living off broths and soups. And it was enough. For a while.

 

Floxed

I won't go into the details of how it happened--you can read the story here--but after being poisoned by a fluoroquinolone drug, my issues worsened. This is when I had to stop drinking coffee and wearing make-up. I lost a ton of foods at once and had to begin wearing a mask every time I ventured into public. Even normal, natural scents like lavender essential oil sent me into respiratory distress. Anaphylaxsis became even more common. As in "three to five times a week" common.

I remember at least two instances during that time in which my spirit separated from my body, allowing me to see everything outside of myself. I remember deciding at least three times to live rather than depart to my Lord for the sake of Superman at my bedside.

In early June 2013, I found myself in another crisis. I again ended up in the ER. This time, we all wondered whether or not I would survive.

My family called a prayer meeting on my behalf, which resulted in God saving my life in a really cool way. For the summer, I was able to eat anything that grew in our garden. Even watermelon, which I hadn't been able to eat in years.

(Note: Prayer changes things. Every time.)

When the summer ended, so did my freedom. I lost all the foods I had enjoyed over the summer and several more, and had one final crisis in December. Fortunately, I was able to stay out of the hospital that time.

Nutritional Therapy

 

I enlisted the help of my friend Jennifer Nervo of 20 Something Allergies in February 2014. She had just become a licensed nutritional therapist. With her help, I gained stability in my diet by following a low-histamine Autoimmune Paleo plan on a four day rotation, which is every bit as complicated as it sounds. I couldn't eat a wide variety of foods, but for the first time since I became ill, I was eating enough.

Even still, my "safe foods" list dwindled.

In summary, food has been a struggle, and the struggle's been real. 

I always knew God would heal me, but part of me doubted my food allergies would be included in that healing. I mean, they've been around for a decade.

When I imagined being well, I imagined going around mask-free and fearless. Having my old energy back. An absence of pain. Even the ability to eat the things I could before I was really sick.

But then Jesus showed up, and all this impossible stuff started happening. First my hands. Then the way I tolerated cold temperatures. Then no more mask because fragrances no longer affected me as they once did.

I couldn't help myself. I asked, "Why not my food allergies?" If Jesus could heal all the other symptoms, he could heal those too.

One day, I tried a bite of a gluten-free cookie. Just to see what would happen. Nothing happened. Then I tried goat milk. Again, nothing. Then eggs. Nothing.

Bulletproof

 

When I no longer required a mask, I told Brandon I wanted to attend the Project 41 White As Snow gala on January 22. (Project 41 is a ministry for sex-trafficking victims and prostitutes in Ouachita Parish. The gala is their big fundraising event each year. Contact me if you're interested in joining the prayer team.)

One morning not long after buying the tickets, I was praying through the Lord's Prayer. (I often use it as a guideline and personalize it to fit the needs of the day. Martin Luther style.) When I got to "give us this day our daily bread," I felt the Holy Spirit say, "You have not because you ask not." And I knew in some mysterious way He wanted me to ask for permission to eat the food at the gala and if I did, He would allow it.

I began telling people--Mom, Brandon, my prayer group--"Just you watch. I'm gonna eat that food and be fine. No matter what it is."

Sure enough, I enjoyed grilled chicken, candied carrots, seasoned green beans, twice-baked potatoes (with cheese and pseudo bacon bits), and two bites of cheesecake (no crust) that I didn't have to cook. Without issue.

As Brandon so eloquently put it, I was bulletproof.

The Big Leagues

 

My stomach wasn't too happy the week following the gala. I had a fair amount of GI inflammation, nausea, intestinal pain, and bloating. Which--granted--isn't all that bad considering what I've been through, but still...

I figured God had given me a free pass for that one night and I'd have to wait a bit longer for complete healing. No big deal. I can be patient.

My prayer group met on Friday night. They asked for testimonies of miraculous healings, which we've been seeing in a steady stream since December. I shared my story again for those who hadn't heard it and for those who wanted to hear it again, during which I mentioned I was believing God for complete healing of my food allergies.

When I got home that night, the Holy Spirit whispered to my spirit, "You haven't asked to be able to eat the food tomorrow."

I'd planned to attend a bridal luncheon in honor of my cousin's fiance the next day. A meal would be served. Honestly, partaking hadn't even occurred to me. Neither had requesting permission to do so.

"Okay, Lord. I would love to eat the food tomorrow. If it would please you, will you allow me to enjoy it?"

I lacked the assurance I felt before the gala, but was content to leave the matter in the Lord's hands. I knew I would know whether or not the food was for me when I saw it. No matter what, I was thrilled just to attend. I hadn't seen my Chapman cousins in years.

 The menu.

Long story short(er): I. ate. it. all. (Minus the orzo and cheesecake crust.)

I knew the moment that fabulous salad was placed before me, it was meant for me and I would be fine.

I even took a bite of the orzo pasta, mistaking it for rice. (I didn't read the menu carefully.) That mistake might have killed me three years ago and would've required Epi and an ER visit in 2009 and 50-100mg of Benadryl as far back as 2007.

But that day my face swelled a little bit. Basically, the equivalent of a sneeze. I didn't even flush.

Mom and I laughed and laughed and laughed throughout the entire meal, which may have been slightly inappropriate, but we couldn't help it. We were absolutely drunk on the joy of the Spirit. (We may have cried a little, too.)

What happened was impossible. The food was delicious. And that cheesecake? The best thing I can remember eating in 10 years. Hands down.

"Thank you, Jesus. Thank you, Jesus. Thank you, Jesus," was the song of my heart which accompanied each bite.

The End

 

The night after the luncheon, I renewed the habit of praying over each meal (in addition to Sara's sweet blessing), thanking God and praying it would heal and nourish my body and the bodies of my family.

This habit accomplishes several important things at once:

1. It reminds me food is a gift, not a right.
2. It reminds me of the Giver.
3. It's a declaration of dependence upon Father for all sustenance. 
4. It forces me to be a good steward of what I put into my body, which is the temple of the Holy Spirit (1 Corinthians 6:19), and reminds me that "all things are lawful for me, but not all things are helpful" (1 Corinthians 6:12).
5. Each bite becomes joyful worship (1 Corinthians 10:31).  

Here's what has happened since:

 

 Oatmeal and goat milk for breakfast yesterday morning. 

I hadn't eaten oatmeal in four years. Brandon left

some in the pot, and I just knew it was for me!

A little coffee to go with my Jesus time this morning. 

First time in three years.

Lawful, not helpful, but oh so yummy.

Omelet with farm fresh eggs, onion, bell pepper, spinach, and goat cheese.

Not low histamine and definitely not AIP approved.

Should've made me flush, sneeze, and itch for the rest of the day, but I'm good.

After my bowl of oatmeal yesterday morning, I said it out loud and posted it to Facebook: I don't have Mast Cell Activation Disease anymore. I'm healed.
 
What a delight eating has become! I can sit before my plate with gratitude, joy, and confidence. No fear. I've been eating foods I haven't enjoyed in years without a hint of discomfort, even when I kind of expect it.

For so long, food was an enemy. No more.

I've been healed of an "incurable disease" by my Lord and Savior, Jesus Christ. I no longer claim MCAD. All my online biographies have been changed (see below). I humbly and enthusiastically accept the gift the Lord is pleased to give--healing of body, mind, and spirit.

Just one month and a couple of days into 2016, the Lord has proven His word to me. This is the Year of Abundance, indeed.

This Little Light of Mine

Original image via Flickr Creative Commons courtesy of Herr Olsen

"No one, when he has lit a lamp, puts it in a secret place or under a basket, but on a lampstand, that those who come in may see the light." ~ Luke 11:33

Last week was a big week for me, and I wasn't quiet about it. Almost every day, I posted (to Facebook) some major event, a mile marker on my road to recovery.

On Tuesday, I took a walk in the cold with my little man while Sara was in her dance lesson. Within 25 minutes, I developed a headache and felt I was on the verge of a "crash." I hadn't really planned on a crash or what I would do in the event of one. It was just me and the kids a full half hour from home. But as I warmed up in the car, I said a quick prayer. The headache cleared. I could move my arms again with ease. As a bonus, on that same trip I was exposed to Lysol, and didn't have a major reaction. Believe me when I say this is BIG.

On Wednesday, I pumped gas. I couldn't remember the last time I'd done such a thing. Nor could I remember which side of the car the gas tank was on. Nor how to operate the credit card machine at the pump. But I figured it out. Brandon had admonished me to wear my mask and gloves. I did and had no problems. It made me feel like a grown up again.

On Thursday, this happened...

Nope. Not kidding.

The last movie I had seen in a theater was Les Miserables in December 2012, and I left that feature violently ill. Fast forward to January 7, 2016. We see STAR WARS, and I leave the theater in perfect health! I wore my mask on the way in and out of the theater and during the first half hour or so while people were eating. The theater wasn't crowded, it being the first showing of the day during the middle of the week three weeks after the movie's release. With plenty of space between me and my fellow movie goers, I was able able to enjoy most of the film mask free.

Only a few months ago, I doubted I would ever enjoy another movie in the theater. Which was a shame because before I got sick, movie dates were "our thing."

What I didn't post to Facebook is what happened after the movie...

Original image via Flickr Creative Commons courtesy of Daniella Segura

An Encounter with my Arch Nemesis

 

Several triggers have tried to kill me over the years, but nothing has come as close to success as "The Peanut." 

Back in 2013, I tried to make a healthy peanut butter for the kids. Big mistake. That little experiment sent me to the brink of death. I struggled to breathe, my blood pressure dropped, I couldn't think or communicate, and my body temperature plummeted to 94.1 degrees. I thought I would meet Jesus that day. 

Since then, I've had a couple of freak reactions to peanuts. Once, when I went through a frozen custard drive-thru. Another time when I kissed the kids after they'd eaten frozen custard. (Custard became a cuss word in this house, as you can imagine.)

Peanuts don't mess around. They carry a fine dust which easily disperses in the air and settles on things like napkins, custard cups, and hard surfaces. Trace amounts are enough to trigger the sensitive and allergic, and the reaction can be severe. Bad stuff goes down when peanuts and I are in the same room.

When it became clear that God was healing me, Brandon and I agreed we wouldn't experiment with triggers which have caused shock reactions. Secretly, I asked God to allow an accident to occur with each shock trigger, but only when my body was ready for it. 

God answered my prayer sooner than expected. 

After the movie on Thursday, B went into the hardware store where we buy local honey. At the entrance is a massive drum of peanuts in the shell. The honey shelf is right next to it. As are the paper bags.

Brandon returned to the car and placed our paper bag of honey in the backseat. Five minutes later, my face and tongue began to swell and my thinking went all...swimmy. 

I swore. Because I knew what it was and I thought it was going to be bad and we had just been on our first date in three years and it was going to end in an emergency. Or so I thought.

Brandon pulled over. I took my rescue meds. Brandon treated me. And I was fine. 

Usually, peanut reactions continue to worsen over the course of a half hour, and it takes me a week to recover. Brandon skipped hunting that evening to keep watch over me. I kept smiling at him, assuring him I was okay. I told him about my secret prayer. 

God wouldn't have let that happen before I was ready. He doesn't give good gifts just to yank them out of our hands.

The timing of this little accident was so perfect. It happened before I shared a meal with my prayer group last Friday, which gave me extra confidence even though they were careful to accommodate me. More importantly, it happened before the White As Snow Gala for Project 41, which I will attend on the 22nd.

 (Purchase your tickets here.)

Now we know--even if the worst case scenario happens I'm not going to die. Brandon will be able to relax and enjoy instead of worrying about me the whole time. To an extent. And I'll be brave enough to try the food after all these weeks of asking God to allow me to eat it without issue. 

(I'll let you know how that goes.)

Sharing the Light

 

I realize my constant praise reports may annoy some of my FB friends. I get it. Ecstatically happy people can be irritating. My sick friends may think to themselves, "What about me?" Been there, done that. I know exactly how you feel. 

But after carefully cataloging the descent, it would be seriously neglectful not to document the rise. Don't you think?

My heart is to encourage. For four years, I've been a walking reminder that life can go terribly wrong. That joy can be found in the midst heartache when you lean into Jesus. Now I'd like to be a walking reminder that God hears and answers prayer. I want to be a parable of resurrection. So I continue to display my candle on a lampstand that others may see the light. I pray others will join me with their own healing stories.

Original image via Flickr Creative Commons courtesy of Esteban Chiner

Healing is Contagious

The people who have walked with me through the darkness are the most affected by the light. Maybe more so than me. When you've watched your wife/child/mother/friend fighting for her life against a supposedly incurable, progressive disease, it does something to you when the tragedy is rewritten with hope.

My doctor and friend, Carolyne Yakaboski, often shakes her head in wonder. My parents grin over my latest experiments. Fear loosens its grip on my Superman as he learns to trust and believe. Sara asks me to take her to Sonic so she can play on the playground. 

"Soon," I say. 

But Micah...oh, man. 

Micah is a sensitive kid. He doesn't always show his emotions (as opposed to Sara who wears her heart on her sleeve and wants everyone to participate in whatever she's feeling at the moment). But he feels deeply. Mom reminded me the other day that Micah was adjusting to a baby sister when I got sick. That's a lot of life change for a sensitive little guy. 

Micah has only a couple of memories of me when I was well. He has lots of memories of me in bed. Of being passed around from caretaker to caretaker. Of my absence. He'll be seven next month. I've been sick for over half his life. 

The other day when I told him I would start picking him up from school some days, a gap-toothed smile spread across his face. Tears filled his eyes until one slipped out and ran down the side of his freckled nose. "You made me cry, Mama."

"Does that make you happy?" I clarified. 

He nodded, and I kissed that little nose.

Not long ago, he told my mom with wide, serious eyes, "God has finally heard our prayers."

Lately, he's been praying for other sick people we know with confidence. He believes. And he's been...I don't know. Happier. Almost as happy as when he was a baby.

Mom and I talked as we watched the kids play one day last week. "This is going to stay with him his whole life," she said. "He'll never forget what God did for you. It will shape his relationship with Him forever."

My story probably won't have the same impact on you as it does on my husband and son. But because there's a chance it will shape your view of our good, good Father...

This little light of mine

I'm gonna let it shine

"Nor do they light a lamp and put it under a basket, but on a lampstand, and it gives light to all who are in the house." (Matthew 5:15)

The Extra Bowl of Ice Cream

 

Original image via Flickr Creative Commons via Nathan Cooke

Some rights reserved.

Last spring, I wrote this scene in which Declan (a healer) entices Mara (an ex-prostitute and recovering alcoholic) to eat by making ice cream, a rare treat in my medieval-esque world. The ice cream is shared six ways among the three women and the three men of the household, so everyone gets just enough. But when Mara finishes her portion, Declan quietly takes her empty bowl and replaces it with his full one.

After I wrote this, I asked the Lord, bold as brass, "Will you give me an extra bowl of ice cream?"

It wasn't that I didn't have enough. I had Him. But in the midst of sickness, injustice, grief, and loneliness, I wanted assurance that God was kind.

Now, I know "kind" doesn't always mean "nice." God isn't nice. Or safe.

But as Mr. Beaver will tell you, He is good, and that's sort of the same thing.

via The Hamby Home

Rather than immediately serve up my request, God opened my eyes to the ice cream I already had--

a healthy marriage

two sweet ginger kids

toys on the floor

enough to eat

a warm house

hot detox baths

joy in writing

daily grappling matches with an almighty Sovereign

long naps and angel's food in the shade of a broom tree

But just because God didn't immediately answer my prayer the way I wanted Him to doesn't mean He said, "No."

Fast forward seven months...

He places lonely little me in a family of believers, the kind of Christian fellowship I've craved all my life. This family accepts me. God burdens their hearts for my sake, and they, in turn, plead my case before Him. I learn about their personal prayer ministry. I apply. I become their first recipient, and God uses that experience to free me from spiritual bondage I thought I'd never be rid of, to heal me of the emotional damage of the past, and to unravel this crazy illness one symptom at a time. 

I've written about how God healed my hands. Only two weeks later, there's more to report!

On December 3, it was 37 degrees. I experimented with my tolerance to outdoor temps. Here's a summary of how that went:

The video I took this morning...mainly for the entertainment of Madonna Gil and Torey Pop Morgan. You're welcome. ;)
Posted by Melissa Chapman Keaster on Thursday, December 3, 2015

(Hope you enjoyed the up close shot of my nostrils...*face palm*)

Now, 37 degrees is a far cry from 20 degrees, which was the temp the day I first reacted to the cold, but I fully expect to be fine when it gets that cold again. It seems to be what God is doing.

Last week, I woke up at 6am (or earlier) four days in a row and saw Micah off to school each day. Last year, that wouldn't have been physically possible. Even with naps. 

I also ate half a cookie *gasp* from a package. Granted, it was gluten-free and processed in a peanut-free facility, but I'm still calling it a win because my tongue didn't swell, I didn't cough, and my mouth didn't immediately fill with tiny sores. That being said, my original chocolate chip cookie recipe tastes better for anyone who wants to know.

Even with all this momentum, I didn't expect what happened this past Saturday. God's faithfulness was on full display. 

Some of you may know Stan and Stacey Thomason. Brandon and I met them not long after we began going to Crossroads in January 2008. Stacey and I bonded over our love for Jesus and real food, and though circumstances have kept us apart for the past several years, we've stayed in touch. One of the reasons for this is that back in 2009 the Lord gave me a word for her at a Beth Moore conference. 

During worship, God impressed upon my heart that Stacey would one day be a mother and that I needed to tell her. I did not want to do this. For several reasons. 

A) It was the first time God had ever given me a word to tell someone. New territory=lots of doubt and fear.

B) I was unworthy. Back then, I was in the early stages of recovery from a 5 year rebellion against God. Who was I to deliver any kind of message from Him?

C) I knew Stacey's deep desire for a child. I also knew her difficulties in having one. God in heaven, what if I was wrong? 

But somehow, I knew I must speak, as terrified as I was. I turned to her, touched her shoulder, and swallowed. "Stacey, I don't know how or when, but you will be a mother. God wanted me to tell you that."

(For the record: If I'd known then what I know now, I probably would've stated that differently. But there's grace for the young and stupid.)

We waited almost six years. Each time hope glimmered, I rejoiced. With each hope deferred, I grieved. I prayed. And, of course, I wondered if I'd spoken out of turn. What if my words had been for harm?

And then last year about this time, Stacey texted me a photo of an ultrasound. There she was--Miss Rinnah Nalon--growing in her brave birth mother's belly, awaiting the arms of a woman who would love her more than life.

Saturday was the celebration of Rinnah's official adoption.

And as if that wasn't good enough...

We arrived at the start of things. On the way inside, I noticed it was just us and one other family. I looked at the mask in my hand, then up at Brandon. "Mind if I try to go without it?"

He agreed after I promised to put it on the moment I felt myself getting sick. 

That moment never came.

I don't understand. There were candles burning. The scent of perfume wafted to my nose now and again. Two weeks ago, candles and perfume still bothered me. Even when the place began to fill up, I was fine. 

Before we left, I stole Stacey away into a corner where she and I marveled over God's incredible faithfulness. Brandon captured the moment for me.

How's that for an extra bowl of ice cream?

On the way home from the celebration, I asked Brandon, "Can I try church tomorrow?"

His hand went straight for his heart. 

"Please?"

He agreed. 

The next day, I enjoyed an entire church service MASK-FREE. Nearly three years have passed since the last time that happened. I alternated between tears of joy and ecstatic squeals in Brandon's ear--"I'm doing greeeaat!"

At the end of the service, we took a selfie to commemorate the extra extra bowl of ice cream: 

Superman,

You are so brave and awesome to put up with my experiments after the horrors you've lived. Thank you, thank you for believing with me. Most men would've left long ago, but you've stayed. Enjoy God's reward, my love, as He restores to us the years the locusts have eaten.

Brandon and I agree. I won't experiment with triggers that have caused shock reactions. That means no pesticides, no peanuts, and no latex. If I'm accidentally exposed to one of these triggers and I'm fine, PRAISE THE LORD, but I won't go looking for trouble.

I'm not completely mask-free yet. I dropped off Sara at dance yesterday without my mask and regretted it. Something (Lysol maybe?) had been recently sprayed in the area. Not fun, but I didn't react as I once would have. Also, freshly mowed grass and gasoline are apparently still problematic. 

But dude! I can go to church without wearing a mask!!!! And I'm going to try Christmas gatherings this year!

"Trust in the Lord and do good. Dwell in the land and feed on His faithfulness." (Psalm 37:3)

I hope you'll feast with me this Christmas. There's plenty of "ice cream" to go around, even in the darkness of this world. Turn off the news for half a second. Leave the fate of humanity in the hands of our able and almighty God.

Here's a spoon. Dig in!

On NaNoWriMo and Answered Prayers

 
Now that I've crossed the NaNoWriMo finish line, I thought I'd give you all a long overdue update. A lot has happened in the past few weeks.

But first, let's talk about NaNo. 

 

I finished the morning of the 25th. That's 50k words in 25 days (aka my fastest writing pace ever). I managed a few hundred words on Thanksgiving, but between the holiday, recovering from the holiday, and the gloomy weather, I just haven't had it in me to write any more. I'm all...

Even though it's totally not. I need to complete the draft before Christmas if I want to release 2-3 books next year. And call me crazy, but I do.

NaNo isn't my only news. God has been on a prayer answering roll.

1) Ministry Opportunities:

 

One of the things I've missed during this illness is ministry. God has given me plenty of one on one ministry opportunities over the years, and I've relished those, but I longed for something...more.

Back in January, I researched human trafficking and sexual slavery for my novel, Eleora.

Here's the thing--all information comes with a burden. When you learn something, you have to do something with what you learn, whether you act on it, discard it, or choose to ignore it. Once I knew what was happening in the world--what was happening in my home town--I couldn't do nothing.

I met with Lindsey Nadler of Project 41 in October to go over her beta reader notes for Eleora. Prior to the meeting, I had prayed God would provide a way for me to become involved with the ministry. I told Lindsey of my interest and how I was waiting for God to heal me, to which she said, "If you're serious about wanting to get involved, I need someone to organize a prayer team. We need people who will take prayer seriously."

Why am I always surprised when God answers my prayers? I mean, we have a pretty good rapport going, and yet I was so stunned I barely got the words out--"I'm your girl."

Our team meets via conference call at 5am on Wednesday mornings. I'm no morning person, but I love denying myself that bit of sleep to meet with others to pray. I can't think of a better way to start my day.

Lindsey also invited me to teach a writing and journaling class as soon as I'm well enough to do so.

2) Community:

 

Back in the summer, the Lord began speaking to me about pursuing community again. He brought the subject to me through Scripture, prayer, blog posts, conversations, an expert consult on the book of Job. The message was everywhere: Pursue Community.

I was confused. Again and again, I asked, "What do you mean, God?"

Well, things have become clearer.

Writing Community:

For months, I've prayed for writer friends. Women in particular. (Not that I'm not super thankful for Len Woods and Leo Honeycutt.)

After taking a couple of Kristen Lamb's writing classes and surviving her Death Star editing treatment, I joined WANATribe, a social network for writers. Most of the members are women! Kristen and I are now pals, an unexpected gift. A handful of us meet in the chat room for "writing sprints," in which we write as many words as we can in 30 minutes and compare counts. (It's writing as a competitive sport. It's awesome.) And I met kindred spirit Talena Winters on Thanksgiving Day.

In addition to a writing community, God has given me the gift of...

Christian Community:

 

"God places the lonely in families..." Psalm 68:6

When I think of the community the Lord brought my lonely little soul into, I think of the word "family."

The connection was instant.

When I walked into the Siegmund's home on Friday night, October 16, the love of the Lord was so thick in that place I smelled it on the air. I tasted it. I waded through it on the way to my seat. I breathed it in, and basked in it all evening long.

I remember looking around the room that night. No one knew because I wore my mask, but I was grinning for most of worship and Bible study, thinking to the Lord, Thank you. Thank you. I've found my people!

Guys, this weirdo has found a home. Even as I write that, I tear up.

The story of how God led me to this group and what I've experienced since deserves its own post, but honestly...it's a gift so personal and precious I'm not sure I want to share it. Not here. I tremble at the thought. I don't think you could understand if I did. For now, I'll just hold it in my heart and savor the kindness of God. But if you ever want to hear the story, don't hesitate to ask. I'll do my best to describe the indescribable.

And consider this--when God prompts you to do something that confuses you or seems a little crazy at the time, trust Him. Act. He not only provides the means to obey, but the reward is breathtaking.

And sometimes miraculous. 

3) Physical Healing:

 

Yes, you read that right. I'm experiencing legitimate physical healing.

It's been going on for a while, but it can take time to notice. You can't miss a new symptom when it shows up, but when symptoms begin to disappear? It's hard to keep track. You go about your life as it is and then one day you look for the old symptom, and it's not there.

Either late this summer or early this autumn, I noticed my fevers were gone. I used to spike a temp with every reaction and every time my monthly visitor came to call. Not anymore.

October 12 was my last bad bout of histamine-induced insomnia. Since then, I've fallen asleep with (relative) ease, and I (usually) sleep through the night. And get this--more often than not, I wake up feeling rested. If you have an autoimmune disease, you know what a miracle that is.

At my most recent check up with Dr. Yakaboski, my adrenal health tested nearly perfect. My last episode of anaphylaxsis was in the spring. Since June, I've enjoyed regular church attendance. And not once have I left community/prayer group sick. Not once!

While all of this is a very big deal, I'm pretty excited about my latest healed symptom, which followed the heels of a very special experience.

My community group has recently trained in a program called Christian Healing Ministries. CHM is an intercessory ministry for people in need of spiritual, emotional, and physical healing.

I was the first client to apply.

The week before my session, which was the Sunday night before Thanksgiving, I prayed. A lot. I knew God was going to heal a few specific spiritual battles and emotional issues, but I also sensed I would experience physical healing that night.

So I shared my thoughts with Brandon, Mom, Nona, the kids, and a few of my friends, and asked them to pray.

All week I prayed, "Lord, I come to you with open hands, ready to receive anything you want to give me."

The night before and throughout the day of the session, Sara would burst into spontaneous prayer--"Dear Jesus, please help Mama be able to handle da cold so we can teach her how to play in da snow."

I know she's four, but it felt prophetic, y'all.

I approached the session with a little bit of fear and lots of expectation. It was very different from anything I've ever experienced, but extremely powerful, personal, and healing on all fronts.

Once again, the experience was far too precious and personal to share in detail, but I would like to share this one very special thing:

(Note: Yes, I know the word is "welts." 

No clue why I mispronounced it a bajillion times, 

 but Micah refused to record another take for me.)

To give you a point of reference, I took this photo one night a while back after peeling refrigerated sweet potatoes with nitrile gloves on. The photo quality doesn't do it justice, but you get the idea.

What I love about this:

1) The Lord healed something my kids could see. They'd been praying for me to be healed. God answered with something visible, boosting that childlike faith. I don't have a ton of visible symptoms, so that's kind of special.

2) God's thoughtfulness and kindness. For over a year, I've accepted discomfort as part of the cooking process. It is what it is and all that. And then, God heals this symptom the week of Thanksgiving before the biggest cooking day and season of the year. Amazing.

3) It's funny. Better yet, it's witty. Look at the specific prayers again. I prayed, "Lord, I come to you with open hands." Sara said again and again, "...please help Mama be able to handle da cold."

I love a good pun. So when the Lord showed me the connection, I laughed and laughed and laughed. And then I cried.

God speaks my language. He shares my sense of humor. I love it.

The winds are changing.

 

Do you feel it? I do. This season brings healing, growth, and adventure. And before the end of it, maybe even that party Jenny and I talked about throwing.

Mercy, I miss that girl. How many times have I wanted to call her this week? When I close my eyes, I see her smile. I hear her laughter and hallelujahs. I suppose it's comforting to know she knows and she's celebrating in heaven.

Damn cancer to hell.

God isn't finished. 

 

I believe healing continues from here. The next time the temperature dips below 40 degrees, I fully expect to walk outside without a coat, breathe deeply, feel a bit chilled, and be fine.

Lindsey, if you're reading this, my answer is, "Yes. I'd love to teach that writing class." Somehow, God will work out the details.

My new family is stretching me, challenging me. I'm looking harder at my Bible, realizing that maybe I only believe half the paradox--that another half exists--and that I just haven't seen it because I tend to limit God to my experience and what I've been told rather than what the Bible says at face value. Grappling--it's good exercise.

And mixing with people again...wow. That's growth in itself.

With ministry opportunities, new friends, new thoughts, and book releases on the horizon, I'd say there's plenty of adventure ahead.

Onward and upward.

Emergency Desensitization Technique

If you've followed my health journey over the past couple of years, you may recall me mentioning a mysterious "treatment" used during my mast cell episodes. It's my secret weapon against those angry little buggers.

Time-lapsed mast cell degranulation. Cool to watch. Not so cool to experience.

The treatment now has a name--Emergency Desensitization Technique (EDT).

 Me at Dr. Carolyne's office receiving a lymphatic treatment in 2013.

My friend, Dr. Carolyne Yakaboski of Natural Wellness Center in West Monroe, Louisiana discovered EDT in an effort to save my life. She called upon the most effective protocols she'd learned throughout her experience in natural medicine, and spliced them together in a specific sequence.

And. It. Is. Amazing.

Family and friends have performed EDT on me countless times with nearly perfect success. Only once did I use Epi in addition to the treatment. My kids, family members, and friends have experienced the wonders of EDT as well.

I've seen EDT relieve symptoms* such as:

• sneezing
• coughing
• wheezing
• itching
• headache
• insomnia
• anxiety
• difficulty breathing
• dizziness
• fainting
• brain fog
• nausea
• sciatic pain

Over time, it also may decrease sensitivity to particular allergens and triggers. It certainly has for me.

I believe EDT is a significant factor in my improvement over the past two years. Improvement which shouldn't be possible considering that Mast Cell Activation Syndrome is a progressive disease.

What IS EDT?

EDT is based upon modern allergy relief techniques and the ancient principles of acupressure and deep breathing which trigger the body's natural healing response. It's simple to perform and requires no special skill. All you need is a pen, paper, a few cotton swabs, and an accessible way to learn it.

I've longed to share the technique with fellow floxies, masties, and allergy-sufferers for as long as I've used it, but I have friends all over the world who suffer like me. They can't all fly to West Monroe to learn from Master Carolyne in person. (Though I would love that. Party, anyone?)

SO, during my social media hiatus, Dr. Carolyne and I filmed a video tutorial which demonstrates how to perform this simple technique from the safety and convenience of your own home. Dr. Carolyne provides instruction while I serve as her willing prop.

I loved practice sessions for this video. I received two or more treatments a week while we worked on it, and felt great by the time we were done.

This two minute clip features my personal testimonial. (Please forgive my awkward camera presence and southern drawl.)

If you are interested in learning more about EDT, contact Dr. Carolyne Yakaboski at http://dryakaboski.com/ or call her office at 318-387-3000. 

(Note: By promoting this video/technique, I do not gain financially in any way. I simply want to share information that has improved my quality of life in hopes that it will do the same for others.)

*EDT is not intended to diagnose illness or to be used as a substitute for medical advice. Please consult a physician in matters relating to serious illness and medical emergencies.

They Tried to Make Me Go to Rehab

Back in January, I deactivated from Facebook. I needed a break. A breather. A social media detox, if you will.

I had become addicted. And let's face it. I'm not the only one.

Have you seen the haunting photographs from Eric Pickersgill's project Removed? Oh my word, what an indictment!

It's a sad deal when we take something good and make it ultimate. Social media is purposed to bring us together, but when we look to it for validation and use it as an emotional numbing agent, it divides us.

That's what happened to me. So to break my habit, God put me in social media rehab for eight months. Here's an overview of how that went:

Facebook Rehabilitation Diary:

Day 1: Good day. Withdrawal set in this evening, manifesting in agitation and a pounding headache. Apparently, Facebook withdrawal is a real thing. Who knew?

Day 2: Devastating news for our family. Glad I'm not on Facebook.

Days 3-10: Undulating between rage and depression with almost no in between. Trying very hard to be a supportive wife and mother. Wrestling with God over the first few chapters of Job again. I was one chapter from the end of the book, but my heart is in chapters 1-3. So thither I return.

Week 1: Rediscovered Pinterest. In my defense, I'm using it to learn how to write a better book. Mostly. Also, I discovered cat memes.

 

Week 2: Lonely. Had things to say and no one to say them to. I texted instead. That helped. Can't go outside or stand near the door because of the cold.  So depressed all I want to do is eat and sleep. Since I don't have FB, I spend free time doing novel research.

Week 4: Not as angry now. Seeing good come from the bad. Stronger relationships with B and the kids. Spiritual growth in B. Began Draft 2 of my novel.

 

Month 2:  Beginning to crawl out of The Pit of Despair. Family vacation. Hit my writing stride.

 

Month 3: Look how much I can accomplish without FB! Look at all these inflammatory events I'm missing! All the stress I'm avoiding! What is this new, fabulous world?

Month 4: Turns out...to be accepted by an agent and sell actual, real-live books, I must have an author platform, which includes FB, Twitter, and an active blog. Bubble busted.

Month 5: Draft 3 of my novel complete. It's probably time to return to Facebook. Resistance. Anxiety. Avoidance.

Month 6: Suddenly realized I'm lonely. Returning to FB now would be like a recovering alcoholic strolling the liquor aisle after his dog died.

Month 7: Working on face-to-face relationships. Draft 4 in progress. Facebook return imminent.

End of Month 7: Submit manuscript to beta readers. Deep breath.

(Dog memes are also fun.)

Almost month 8: Logged back in.

What I Learned:

 

1) Facebook is legitimate community.

While nothing can replace the people in front of me, there's something truly grand about the ability to connect with human beings all over the globe. My best friends live out of state. I've met some incredible people who live in other countries. I missed them while I was away. 

2) Facebook is its own kind of social assistance.

We don't have time to keep up with every person we care about. In our fast-paced culture, everyone is swamped. During the eight months I was away, I talked to my best friends maybe 2-3 times each and saw almost no one outside of immediate family. Every now and then I would get a text or hear from mom that someone missed me or wanted to know how I was. People didn't stop caring just because I was away. Neither did I! But without Facebook, we no longer had a convenient way to check in.

3) Facebook hiatus was good for my health.

Facebook stresses me out. It's not just the drama over politics, current events, and what Christian women consider acceptable entertainment (read into that what you will), though that's plenty bad for sensitive folk like me.

The main reason Facebook stresses me out is because I walk through life with this strange, genetically-rooted complex which makes me believe every vague or negative status and delayed private message response is my fault and that I somehow offended this person and I must do something to make it right.

Slowly but surely, I'm learning I'm not the center of the universe and not everyone is thinking of me when they type in their various vague/negative statuses and that I should calm the heck down and give people the benefit of the doubt. *breathes into paper bag*

Stress is mast cell trigger. I don't think it's a coincidence that I enjoyed the healthiest few months I've had in a while during my FB absence.

4) Facebook hiatus doesn't automatically strengthen face-to-face relationships.

It's far easier to swap addictions than it is to learn new habits. I struggled with this throughout my hiatus. If it wasn't FB, it was Pinterest. Or music. Or Netflix. Or my novel. I had to work to connect.

Though my health is stable now, life is still hard. Painful, even. It's easier to self-medicate with technology (since I can't do it with food, liquor, or medication) than it is to acknowledge the pain, process it, and relate to others.

5) The world keeps spinning with or without me. 

For eight months I was invisible to nearly everyone except the people under my roof. And the world didn't end. Everyone was fiiiine. (I know. I can't believe it either.) I find this both humbling and comforting.

6) Now that I'm clean, I enjoy Facebook more. I'm free to enjoy the gift without the gift possessing me. Which is way more fun.

All in all, I loved being away and I love being back. The thing that was poison to me in January is a treat to me now. And that's a good place to be.



What do you think? What pros and cons does Facebook hold for you? Is its cultural impact mostly positive or negative? Does it connect us or divide us? I'd love to hear your thoughts!

There's a Place for Us

There are many facets of illness I find difficult. The loneliness. The uncertainty. My food sensitivities are always changing and growing in number. What will I eat tomorrow? A year from now? What if a wasp stings me while I'm alone with the kids? Would I survive the flu? Winter is coming, so freedom will be going. How bad will the depression be this time?

But nothing presses me quite like the question...

Where do I belong?

Before I was sick, I was a mom who did stuff with her kids. Brandon and I taught first graders at church. I sang for area congregations when asked. I gave music lessons to children. I traveled to Ruston once a week for one-on-one discipleship, and was part of a community group. I met one friend for playdates and another for prayer. I led a couple of choir things for our church. I had a place.

When I became ill, it all burned to the ground. Nothing survived, and nothing has revived. But my soul-razing has proven to be a very good thing.

My activity was aimless. 

 

Just because I did a lot of stuff, doesn't mean I was functioning as part of an organic whole. There's much more to life than just being busy. 

"A spiritual gift is given to each of us so we can help each other...It is the one and only Spirit who distributes all these gifts. He alone decides which gift each person should have. The human body has many parts, but the many parts make up one whole body. So it is with the body of Christ..and God has put each part just where he wants it."-1 Corinthians 12:7,11,12,18

I have friends who strongly disagree with me about this, but I believe God brought illness into my life. (Maybe that's not the best way to say it. Maybe I should say that when Satan asked to bring this illness to me, God agreed because He knew best.) I see it as mercy. Severe mercy, I grant you, but mercy nonetheless.

I'm where God wants me. Most days, I'm okay with that.

Based upon what I understand of my spiritual gifts now, I can say with 99.9% certainty I wasn't using them much prior to 2012. I may have had a place, but I had no function.

But how does one cut off from the body function as PART of the body?

 

This has been a question with which I've wrestled throughout. I still wrestle. Here are three ways God has answered it:

• A church outside of church. We live 45 minutes away from where we attend church. For a while, a few people helped us, but there was no way to sustain it. We were too needy and lived too far away. Besides that, we were absent. So my family became my church. Brandon, Mom, Dad, sister, brother-in-law, grandparents, and in-laws rallied around me. Not only did they offer Christian support, but it was within this tiny church that I discovered and began to exercise my true gifting.

• Christian friendships. I have several friends who live out of state. Others an hour away or a few miles down the road. By God's grace, we haven't lost touch. The encouragement these ladies have offered over the years has been essential to my spiritual health. They're champions to hang with me through all this craziness. I hope I've been half as good a friend to them.

• The invisible ministry of prayer. When I couldn't attend church myself, I prayed for the churches my people attended. For a while, Brandon and the kids went to church with my parents. So I prayed for Cedar Crest Baptist Church. My in-laws still attend the church Brandon and I married in. So I prayed for FBC Marion. My son attends Wednesday night services at my grandparents' church. I so I prayed for Faith Baptist Church. And God never released me from claiming The Bridge Community Church as my home. Through prayer, I went from feeling church-homeless to feeling like I had four churches. 

A word about invisible ministry...

I think we're all a little afraid of being invisible. But let me assure you, as someone who has been invisible for four years, it ain't so bad when you understand: The only Eyes that matter see you.

When Hagar was alone in the desert, the Angel of the Lord found her. He spoke to her. And then she called His name--You-Are-The-God-Who-Sees. That understanding was her lifeline.

And just because you aren't seen, doesn't mean you don't matter.

"In fact, some parts of the body that seem weakest and least important are actually the most necessary. And the parts we regard as less honorable are those we clothe with the greatest care. So we carefully protect those parts that should not be seen, while the more honorable parts do not require this special care. So God has put the body together such that extra honor and care are given to those parts that have less dignity. This makes for harmony among the members, so that all the members care for each other. If one part suffers, all the parts suffer with it, and if one part is honored, all the parts are glad."--1 Corinthians 12:22-26

Paul says here that though I seem weak and unimportant, I'm actually pretty necessary. I may be hidden, but I'm vital. I require special care, but I'm part of what makes the body tick. I may have less dignity than others, but I'm not all that interested in dignity and frankly, I don't think God is either. If my ministry nosedives, people who will never meet me will feel it. And if God heals me or prospers me in any way, the entire body benefits.

Widows, young moms need your wisdom and helping hands. Come be a part of our families.

Young moms, your job is the most important in the world. God sees your sacrifice when no one else does.

Invalids, the way you worship God in suffering inspires us all. You are living proof of God's sustaining grace. We need that.

Shut-ins, maybe God sequestered you to be an intercessor, or a writer, or a messenger. Ask for grace to get past the self-pity and embrace your calling. It's necessary.

On Initiative, The Velvet Hammer, and What I Want

Confession chased the heels of awakening.

"I feel...kinda...really...lonely."

Mom gave me that look. The dimple pronounced itself. The corner of her mouth turned up. And those baby blues flashed her thoughts like a neon sign--"Finally, I can get this off my chest."

 

Mom is what a writing friend of mine calls a "velvet hammer."

Exhibit A: The Velvet Hammer:

Pounding out hard truths in the softest ways...

(Until she's annoyed, in which case...watch out.)

"Well, you've been in isolation--writing your book--for months. You haven't had time for people." Her eyes darted to mine. "Which is fine. It's the way it had to be. But now your book is finished, and you're left with the isolation."

Translation: You shut everyone out for months, including me. It's your own fault. Not that I blame you. Your book is important. But you made the bed you woke up in. Just sayin...

See what I mean? WHAM! With a side of sugar.

So I asked her what to do about it because apparently, I'd forgotten how to relate to people who aren't characters I created.

Her reply was both simple and profound --"Tell people what you want."

Initiative. It's hard, folks, but somebody has to take it. 

There are several reasons we don't. Probably more than I've listed here.

We're busy. Many people my age are parents of small children. That automatically makes a person busy. Others have a job. Some have many jobs. Busy-ness can fry the brain and zap the energy until we fall into a social coma. This is why my long distance pals and I go months without talking. And these are my best friends!

We're shy. We introverts are comfortable enough with our friends. Within our own circles, we may be the life of the party. But throw us into a room full of strangers, and we speak to no one. Because we are overwhelmed by all the bodies and the stimuli, and small talk creeps us out.

We're self-consumed. I'm not talking about people who can only talk about themselves here. I'm talking about the ones who just lost a job or found out their mother has cancer or whose kid is self-destructing. Everyone has their own stuff. When we're preoccupied like that, it's difficult to even see outside of ourselves, much less connect with another person.

We lack confidence. Connection is risky. Will they like me? Accept me? Hate my guts and trample my heart?

And then there are people who are just downright intimidating. We all know a few.

For one reason or another, I've always been one of those people.

Until a few years ago, people often assumed I was a goody-goody, know-it-all, pretty-girl snob they couldn't relate to. Don't believe me? Here are a few things real people have actually said to me. In earnest:

"They hate you because you're a goody two-shoes."
"I'm insanely jealous of you! You always know what you want out of life, and you're able to make it happen."
"Gah--you're so pretty. I hate you."
"Before I met you, I thought you were one of those weirdo Bible-thumpers and that we could never be friends."
"I thought you were a snob."


(I was always bewildered and devastated by these comments, but I think I understand them better now. As a defense mechanism, people will reject you before you have a chance to reject them. In the end, we're all after the same thing--acceptance--and we're scared to death it will be denied. This is why we need Jesus. In Him, we are accepted by God. God's perfect love casts out fear, and when we're unafraid, we can withstand the risk of rejection because there will always be One to accept us.)

I'm not sure how I'm perceived now. People don't feel as free to comment as they did before. But here are my best guesses:

• A walking reminder that life can go terribly wrong. 
• A hypochondriac.
• A drama queen.
• FRAGILE. Do Not Touch.

I grant the mask is intimidating...

almost as intimidating as Brandon's bodyguard face.

Did you know it's every bit as intimidating to realize people are intimidated by you as it is to feel intimidated by someone else?

It all goes back to fear of rejection.

If I want community, I have to work harder at it than a normal person. 

I don't have a job. I don't "get out." I don't make it to church that often. And when I do, how much community can I really have when I bee-bop late into a crowded room, sit in an isolated corner, and duck out before the fragrant masses arrive for the next service? 

With these hurdles, I'm not allowed to be too busy, shy, self-consumed, or intimidated. Whether I like it or not, I have to initiate relationships. 

So here's what I want:

• I want you to approach me. Unless you bathed in perfume, peanut butter, or a pool of rubber bands. In that case, try again later.
• I want you to stop feeling intimidated by my struggles. Feel free to share your own. My struggles bore me. Let's talk about you!
• I want you to call me, text me, and invite yourself over for tea. 
• I want your kids in my house. Bring them with you.
• I want you to accept my invitations. I won't invite you if I'm not sincere.
• I want to feel happily exhausted at the end of a good visit. 
• I want a hodgepodge of friends and family to come over, sing hymns, and have communion with me. I'll provide the rice crackers and hibiscus tea.
• I want to feed people.
• I want you to ask favors of me. Trust me to say "no" if I can't say "yes."
• I want more velvet hammers in my life. 

Maybe I'm not the only one...

It occurs to me that maybe I'm not the only one who has room to improve in the realm of relationships. Maybe we could all stand to be a bit braver, more selfless, more intentional, and harder to offend. Maybe we should all attempt a little warmth and vulnerability so people aren't so intimidated to approach us.

Maybe we could all stand to take a little initiative with the people in our lives. Just sayin...

 (I learned to hammer from the best.)

Waking Up

For the better part of this year, I've lived in isolation.

A large part of that is necessary for my health. If I leave my house, I can bank on returning at least a little bit sick.

By "a little bit sick," I mean I have to crawl into bed for a while, my energy is zapped, and I experience a variety of discomforts, which may include swelling, asthma, severe headache, joint and tissue pain, dizziness, loss of balance, blood pressure drops, fainting, insomnia, and/or fever.

And then, there's always the risk of returning home "very sick," which means death and I brushed shoulders along the way. I'm happy to report that hasn't happened in a while, but there's always the risk.

You see why I don't get out much.

Another part of my isolation was self-imposed. I withdrew from social media because I felt doing so was in the interests of myself and my family.

I was right.

January, February, and March leeched the life out of me. It was a difficult time for all of us, and the scant energy I had needed to go to Brandon and my kids.

My memory blocks seasons of extreme difficulty. All I remember from that time is anger, hollowness, and a weariness so deep death sounded good.

Also, God. The grappling, the crying, the fight for grateful living. Exhilarating answers to prayer. Growth. Painful, excruciating growth.

Oh! And Gilmore Girls. God bless Gilmore Girls.

The final part of the isolation was inevitable. God gave me a book to write, and guess what--you have to write in isolation. There's no other way. Without going bonkers, anyway.

Those lonely months with nothing but God, my family, my characters and their story restored my strength. Solitude was just what I needed. Funny, isn't it, how the Great Physician never gets the prescription wrong?

On July 15, I completed a typed draft of my novel. Woohoo!

I frolicked about in post-writing afterglow for a week or two. I traveled to Baton Rouge to see my friend/mentor. I watched television. I read Blake Snyder's Save the Cat!, grinning like a Cheshire cat each time I realized I had followed pro-writer advice without even knowing it. Cha-ching! I basked in having written something Mom and Brandon really liked. I took naps. 

And then I woke up. 

If you ever have the misfortune of running out of water in the middle of the desert, you will begin to feel sleepy after a time. You will sleep, and for the length of that sleep, you will feel nothing as you edge closer and closer to death. 

But when you wake, you'll experience a thirst unlike anything you can imagine. You'll be mad with it. You'll drink anything--urine, antifreeze, bleach.

Waking up to isolation was a bit like that. A bit.

For months, I slept through the pain of loneliness. To heal. To write. It was good and it was necessary and I don't regret it. 

But now...

Facebook would've been an easy fix, but I know enough of myself to realize that going to Facebook with a need like that would've been the soul equivalent to drinking antifreeze. So I waited...

In the meantime, what was I supposed to do with this desire and no clear way to quench it?

The purpose of desire, I believe, is to keep us alive and point us to God. Granted, we can warp desires into bad things when we fashion them into idols, but for the most part, God gives us desires to meet them. He's good like that, yo.

C. S. Lewis puts it like this: 

A man's physical hunger does not prove that that man will get any bread; he may die of starvation on a raft in the Atlantic. But surely a man's hunger does prove that he comes of a race which repairs its body by eating and inhabits a world where eatable substances exist. In the same way, though I do not believe (I wish I did) that my desire for Paradise proves that I shall enjoy it, I think it a pretty good indication that such a thing exists and that some men will. A man may love a woman and not win her; but it would be very odd if the phenomenon called "falling in love" occurred in a sexless world.

Thus, I conclude that if I desire community, community exists. Even for shut-ins. Even for me. And based on what I know of God and the Bible, community is good and necessary. We are built to need each other. So I don't have to worry about whether or not the desire is right.

But what does community look like for someone like me?

I don't believe God would awaken me to thirst just to let me die. I'm thirsty so I'll drink.

So the question isn't "Can I attain community?" but "How will I attain community?"

Which is something I'm figuring out as I go.

Closed Doors, a Reluctant Ice Queen, and Frozenness

Confession: Having escaped multiple daily viewings of Disney's Frozen, I still like the movie. In a lot of ways, I live the movie.

Because I'm a human being and not a caricature, I fall in the ambiguous zone between fun-loving Anna and isolated Elsa, and sometimes the two within me are at war. Honestly, it would be sweet release to just let the Elsa in me take over. Fear, false freedom, and emotional distance seem easier somehow. But my inner Anna refuses to stay down.

The last four years have been a series of doors in my face. One after the other--bam! bam!--until I'm all but trapped inside a 16x72 mobile home on a little dirt road in the middle of nowhere.

I suppose the Ice Queen's heart must break before it can melt. 

So cut through the heart, cold and clear.
Strike for love and strike for fear.

The reverberations of the last door slammed still rattle my bones.

On Thursday, I ventured into 20 degree air to pick up Micah from school, and suffered my first reaction to the cold. While driving, no less. With my two preciouses in the back seat.

When my chest tightened, I concentrated on deep, slow breathing as I now do automatically during reactions, a technique which has calmed or delayed serious reactions in the past. This time, however, I was not relieved.

Thank God for Acute Rescue drops. But even they didn't keep my brain from fuzzing or my limbs from turning numb and useless. 

Driving while reacting with my babies in the backseat is pretty much my worst nightmare. I was scared, but I couldn't think clearly enough to be as scared as I should've been. Why didn't I pull over?

Graciously, God heard the desperate "Help!" of a sick mamma who couldn't think beyond that one word, and guided us safely home. Getting the kids inside and dropping into bed like a rag doll is a watery memory. Brandon was home soon after. Provisions all around.

The irony of being an obligatory "Ice Queen" who is bothered by the cold isn't lost on me. (There is always a laugh buried neath the snow even if it does sound hollow.)

The days since have been tired, achy days. January and I were getting along just fine this year, then this happened. And the world turned gray.

While it's okay to grieve, I must hold fast the truth--sometimes love is a closed door.

Sometimes love puts you in prison. All for good reason, of course.

God is not the author of evil or disease. He is good. He is Jehovah Rophe--the God who heals physically, spiritually, and emotionally. Complete health is my ultimate destiny. But that doesn't mean He shields me from every harm along the way. He took upon Himself the Big One, the one that would destroy me. The ones which will work together for glory and good, He lets through.

The arrows loosed from Satan's bow are aimed to kill, but God transforms them into surgical instruments and uses them to remove the cancer in my soul.

The hammer swinging down upon my head is remade into a chiseling tool which shapes me into the image of Christ.

The thorny messengers sent by Satan to prick and poison my heart against my Creator (2 Corinthians 12:7), God shapes into an inside-out hedge of protection, one that keeps the world and all its lover gods out and me in. With Him, my Ishi.

Therefore, behold, 
I will hedge up her way with thorns,
and wall her in....

(Hosea 2:6)

That may sound harsh, but my prison is no stark, lifeless place. He has magicked my "kingdom of isolation" into "a door of hope" (Hosea 2:15), delivering me in my affliction rather than out of it (Job 36:15). And I sing and dance about on high hills in broad places as if there was no restraint (Hab. 3:19; Job 36:16), until I no longer grieve the life I left behind.

I get there on my good days, but haven't figured out how to stay.

I often sing in minor keys.
I dance. I weep. Sometimes I dance while weeping.
I'm happy, sad, restless, and content all at once. It's exhausting.

That's okay, you know. God is honored by honest, trustful suffering. So go on and feel. Don't conceal. Let it hurt.

It's not "blessed are the tough." Nor "blessed are the strong or independent or happy." It's "blessed are those who mourn for they shall be comforted" (Matthew 5:4). Our blessedness is not derived from our emotional state, but from what God does when we live in honest relationship with Him.

Fight that frozen heart. Let them see you cry. You never know who you'll bless with your brokenness.
Soak that handkerchief if you need to. God counts and keeps your tears like treasures (Psalm 56:8).
Let 'em go.
Souls are worth melting for.

We aren't meant be ice queens. It's okay if we are bothered by the cold. Figuratively or literally....as in my case.

When Elsa stormed out of Arendelle, she thought she was free because she could finally open and close doors at will and do whatever she wanted. But options aren't always helpful. They weren't for Adam and Eve. They lived in a "garden of yeses," and chose the single wrong option. Left to myself, I do, too.

Do you know why God hedged Israel in?

So that she cannot find her paths.
She will chase her lovers,
but not overtake them;
Yes, she will seek them, but not find them.
Then she will say, 
"I will go and return to my first husband,
for then it was better for me than now."
For she did not know 
that I gave her grain, new wine, and oil,
and multiplied her silver and gold--
which they prepared for Baal....
"And it shall be, in that day,"
says the Lord,
"that you will call me 'My Husband'
and no longer call Me, 'My Master.'"
(Hosea 2:6-8,16)

God hedged Israel in to limit her options. They had given their dowry from the Lord to Baal, and thought of God as a slave driver cracking a whip when He just wanted a marriage, one in which He would do the brunt of the work. But Israel preferred to whore around with the real task master.

As Timothy Keller says, "We are all in bed with something." For one person, it may be money. For another, family. Sex, status, substances, whatever. You're spiritually sleeping with something, and that something doesn't have to be a bad thing to be dangerous to you.

Before I was sick, I was in bed with admiration. I was willing to do almost anything to get it, which is why my personality changed depending on who I was with at the time. But there was no way for me to know that until it was taken away.

How do you spot the alcoholic? When the rum's gone.

How can you tell if someone needs their wealth? When the stock market crashes.
How can you tell if someone's identity is rooted in being the good girl they always have to be? When they fail big (i.e. throwing Arendelle into an eternal winter, shooting ice into a beloved sister's heart, etc.).

A baal will never forgive failure and cannot satisfy a heart. It takes and takes and takes and never gives anything back.

Jesus Christ, our Ishi, will always forgive failure and never ceases to satisfy. He gives and gives and gives and only asks for our hearts in return.

"He who believes in Me, as the Scripture has said, out of his heart will flow rivers of living water” (John 7:38), meaning there is always more of what we need in Christ. It never runs out because He never runs out.

My illness is not punishment for sin. Jesus paid my debt in full. I owe nothing. Rather, God has taken the thorns of Mast Cell Activation Disease and FQ poisoning and shaped them into a hedge.

Sing it with me! All my life has been a series of doors in my face. Then suddenly I bump into Yoooouuu.....

Notwithstanding nobody wants to be hemmed in with this guy.
Important life lesson: Beware [the overly compatible stranger with] the frozen heart.

My options are painfully, mercifully limited. And yet I'm free. God has hemmed me in with Himself so I can forget those Hans-like lovers of the past and we can go about the business of becoming one.

He has overcome my people-pleasing addiction by cutting me off and filling the infinite void with His infinite self as only He can.

That's what God does. He fills the voids.


True freedom is when you don't have to run from anything to be liberated and you don't have to succumb to emotional iciness to survive. It's not needing transient things to give you purpose. It happens when Christ is enough and you're free to feel and let Him fill you up. You're free to live. Closed doors and all.

One day when the bars of my little cell have served their full purpose, I'll rise like the break of dawn. This chronically ill, people-pleaser will be gone. I'll stand in the light of day for the first time in forever. With "actual real live people. It'll be totally strange."


Until then, I'm looking forward to summeeeeeeerrrrrrrr!!!!!!

Graveside Thoughts

Every December after Christmas, I review the year in journal entries. Progress seems almost negligible from day to day, but when you take stock of what God does with 52 weeks, it knocks you breathless.

I've always liked that winded feeling.

This year's review has been hard. My grief over losing Jenny is poured out over the pages, some marked by literal tear stains. Grief is messy.

Yesterday, I came across my entry for 9/4/14--two days before Jenny's birthday and the day I visited her grave. The words resonate with me more now than they did four months ago when I wrote them.

Though deeply personal, my thoughts want to be shared. It's like they know they're for someone. I hope my honest and hopefully hopeful grief strengthens you somehow. One soul nourished is a worthy cause.

So here goes:

9/4/14 

Brandon and I went to Jenny's grave this evening. My mind went back and forth all week deciding whether or not to go. On one hand, it felt silly--visiting the grave, bringing flowers, and paying homage to one who is now too happy to care--and it seemed foolish to spend so much time--precious time--doing something silly. On the other, I acknowledge Jenny's resting place as important. Her body is important enough to Jesus to raise up and restore it to everlasting perfection.

Either way, I needed to honor her memory.

Her birthday is in two days. I am ever so glad she was born. This time of year is full of her memory. I met her on 8/19/12. My first visit in her home was on 9/30/12. My last special visit with her was almost (exactly?) a year ago today.

We went. A bouquet of spray roses sat in a vase of cold water anchored between my feet, the flowers beating themselves senseless against the vase edge as Brandon drove the unfamiliar, winding roads a little too quickly. We left late in the afternoon, and drove into the sun all the way there.

Everything looked different after six months' time. Green grew thick and close on either side of the highway. Instead of frisking about in cool, spring air, the cows flicked their tails and shook their heads to shoo pestering flies.

All the change reminded me of the trip to church two Sundays ago, my first trip back in almost a year. It was very near the second anniversary of mine and Jenny's meeting. On the drive that day, I realized I had worn the exact outfit I wore the Sunday I met her. I almost crumpled.

Then I walked into the church and realized something else--my skin was the same, my clothes were the same, but the world was different. The foyer looked nothing like the foyer in which we met. The old-fashioned floral upholstery and bulky, out-dated coffee table had been replaced with monochromatic furniture featuring sharp edges and smooth lines. Modern and sleek.

The way I understood church and life and people and suffering and God were all different, too.

My world had changed. Jenny had a lot to do with that. Probably more than anyone else, she taught me about courage. The real kind that looks like weakness but packs a punch so powerful it reverberates through the cosmos.

We arrived at St. Rest Cemetery without issue, solely relying on Brandon's memory of a single trip, and parked beneath the shade of an oak. We passed through the gate, and walked up the hill to a spot where the red dirt was packed tight, no grass. No headstone either. But someone had lovingly marked the spot with one of those gaudy funeral wreaths made of silk flowers in various shades of pink, a potted plant now dead, and a sun-faded, plastic bouquet of something that looked like weeds.

Death is sad. And every attempt we make to preserve our memories is sad. Like the flowers, they fade.

I think I'm scared of this most of all. I don't want to forget the one who showed me what it is to be brave, what it is to forget myself. I don't want to forget her face or her voice, her best qualities or darkest secrets. I don't want to forget what she meant to me.

I didn't weep. A few tears had leaked out of my eyes on the drive as I listened to the playlist I'd made about her and our friendship, but out there standing right above her decaying body, feeling a connection so strong it's almost physical even in death, the closest I came to crying was when I stared too long into the setting sun. Its brilliance burned my darkness.

Fire ants were busy in the dirt. Brandon brushed several off my shoes before admonishing me to be careful and walking away so I could figure out what one is supposed to do at the graveside of a beloved.

I didn't talk. There was no point. No one could hear my words but God, and He knows my every thought. So I thought at Him and to my soul.

I thought about Jesus weeping at Lazarus' tomb. He wept knowing what He was about to do--at His friend's graveside and on the hill outside of Jerusalem not long after.

Why?

Because death is an enemy. Because death is sad. Because decay wasn't the intention. Forever was.

Because death tears souls apart, souls once knitted together, and the tearing leaves at least one soul mortally wounded, so much so she's afraid to stay the bleeding because it doesn't feel right to heal. And if she does heal, she hopes to get a scar because the idea of everything going back into place just as it was feels like a lie--a heinous, blasphemous lie.

Jesus wept at death because He had created everything for life unto life. A broken world, a broken order deserves our grief. Even if it will be made right one day.

I looked to the eastern sky, a welcome respite for my aching eyes. Her grave points east. When she is collected by her Savior on that last day, she will be facing the right direction. I wondered if all Christian bone yards are designed this way so up we'll come, bursting through earth from caskets rusted shut to face the One our souls have known but eyes have not seen. Will we rise as bones, ashes, and dust and be restored in the air or will we rise perfect and beautiful? Will the soil cling or fall away?

Regardless, there is a giant oak in her way, Lord, and unless You return in winter, she'll have to wait until she reaches the treeline to see You. That seems frustrating. Maybe the people who decide graves should face East can cut it down or lop off the top.

A stinging pain upon my shin pulled me out of my reverie.

This is why graveside visits seem silly--fretting over overgrown oaks and fire ants staking claim on Jenny's piece of earth.

I brushed it off quickly, and stayed a couple more minutes. I didn't have long before the swelling set in, but as always with Jenny, I wasn't quite ready to leave.

I placed my bouquet of spray roses and goldenrod where I imagined her hands to be clasped over her chest.

I never had the opportunity to see her body or place flowers on her casket. These will be as dead as she is by tomorrow morning.

A prayer for Jenny's people: May they feel the consolation of your sweet Spirit, Lord. And may you fill them with Christ--the hope of glory--which promises death is not the end of us and this grave is not goodbye. Hope that whispers hints of a happy ending to all this heartache.

Sweating and swelling, my body urged my soul to leave. Funny how I had almost convinced myself not to go, and now my feet didn't want to move. The tightness in my chest made me move.

My legs returned me to my husband who was perched lazily on top of the car. The words, "I got stung," brought him to life. Scolding me for standing still too long, he took my shoes and began the treatment with that look he gets when I get sick, the one full of irritation and blame I've learned to ignore.

The look isn't for me.

It's like Jesus' tears. Brandon knows every little thing will be alright, but disease and death are still enemies worthy of tears and anger.

I sighed. "It wouldn't be a trip to see Jenny without something interesting happening."

He didn't reply. A one hour drive through the middle of nowhere with me mid-reaction was on his mind, and he was not ready to joke. He's never as ready to joke about it as I am. Of course, you'll never see me laughing at cancer.

Thankfully, I did not go into shock, and we were able to drive away from the sun this time.

The song, "I Love It" by Stephanie Treo, came on. I turned up the volume joining Jenny's old defiance of disease, missing her sassy side and all her sides.

We crossed D'arbonne Lake at that royal moment when the sun sinks behind the trees, casting rays of pink and gold above its head like a crown which reflect upon the water like a train.

Smiling, I noted I could still see the light of the sun. An old oak tree is nothing to worry about, and because of Jesus, death is just a fire ant sting.

My 2014 Thanksgiving Menu (AIP, GAPS, Paleo-friendly)

For those new to my blog: I began my real food journey after becoming very ill in May 2012 with what I now know to be Mast Cell Activation Disease (MCAD). Even before I understood the scope of the problem, my intention was to heal through nutrition. From the outset, it was very important to me to eat well in spite of the changes. I love food. 

I’ve tried a lot of nutritional programs over the past couple of years. GAPS didn’t work out for me. Not enough variation. Not enough starches. Too much histamine. (Histamine is a major nemesis for those with MCAD.) Paleo wasn’t quite right. Low sulfur didn’t do it for me. Vegetarianism was a short lived experiment. Everything I tried seemed to backfire.

To further complicate matters, my trigger foods continually change. I’ve had to stay on my toes.

Until March of this year, I was kind of at a loss. Enter Jennifer Nervo of 20 Something Allergies and her fabulous nutritional therapy program.  

With her help, I learned how to manage and maintain a low-histamine, autoimmune paleo diet on a four day rotation. Eating this way has vastly improved my health. Thankful doesn’t begin to describe my feelings for this woman. Thanks to all she taught me, this year’s Thanksgiving menu was scrumptious without the unpleasant side-effect of making me ill. 

Thanksgiving is my favorite holiday. I love the gathering and gratitude and food without the pressures which accompany the Christmas season.

This year, I had much to be grateful for.  Just one year ago, I did not know the name of my disease or how to properly manage it.

I’m not certain I would have obtained any level of stability health-wise without Jennifer’s help, and here I am actually better though I have been diagnosed with a progressive disease. I was even able to attend a family gathering after eating a quick bite at home! Praise the Lord! 

So what did I eat that was free of grains, dairy, nuts, legumes, eggs, nightshades, seeds, squashes, dried herbs and spices, high histamine foods, and latex cross-reactive foods?

The Menu

I began by considering my protein. I chose pork because I rarely eat it. It’s a treat, which keeps it from becoming a threat. (Except for bacon. Bacon makes me pay every. single. time.) If I’m going to roast pork, I might as well add some vegetables to the pan because YUM! So I came up with this recipe for Cider Glazed Ham Steaks with Roasted Vegetables. 

 

Cider Glazed Ham Steaks with Roasted Vegetables:
Serves 4-6

Ingredients:

2 pastured ham steaks, 1-2 lbs. each
1 T. coconut oil (ghee, lard or tallow would work well, too)
1 leek, sliced into 2-3 inch strips
2 medium-sized parsnips, sliced into 2-3 inch spears
1 large carrot, sliced into 2-3 inch spears
Sea salt to taste

Glaze:
¼ cup apple cider vinegar
2 T. honey
sea salt to taste

Place ham steaks in salt water for 1 to 24 hours. I brined mine for a little over an hour. I wish now I had let them sit overnight. If you go the overnight route, be sure to keep them in the fridge and take them out an hour before cooking so they won’t be cold going into the pan.  Preheat oven to 350 degrees. Warm coconut oil in an oven-safe pan over medium high heat. Remove ham steaks from brine and pat dry. Salt the steaks generously. When the pan is hot, place the steaks in, and sear on both sides (5-10 minutes per side). While the steaks are searing, whisk together the apple cider vinegar, honey, and sea salt in a small bowl. Remove the steaks from the pan, and turn down the heat to medium-low.  Add sliced veggies, scraping the bottom of the pan with a wooden spatula until the vegetables are lightly browned and covered with the juices. The salt left in the pan should be enough to season the veggies. Add the steaks back into the pan, brushing the entire surface of the steaks with the cider glaze. Cover pan and place in oven for about an hour or until the steaks reach an internal temp of 165 degrees. 

Like I said, I wish I would have brined my ham steaks for much longer, but those vegetables were amazing. 

Cranberry Sauce:
Serves 4-6

For me, cranberry sauce is a must on Thanksgiving. I went with this recipe by Nourished and Nurtured, subbing 2 drops of Young Living's orange essential oil for orange extract.

Sweet Potato Casserole:
Serves 4-6

I’m a Louisiana girl. Casseroles are our thing. Sweet potato casserole has been a favorite of my people for years. Most traditional recipes call for milk, eggs, wheat flour, and nuts, none of which are safe for me. So I came up with my own version. 

Ingredients:

3 cups yams, boiled and mashed (5-6 medium sized yams)
¼ cup honey
1 t. sea salt
1 t. vanilla extract
½ c. coconut oil (ghee or butter would work well if not on AIP)

Topping:
½ c. shredded coconut, unsweetened
¼ c. coconut flour
¼ c. arrowroot flour
2/3 c. coconut sugar
1/4-1/2 t. sea salt
¼ coconut oil (ghee or butter)
2 t. vanilla extract

Preheat oven to 350 degrees. Peel, cube and boil potatoes until fork tender in a 2-3 quart saucepan. Drain. Add honey, coconut oil, salt, and vanilla to pot. Puree with an immersion blender. (A food processor would work just as well, but you will need it for the topping.) Place potato puree in a greased casserole dish. In a food processor, blend shredded coconut, coconut flour, arrowroot flour, coconut sugar, and salt until well combined. Add coconut oil and vanilla extract. Blend until you have a moist, crumbly consistency. Crumble evenly over the top of the potato puree. Bake for 20-25 minutes until the crust is golden brown.

This recipe did not disappoint. It would have served perfectly as dessert, but in the south, sweet potato casserole is just a side. 

Ginger Apple Crisp:
Serves 6-8

Because pumpkin, pecans, chocolate, cinnamon, cloves, nutmeg, and allspice are all triggers for me, finding a satisfying fall dessert was not easy. In the end, I decided to go with a cinnamon-less apple dessert because apples were already in the cranberry sauce, and I needed to save a few foods for the next three days of the rotation.

I’m not usually a big fan of apple desserts, particularly because cinnamon isn’t involved, but Brandon likes them. I almost did not eat any, but the chef has to taste her own food, right? I was not expecting it to be so delicious! My review? Delighted giggles. That’s right—giggles. My apple-dessert loving husband was impressed, too. He didn’t even add cinnamon!

Ingredients:
2 large apples of choice, cored and sliced thin (about 1 quart)
½ lemon, juiced
zest of ½ lemon
½ inch grated ginger root
¼ c. coconut sugar
1 T. arrowroot flour
2 T. coconut oil, solid

Topping (same as the Sweet Potato Casserole topping):
½ c. shredded coconut, unsweetened
¼ c. coconut flour
¼ c. arrowroot flour
2/3 c. coconut sugar
1/2 t. sea salt
¼ coconut oil (ghee or butter)
2 t. vanilla extract

Preheat oven to 350 degrees. In a medium-sized bowl, combine apples, lemon juice, lemon zest, grated ginger root, coconut sugar, and arrowroot flour. Stir until the apples are well coated. Pour apples into a greased baking dish, and evenly distribute the slices. Disperse small pieces of the solid coconut oil over the apples. In a food processor, blend shredded coconut, coconut flour, arrowroot flour, coconut sugar, and salt until well combined. Add coconut oil and vanilla extract. Blend until you have a moist, crumbly consistency. Crumble evening over the top of the apples with your fingers. Bake 30-35 minutes. Be careful not to overcook the topping.  Serve warm.

Now that was a thanks-worthy meal!

For those on restricted diets this holiday season, I hope you won’t lament over stuffing, rolls, and pies (which, in many cases, be modified into a safe version). If I can enjoy a holiday meal without having to choose between feeling deprived and getting sick, you probably can, too. I hope my menu offers you some ideas. If not, I would be happy to help you meal plan! I enjoy a good challenge!

Accepted

No miracle yet.

Beloved autumn hasn't been too kind to me. Something in my body shifted with the weather, causing the past couple of months to be more eventful than I would like. Particular triggers have increased in intensity, and I have lost four foods in four weeks.

My old friends arthritis, fibromyalgia, and fatigue have come back around. I keep dropping hints they aren't welcome. They aren't getting it.

Fresh waves of grief roll over me, taking me by surprise. One moment, I'm washing dishes, and the next I can't breathe. I'm deeply grateful for my "little infinity" with Jenny, but it's unlikely I'll get over my loss on this side of heaven or even the losses of her husband and kids because loss like that is immeasurable. It's not so much about the things that were as it is about the things that will never be.

And then there have been family struggles, difficult decisions, emergencies, emotionally draining events, and woes of dear friends.

This illness has no respect for church attendance, long-planned weekend visits from deeply missed souls, or my daughter's birthday party. Actually, it seems to take delight in raining on my parade. But with the rain, falls grace.

Even still, an air of sadness hangs about my shoulders because--well--I can't help it. Like most of you, I was hoping my prophesied miracle was on my heels, just inches from taking me over.

It seems God would have me wait a little longer. So I wait.

As I wait, I trust I'm not just twiddling my thumbs here. I trust God is doing something with the waiting. My aim is to cooperate in His doing--to take hold of life and joy today, to engage and pay attention. To learn what He would teach. To hear what He is saying.

Such as--
It's okay to have exhausted all means to help myself.
It's okay to be messy. It's okay if others see the mess.
God works glory in messes.
I'm not my own savior.
I'm not my friends' savior either.
Their welfare is not correlative to the intensity of my prayers.
God's plan does not hinge on my performance. 
I am accepted.
I am accepted as I am.
Not because of what I am or what I do, but because of who Jesus is and what He has done.

Let's allow that word to wash over us for just a moment--

"Accepted."

You, me, all who place their faith in Christ--we are accepted by God (Ephesians 1:6 NKJV).

God gave me this word out of Job a couple of weeks ago--

"⁷ And so it was, after the Lord had spoken these words to Job, that the Lord said to Eliphaz the Temanite, “My wrath is aroused against you and your two friends, for you have not spoken of Me what is right, as My servant Job has. ⁸ Now therefore, take for yourselves seven bulls and seven rams, go to My servant Job, and offer up for yourselves a burnt offering; and My servant Job shall pray for you. For I will accept him, lest I deal with you according to your folly; because you have not spoken of Me what is right, as My servant Job has.” ⁹ So Eliphaz the Temanite and Bildad the Shuhite and Zophar the Naamathite went and did as the Lord commanded them; for the Lord had accepted Job." (Chapter 42)

Acceptance is arguably our most basic emotional need. Think of how desperately we seek it. We are willing to compromise our integrity for it. I was willing to lie for it.

The very day God put the word "accepted" in my mouth to chew upon was the day He sought to teach me something about it. I was out and about buying Sara's birthday party supplies with my grandmother when I had a reaction to some chemicals in one of the stores. Attempting to describe the way I felt, I told her I was drunk, "or at least how I imagine being drunk feels."

Every time I have described this type of reaction to my grandmother, I've always tagged it with "or at least how I imagine being drunk feels" because I didn't want her to guess the truth--I know exactly how being drunk feels. Even if it has been a few years.


I didn't want my grandmother to know my drinking history because I didn't want her to think less of me. You see, before my Papaw was a believer, he was a drunk. Nona, my mom, my aunt, and my uncle experienced the devastation of alcoholism firsthand, which made drinking kind of taboo in our family. So I kept my love for red wine and margaritas to myself. And few beyond Brandon knew I sometimes drank too much.

The funny thing is when you offer unnecessary information over and over again, intuitive people notice.

"Melissa, have you ever been drunk?" Nona asked.

Because I was drunk at that very moment, I answered, "Yeah! I've been drunk!" Almost like I was proud of it.

And so we have this long, uncomfortable conversation about drinking and alcohol that I don't entirely recollect (thank God) due to the fact I was inebriated on airborne chemicals at the time, but even I didn't miss the important things which took place that day.

My sin was confronted. In confession, I was freed from the lie. And I was met with acceptance. Not because Nona was thrilled that I know what it is to be drunk or that I had misled her, but because I am her granddaughter. My position as her grandchild--not my moral performance--makes me acceptable to her.

Nona took excellent care of me that day. She drove me home, learned the "woo-woo" acupressure technique we use to treat my reactions, performed said "woo woo" technique without comment, washed my dishes, made sure I was alright, and left me with an "I love you," which loudly translated into "I accept you--even if you have been drunk, have lied to me about it, and do weird stuff I don't understand."

I was relieved to be freed from the lie and still find myself accepted.

So acceptance is important. It was the most important thing to Job--before, during, and after his suffering. He wanted more than anything to be right with God. (Job may not have known as much about God as we do today, but he definitely loved God more than we do today.) 

Before his suffering, Job believed he was in good standing before God because he was blessed with health, wealth, and prosperity. We see him acting as a kind of intercessor for his kids (1:5) and a savior of sorts to the poor and needy who lived near him (25:7-25).

But then the suffering comes and strips it all away, and suddenly he sees he is not enough to save anyone, not even himself (19:9; 40:14). He sees he has nothing to offer the God he loves, and there is nothing he can do to improve his standing with Him.

Job needs a Mediator (Chapter 9). He needs an Advocate (16:20; 17:3). In desperation, he cries out for both and for a meeting with God that he might be absolved. And God answers. But not as Job expects.

God manifests Himself in a whirlwind, an uncontrollable power and the very thing which uprooted his hope in the beginning of the book (Job 1:18-19; 19:10). Instead of questioning God, Job himself is questioned, and he is found wanting. Job finally sees he has no case to make (Job 40:3-5).

But God looks centuries into the future. He sees the Mediator, the Advocate, the Redeemer in whom Job has placed the last of his hope (19:25-27). He sees Him hanging on a cross, experiencing all that Job suffered and infinitely more. God sees His precious Son paying the debt and it is enough.

God says to Job, "I accept you." 

When he had nothing, when he was nothing, and when everyone else had rejected him, Job was accepted in the Beloved. 

It wasn't the loss of all he once had which tormented Job so in the days of suffering; it was lack of assurance he was beloved by God. It wasn't the restoration of his health, wealth, or family Job most prized at the end of it all; it was divine acceptance.                  

Today, we stand on the other side of the cross. We don't have to wonder if God really loves us. He has proven it! Divine acceptance is available to all who place their faith in Christ's work and acknowledge the deficiency of their own, and it is divine acceptance that will get you through any loss. Just look at Job.

The antidote for my sadness isn't happy thoughts. It's gospel. I require, at minimum, a daily dose.

There may be sadness on my shoulders, but there is joy in my heart. There is an anchor for my soul.

Our greatest need has been met. Life's biggest question--how can I be right with God?--has been answered (Job 9:2; 25:4). In Jesus.

Gaze upon the cross with me. Let's bathe in our acceptance.

The acceptance He earned for us is all the health, wealth, and prosperity we will ever need or could ever desire.

Sarah's Disaster

Sara is three years old today.

Three.

How is she already three? The days, weeks, and months scurry by in a white blur without a proper greeting, and they never stay for tea. Tomorrow is always the most important date. No time to say hello, goodbye. And before I know it, a season's gone.

How is she only three? So much life has been lived. So much new has come into our lives. Surely she is halfway through childhood by now.

But no. She's three--already three, only three.

I tell the kids Micah is the boy I always wanted and Sara is the girl I never knew I needed. But God knew. When I was still a child myself, He whispered her existence into my imagination.

During my homeschool years, I wrote prolifically--for my age, anyway. I followed some kind of curriculum which offered lots of creative writing prompts, and loved every minute. I wrote short stories, sketches, journal entries, plays, and poems. I discovered a few of these assignments when I went through my old keepsake box Dad left for me to go through or toss. Most of the art projects were trashed. I am no artist. But I kept almost everything I wrote. I didn't read it all or even most of it, but one single-paged sketch caught my eye:

It reads:

Sarah, a cute, sweet child of three, loved to help her mother cook. Most of the time she just stirred cake batter and maybe every now and then, her mother would let her crack eggs and drop them in.

Well, one day, when her mother was taking a nap and her father was at work, she decided to make her parents a big [surprise] cake all by herself.

Her mother had always told her to wash her hands before she cooked, so she did. Then, she got out a bowl and the cake mix.

She knew that milk must be put in cake so she dumped 1/4 gallon in the bowl. Then she got out some eggs, cracked them on the side of the bowl, dumped them in, and threw the shells across the room. Last, she put in the chocolate cake batter and then she leaned over and started to stir. Some of her soft, blonde curls got into the chocolate concoction.

She decided the spoon wasn't working [too] well, so she started using her hands and she knocked the bowl over! She put her chocolaty hands to her face and started to cry.

Her mother was awakened, and she got up to see what was wrong. She walked into the kitchen [which] was now covered in chocolate. She looked down at Sarah who was also covered in chocolate. All she could see was Sarah's big brown eyes brimmed with tears. 

She knew this time she would not punish Sarah. 

There is no date on the paper, but judging by the handwriting and style, I wrote it around 1997. I was probably thirteen.

Fourteen years before she was born, I wrote about my daughter.

Guys, it's her! The name is spelled differently, but it's her! Both Saras like to help their mom in the kitchen. Both girls like chocolate, cake, and chocolate cake. Sara is just independent enough to try something like this, and if I wasn't standing over her every moment, real life Sara's baking style would closely resemble shadow Sarah's.

Big brown eyes. Soft, blond curls. I saw her before she was a thought in my mind. She was God's dream before she was mine.

 

I wanted three boys. Thank God He gave me this extroverted, delightful, hilarious girl!

I'm almost certain the day my immune system shifted was the day I gave birth to her. The labor and delivery was considered to be perfect--no complications--but something went wrong in my body three years ago. I felt it.

 (You can probably see it.)

So it was the day the darkness sniffed me out that God wrote Sara into my story with all the light and laughter she would bring.

God knew I needed her. Our family needed her.

So today, we celebrate our little luminary. We thank God for seeing our need, and sending her to us.

We make chocolate cake! Per her request, of course.

And I ponder the last three years. How full and brief they have been with the little girl I unknowingly penned seventeen years ago.

The Court of Future Crimes: Melissa Keaster vs. The Healer

Note: The following is a short work of fiction, which describes actual events and conversations of real people. If you ask, "Why fiction?," Eleanor Roosevelt aptly explains--

 THE COURT OF FUTURE CRIMES: MELISSA KEASTER VS. THE HEALER

I wipe clammy palms on my navy dress slacks, and will the moisture to return to my mouth. It's no use.

Nerves are abusive little tyrants. They scatter well-studied, organized thoughts. They steal breath from the lungs and imprison the voice. At least I don't have to sing. Breathe. Just breathe.

Black fuzzballs reel across my vision. Am I crazy for doing this? I feel crazy.

The jury walks in and sits. I sense scrutinizing eyes at my back. Yes, I'm crazy. And they'll know it soon enough. 

The Judge walks in, shrouded in black robes, features all obscured. A shiver trickles from my scalp to my knees. I can't see his eyes. His manner is entirely ambivalent.

"All rise! The Court of Future Crimes is now in session. His Imminence is presiding. Be seated."

In a non-committal tone, The Judge says, "Good morning, ladies and gentlemen. Calling the case of Melissa Keaster versus The Healer. Are both sides ready?"

"Ready, Your Honor." My words come out paper thin as I look into his eyes, wide-open voids of impenetrable darkness.

"Most assuredly, I say to you, 'I AM.'" The Healer's words steady me. I cast my eyes in His direction, and catch His reassuring smile.

I can do this. Even if they think I'm nuts, I can do this.

The jurors are sworn in. I look at whoever will look back steady in the eyes, praying they stand by their word to fairly try the case, to return a true verdict based on the evidence. So help them, God.

It's time for the opening statements. Oh God, help me remember everything. Help me to say it well. 

The Healer mouths from across the too-wide gap between us--"Be brave."

I clear my throat, take a deep breath, and face them. "Your Honor and ladies and gentlemen of the jury: the defendant has been charged with the future crime of divine physical healing of the plaintiff, Melissa Keaster, which is to say--me."

A murmur rustles through the jurors, punctuated by skeptical grunts.

"The evidence will show this healing is foretold by several witnesses through prophetic words and dreams, and is affirmed in the defendant's own written testimony. The evidence will also show no other source can be responsible for this healing."

The Healer stands, and I see Him smile out of the corner of my eye. Pleasure rushes into my chest, washing away the fear. I long to be closer to Him, close enough to touch those love-scarred hands.

"Your Honor and ladies and gentlemen of the jury: the skeptics in this room will presume Me innocent until proven guilty. During this trial, they will doubt the evidence provided against Me. I desire you all to know the truth for the truth will set you free: I AM WHO I AM; I WILL HAVE MERCY ON WHOM I WILL HAVE MERCY AND I WILL HAVE COMPASSION ON WHOM I WILL HAVE COMPASSION. I require neither permission nor understanding to do what I will, not even from the plaintiff."

He turns fully to me now and grins wide. I return His smile, adoration radiating from my face.

"She's got a thing for him from the looks of it," says an old man juror from behind me. I turn and wink. He raises his bushy salt and pepper eyebrows, and purses his lips. I suppress a chuckle.

"The prosecution may call its first witness." The Judge's hollow voice pounds at me like a blunt force instrument.

"I call upon myself."

"Yourself," he repeats incredulously.

"Yes," I say with more assurance than I feel, and climb the stand.

I swear in, state my name, and lick my lips to no avail. My mouth is still too dry.

The jury appears curious. That's good.

"The following is a journal entry in which I explain my feelings regarding a then undiagnosed illness. On October 8, 2012, I wrote: 'I have every reason to believe that I may not make it out of this illness alive, yet the Lord keeps speaking to my soul--'I am willing to make you well.' I believe with all my heart that He will do it. I don't know when or how far down the rabbit hole I must travel, but I believe, Lord! Help my unbelief!'"

Tears leap into my eyes, unbidden. "Your Honor, I would like to have this journal marked as exhibit number one, and ask it be admitted into evidence."

"Does the defense have any objection?" The Judge peers down his nose at The Healer.

He shakes His head. "None at all, Your Honor."

"The journal entry will be admitted as exhibit number one."

Exhibit #1: Journal Entry from 10/8/2012

I continue. "And on October 28, 2012, referencing Mark 1 from The Holy Bible, I wrote: "....A leper came to Jesus, asking Him to heal him, and said, 'If you are willing, you can make me well.' And Jesus replied with a touch, 'I am willing; be cleansed.' When I read those words....I felt the Lord saying, 'I am willing,' words to which I have held fiercely close to my heart as I have worsened and face[d] many dangerous crises in the past few weeks. However, I also felt the Lord impress upon my heart that my healing was not to be a simple touch, but a long, difficult process. 'Hard work' was the phrase He whispered. I am living in this long season of hard work, already exhausted, already depleted, depending moment by moment upon my Savior for the grace and power required for the task at hand. Only because of Christ can I do this. Without Him, this is beyond me. And I am so happy to have His promise that I will live...even on days that I don't want to. As I re-read Mark 1, the Lord gave me a new word from verses 29-31. When Jesus healed Peter's mother-in-law, He took her by the hand, lifted her up, and she was well--'and she served them.' When the Lord heals me, I am not going to be allowed long to catch my breath. The Spirit use[d] those words to impress upon me that my season of illness will not be followed by a welcome and hoped for season of rest, but a season of service which will likely simultaneously try and fill my soul. I tremble with nervous excitement at this word...."

The second journal entry is made exhibit number two.

 Exhibit #2: Journal Entry from 10/28/12

"On the nights of October 8th and 9th, 2013, two different people who do not know one another had dreams about me, dreams in which I was apparently healed. We will hear from them in a moment. Sometime between October 10, 2013 and September 24, 2014, I forgot both the dreams and my own belief I would be healed.

The reason for this, I believe, is two-fold: On May 27, 2014, I was diagnosed with Mast Cell Activation Disease at Mayo Clinic in Rochester, Minnesota. There is no cure for Mast Cell Activation Disease, and it can be progressive. The disease also causes other incurable, autoimmune conditions such as fibromyalgia, IBS, and hypothyroidism, all from which I suffer. Moreover, the high risk of anaphylaxsis poses a formidable threat to average life expectancy.

Such a diagnosis is able to erase all hope of healing, but diagnosis isn't the only reason the impressions and dreams were forgotten. During the summer of 2014, in spending copious amounts of time with the defendant, I--the plaintiff--became so happy I no longer cared whether or not I would be physically healed. I rejoiced in the healings of others with only brief twinges of wist when I considered the absence of my own.

For months, I've managed my disease very well with a combination of excellent diet, detox routines, acupressure treatments, rest, stress management, medication, essential oils, and positive thoughts. Things are going well though symptoms are still prevalent and sometimes severe. Even if I continue in my efforts faithfully for years, I don't believe they can achieve full healing for me.

On Sunday, September 21, 2014, I told two people I didn't think the defendant would heal me. I believed He had other plans.

On Wednesday, September 24, 2014, Melissa Rogers, a friend of uncanny similarities to myself, who I met through very unlikely circumstances and who had just experienced a miracle of her own, shared with me a prophetic word: '[The Healer] loves you; He has healed you.'

I prayed sincerely over these words in order to discern their meaning and veracity. I was met with assurance from multiple sources outside of myself that I'd indeed be physically healed in addition to the spiritual and emotional healing which has already taken place. Only then did I remember the former impressions, words, and dreams, and I fully believe the defendant is guilty of the future healing of my body!"

By the end of this speech, I am standing. A fire smolders in my bones. Whispers swirl all about the room.

The Judge's gavel slams into the block. "Order in the courtroom!"

I stare at The Healer, breathless. His eyes are fiercely proud.

"Does the defense have any questions?"

The Healer stands. "Do you trust me, Melissa?"

"Yes," I say.

"Why?" His voice is so gentle, I could fluff it like a pillow and rest my head there.

"Because you loved me when I was unlovable. When I hated you, you died to save my life."

"And is it not I who holds your very breath in my hands and owns all your ways?"

"Only you."

"Do I not have a right to allow pain in your life?"

"You do."

"Do I not have a right to send healing now? Even if you can no longer imagine a life without disease?"

"Yes." The word chokes on a muted sob.

I'm excused. The Healer extends a handkerchief to me as I pass Him on the way back to my seat.

I call Lyndsey Floyd Mouk to the stand. Lyndsey is a friend from college, a friend I haven't seen much of since college. She shares her dream from October 8, 2013--"[Melissa] was somewhere with a bunch of people and [was] holding and smelling a wildflower."

Mary Fran Stark, a friend several years my senior who I haven't seen since childhood, shares the dream she had the night of October 9, 2013: "I don't remember what [the dream] was about, but there were several people at your house and lots of kids."

I take the stand again.

"It should be noted," I say to the jury, "I strictly avoid crowds to prevent acute episodes in my illness, and I would never purposefully smell any flower due to the risk of mast cell degranulation. Thus, images of me standing in the midst of crowds and sniffing flowers indicates wellness. It should also be noted Lyndsey and Mary Fran do not know one another, and neither knew of the other's dream. Lyndsey shared her dream first through private message on Facebook. Mary Fran shared her dream the following day via status 'comment' on Facebook."

The Healer listens quietly through it all. His eyes twinkle as Melissa Rogers takes the stand.

Melissa shares pieces of our conversation, which took place on Wednesday, September 24, 2014, between the hours of 10:53a.m. and 12:22p.m. There are many details, but one central message: "He has healed you."

The Healer touches Melissa as she passes Him on her way out of the courtroom. Joy wells in my heart as I consider the vastness of His love. He loves each of us as if we're the only one in the universe, and He loves us both. She and I are both 'His Melissa.'

With a contented sigh, I call an expert witness.

I ask him, "How do you explain the present perfect tense of the declaration, 'He has healed you?' I currently suffer from symptoms."

Even now, there's a migraine lodged behind my right eye.

The man adjusts his horn-rimmed glasses excitedly, and explains, "Present and present perfect tenses are both commonly used in biblical prophecy. We find an example of present perfect tense in Isaiah 9:2--'The people who walked in darkness have seen a great light.' Scholars agree this prophecy refers to the birth of Jesus Christ, which occurred 700 years after the prophecy was written. We find explanation for this phenomenon in Psalm 119:89--'Forever, O Lord, Your word is settled in heaven,' meaning when God makes a promise, it's as good as done. Yahweh operates outside of time and space. He can do this because He created time and space. He is God. He sees the end from the beginning, and has ordered all things from the outset."

The Judge pulls and tucks his robes as if worried his skin is showing. I bow my head to hide my smirk, and sense The Healer's full-out grin.

Finally, the stand holds The Healer himself. He gives a brief testimony before I question Him. "All things work together for good to those who love Me, to those who are called according to My purpose."

My cells respond to the truth of His word.

I approach the stand and wonder--how many times have we reasoned together like this, staring into the face of the other, reveling in soul secrets and silent communication?

"Will you please tell the court who you are?"

"I AM."

My knees tend to buckle at this answer no matter how many times I hear it. One of the jurors experiences a similar effect, and falls out of her seat.

"What is your occupation?"

That smile again. The light of it shines so brilliantly the intimidation of The Judge is utterly forgotten. "Love. Life. Freedom. Peace. Abundance. Joy. Glory."

"Where do you reside?"

"Everywhere. I dwell between galaxies, and know motivations hidden from your own consciousness."

"What do you know of the human body?"

"Everything," He laughs. "I designed it."

"Will you please share with the court some of your well-known experiences with healing?"

He shrugs. "Sure--the leper in Galilee--the one you mentioned in your journal entry, actually. The centurion's servant. The blind man in Jerusalem. Jairus' daughter. The woman with the bleeding issue--the one you relate to so well."

"Are you experienced in healing incurable diseases?"

"I heal everything from terminal cancer to explosive tempers, from lost causes to wandering souls."

I bring an open Bible to the stand. "Is this your written testimony?"

Exhibit #3: Isaiah 58:6-9

"It is."

"Would you say my illness has been 'a fast of your choosing?'"

"Have you been hungry and shared your bread? Have you shown castaways hospitality of soul? Have you clothed the naked, prayed the bound go free and the wicked be saved?"

The Judge checks The Healer. "The witness will not question the prosecution." But the reprimand is lost on our ears.

I swallow hard. We look into one another so intensely we forget where we are and what we're doing. We forget the world.

I answer Him with the look. The answer is for Him only. The jury need not know.

The Judge suspiciously forgets the original question, and doesn't bring it up again. Neither do I.

"No further questions, Your Honor."

An unknown voice sounds at the back of the room. "Are you sure?"

When The Judge does nothing to resume order, I turn. A man dressed in a perfectly tailored suit with shiny Berluti shoes and slicked-back hair slinks near the door. I don't recognize his face, but there's a familiar quality to his movement.

"Yes. Why?" I ask him

"Exactly," he replies, eyes gleaming.

I turn again to The Judge with an unspoken plea. He stares back insipidly, waiting for the scene to unfold.

The stranger sidles closer, and the scent of overly-sweet cologne wafts in my direction, cloying my senses. I choke and gasp and know--I have smelled his foul odor before.

"You won't ask for a sign? You won't ask the age-old question?" His lips curl up in a Cheshire cat grin. The effect is unnerving. I hold back a shudder and narrow my eyes in defiance.

"Come on--you know you want to ask," he hisses, inspecting his perfectly manicured hands.

My stomach turns, and I bristle. "If you are referring to The Question, I've already asked. Many times over. As for a sign, it would be ungenerous to ask for more than He's already given."

Sinister eyes swing sharp to meet mine. The man speaks slowly. "The jury might appreciate the answer, Melissa. Don't you hear it in their sighs? Why? Why? Why?"

Silence falls. The Judge and jury lean forward, chairs creaking, pressing me to ask.

There's no problem with The Question when honestly presented, but it isn't relevant to the case. I bite my lip. Accusation and curiosity burns in the jury's eyes, I see it. The Healer does, too.

The well-dressed man grips my arm. I attempt to pull away without success, and cry out. The atmosphere shifts at once. The Healer's eyes flash fire, and I'm suddenly released.

I know what comes. I brace myself.

The Healer stands to full height and thunders, "Who is this who darkens counsel with words without knowledge? Where were you when I laid the foundations of the earth? Tell Me, if you have understanding--who determined its measurements? Surely you know! Have you commanded the morning since your days began? The dawn knows its place. Do you?"


Everyone cowers in their chairs, hiding from the whirlwind. At once, I long to kiss the floor with my brow and stand so close to the rush I feel my stomach drop.

I've heard His answer before, of course. One isn't desperately ill for more than two years without asking The Question.

And this is the way He always answers--with questions of His own. Questions which plumb the depths of the soul and expose all its secrets. They wrecked me, His questions. I'll never forget how they bashed me to pieces, repaired me, and set me to sail again on the feral ocean of divine sovereignty.

The once bitter waters are now impossibly sweet. I've learned to love His scary side.

The well-dressed man retreats. Even The Judge shows signs of life--or rather, surrender--as he squirms in his seat. The hall is silent again.

The Healer still stands, chest heaving and nostrils flared. His zeal is beautiful to me.

Eager to move the case along, The Judge clears his throat and addresses the jury. "Ladies and gentlemen, the prosecution must convince you of three things in order to find the defendant guilty of the future crime of divine physical healing: First, that the defendant has confirmed through His own testimony and the witness of others He will indeed heal Melissa Keaster of Mast Cell Activation Disease. Second, that the disease cannot be healed by any means short of a divine miracle. Third, that He indeed has the power to heal incurable disease."

The jury nods their understanding, but few are convinced. Caution emanates from their furrowed brows.

"Are you ready with final arguments?" The Judge asks.

No, I think.

But The Healer stands next to me now, holding my hand. Sensing my fear, He kisses my ear and whispers, "Those who wait for Me are never ashamed."

My words are tremulous and thick with tears. "Yes, Your Honor."

I face the jury once more. Believe with me.

I exhale hard. "Your Honor and ladies and gentlemen of the jury: The Judge has told you I must convince you of three points. The truth is...I can't."

Their dubious faces almost make me lose my nerve. I spur myself on--for them! For Him!

"We're dealing with the supernatural here, which means we're dealing with faith. Faith is the evidence of things hoped for, but these are things not yet seen. I lack rock hard evidence. I have nothing to offer you beyond the testimonies you heard today," I tell them, extending my empty hands and earnest eyes.

"My sincerest desire is for you to believe--not only in a miracle that hasn't yet taken place, but a Person--a Person wise enough to send a debilitating illness into my life, a Person powerful enough to take it away, and a Person good enough to stand with me through it all."

Pointing to The Judge, I continue, "Only he can verify or falsify prophetic claims, and he cares little how these proceedings turn out. I pray you care--not only for me but for yourselves! Have we become so jaded we no longer believe in miracles? I tell you--they happen every day for anyone with seeing eyes."

My gaze drifts over each face, and I know--they definitely think I'm crazy. And so I am.

"Please don't miss this." Tears cascade down my face, and for a moment, I cannot speak. The room waits on bated breath in order to hear what the crazy lady will say next.

Suddenly, the fire reignites my bones. The tears fall still, but my energies crescendo. "Go on, find Him guilty. Find Him guilty, and sentence Him to the exaltation and glory He deserves. Sentence Him to your own belief--to your own salvation. In sickness and in health, in death and in life, He is worthy to receive blessing and honor and glory and power forever!"

"She definitely has a thing for him," comes the loud observation from the old man juror who spoke before. "And you know what? I think the feeling's mutual."

The Healer says nothing in closing. He just kisses my forehead, and lets me dry my tears on His chest.

I wait trembling in His arms for The Judge to prove or disprove His crime. I'm afraid I look like a fool before them all. I'm afraid my soul will doubt if The Judge tarries. He sits so serene, so enigmatic without any concern at all for me.

He thinks he holds the power now, but I know better. I know the One whom I have believed--The Beginning and The End. The arms that hold me are everlasting. Right or wrong, they'll never let me go.

I plant a kiss upon His shoulder as I wonder--what will the jury decide?

The Better Miracle

I am doing very well.

There, I said it.

I've been afraid to, you see, because every time I share how well I'm doing, something unpleasant this way comes. Inevitably, there will be a freak trigger exposure or a virus that lays me low for a week.

But I will not be bullied by circumstances! I will not be a slave to fear! I'm going to say it loud and proud and expect the best, trusting the Rock beneath my feet to steady me in the face of the worst--God has granted me an increased measure of health, and I am doing very well. 

Bless the Lord, O trembling soul.
Bravely bless His name.

My energy is up, I've gained weight, my pain is more manageable, I'm sleeping better, and I recently returned from a five day anniversary trip to San Antonio where upon I actually left the resort to do things, and had not one episode of anaphylaxsis.

Believe me when I say this is a miracle. 

Dr. Yakaboski checked my adrenal and thyroid function last week. For the first time since I began seeing her, my adrenals are functioning properly, and my thyroid isn't looking too shabby, either. Dr. Frieden reports I no longer harbor an overabundance of candida albicans in my belly. So that's good. Detox reactions are not the problem they once were.

I am doing very well.

Last week, I masked up and went to two appointments, Micah's school orientation, and church on Sunday morning. Not one emergency.

Micah began kindergarten this week. My days are longer, fuller, and more demanding. I'm feeding people all day long. (School apparently requires an additional meal per day. For both children. That's five meals per day for them. Help me.) I see Micah off every morning and pick him up every afternoon (so far). I assist him with homework. Though exhausted, I made it to the end of the school week, and am still functioning. A blog post is happening. Miraculous!

 

I am doing very well.

I would keep it to myself for the sake of my safety, but some things are more important than safety--like you knowing that God hears your prayers. He is listening to you, and He is acting because you ask Him to. Take heart: you are heard and loved.

So let the sky fall. Let it fall because there is a better miracle pulsing beneath the obvious one, the visible one telling the invisible story. There is a better miracle working health in my soul as my cells dump poison into my blood and my body pushes back against a supposedly degenerative disease.

The physical healing taking place is only a parable of the real, unshakeable healing which cannot be maimed by degranulating mast cells.

The parable whispers a secret--feasting works the healing.

Nutritional therapy for the sick person is essentially eating lots and lots of nutrient-dense calories to encourage the mitochondria of the cells to wake up and work life and healing in the body. Junk food just doesn't have that kind of power.

Nutritional therapy for the soul isn't all that different.

"And you who seek God, your souls shall live."--Psalm 69:32

I may follow Autoimmune Paleo protocol, but I daily feast upon the Bread of Life and drink deep of Living Water, thereby awakening the mitochondria of my inner being, the little powerhouses which produce joy and delight on a plane more real than flesh and bone.

My daily coffee enema and detox bath require a total of two hours per day. Until this summer, I squandered away that time with the distractions of Netflix and Facebook--junk food for the soul. A few months ago, I finally heard God's invitation to something better. There is nothing wrong with a little junk food, but why choose a processed snack cake while a perfectly cooked steak sits before you? One leaves you empty and sugar-crashed after a very short while. The other satisfies.

Now that I've thrown out the junk food, I have two entire hours built into my day for Jesus alone! What a blessing!

While nutritional therapy for the body is taking in calories targeted for biological healing and support, nutritional therapy for the soul is taking time to feast at my Savior's table and rest my sin-diseased and broken spirit in the Healer's arms. I couldn't have dreamed more poignant imagery to illustrate "mortality [being] swallowed up by life" than spending my sick-person-to-do-list with the Source of Life Himself (2 Corinthians 5:4).

Before I felt better, I was able to say, "I am the happiest I've ever been." Singing, dancing, smiling-like-a-love-struck-school-girl happy.

Before I felt better, I confessed, "Sometimes, I forget I'm sick," which really means this--"Sometimes I forget myself."

Self-forgetfulness is healing. It's life to the dead, rest to the weary, and freedom to the shut-in.

When we are continually looking at Jesus, we forget to check the mirror. When we forget to check the mirror, we begin to see the pain of others. Thus self-forgetfulness often means more tears because you aren't just shedding them for yourself anymore. Yet all the while, God magically, mysteriously invites us into the miracles He's working in their lives through prayer and service, rendering smiles through the tears and joy in the mourning. 

Miracles for everyone!

Self-forgetfulness is an awesome place to live. I just wish I knew how to stay. 

"Prone to wander, Lord, I feel it,
prone to leave the God I love;
Here's my heart, Lord, take and seal it,
seal it for thy courts above."

Though I have learned to live above my disease, I still want complete physical healing. I'll want it until I get it. In the meantime, there is a better miracle beneath it all.

There is a happiness to be had when the sky falls and health fails and dreams die and people wound us. There is a strong current of peace flowing beneath the tumultuous waves of our stormy seas. When life spontaneously combusts, there is One like the Son of God who stands with us in the fire.

You can do better than survive your suffering. You can thrive there. I've seen it. I've lived it. But there is only one Way, one Truth, one Life.

You'll find Him at the cross--arms open wide, bearing your sin and pain, forgiving your unbelief, loving you and wanting you in spite of your filth, foolishness, and propensity toward the junk food of the world.

I hope you'll seek Him because if you do, you'll find Him. And your soul will live. 


(If this post leaves you with unanswered questions about finding joy in suffering, please read my amendment post here.)