Musical Healing-Part 2

This post is Part 2 of a two part series. To read Part 1, click here.

The Unlooked-For Thing

Not many days after my discussion with Brandon about the possibility of working at Geneva Academy, the Lord spoke to me. I was driving down the road, singing along to a favorite worship song on my way to pick up Micah from school.

Ask for the unlooked-for thing.

I understood "the unlooked-for thing" to be the answer to our family's financial needs and the question as to how to use my musical skills and education.

God's word to me was the echoed encouragement of my friend Rebecca, who had prophesied earlier that year that God would find a use for my degree, but it may look differently than I thought.

Immediately, I prayed, "Lord, give me the unlooked-for solution. I'm watching."

The next day, I ran into Jarrod Richey (my friend and the music teacher at Geneva; see Part 1 for history) when I picked up Micah from school.

His greeting would've been ominous if I didn't know him. "The time has come."

I smiled and waited for him to explain.

There were two open teaching assistant positions which needed to be filled for the following school year. One was for Pre-K. The other was for elementary music. Jarrod said he'd love to have my help in music class and suggested I speak with Ed, the headmaster of Geneva. I assured Jarrod I would talk to Ed. Just probably not that day.

But as things turned out, I had business in the office and when I finished, Ed appeared. I mentioned what Jarrod had told me, shared my reservations about assisting in Pre-K and expressed interest in assisting in music. We set up an interview for the following day.

I remember getting into the car thinking, "What did I just do?" But the expected fear didn't follow. Actually, I was kind of excited.

Facing My Fears

I left the interview the next day with a job and mixed emotions.

I'd work where my kids went to school...awesome! I would help my husband bear financial burdens which had been his alone for the past five years...yay! I'd just signed away my kid-free writing time for the following school year...oh. I would put that expensive and time-consuming music education degree to good use...woohoo! But I didn't know whether or not I still loved music or if I even liked it anymore...yikes. And was I still good with kids? My own are one thing. But with other people's kids?

Jubilate Deo

Over the summer, my mind was consumed with writing ministry training manuals for our Personal Prayer Ministry in Ruston—the prayer ministry which God used to bring spiritual, emotional and physical healing to me—preparations for my mission trip to Brazil and our family's return to The Island. I completely forgot about sign up for the annual Jubilate Deo Music Camp, which would take place the last week of July. Until Jarrod texted, asking why Micah wasn't signed up.

He graciously allowed me to sign up late, and then asked if I would be willing to help with the kindergarten and first grade class. I didn't think; I just said yes. Partly because I wanted to, but mostly because it terrified me. (I'm a strong believer in doing the thing that scares you.)

Would I be able to handle it physically? Would it reveal that I'd lost my touch with children? Would I realize that classroom music now bored me?

But I'd forgotten how Jarrod can scheme. He strategically placed me in the music classroom of Jo Kirk.

This woman, y'all...

I have no idea how old Jo is. I'm not going to guess in case she reads this post. What I will say is that she has more energy in her left thumb at her age than I have in my entire being. I'm sorry I don't have a video of her in action. She's amazing.

Do you see the rapt attention of these young children in the photos? She maintained that level of command for the duration of the camp. And we were in class for a minimum of two hours every day.

Jo masterfully managed the classroom. In her hands, the material was almost a living entity, which made all of us more alive. In a word, Jo Kirk is anointed to teach music, which is something more than simply being skillful. Before assisting her, I'd never seen the Holy Spirit so present in a classroom

Through Jo, God called me awake again. It happened the first day of camp. The music teacher within I'd buried long ago heard her name through layers of soil, tears of grief and withered dreams and climbed out of the casket.

My eyes filled with tears as I realized I was still fit for this. It was possible I'd been made for it.

Yes, I could do this. No one who felt so much passion for something could be entirely inept. Yes, I still loved teaching music. Yes, I still loved working with children. I gazed into their bright, captive faces, wiping away tears from my own before one of them caught me crying.

Back to the Music

About a month later, Micah, Sara and I arrived at Geneva for our first day of school. I knew that day God had led me to that particular job in that particular place for this particular time. I found that Jarrod was every bit as anointed to teach music as Jo. His manner is different but just as effective. I understood why my mom wept the day she'd observed him two years prior.

Jarrod possesses the balance of skill and passion I long for. He has a vision to shape students into skilled, joyful worshipers, and has the administrative support to be successful at it. His aim? Kingdom advancement.

This talented, visionary man is content to work in obscurity because he can do more for the Kingdom in a school like Geneva than he can in a more visible position at a university. And also because he loves children. I hope you let that melt you for a moment.

His program is what I dreamed of having as a student in college and realized I couldn't have when I student taught...at least not within the public school system. What I had desired and tried to do as a private music teacher, he's doing. Music is taught as a language. By the time they graduate, students speak, sing, read and write it fluently. The high-schoolers do things I struggled with in college.

In this environment, I find myself dreaming again. Dreaming and asking questions. What is the call upon my life? Does it include music long-term? Or am I here for a season to help Jarrod become more of who God has called him to be? Because this guy will produce his own curriculum, write his own children's songs and become a master teacher before it's over with.

In case I'm here long-term, should I go for that Level 1 Kodály certification this summer? How involved does God want me to be in the program? How does all of my gifting work together practically? I'm a wife, mother, writer and minister of the Gospel, too. Is it possible to have it all? Is that what's best? Is that what God wants?

For now, God remains silent, but I sense his amused smirk upon me. He has secrets yet to be revealed. I'm going to like them whatever they turn out to be because His plans are always good, but for now I must rest in the mystery of the in-between place.

Regardless of what the future looks like, my questions have been answered. My desires have been met. I still love music. I still love children. They like me okay, too. In a very real way, I'm leading worship because worship is a way of life. Worship is taking joy in all of God's good gifts. It's working heartily as unto the Lord. It's learning to sing in all circumstances, even when you don't feel like it, and discovering the emotion doesn't have to shape the doing but the doing can shape the emotion. When the Holy Spirit is in it, anyway. 

And yes...I can still teach. I began co-teaching with Jarrod this week in preparation for his absence on Thursday. I'll sub for him. So far, I've only spent a few minutes with each class, but I remember the motions. As Brandon told me months ago, I'll be fine. It's just like riding a bike.

I love it when he's right.

Look at me! I'm tuning fork official!

I know this is a long post, but may I just take a moment to mention what a humbling, marvelous year this has been? A year ago, God sent me to the Siegmund group who took me in as I was in my weary, broken state. They loved me, ministered to me and became my new family. (Here I go, getting all weepy about them again.) God used them to heal me—in body, soul and spirit.

The Lord renewed my intimacy with Him. He stretched and wrecked me and guided me into uncharted waters. He brought the dead places back to life. I was baptized and blessed by my Superman. I ate peanut butter again. Prophecies were fulfilled. Callings were answered. Friendships formed, renewed and developed. I wrote books! (Training manuals count.) God sent me to Brazil! I'm teaching music again!

And I deserve none of it.

It's all grace. Precious, reckless, limitless grace. Grace greater than sin, sickness, death and everything the devil threw at me to prevent this —abundant life.

Thank you, Jesus. Thank you, thank you, thank you. Thank you. All I am belongs to you. You've won me. Oh, how you've won me. Again and again and again. Whatever you ask, the answer is yes. YES! I will echo it back to you. "Yes and amen. Yes and amen. Yes and amen." Today, tomorrow and throughout eternity.

Our Story

I remember the moment I chose to marry Brandon Keith Keaster. It happened on Sunday, January 19, 2003, over a year before he asked me to be his wife.

The choice was both difficult and easy. You see, I loved two wonderful, God-fearing young men at the time. Either one would've made an excellent husband. I still believe that. But even as a teen, I was of the mindset to place myself where God was working and God had been working on getting B and I together for literally decades.

So even though my friend of many years had the daunting advantages of height and red hair--I've always been a sucker for a red-head--and the idea of hurting him hurt me more than words can say, I intentionally gave my heart to Brandon.

I've never regretted my decision.

Destiny At Work

My mom's mother and Brandon's mom's mother were friends long before either of us entered history. Maybe even before our moms did. His mom babysat my mom. His parents were the first unmarried people my mom ever saw kiss. And even though my parents moved to Monroe and his stayed in Marion our circles touched the whole time we were growing up. We just never noticed each other. Mostly because he's 5 years older than me and it would've been weird.

Interestingly, the first time he did notice me, I was dressed like a Bangladeshi bride. No joke.

In August of 2000, I was 16, and I'd just returned from a 6 week gig as a mission intern/au pair in East London where I'd befriended several Bangladeshi Muslim girls, exchanged stories of faith with them, and even shared the good news of Jesus with a group of Muslim women in a local mosque. My grandmother had invited me to her church to speak about my time in England. Her church was also Brandon's church.

I remember him from that night. I sang and he ran the sound board. I think he complimented my singing when he returned my cassette tape. My grandmother later told me he'd asked about me. I was flattered, but really didn't give it much thought. I mean, he was nearly 21 and I liked another boy.

This other boy was supposed to take me to the West Monroe High School homecoming dance a couple of months later, but he made the mistake of proposing to me and telling me not to tell my dad. Let's just say things didn't work out. But I had a dress and a cousin counting on me for a ride to the dance, so my grandmother and Brandon's grandmother schemed and asked Brandon to take me. He generously agreed.

Don't you just love awkward high school dance photos?

Brandon was a perfect gentleman. He genuinely enjoyed hanging out with a 16 year old and two 14 year olds for the evening. He was a sport about all the photos and even danced with me a little. Which, to this day, is kind of a big deal. He was respectful and kind. He opened all the doors for me and had me home before my 11pm curfew. He treated me like my dad would've wanted me to be treated.

That dance was my first date ever.

We emailed a couple of times afterward, but didn't see much of each other again until the summer of 2002, when I was asked to be the interim pianist at my grandmother's church. We'd see each other in passing at both services on Sundays, but on Wednesday nights, after the singing, I'd walk over to the youth room where he was. I'd sit for the lesson, then afterward the youth minister, the pastor's son, Brandon and I would head to the basketball court and play pickup games.

The basketball court is where I fell in love with Brandon. I was in denial about it a long time, but Wednesday night basketball games were the highlight of my week.

He played just right. He didn't take it easy on me, which I would've hated, but he was careful not to hurt me. Which actually only happened once, and he was so sorry that I was careful not to let him see the tears which formed from being clocked in the jaw so hard.

It was after the annual Hanging of the Greens service in December that I first began to suspect he had feelings for me. It was the way he placed the accompaniment track in my hand. Slowly. Lingeringly. And the way he looked at me.

But I played dumb.

"I'm too young for him," I told my parents. "I'm just imagining things because I'm lonely."

That year I'd suffered two major betrayals, one of which led to a literal threat on my life. One best friend went to college and the other got married. I was in pain and didn't want to risk more pain by falling for him and being disappointed.

What I didn't know is that he was testing the waters. Had he been less determined, I might've lost him by hiding my feelings.

The Power of an Inner Vow

The following weekend, I traveled down to New Orleans with my dad to the Louisiana high school football state championship games. West Monroe was playing and I had friends on the team. They played Evangel High School who had a star quarterback with the last name...get this...Booty.

I said out loud with my dad as witness, "I would never marry a man with the last name 'Booty.'"

And God laughed and laughed and laughed.

Normally, inner vows don't work in our favor, but apparently I'm a special case. 

A mere five weeks later, Brandon asked me to stay late at a youth event to play one-on-one with him. That's basketball, just to clarify. Don't be dirty.

We ended up talking late into the night...so late that my grandmother drove 15 minutes from Farmerville to Marion to come find me. (I didn't have a cell phone back then.) But before Brandon and I parted ways, I asked him to my free movie for the week. (I worked at Tinseltown at the time and got two free tickets every week.) He offered to take me to get chocolate chip pancakes at the new IHOP by the mall. We made plans for the following weekend.

Sealed With a Kiss

I'm embarrassed to admit this, but here it is. Remember the other boy I loved? The tall red-head? I went out with him Saturday night to a thing and the next night went out with Brandon. I didn't tell either of them. I realize that's kind of terrible, but there were things I needed to settle for myself.

I was ready to commit. The boy I chose, I would probably marry. Both nights, weighty thoughts occupied my mind. It wasn't just about the guys. It was about the futures. What was I willing to agree to? It was also about what God was doing. Where was his hand at work?

I had fun both nights. There was nothing wrong with the other boy. He was a perfect gentleman, a lot like B in that regard. And he obviously cared for me, but as I said goodbye to him that night I knew it would be for good. My only regret is that I didn't just tell him. But I was too selfish and immature back then.

The following night, Brandon picked me up at my parents' house and took me to IHOP. The pancakes were okay, but the highlight was Brandon spilling a glass of ice water into his lap. I guess I made him nervous. *grin*

At the concession stand, a friend from work mouthed, "Is that your boyfriend?"

I mouthed back. "Not yet."

She gave me a thumbs up. 

We saw Two Weeks Notice, which is still a good movie by the way. On the way out of the theater, he caught my hand. I still feel the thrill that rose in my stomach when I remember. He didn't let go the whole way home. Even when things got awkward with the standard transmission.

When Brandon dropped me off, he came inside to talk with my parents. I followed him back out again to say goodbye. Just before he left I was struck with a wild compulsion. After checking the kitchen window to make sure my dad wasn't watching, I kind of leaped forward and planted a hard, novice kiss on Brandon's lips.

My thought bubble: Oh! What am I doing? I've never done anything like this before. This isn't me. Oh God, please don't let my dad see...Who cares? His lips are so nice...

I surprised him--you should hear him tell the story--but no more than I surprised myself. You see, that was my first kiss. And it had always been my plan to save my first kiss for my wedding day. Oh, well.

Breathless, I released him, ran inside half-embarrassed and perched at the foot of my bed. I remember smiling--still in shock but also somewhat pleased with my gumption. I didn't know I could be so forward.

When I'd collected myself a little, I floated into Dad's office acting like a giddy drunk, and said, "I'm gonna marry that boy."

Dad kind of hung his head and sighed. "I know."

The Rest of the Story

It was the best decision I've ever made. Save the one I make every day to follow Jesus.

Brandon has saved my life many times over. I don't want to imagine where I'd be without him or if he hadn't married me when he did.

Like Jesus, he's loved me when he didn't like me. He's held me together when I was falling apart. When I was sick and had nothing to offer him except an uncertain future of caring for a part-time invalid, he stayed.

He makes me laugh. All the time. He messes with me and pesters and tackles and tickles. I secretly love this. Most of the time. 

He teaches me about real love every day. How to give it and how to receive it. For whatever reason, I have a hard time receiving. Thanks to him, I've gotten much better. He teaches me how to trust. How to confront. What I'm worth. In a world dominated by unsafe men, he reminds me some are still good.

Neither of us are perfect. Although...he's pretty darn close, if you ask me. Sometimes we're selfish, and we fight. But I'd make the same decision again and again and again.

Brandon Keith Keaster, I love you to the ends of the earth. I'm so glad you're mine and so thankful to be yours. I'm so glad you were my first date, first kiss, first everything. Oh, and I still love your lips. I'm sorry if that's too gross for public knowledge.

Here's to you, Superman, for the 12 years we've had and the 63 left to go. 

The Island: The Return

My first trip to Little Gasparilla Island was in 2010. We went with one of my besties, Danielle Dorey, who I'd met during my Frontliners internship the summer of 2003.

 Baby faces.

Micah was a baby, and I was a happily married stay-at-home mom/part-time private piano and voice teacher. And I'd just scored a lead role in the community theater's Fall musical-comedy. Life was pretty good. And the trip? A-maz-ing. I'd fallen in love with that little slip of sandy earth and planned to return as soon as I could.

What I didn't realize then was the bit of heaven we'd enjoyed there was the calm before the storm. There was crazy theater drama for the next two months. (Not all the good kind.) A miscarriage. A major onslaught against my health in January 2011 followed by a difficult pregnancy and a semi-traumatic labor and delivery.

My health continued to deteriorate, but I never let go of the dream of returning. I felt God had given it as a promise to go with my healing. I would say to Brandon, "When I get well, we're going back, you know."

And when I was lying on what could've been my death bed, he'd say, "Don't forget. When you get well, we're going back to the island." To remind me I couldn't die yet. We had plans.

When my healing began, we mentioned a return trip, but as time came to make preparations I realized we were too short on cash to press the issue. Besides, I was going to Brazil in September.

But my Superman is one sly guy and he's earned his nickname many times over.

As we drove home from the Ozarks on my birthday, my phone rang. It was Danielle. Because it was my birthday, I expected nothing more than a wish. Which I received. Then she said, "Brandon, God and I have a surprise for you."

My thought bubble: Brandon...God...Danielle...can't be a baby...hmmm....

"How would you like to come down to the island next month?"

After a momentary lapse of cognition, I flipped.

I laughed. I cried. I bounced up and down in my seat. I couldn't believe it. And yet I could. Brandon has always been too good to me.

I sneaked a glance at him. Tears shimmered in his eyes. Softy. He knew what this meant to me.

I thanked Danielle. I thanked B. I thanked God. I was so stoked. Only a few days before I'd asked Sara, "If we could go anywhere in the world together, where would you want to go?"

"Da beach," she'd said with a grin. She'd never been and it had been so long since our last beach trip, Micah didn't remember. They were so excited when I told them.

Brandon explained we would drive to Georgia first to see our friends James and Erica Kordsmeier, then drive down to Tampa and leave from there for the island with the Doreys. We'd be gone 11 days.

The drive to Georgia was smooth and pleasant. God placed two people in my path to pray for along the way, which was fun. Our time with the Kordsmeiers was too short but very sweet.

Then came our reunion with the Doreys. It had been six years since I'd seen my friend face to face and yet--because of phone calls, texts, Facebook and the goodness of God--it was as if no time had passed. Except for the three extra kiddos, dark circles under our eyes and a few gray hairs. But whatevs.

The next day, we made our way south along Florida's west coast. I was antsy to get to the island, but also a bit fearful. Would it be as incredible as I remembered? Or had I blown a nice experience out of proportion in my mind?

I stepped out of the truck and smelled bay water. A hot breeze ruffled my unruly hair. I smiled and forgot all fear of disappointment.

Samantha, Danielle's sister gave some of us a boat ride from the marina to the island.

Weston and Sara ready to go "motor speed."

Before I knew it, we were there. And yes--the magic I remembered still hovered over the island. Not quite ripe sea grapes and coconuts graced the trees. Birds called out to one another. A dog barked in the distance. The kids played in the sand and I enjoyed the quiet rush of the breeze through the foliage while we waited for the luggage to be unloaded onto the golf cart.

Then it was a race to get to the beach.

One of the things I love about Little Gasparilla is the low population. There are no condominiums. Just beach houses. There's no fighting for chair space. You don't have to watch your stuff. You can leave it out all day if you want. No one will bother it. And your kids are easy to spot. Behold...

The kids enjoyed the beach as much as they thought they would. They enjoyed each other more than I thought they would.

Here we have a Weston...the cutest fish you'll ever meet.

FYI: You can't keep this 4-year-old out of the water. 

Micah was afraid of the water, but enjoyed the beach. 

I taught Sara to body board...kind of. 

 Instead of a vanilla latte made by Kurt Pendergrass, Kurt Pendergrass taught me to make my own. Turns out, I'm not a bad barista.

Kurt also took B fishing again...

and on our first evening, took us all out on a dolphin cruise.

The kids enjoyed the local wildlife. 

One morning, I woke early to pray and enjoy the sunrise, which was pretty glorious. The sunsets were as spectacular as I remembered.

 Check out that green ray!

But nothing could beat the company.

This trip to the island was a lot more work than the last. That's what happens when you add three littles to the mix. Especially when the party includes a high-adventure, adrenaline junkie, perpetually ravenous two year old. 

Meet Titus. Chances are, he's "hungee." 

Kudos to Danielle and Ryan who somehow keep him fed.

I didn't have a lot of alone time with Jesus while we were gone, but the constant prayer of my heart was, "Thank you...thank you...thank you...thank you..."

I was overwhelmed by generosity. Of my husband, who sacrificed vacation days usually set aside for hunting. By my friends who offered us a free place to stay and great company. Of the Pendergrasses and Danielle's sister, Samantha, who came down both Sunday and Wednesday to make coming and going fun, easy and inexpensive. Of the Lord. 

Wow...just wow. 

I'd done nothing to deserve such a gift. Yet it was freely given. Grace, grace...marvelous grace. 

Grace was the golden thread running through every detail. From the ability to even go to the hospitality of friends. Down even to the storm patterns. Each day, storms threatened to come down upon us, but danced around instead. On the day we left, all the Floridians agreed, we'd get wet on the boat ride back to shore. But no. The clouds parted. We sat on damp towels and enjoyed the cool air in our faces...

...and on the drive back to Tampa, a reminder that God always...always...keeps His promises.

See You in Sao Paulo, Part 3

  Click here to read Part 1. Click here to read Part 2.

Fun Fact: Sao Paulo is the largest city in Brazil and the 11th largest city in the world. It's almost the size of NYC and almost twice the size of Rio de Janeiro where the Olympics will be held in a few weeks. 

***

I lay awake in bed, unable to stand it any more. Obviously, Brandon needed my help. "So...has God given you a word for me?"

Silence.

I poked him. "Well?"

Brandon groaned. "A word about what?"

I tried to play it cool. "I don't know...a word about anything."

He was so still, but I could almost hear the whirl of his mental cogs. "Not that I know of."

"Okay then." I rolled over and shut my eyes.

I felt his confusion, but it was late and we were tired so he let it go. 

No answer is still an answer, I reminded myself. If God didn't act, I wouldn't go. Plain and simple. I thought God was prompting me, but maybe He wasn't. I'd been wrong before.

Two days passed. The sun set on March 26, and Brandon hadn't said anything. A significant part of me was relieved. I wouldn't have to leave my kids, my Superman or my comfort zone. I could love Jesus and who He loves right here in north Louisiana. I wouldn't have to go to the trouble of raising funds and getting a passport and defending my decision to judge-y moms like me. I wouldn't have to prep two weeks of meals to feed my family while I was gone. Whew! Bullet dodged.

I hoped Erica wouldn't be too disappointed. I tried to convince myself I wasn't.

On Easter morning, I pushed thoughts of Brazil aside and threw myself into Easter things. I didn't slow down until that night when I went to a home group meeting in West Monroe led by Neil and Mei Powers, Whit Bass and others. (Shout out to my West Monroe peeps!)

I wanted to meet Neil and Mei who had prayed for my healing back in 2013 when things didn't look so good and to relax in God's presence after a busy day. But I wasn't allowed to relax. Which had nothing to do with sharing my testimony and praying for people. That's my idea of a good time.

No. The reason I couldn't relax is that people would not shut. up. about Randy Clark, Global Awakening and Brazil. They had no idea I'd just spent two weeks fasting to find out whether or not I would go. They had no idea I was even considering it. They were just excited about the work God was doing there.

Every time someone mentioned Brazil, etc., it felt as if a pin pricked my heart. Finally, I broke and asked for prayer.

I told everyone how a friend had asked me to go, how I'd fasted for two weeks, about the sign I'd requested, what had happened during the fast and the very important thing which hadn't.

Everyone joined me in prayer that God would move in Brandon's heart within the next few hours if I should go on this particular trip. They never questioned whether or not I should go to Brazil. Just the timing.

Before I left that night, I witnessed God heal a broken tooth on the spot. So how hard could it be for Brandon to encourage me to go?

I arrived home and found Brandon watching TV. I cuddled up next to him on the couch, half-expecting him to say something about Brazil. He took my hand and gave it a squeeze. "How was group?"

"Really good," I said. "We prayed, and God reconstructed a dude's broken tooth."

"Awesome."

"Yeah..."

Apparently, the gold digger rerun was riveting.

As I drifted off to sleep that night, I asked God to give Brandon a dream or a vision or something. If nothing happened before we got out of bed the next morning, the trip wouldn't either. As it was, I was almost two days past the original deadline I'd given God.

(Note: God doesn't always respect your deadline.)

Sunlight streamed through our bedroom window, casting a glow upon our white sheets. Brandon glanced up from his phone and kissed my cheek, scratching me with his whiskers. I waited a long time before speaking. "Do you have a word from the Lord for me?"

Slowly, his eyes traveled to mine. "That's the second time you've asked me that."

"Yes...well?"

"What am I supposed to say?"

I was surprised. I'd really, truly expected something. Oh, well. I stretched, preparing to rise. "That answers my question."

"What question?"

"Whether or not I'm going to Brazil." I then explained the sign I'd asked for during my fast.

A long pause. And he says, "The reason I haven't said anything is because I thought it was already decided you were going."

Really????

Remember the night Tim and Bruce tried to give my trip away? When Tim announced they would help sponsor Erica and another young person to go to Brazil, Brandon assumed Tim was talking about me and it was a done deal. So what that my name was never mentioned. Brandon "knew" I was going before I told him Erica had asked me.

No lie. It's reasoning skills like this that leave me in a constant state of bewilderment. And I'm expected not only to follow said reasoning but to pull it out of thin air.

"Why does my opinion matter anyway?" he asks.

*eye roll* "You're ridiculous. Full disclosure? I wasn't sure I wanted to go, and I needed your help, input and blessing."

He grinned pure mischief. "Full disclosure? Both times you asked me if I had a word from the Lord, I thought of Brazil."

He asked for the day to think and pray. I agreed and took the kids on an outing. I returned that evening, expectant. But in typical Brandon fashion, he wouldn't give me a straight answer until I'd lost my temper for him. (I don't know whether he's an adrenaline junkie or just insane, but the man thinks it's fun to make me angry.)

He fought a grin, then grew serious. "Selfishly, I don't want you to go, but I believe God does. And who am I to stand in His way?" Brandon went on to say he'd been reminded of the word God had given him for 2016--"Trust."

I blinked. This is not the man I married.

Something really big had happened. Something crazy. Something only God could do. The man who'd flipped his lid when I went on a two-night choir tour had blessed a two-week international mission trip. Without any pressure from me. Knowing he'd have two kids to care for in my absence!


Prayer...it's powerful.

***

Pico do Jaragua aerial shot Sau Paulo 2010 by chensiyuan

Erica and I will be gone September 22-October 4, 2016 with a group led by Randy Clark through his organization Global Awakening. Our trip is called “Lighting Fires.” We’ll partner with the local church and engage in “power evangelism,” which is what happens when evangelism meets the miraculous. We’ll be trained, equipped and set loose to carry out the Great Commission of Jesus—

 “And [Jesus] said to them, ‘Go into all the world and preach the gospel to every creature . . . And these signs will follow those who believe: In my name they will cast out demons . . . they will lay hands on the sick and they will recover.” ~Mark 16:16-18

We'll receive training each morning, do street ministry in the afternoons and participate in evening meetings during which people will receive healing and decide to follow Christ. People are healed every night! Cool, huh?

Just a year ago, I believed the "Missions" chapter of my life might be closed for good. How a girl goes from being a shut-in with an incurable disease to being healthy enough to go on an international mission trip in less than a year, I don't know. But wow. Just...WOW! And yay God!

Erica and I invite you to partner with us financially in the mission to bring the Good News to all the world. Please make all checks payable to ChristSource Ministries, write "Brazil Mission Trip" in the memo, and mail to 301 E. Alabama Ave. Ruston, LA 71270 by July 14. ChristSource is a 501(c)(3) non-profit organization. Your donation is tax-deductible. If you are unable to support us financially, please partner with us through prayer. Thank you!

See You in Sao Paulo, Part 2

Click here to read Part 1.

 

View of Sao Paulo

Image by Kalexander2010 via Flickr Creative Commons

It was nearly midnight when Brandon and I drove through Farmerville on our way home from the Siegmunds'. I let the words fall softly. As if speaking them too loudly might shatter the small-town quiet and any possibility there was of going. "Just so you know...Erica asked me to go with her to Brazil."

He said nothing. I said nothing else. No decision had to be made until the end of March, so I didn't mention the trip again.

We left a few days later for a week in Branson with the family. While away, I came to two realizations:

First, I wouldn't go if Brandon didn't fully support the trip. Reluctant consent wouldn't satisfy me. I refused to twist his arm or wrestle him down with the force of my will. He'd have to approve my going. Bless it.

And that was almost impossible. He'd always taken my overnight absences as a personal affront. Furthermore, I'd broken trust in the past, so him encouraging me to leave the country for two weeks would require an act of God.

Second, I wasn't sure it was right to go. Let me explain.

• I have this thing about wasting church resources on sending American missionaries to foreign countries to do things locals should be doing. To put it mildly, it annoys me. Don't spend thousands of dollars to fly across the world and steal construction and babysitting jobs from the people you're supposedly helping. Send the money. Equip the missionaries. Put the locals to work. The end. Not all "mission trips" look like this, but too many of them do.
• I'm against evangelizing an area only to abandon it days later. Again, it's a waste of resources because there's no one left behind to sustain a move of God. I can't take part in anything of the sort in good conscience. Been there. Done that. Threw away the t-shirt. 
• Confession: In the past, I've judged mothers who leave the mission field at home to go to the mission field abroad. My kids are the most important disciples God will ever assign to me. I'm called to steward my time with them well. Is it right to leave them to serve people I'll never see again?
• Finally, to go would be to leave others with the burden of caring for my kids. Could I ask such a thing after all they'd done for me while I was sick?

On March 13, I began a two week fast to seek God's heart on the matter because--ultimately--His opinion is the only one that carries real weight.

I asked God to give me assurance about going in the form of the most impossible thing I could think of--that my husband, Brandon Keaster, would not only allow but encourage me to go to Brazil without me making any attempt to convince him that he should. If God wanted me to go, He'd have to tell B, and He'd have to do it by March 26, which was the day Global Awakening began accepting applications for the trip.

I prayed to this effect day after day. Brazil was never mentioned by either of us.

One night near the middle of the fast, I'd almost convinced myself that God wasn't acting because it was wrong for me to leave the kids. Maybe I was sinning by even entertaining the thought. (Mom guilt is no joke.) And even if I wasn't, did I want to leave my kids for two weeks? (No.) Could I?

My eyes watered at the thought. I remembered how much those 10 days in Minnesota hurt.

I sat down with Micah and Sara at bedtime and opened the Bible to our place in the book of Mark (10:23-31). After a brief note from Jesus about how all things are possible with God, verses 29-30 read--

So Jesus answered and said, "Assuredly, I say to you, there is no one who has left house or brothers or sisters or father or mother or wife or children or lands, for My sake and the gospel's, who shall not receive a hundredfold now in this time--houses and brothers and sisters and mothers and children and lands, with persecutions--and in the age to come, eternal life..."

Tears welled in my eyes. Jesus answered the concerns of my heart right out of his word in the exact moment of my need.

Afterward, I learned more about the kind of work Erica and I would be doing in Brazil. We'd partner with the local church to preach the gospel and pray for the sick. There would be no job stealing from the natives. I discovered Randy Clark isn't a one hit wonder kind of guy. His ministry, Global Awakening, has established roots in Brazil. Finally, I spoke with my parents, in-laws and grandmother. They agreed to help with the kids if God gave me the sign I asked for.

Only one thing remained. If Brandon woke one morning from a dream in which clouds parted, the sun shone, and a booming voice told him to ship me off to Brazil for two weeks, I knew the money would come. Money was a non-thing compared to what I'd asked.

But the days tripped along, one after another and Brandon said nothing.

To be continued... 


Erica and I will be in Sao Paulo, Brazil September 22-October 4, 2016 with a team led by Randy Clark through his organization, Global Awakening. We invite you to partner with us financially in the mission to bring the Good News to all the world. Please make all checks payable to ChristSource Ministries, write "Brazil Mission Trip" in the memo, and mail to 301 E. Alabama Ave. Ruston, LA 71270 by July 14. ChristSource is a 501(c)(3) non-profit organization. Your donation is tax-deductible. If you are unable to support us financially, please partner with us through prayer. Thank you!

Baptized in the Buffalo River

For nearly 20 years, I canoed the Buffalo River almost every May/early June--usually the week after Memorial Day--until my illness made an apparent end of the tradition. My last trip was in 2011. That year a long-time family friend died on the river--an event which hurt me in a way I can't quite explain.

The Vision

My family and I made plans to float last year. That trip was supposed to be a sort of redemption, and I was looking forward to it, sick and all.

A few days before we left, the Lord gave me a vision during my time with him. I saw myself baptized in the Buffalo River. By Brandon.

I knew the vision wasn't purely symbolic. It was something God wanted me to do. But in typical Melissa fashion, I argued with him.

"That's crazy. I'm not doing that."
*Nudge*
"Why? I've already been baptized. Twice."
*Nudge*
"It's weird. It doesn't make sense."
*Nudge*
"That water's cold, God. And you know how I react to the cold."
*A warm flood of peace*

Then I recalled Namaan. The leper who was healed by dipping in the Jordan seven times. Who wouldn't do it at first because it seemed too strange. And then like Peter I exclaimed, "Okay! I'll do it! Feet, hands, head and all!"

But the rains didn't stop last year and the river "came a flood." No one was allowed on. Basically, last year's trip was the story of the previous four years. I remember my disappointment. Another to add to the pile.

"Next year," I said to comfort myself.

Little did I know I'd experience radical, miraculous healing in every part of my being a few months later.

Making Sense of What I Saw

I have this insatiable drive to understand things. Even things I know are mystery.

Since the vision came, I've been trying to reason out why God would want me to be baptized again. Why, God? Why now? Why here? Why this way?

I mean, I've always been a believer. I can't remember a time in which I didn't love God or believe in Jesus. Belief has been a constant in my life.

That being said, there has been a seismic shift in my faith in the past few years. No one who knows me well could miss it. The entire landscape has changed. Everything looks different because of what's happened underneath the surface. But isn't that what's supposed to happen in times of intense sanctification?

Is the baptism some kind of symbol of redemption? To wash away the rubble of the last few years? Why be baptized in the Buffalo River by Brandon with only a handful of witnesses as opposed to in a church before a congregation by a pastor? I have several pastors in my life. Why not have one of them do it?

Washed in the Water of the Word

In search of answers, I plunged into the Word and early Church history. What I found is that the early Church treats baptism very differently than people of my church tradition.

Throughout the years, I've heard the metaphor that baptism is like a wedding ring. "The ring doesn't make you married. It's just a symbol of the marriage that's already happened."

After my research, I find the explanation a little...insipid.

Keeping within the marriage metaphor, I would like to submit the idea that baptism is less like a wedding ring, which is a mere symbol of marriage, and more like the marriage ceremony itself, which is more like a sign. A sign defined as a visible expression of a spiritual reality. Something to help we humans understand something important is happening in the spiritual realm.

A ceremony doesn't make you married any more than baptism makes you a Christian, but it's definitely something more than a symbolic bauble. In a marriage ceremony, something real happens. Vows--whether verbal or non-verbal--are exchanged between husband and wife, the couple and God, and the couple and the community. The action seals the reality.

The way I see it, baptism isn't a wedding ring. It's the wedding itself.

Why I Believe This Way:

1) Old Testament law presents us with ceremonies which point to ultimate salvation in Jesus Christ. These ceremonies include ritual washing in order to be "clean." Proselytes were initiated into the Jewish people by baptism as a symbol of "cleanness." Ezekiel  mentions a washing for cleansing which God performs as a sign of His covenant with his people (16:6-14). As part of the law, symbols are important. God gave them to us to help us recognize the Christ. But in Matthew 15, Jesus clearly states what goes on in the heart is far more important than the outward symbol.

(Unfortunately), we all know people who have run around on their spouses with their wedding rings on. That's what the Pharisees in Jesus' day were trying to do. They looked married but didn't act like it, which is why John the Baptist threw a hissy fit when the Pharisees came to be baptized in Matthew 3. They wanted to wear the ring without making the commitment.

2) Scripture is clear that believer's baptism is categorically different from Old Testament symbols. For example, the flood in Noah's day is the accompanying antitype to baptism (1 Peter 3:18-22). Noah and his family were "saved through water."

We know from Romans 10 that baptism isn't a prerequisite for salvation, but it has to be more than a simple symbol. 1 Peter 3:21 says, "There is also an antitype [of Noah's ark] which now saves us--baptism (not the removal of the filth of the flesh, but the answer of a good conscience toward God), through the resurrection of Jesus Christ..."

According to scripture, baptism isn't the means of salvation, and yet it saves us by answer of a good conscience toward God--a mysterious paradox which kind of makes my brain explode.

3) Baptism wasn't considered optional in the early Church. You don't see believers professing without baptism. It goes hand in hand.

4) In early Church tradition, baptism was a very big deal. New believers weren't immediately baptized. Baptism was an initiation into the Church which took place some time after the believer professed faith in Christ. For Romans, to be baptized was treason. The act was a statement that they were willing to die for their faith.

Before believers were baptized, they were educated in the Christian faith and received deliverance ministry. Time tested their commitment. The primary reason this practice was lost is due to infant baptism, which I don't care to argue for or against here. (For more information, read McDonnell and Montague's Christian Initiation and Baptism in the Holy Spirit: Evidence from the First Eight Centuries.)

5) John the Baptist described his baptism as a baptism of repentance--the action of turning from sin toward God, resulting in forgiveness. Baptism for the forgiveness of sins is already something more than Old Testament washing, and John says, "I indeed baptize you with water unto repentance, but [Jesus] who is coming after me is mightier than I, whose sandals I am not worthy to carry. He will baptize you with the Holy Spirit and fire" (Matthew 3:11).

I believe this verse indicates something major is happening at the moment of baptism. Something invisible to us and very visible in the spiritual realm.

My Conclusions

 

I concluded from my research that my baptism was about something more than redemption. I believed something would happen at the moment of my baptism. I wasn't sure what. I'm still not entirely sure. But here are a few of my thoughts:

1) It was about redemption.

In the years since my last trip, I went through fire and water, but God brought me out to rich fulfillment (Ps. 66:12).

If you look at the background in the photo, you see signs of a flood. The flood that kept me from being baptized last year. Devastation that swept away everything which wasn't firmly rooted in the soil.

When we came to this place on the river, the Holy Spirit leapt inside of me. I knew it. I'd seen it. Had there been no flood, this picture would be the exact match of what I saw in the vision last year.

In my life, had there been no flood, there would've been no baptism. Because there would've been no death. And without death, there's no resurrection.

2) In that moment, I fully identified with Christ.

I identified with him in a way I couldn't at ages 6 and 10. I took on his name. I took on his person. I made a cosmic declaration--"For better or worse, for richer or poorer, in sickness and in health, forsaking all others. Even unto death."

In short, I got married.

3) He laid me low and raised me up something new (2 Cor. 5:17).

Y'all, I'm different. I'm alive in a way I've never been. Let the whole world know. I. am. new.

4) When my Superman baptized me, I received his blessing upon my ministry. 

When I first told Brandon he was going to baptize me--see how I did that?--he looked at me as if I'd lost my mind. "Me? Baptize you?" he asked.

Silly boy. He still has no idea how powerful his spiritual authority is. He has no idea how his words sink into my skin. How his gospel love saves me every day. How his prayers change the whole atmosphere of our home. How when he prays for me and the kids, things happen.

God is calling me to things bigger than either of us. If I'm going to do them, I need more than Brandon's reluctant approval. I need his blessing. It isn't optional.

 (Don't you just love Sara's enthusiasm in the background? So sweet!)

Here's the bottom line--I believe God led me to do this in this way, and I obeyed. Period. The end. At the end of the day, I can only guess at the reasons he wanted it done. 

I felt his approval as I rose up out of that icy water, and I now feel ready for this next season of my life. Whatever it looks like. 

P.S. The trip was loads of fun, by the way. Truly, the Lord is restoring the years the locusts have eaten (Joel 2:25). 

My little handsome.

"Dis is da best day eva!"

"I'm bow-wed." (I'm bored.)

It had been too long. Major thanks to Superman who let me fish all day while he paddled. 

I caught a good one, y'all. And I'm not talking about the fish. 

Brandon taught me to always give the first fish of the day a smooch. 

That day I caught 5 smallmouth and 3 sunfish. Fun day!

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.

 

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.

Promises and Chocolate Chip Pancakes

Original image via Flickr Creative Commons courtesy of EffingFoodie

Afternoon sun poured through the window, warming and brightening our white cotton sheets. I nestled against him and looked into his soft, brown eyes. Lacing my fingers through his, I asked the question I'd wanted to ask since it became clear God was healing me.

"Why did you stay?"

He blinked at me.

"I want you to be honest," I said. "I won't be offended. Was it for the kids? Because divorce would've been too expensive? Because it was the right thing to do?"

He tucked a wayward strand behind my ear and looked past me, lost in thought. "Leaving never crossed my mind. Preparing for your death--that was the hard part."

A shadow passed through his eyes. I knew the time he referenced. I didn't want to think about those days.

"But why?" I pressed.

His eyes locked with mine. "Well, I made promises in front of a room full of people. To you. To God. That's kind of a big deal. And besides"--the corner of his mouth twitched--"I like you a little bit."

Ladies and gentlemen, the man I married. 

 

Brandon Keaster, I don't tell you often enough how wonderful you are. So let me tell you now--you are wonderful. 

And clever! Clever enough to trick me into asking you on a date 13 years ago.

Thank you for the chocolate chip pancakes that night and for loving, honoring, and protecting me every day since. Thank you for keeping your promises when it's hard. My heart is yours forever.

Happy anniversary of the night I decided to be your wife, Superman. 

I like you a little bit, too. 

P.S. Give up already. I'm never gonna find a better man than you.

 

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)

Why I Journal: 21 Reasons

Journaling is often described as a lost or dying art. Maybe it is. I lack necessary statistics to prove or disprove that hypothesis, but I don't know many people who do it. My mom. My mentor. A couple of my friends.

The reason for this, I think, is that journaling is a discipline before it's an art, and discipline is dying.

It's understandable, if you think about it. There are countless demands on our time and energy. It's kind of a miracle you're even reading this post right now. The mere act of reading demands your time and mental real estate, and what you're reading is about yet another discipline in addition to the ones already on your plate. Not to mention, this particular discipline reeks with the odor of your middle school classroom and all its unpleasantness.

I mean, what adult wants to assign themselves homework, right? (Besides me.) Who has time to doodle in a notebook for 20 minutes several days a week--or ever--when they're already trying to exercise, eat healthy, pray, read more books, and organize their homes while working, parenting, and sleeping enough to stay alive? Not to mention keeping up with The Voice and scrolling the Facebook newsfeed...

Adulting is hard. 

But you know what I've learned about myself? I have time to do the things I want to do. I always have. When I was a full time music student, a part time piano and voice teacher, a children's minister, and had a 30 minute commute (minimum) everywhere I had to go. When I was a working mom. When I was so sick I could barely pick up a pen.

I want to journal, so I do.

But WHY do it?

 

Throughout the centuries, people have journaled for many reasons. To preserve history, for one. For entertainment. For posterity. The written word is longer-lasting than the human body, so people write what they want to be remembered.

Today, psychologists tell us that journaling is good for our health. It relieves stress and depression, and strengthens immune cells. Some research indicates journaling actually relieves the symptoms of asthma and rheumatoid arthritis.

But I don't journal for those reasons. As a believer in Christ, I don't feel pressure to be remembered. And I don't write as a perk to my health.

I write because I must. I need to write like I need to eat. Well...almost.

(I realize I am not the norm.)

That being said, I do have reasons to journal in addition to blogging, Facebooking, tweeting, texting, emailing, and novel...ing.

My Journaling History

 

I began to write poems, short vignettes, and various tidbits as soon as I could write. My parents kept some of them.

I began a formal journal in the 5th grade. Mrs. Pilgreen assigned a writing prompt each day, and required us to write a three to five sentence paragraph in our speckled notebooks. (To this day, I still love speckled notebooks.) Overachiever that I was, I often filled the page.

Mostly, I wrote lies I wished were true fiction, but my 5th grade classroom is where I learned the basics of journaling. Which is to record important events, thoughts, and feelings.

Since then, I've tried various forms of journaling--scrapbooking, blogging, Facebook, even food journaling. Art journaling was a FAIL. For obvious reasons.

But I always come home to the old school long-hand journal.

When I Write

 

I write when I have something to write about. But not always.

I could write every day. Inspiration is everywhere. In God. In Superman. In my little gingers. In nature. In the things I read. In what people say. In how people are. I'm always watching, observing. It's what writers do.

Just kidding. Sort of.

However, I don't hold myself down to a schedule. I don't journal every day. Unless I want to. Which sometimes I do. But other times, I go weeks or even months between journal entries. 

What I Write

 

There are all kinds of things in my journal. A record of events and how I feel about them. Random thoughts. Quotes. Bible verses. Meditations. Prayers. Dreams. Visions. Prayer lists. Gratitude lists. Cute things my kids say. Goals. Proudest moments. Darkest secrets.

My journal is my confessional and my trophy room.

Which brings me to...

Why I Write

 

I'm a pretty open book. Chances are, if you ask me something point blank, I'll tell you the truth and probably more of it than you want to know

BUT any time I present a part of myself to the public, whether that public consists of one person or a thousand, I edit. At least a little. (You do it, too, even if you're unaware of the fact.)

You'll find the fluffiest, most cuddly version of Melissa Keaster on Facebook and Twitter. Or in a scrapbook. You'll get a peek beneath my skin on my blog and in my fiction. But my journal? That's where you'll see the good, the bad, and the ugly of my soul. Which is why some of my journals have warnings in the front (i.e. "Do not read without my permission unless I am dead"). I do the least amount of editing there, which makes for interesting (and sometimes entertaining) material.

Journaling is where I get to be as honest as I know how to be, but that's only the foundational reason I do it. Here's an arbitrary list of other reasons off the top of my head:

1. To process life with integrity
2. To remember God's faithfulness
3. To help others remember God's faithfulness
4. To record prayers and answers
5. To record prophecies and their fulfillment
6. To record goals and progress
7. To collect favorite quotes
8. To capture my wrestling matches with God
9. To find out what I think about things; sometimes I don't know until I write
10. To contemplate Scripture
11. To get my words out (I have a lot of them.)
12. To have a safe place for my wildest, weirdest thoughts
13. To write the things people may not have time, interest, or patience to hear
14. To tattle on people to God (Yes, really...though you should know--any time you tattle to God, he always turns it around on you.)
15. To remember cute things my kids say
16. Blog fodder
17. Novel fodder
18. Because sometimes people can't handle my joy, sorrow, grief, or passion, but God and blank pages can (Tip: Keep a tissue or handkerchief handy; you don't want to blot the pages with tears.)
19. To leave something of myself for my kids and grandkids to enjoy
20. To show my descendants how God loves us from birth to old age and beyond

So yeah...I've got reasons. And maybe among my reasons, you'll find reasons of your own.


What about you? Do you journal? What are your reasons? If you don't, do ya wanna start? Need tips? Encouragement? Accountability? I'll be happy to help you along.

I love, love, love comments, so feel free to drop me a line and ask for my help. I'm supposed to teach a journaling class soon, and it would be great to get in some practice beforehand!

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!

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!

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.

Ten Years

I think about it often: A lesser man would have left me by now. You stay. You, with those big brown eyes, open arms, soft lips, and serving hands.

Like a phoenix, I'm born, I breathe, I burn. I'm remade from the ashes time and again. I have been no less than five different people in the decade we've been married, and you have loved them all.

"You're so weird," you say with a chuckle. God bless that chuckle because that chuckle means you think my weird is cute.

I think your weird is cute, too.

How do you always know when I need a laugh? A hug? A strong hand to hold mine? Your presence, your voice as my innards swell and lungs labor are a comfort and a tether keeping my feet tied to the world.

How do you do it all, Atlas? How do you manage the weight of the world on those broad, sexy shoulders?

How do you work long days, bathe children, grocery shop, manage the property, pay the bills, help others, and save me every day? How do you live always dying, always denying yourself?  You swear to your own hurt, and you do not change (Psalm 15:4).

There must be Jesus in you.

As long as you channel Living Water, I'll never stop drinking you in. When you run dry, my well is yours. Always.

You've won my heart a million times over. Just like this Savior I know. I don't deserve either of you.

 World, you may keep your fallible currencies. I'll draw and spend from an eternal bank of love.

Happy anniversary, My Beloved. I could not have made a better investment over the last ten years than I have in you. Thank you for being a parable of Christ's love for me and His Church. Here is to many more years in this life and an eternity of them in the next, my Brother, my Friend, my Lover.....

MY SUPERMAN

 

And now 10 years in photos and song:

The Upside to Being Laid Low

Things fell apart almost immediately after I posted my most recent health update. I am usually a fan of irony--this time not so much. After posting an encouraging report of my progress, I proceeded to have three back to back food-related reactions, which put me into crisis mode. The morning following the third reaction, I opened my eyes to see Brandon looking me over. "Morning, Sexy," he greeted me with a mischievous gleam in his eye, "you look like you've got the mumps!" And indeed, I felt like I had the mumps.

Everything was painfully swollen, especially the lymph nodes in my face and neck. I could not talk or move without wincing. I could tell my digestive tract was ready to revolt given the smallest opportunity. As post-reaction fasting has never served me well, I opted for a diet of white rice, freshly prepared veggie juice, vegetable purees and a tummy-soothing mixture of slippery elm and marshmallow root powder. I was the most fatigued I have been in a long time. My body could do little else but sleep.

Throughout the week, I improved little by little and was almost back to eating my regular diet when I was hit with another wave of reactions. I inhaled food particles in someone else's home, made skin contact with a preservative wax covering a vegetable I was preparing for dinner, and had a mystery reaction to what may or may not have been Sara's baby wipes. The reaction to the vegetable wax was particularly nasty. I had difficulty speaking, walking, or gathering my thoughts for almost 24 hours. I have not recovered my energy or mental clarity since. 

Over the last two and half weeks, I have spent a lot of time in bed. Rest is nice, but it is not my preferred lifestyle. I like full, productive days. It is a difficult thing to get a good taste of hope only to choke on it. It's hard to feel like things are finally going where I want them to go only to find the path has circled back on me. I dislike full-body pain, the choice between hunger and discomfort caused by eating, and the feeling of being so tired I can't hold my head upright on my neck. I despise the loneliness of a bed, the emptiness of not being able to take care of my children, husband and home. I hate giving up any more of my life to this disease--even quarter inches. Left alone in necessary solitude, I must face my frustrations, doubts, fears and grief. There is no escape.

But even there--

His grace is sufficient for me. (2 Corinthians 12:9)

I have a High Priest who sympathizes with my weaknesses. (Hebrews 4:15)

As the sufferings of Christ abound in me, so my consolation also abounds through Christ. The cosmic scales are always even. (2 Corinthians 1:5)

I am hard-pressed on every side, yet not crushed; perplexed, but not in despair; persecuted, but not forsaken; struck down, but not destroyed--always carrying about in my body the dying of the Lord Jesus, that the life of Jesus also may be manifested in my body. (2 Corinthians 4:8-10)

His mercies hold me up. His comforts delight my soul. (Psalm 94:18-19)

He considers my trouble. He knows my soul in adversities. (Psalm 31:7)

He is a shield around me, my glory and the One who lifts up my head. (Psalm 3:5)

Ultimately, it is in these moments of distress I know my Savior best. It is when I am laid low that I enter the veil of Christ's sufferings. If I know pain, He has known it far better. I may face loss, but never more than He. He has insight into grief I will never have for while I have lost a covenant friend, He lost His Friend and Father who had been with Him always, since before time was a concept. He has drunk dry the cup of disappointment, need, and all the wrath of God I deserve. It is when I am laid low enough to taste it with Him, I am invited in--into the inner sanctuary which the happy never see.

It is there I receive something better than happiness. I am able to "rejoice to the extent that [I] partake of Christ's sufferings" (1 Peter 4:13). I am made "exceedingly glad with [His] presence" (Psalm 21:6). Time and time again, my sick bed becomes a magical place where suffering is transformed into joy.

This season of Lent has been difficult. I did not feel God leading me to formally participate, so I didn't. Nonetheless, I have lost without meaning to. I lost my comfort foods when I began my new diet. I lost one of my closest friends. I lost my momentum in the pursuit of health. All of this loss has driven me to study the sufferings of Christ with greater attention to detail. And I have noticed something new.

In His final hours, He never spoke a word on His own behalf. In every gospel account it is written, "He answered nothing" in His own defense. But He speaks for those He loves. He serves them and prays for them until He is taken in the garden (John 13-17). When the soldiers ambush Him, He pleads for His beloved--"If you seek Me, let these go their way" (John 18:8). When from the cross He sees His mother weeping for Him, He provides for her another son to love (John 19:26). He prayed for His persecutors as they bruised and mocked Him (Luke 23:34). In His darkest hour, He looked out.

When I suffer, my instinct is to curl in on myself, but the example I found in my Savior inspired me. In my moment of trouble, there was such a sudden outpouring of need all around me that I could not help but be distracted from my own. My loneliness gave me time to pray. My discomfort made me instinctive about what to pray. My grief granted me empathy. I was not separate from my sufferings friends; I was one of them. I was able to pass along the strength God was lending me. God even gave me opportunities to serve others in a practical way, which is something I am rarely able to do. It was such a delight!

Before I knew it, I had forgotten myself. Forgetting oneself is absolute bliss. Really. I wish I never had to think of myself again. In prayer, God has altered my vision, and in doing so He has altered me. May I never forget that suffering is a privilege and an honor. I am ready for some relief, but I'm not sorry over what has transpired. 

Sick and struggling friends--I have not forgotten you this week. I'm still praying. It's just the fatigue is eating me for breakfast every morning, and all I can do is pray. I believe you need my prayers more than you need my words anyway. Know that when I feel my own exhaustion, pain, hardships, sickness, loneliness, anxieties and grief, I am thinking of yours as well and bringing them all before the Lord who loves us, who gave Himself for us, who is with us and for us through it all. Because of the cross. Because of the resurrection.

Hallelujah, what a Savior!

Happy Easter.

Superman

When I married this man 7 1/2 years ago, I thought I knew him. As it turns out, I didn't know him, I didn't know myself and I didn't know anything about marriage. All I really knew is that I loved him and would always love him. As it also turns out, love . . . . real love . . . . is enough.

I was a child when I married Brandon Keith Keaster on a mild Saturday evening in Louisiana on August 14, 2004. I had much yet to learn about life, this man, and myself. With the faith of a child, I pledged the rest of my existence to this one, flawed man, and next to my decision to take up my cross daily and follow Christ, this is the best decision I've made in my 27 years.

If you read my four part blog post, "Weight," you know that life has been a little crazy, mixed with equal parts scary and wonderful. Mostly, I restricted my disclosure to my personal response to experiencing a birth, a medical emergency, a child being seriously ill and being seriously ill myself, but now it's time to give credit where it is seriously due--I would NOT. HAVE. MADE. IT. without this extraordinary human being that is Brandon Keith Keaster.

Over the years, I have learned that my husband can do pretty much everything except sing and fly. (Seriously, the guy couldn't carry a tune if his life depended on it.) I remember when we were first married, I was constantly in trouble with him for things like letting the Wal-Mart car serviceman put in a new filter or suggesting we hire a handy man to fix the washing machine. If my car filter needed replacing, he could do it! If the washing machine was broken, he could do it! Over time, I found that Brandon can put up vinyl siding, put up new ceilings, build amazing built-in bookshelves, lay flooring, do electrical wiring, hook up appliances of all sorts, knock down walls, build new ones, put in doors, shingle roofs, fabricate metal work, and build pretty much anything I can dream up. The dude also cooks, cleans, launders and sews better than I do, he would just usually rather not. If the world as we know it comes to an end, I am set. Brandon is thoroughly capable of making us a dwelling out of sticks and mud, growing and hunting our food, and hand-sewing our clothing from animal skins. Regardless of the fact that he can't fly, he has, without irony, earned the nickname, "Superman," among my family members and myself.

Now, it would be enough for him to be able to do it all, but throughout our marriage, Brandon has been a rock--faithful and steady. For a person like me, who experiences a series of high highs and low lows, this is an important quality. He is also compassionate, loyal, helpful, generous and romantic. He makes beautiful babies, and gives really good gifts. Every time. Furthermore, he loves Jesus, and because he loves Jesus, he is constantly improving.

Throughout the last three months, Brandon has been my best friend. Most days, he is the only adult I see. It is a massive relief to hear his truck pull up in the driveway. He has been my main social interaction, and has been amazingly satisfactory in this role. He has served as both my husband and my girl friend, listening to my every feeling, every thought and sometimes, even what I ate. He has been the shoulder I have cried on. He's been almost supernatural in his ability to sense the difference between when I just need to cry and when I need him to "fix it." In case you are not familiar with the male sex, this is a highly unusual quality. Men want to listen only as long as it takes to figure out how to fix it. Brandon is special because even as the most capable person I have ever known, he understands that our circumstances are beyond his fix-it capabilities, and he has been content to just listen. Like I said, supernatural. Upon a single plea for help, he took it upon himself to take care of Micah in the morning, cook breakfast and feed the dog before he leaves for work. He has stuffed and folded cloth diapers. Night after night, he holds a screaming infant so I can get 15 minutes of peace in the shower. He has been doing the grocery shopping since 2 weeks before Sara was born even though he hates to grocery shop. He has cooked dinners for us when I ran out of the time or energy to do so myself. He has worked his behind off to support the four of us, and when the doctor bills are piled as high as ours, that is an intense task. And he has done all of this without one word or physical expression of complaint. He has loved us through this tumultuous time. Never once did I or the kids feel resented or burdensome.

I am thankful for the troubles that have assailed us the last three months because without them, I would not know or appreciate my God or my Superman, as I do today. I have been brought uncomfortably, fabulously close to the two men in my life who save me every day, and I wouldn't trade it for one hundred Disney happily ever afters.

I love this man. I'm so glad he's mine.

Happy Valentine's Day/Half Anniversary, Babe. I'm the happiest, luckiest girl alive to be able to spend it with you.

In Everything . . .

I haven't written in awhile. I could excuse myself in a number of ways, but the truth is I haven't felt like it. The plan was to write a post about our family trip to the Buffalo River which took place the first week of June. I even began mentally composing it the moment we arrived. It should have begun:

"I love coming to these mountains year after year. After better than 16 trips to and through the Ozarks, they almost feel like a second home. Each time I travel through, it's different. I've seen these mountains as a frozen world covered in a snowy blanket, and I've seen them alive with life as Spring draws to a close and Summer prepares for its grand entrance. This year, the cicadas are present and many, and as we exit the vehicle, we are met with their welcoming screeches which come at us in boisterous, rolling waves."

The post was supposed to begin this way, tell a lovely story about Micah's first float on the river, and end with a pleasant sentiment. But tragedy struck and sucked away all of my desire to tell that story. Smaller, yet significant, traumas bookending the trip left me a little dull and lifeless. I didn't quite have a case of writer's block. It felt more like writer's hangover. I had become drunk with the heavy and strong drink of bad things happening and the possibility of other bad things happening, and I couldn't quite get my head clear enough to sort it all out. After a little time--time to view the events of the past few weeks with some distance and biblical perspective--I think I'm finally ready to tell the story. I no longer feel any apprehension about sharing the story because the news and papers had no problem sharing the story, and did so incorrectly, might I add. Besides, they left out all of the good parts. So here goes--

I love coming to these mountains year after year. After better than 16 trips to and through the Ozarks, they almost feel like they belong to me, a second home. Each time I travel through, it's different. I've seen these mountains as a frozen world covered in a snowy blanket, and I've seen them alive with life as Spring draws to a close and Summer prepares for its grand entrance. This year, the cicadas are present and many, and as we exit the vehicle, we are met with their welcoming screeches which come at us in boisterous, rolling waves. I missed the undercurrent moans, forewarning me of the day to come, but I was unable to miss that the day was hot and alive.

The group joining my family was a lovely mix of old friends and new. Souls I had loved as a young child when my family attended Central Baptist Church were mixed with newer friends and brand new faces. Derek Crockett, who I had wanted to marry when I was 3 years old, had his two boys along with him. James Liner hugged my neck, and told me how much Micah reminded him of me as a toddler. My parents' long-time friend, Leo Honeycutt, was there, and as always, provided excellent food and comic relief for everyone. In all, there were 29 people with us, and the mix of people was perfect. However, the meeting of new faces would have to wait until later. Micah and I were exhausted after the long trip, and needed an early bedtime in preparation for the even longer day on the river.

The next day dawned bright and clear. The water was the prettiest I had seen it in a long time. The sunlight pouring from the heavens revealed pleasant shades of blue and green in the deeper pools, and the water was just right for carrying a two-year-old on his first float. Micah excitedly climbed in the canoe with expectant cries of "Catchy fish! Catchy fish!" It promised to be a very good day. (And allow me to interpose here that it truly was.)

The young boys and teenage girls splashed and smiled and tried to tump each other's canoes. The adults relaxed and laughed as they tried to ease into impossibly cold, mountain water. Micah enjoyed dipping his hands in the water off the side of the canoe, taking turns in our laps, and throwing rocks from the canoe into the water until he finally, after a serious effort to fuss himself out of the need of a nap, surrendered into a quiet sleep in my arms.

I watched children and adults alike leap off of Jim's Bluff, and laugh heartily as they surfaced the icy water. It was my turn to laugh when I watched my middle aged parents succumb to peer pressure, and swim out to deeper waters for this photo op.

Later in the day, our group stopped at the trail head to Hemmed-in-Hollow Falls, a beautiful feature on the upper leg of the Buffalo River. Because I was pregnant and Micah was two, our little family stayed behind to enjoy swimming and fishing as we watched the majority of our group disappear into the foliage. Micah couldn't have been happier with our choice. He found the largest rocks he could manage, picked them up grunting, "Heaby," and joyfully tossed them back into the water. He also reeled in a couple of Daddy's catches, and even kissed a fish!


While we were having a good time at the riverside, everyone else was having a good time up at the falls.

When our group returned from their hike, they all made their way back to their canoes. It was getting late. Everyone was getting tired, but we were all in good spirits. The day had been a beautiful blessing.

This is the point of the story where I want to close with a warm, fuzzy, "happily ever after" ending. This is also the part of the story where things from my limited, human perspective go wrong . . .

Brandon likes to be in the back of our canoe caravan because he likes to take his time and fish. We watched the canoes pass safely through a small set of very ordinary rapids one by one until only a handful of canoes were left. James Liner and his young partner had some difficulty with the rapids, and flipped the canoe. Brandon and I didn't see it flip, but we caught a canoe paddle and other paraphernalia as it drifted downstream. Another couple helped them right the canoe, and get back on course. As they paddled past us, I noticed a cut above Mr. Liner's eye. He had bumped his head against something. I asked him if he was alright, and he grinned, saying he was fine. There was no reason to doubt him.

Over the next half hour, Micah grew a little fussy. It was his dinnertime, and he hadn't gotten a good nap that day. Every time the canoe jarred a little against the rocks, he became uneasy. One such bump sent him over the edge into a full-fledged wail, which confirmed my decision that we would stay at the camp the next day so he could rest.

It was immediately after this incident that we saw them. We saw the three standing, performing CPR first, all from our group--a nurse and her husband, one of Mr. Liner's nieces. Then I saw other canoes from our group banked on the shore, their inhabitants sitting stock still with faces blank. And then I saw him. I knew at once who it was even though he wasn't the right color. I knew at once that he was no longer with us. And while we have no way of knowing what happened for certain, my brain quickly jerked back to the cut above his eye.

Micah wailed until Brandon shoved us to the bank. A small miracle, Micah immediately hushed himself and grew still and content in my arms. Without a word, Brandon joined the party performing CPR. Tears formed in my eyes, spilling down my cheeks. I may have been the only one blubbering there like a baby, and that is a little embarrassing, but I was hyper-aware of the fact that Mr. Liner's son and nieces were watching and what this would mean for my dad who had loved this man for most of his adult life. My heart broke for hearts breaking. Brandon called for one of my Epi-pens. I tossed it to him. It was no use.

I watched five people, Brandon included, from our group perform CPR for an hour while we waited for help we weren't sure would come. They breathed heavy, and pumped hard. I wept. I prayed. I tried to figure out how help would come. There was no place for a helicopter to land.

Micah remained calm and happy though it was well past his dinnertime and nearing his bedtime, so happy that I was sure it was a God-thing. God was good.

Tami, one of Mr. Liner's nieces, remained strong while she called out to him, hoping he could still hear her. God was good.

Eventually, help came trickling in from downstream. God was good.

There was a sense of peace that fell on all of us, and we let the knowledge that James was no longer with us sink in, yet in a silent pact, kept working and praying for the sake of his family. God was good.

Finally, a group of EMTs poured out of a tiny pig's trail that, wonder of wonders, led straight to our beach, and took over. God was good.

A lot of people sit in the camp of "death is natural" because everyone dies. I, however, see death as the ultimate reminder that all is not right with our world. We were not created to die. Death is man's greatest judgement, an enemy. All the while, it is very good to know that God never abandons us, even in death. His presence was near us the entire day, but especially near in the moments of death. I must remember, as we all should, "See now that I, I am He, and there is no god besides Me; It is I who put to death and give life. I have wounded and it is I who heal" (Deuteronomy 32:39), and I must remember that God is good.

The next day, almost everyone in our group departed for home, overwhelmed by tragedy or necessity. I was in mourning, and the words that Tami, one of Mr. Liner's nieces, spoke to someone else expressing their condolences--"It's okay. God numbers our days"--rang louder in my ears than the screeching cicadas outside. It didn't feel okay. I opened the book I was reading, hoping to distract myself from the events of the day before, the images and sounds I will never be able to erase from my memory. This is what I read--

"I know there is poor and hideous suffering, and I've seen the hungry and the guns that go to war. I have lived pain, and my life can tell: I only deepen the wound of the world when I neglect to give thanks for early light dappled through leaves and the heavy perfume of wild roses in July and the song of crickets on humid nights and the rivers that run and the stars that rise and the rain that falls and all the good things that a good God gives. Why would the world need more anger, more outrage? How does it save the world to reject unabashed joy when it is joy that saves us? Rejecting joy to stand in solidarity with the suffering doesn't rescue the suffering. The converse does. The brave who focus on all things good and all things beautiful and all things true, even in the small, who give thanks for it and discover joy even in the here and now, they are the change agents who bring the fullest Light to all the world. When we lay the soil of our hard lives open to the rain of grace and let joy penetrate our cracked and dry places, let joy soak into our broken skin and deep crevices, life grows. How can this not be the best thing for the world? For us? The clouds open when we mouth thanks." --from One Thousand Gifts by Ann Voskamp.

Out of my sadness and temptation to see this trip as, well . . . the worst trip ever, here was this call to leave behind the despair of death and find life by offering thanks. I recognized this to be not only a call for the moment, but for the long term. I also realized that I wasn't only to offer thanks for the good that had happened, but also the "bad."

"In everything give thanks, for this is the will of God." --1 Thessalonians 5:18 (Italics mine.)

I found it difficult to do so, but I thanked God for everything I could think of--Micah's safety, fish to catch, the hot sunshine, the cold water, rocks to throw, every one of James' smiles, the quick and quiet nature of his death, CPR, EMTs, pig trails and every glimpse of God I could find in the details. As promised, I felt more alive with each offering.

Learning to be thankful for everything is a scary thought for me, a thought that has kept me a little pensive and sober for the last few weeks. What if something even more terrible happens, and I am required to say, "The Lord gives and the Lord takes away. Blessed be the name of the Lord?" That thought puts a chill in the bones.

The good thing is that God knows where I am, and only asks that I begin learning to give thanks for everything, including the good and the bad, in a place where the good and the small dwell. For now, I can give thanks for fresh blueberries, the rain that poured from the heavens earlier this week, the sun that warms the world, Micah's smile and the gentle kicks of the baby girl growing in my belly.

That's right! I haven't officially stated this on the blog--It's a girl!!!


While these things are all pleasant, everyone has to start somewhere. I'm glad my Father knows that I am but dust, and brings this challenge to my door in a relatively sunny season.

What happened is still hard. I no longer think about it every day, but I think about it often. If I close my eyes and see things I don't want to see, I consciously recall Mr. Liner's smiles and laughter earlier in the day. I remember that he no longer suffers, but lives in a place where the only tears are happy ones. I remember the memories made on the river that day with my family and friends that can't be stolen away by the shadow of death. I remember that God is good, I say a prayer for the Liner family, and I give thanks . . . for everything.

Spring Break: Family Style

On the last Sunday in March, Brandon, Micah and I loaded up, and departed for the Smokies. We left at 4a.m. for a whirlwind trip of 5 days. I use the word, "whirlwind," because when you spend two full days in the car, a 5 day trip is indeed a whirlwind trip. Pigeon Forge, TN, home to a truly ridiculous number of pancake houses, was our destination. On the drive up, we admired the lovely redbuds and dogwoods in glorious, full bloom, and the colorful wildflowers gracing the sides of the road. Rolling hills gave way to softly crested mountains splashed with varying shades of green. Mountain rivers and streams added beauty and shimmer to the latter part of our 12 hour drive.

Our schedule was almost as rigorous as the drive. On Monday, we spent the day in meetings, which resulted in a time-share purchase. I know, I know, they totally suckered us in. In our defense, they work hard to make you see the value and really want their product. On Wednesday, Micah took a 4 hour nap, which pretty much ate our play time. Therefore, Tuesday was our only day to do touristy things, and we hit it hard, which may explain the 4 hour nap the next day.

We began the day at Ripley's Aquarium of the Smokies, and we all loved it! We explored a shark tunnel, a penguin playground and enjoyed the children's interactive exhibit with Micah. This place was incredibly cool, and we plan to hit it up again. We have a time-share now. Why not?

Micah and Brandon crawled through a small tunnel to get an inside look at the tank.

Micah found Nemo!

I did not care to touch a horseshoe crab, but the boys had fun.

I loved this enormous tank full of tropical fish. I could have watched it for hours.


Micah thought the spider crabs were cool. I thought they were creepy and entirely too large.


Why, hello there, Mr. Fish--
the obvious inspiration for the look of Davey Jones in Pirates of the Caribbean.

Jellyfish are beautiful when a healthy distance is maintained.


This was taken right outside the Penguin Playhouse, and is my favorite pic of the trip.


Me, my boy, and the stingray who got up close and personal.

We left the aquarium, and before we got back to the condo, Micah had fallen asleep in the truck. Brandon packed us a quick lunch while Micah and I rested in the truck, and we were off to Cade's Cove--a gorgeous, free park featuring free-roaming wildlife, nature trails, and historical sites open for exploration.

Picnic cuddles.

The stream beside our picnic spot.

We really enjoyed Cade's Cove, but we were a little limited in what we could do. Two-year olds lack the patience for looking at historical buildings, and sleepy, nauseous moms who need to pee in a place where restrooms are far too scarce and people are far too many in order to feel any sense of safety behind a tree trunk have difficulty hiking 5 mile nature trails . . . or many one mile nature trails, for that matter.

Wait a second! That reminds me!

We're expecting! Thus the sleepiness, nausea and need for a restroom.
(I'm fully aware of how unimpressive this picture is. It was taken at 7 weeks. I wouldn't have known it was a baby unless the doctor had told me so.)

I'm only 10 weeks along, but I'm already into that ambiguous "Is she pregnant or is she getting fat?" stage. I hate that stage, especially when combined with the desire to sleep over 12 hours of the day and the urge to lose my breakfast.

Anyway, we plan to return to the Pigeon Forge/Gatlinburg area in the future when we have more time, and I'm not so miserable. We've barely tapped into the treasures these quaint little towns hold. And I'm not sure you can say you've been to Pigeon Forge without visiting at least one pancake house. Seriously.

Happy Monday!