Just a Spoonful of Peanut Butter

Original Image by Daniella Segura via Flickr Creative Commons

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

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

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

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

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

I cried.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

After that, peanuts were banned from the house.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Enter Sara, my four-year-old daughter. 

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

Sara dropped her crayon and turned to face me. 

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

I blinked. 

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

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

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

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

I smiled. I knew he’d been there. 

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

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

Okay, then. 

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

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

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

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

This is what happened:

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

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

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

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

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

Uncaged

"He placed me in a little cage,

Away from gardens fair;

But I must sing the sweetest song,

Because He placed me there.

Not beat my wings against the cage,

If it's my Maker's will;

But raise my voice to heaven's gates,

and sing the louder still."

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

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

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

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

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

Hessed love taught me to fly. 

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

Busy living life. 

Having fun. 

Eating in restaurants. 

That's right. I'm eating corn chips. 

With high-histamine, nightshady salsa.

Vacationing with the fam.

 

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

I ate the roasted almonds. Mostly because I could. 

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

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

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

*picks mic back up*

Dating my Superman. 

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

Girls' night. (Who am I?)

Prayer group. 

Daily adventures with Jesus. 

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

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

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

"That's something I used to do."

"That was my old life."

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

"I've lost my dexterity."

"I want to focus on writing now." 

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

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

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

Miracles happen every day, folks.

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

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

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

Two reasons:

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

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

Oh, well. I have a point.

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

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

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

I live for that, just so you know.

An update:

 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

 

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

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

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

I don't blame them. Not at all.

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

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

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

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

The Comments

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


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

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

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

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


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


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

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

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

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


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

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

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


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


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

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


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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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


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

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

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

And guess what--I've done it, too. 

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

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

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

In Summary:

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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


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

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

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

 

Original image via Flickr Creative Commons courtesy of Michael Stern

 

It Begins

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

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

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

Discovery

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

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

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

Original image via Flickr Creative Commons courtesy of NIAID

The Allergy Shots Experiment

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

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

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

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

Uh...no thank you.

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

Original image via Flickr Creative Commons courtesy of Greg Friese

 

The Descent

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

 

The Plummet

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

 

Floxed

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

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

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

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

(Note: Prayer changes things. Every time.)

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

Nutritional Therapy

 

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

Even still, my "safe foods" list dwindled.

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

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

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

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

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

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

Bulletproof

 

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

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

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

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

As Brandon so eloquently put it, I was bulletproof.

The Big Leagues

 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

 The menu.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The End

 

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

This habit accomplishes several important things at once:

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

Here's what has happened since:

 

 Oatmeal and goat milk for breakfast yesterday morning. 

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

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

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

First time in three years.

Lawful, not helpful, but oh so yummy.

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

Not low histamine and definitely not AIP approved.

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

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

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

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

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

Emergency Desensitization Technique

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

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

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

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

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

And. It. Is. Amazing.

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

I've seen EDT relieve symptoms* such as:

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

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

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

What IS EDT?

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

They Tried to Make Me Go to Rehab

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

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

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

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

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

Facebook Rehabilitation Diary:

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

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

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

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

 

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

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

 

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

 

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

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

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

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

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

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

(Dog memes are also fun.)

Almost month 8: Logged back in.

What I Learned:

 

1) Facebook is legitimate community.

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

2) Facebook is its own kind of social assistance.

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

3) Facebook hiatus was good for my health.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

5) The world keeps spinning with or without me. 

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

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

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



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

On Initiative, The Velvet Hammer, and What I Want

Confession chased the heels of awakening.

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

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

 

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

Exhibit A: The Velvet Hammer:

Pounding out hard truths in the softest ways...

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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


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

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

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

I grant the mask is intimidating...

almost as intimidating as Brandon's bodyguard face.

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

It all goes back to fear of rejection.

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

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

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

So here's what I want:

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

Maybe I'm not the only one...

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

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

 (I learned to hammer from the best.)

Waking Up

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

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

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

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

You see why I don't get out much.

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

I was right.

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

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

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

Oh! And Gilmore Girls. God bless Gilmore Girls.

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

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

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

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

And then I woke up. 

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

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

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

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

But now...

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

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

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

C. S. Lewis puts it like this: 

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

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

But what does community look like for someone like me?

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

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

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

Mayo Clinic Trip: Diagnosis Edition

I went out on a limb. I prayed for answers. And God delivered.

After years of bewildering symptoms, I was given a name.

A name is such a gift. Your insides never feel quite settled when you don't know how to identify a thing. A name says, "You're not crazy. You are not alone." These are comforting truths when the disease is isolating and causes you to question your own sanity.

I once had an allergist who was as perplexed by my symptoms as I was. Though I began to react to the allergy shots with increasing violence, he continued administering them along with steroids and epinephrine because he didn't know what else to do. After becoming tired of weekly anaphylaxsis, I ended the treatment. Recently, I encountered another allergist who refused to believe me, concluding I must be crazy because my symptoms did not fit with what he knew. Never have I had a doctor who both believed me and knew what was happening to me until Dr. Park of Mayo Clinic.

God bless this man.

After almost ten years of suffering and an earnest, two-year-long quest for diagnosis, Dr. Park told me on May 27, 2014, I have Mast Cell Activation Disease (MCAD).

Within a few minutes of my initial consultation, he suspected a disease involving the mast cells as opposed to a true allergic disease. Mast cells are found in the body's tissues, and promote immunity in a healthy person's immune system. Modern medicine tells us mast cells are disrupted by IgE antibodies. These antibodies are what allergists are looking for when they perform routine skin and blood tests. When the antibodies attach to a specific antigen such as ragweed pollen, they sensitize the mast cells and crosslink. The mast cells then break apart and dump certain chemicals like histamine, leukotrienes, and other nasties. The difference between true allergies and mast cell disease is the catalyst which angers the cells. With IgE allergies, the trigger is specific. With mast cell disease, the triggers are diverse and numerous.

In my experience, triggers are either debilitating or dangerous. Though the differentiation between debilitating and dangerous triggers varies from patient to patient, there are some commonalities. Common life-threatening triggers are fire ant, wasp, and bee stings. Typical debilitating triggers include high histamine or histamine releasing foods (fermented foods, alcohol, cheese, processed or left-over meats, yeast, many fruits, coffee, chocolate, tomatoes, fish, shellfish, wheat, nuts, soy, dairy, etc.), latex, chemicals, pesticides, fragrances, heat, cold, friction, injury, NSAIDS (Advil, naproxen), pollen, acute illness, and emotional stress. (Insect stings, peanuts/tree nuts, and latex are my most dangerous triggers.)

As you can probably guess, a person has difficulty avoiding this many triggers over the course of even one day, so the mast cells are continually releasing their contents, causing inflammation in all systems of the body. The chronic, widespread inflammation leads to quite a range of seemingly unrelated symptoms. The most common symptoms are flushing, itching, hives, chronic constipation and/or diarrhea, nausea, intestinal cramping, chronic fatigue, headache, wheezing, cough, dizziness, low blood pressure, fainting, fibromyalgia, arthritis, neuropathy, and shock. I have experienced all of these, most on a daily basis.

Because Dr. Park is knowledgeable and well-read, he immediately thought of mast cell disease of which there are several subtypes. Some types are worse than others. There are also a couple of altogether different diseases with similar symptoms. Dr. Park ordered specific blood and urine tests to exclude the possibility of systemic mastocytosis, mast cell leukemia, pheochromocytoma, and carcinoid syndrome. All labs came back normal which indicate MCAD.

According to The Journal of Allergy and Clinical Immunology, the criteria for a diagnosis of MCAD are:

1) Symptoms consistent with mast cell mediator release affecting two or more organ systems.

Check!

2) Other diseases with crossover symptoms ruled out.

Check!

3) A positive response to antihistamines and mast cell stabilizers.

Expected. Dr. Park is confident my symptoms will improve with the help of these drugs.

Basically, MCAD is diagnosed based upon clinical evidence and the exclusion of all other explanations. There is no cure for mast cell disease at this time. Not much is known about the disease other than it is real and it can be managed with a strict diet, lifestyle modifications, and relatively tame medications.

My life is unlikely to ever be "normal," but I'm okay with that. I'm not normal, so why should my life be? I have high hopes that the medications along with the continuation of nutritional therapy with Jennifer, regular treatments with Dr. Yakaboski, and regular chiropractic work with Dr. Frieden will eventually lead to a better quality of life. Insect stings will always be dangerous, I will likely continue to make my own deodorant and toothpaste, and I will usually use essential oils before medication. I have no reason to return to the Standard American Diet (SAD). But maybe I will be able to attend church again. Maybe I will be able to go to a movie with my husband. Maybe I can leave my home without a mask. Maybe I won't feel miserable every time I eat or end up in bed flat on my back with every virus which crosses the threshold.

I have no reason not to hope. God's love has made me bold. My recent encounter with His faithfulness has freed me from fear. I am resting in His Word--

"And whatever you ask in My name, that I will do,

 that the Father may be glorified in the Son.

 If you ask anything in My name, I will do it."

--Jesus, John 14:13-14

Obviously, this verse isn't a blanket promise. God doesn't always do what we ask. But when we abide in Christ, we know better what to ask for. And if we knew everything He knows, we would do things in the exact manner He does things.

I never asked Him for a diagnosis before last Sunday because I never felt compelled by the Spirit until then. I asked with a kind of desperation I had not previously experienced. It was a "do or die" kind of prayer. On Tuesday, God answered my request. While studying Jeremiah 17, I came across this verse:

"Heal me, O Lord, and I shall be healed;

Save me, and I shall be saved,

for You are my praise."

--Jeremiah 17:14

It has become my new prayer. I don't know when God will heal me, but I believe healing is coming. I don't know to what extent I will be healed, but I am comfortable leaving that decision in the ever capable hands of my wise and loving Father. For now, I will enjoy His goodness I have experienced here in Minnesota, and focus on getting back home to my Superman and red-headed loves. 

May God bless you all for praying me through this experience. I am so humbled and thankful to be a vessel of God's love and power. I am glad you were able to witness it! If you don't know Him, oh how I wish you would! There is no one more worth knowing! If you want to talk, I always have time and energy for conversations about the Savior.

Grace and peace. 

Jubilee Farm

Thanksgiving is my favorite holiday. I so enjoy gathering with family over a delicious, bountiful meal, looking into the faces of those I love. It causes me to ponder Heaven--an eternal feast with our Savior and the family of God. My heart flies with joy in the day and hope for the future. Christmas is great, but we have brought much "doing" into it. Thanksgiving still allows me to "just be" with beloved souls as I contemplate the goodness of God.

For as long as I can remember, my mother's family has gathered in my grandparents' living room on Thanksgiving night. Before the feast, we bless the meal and share one thing for which we are grateful. We have so many blessings from which to choose. The room which once seemed spacious is now quite snug due to the marriages and babies of my generation. There is food enough to fill us all. We have been redeemed by the blood of the Lamb. Our answers range from "toilet paper" to "Jesus Christ" with many things in between. There is always laughter. There is always at least one "amen."

Due to my extreme sensitivities, I will not be able to join them this year. The thought saddens me, but I don't see why I have to break from all tradition. If I could be with them tonight, upon my turn to give thanks, I would answer, "Jubilee Farm."

To truly appreciate my answer, a story must be told.

Early in 2012, my dad had a difficult decision to make. He could retire at the end of the school year, or continue a job he no longer enjoyed in order to secure a more comfortable retirement. Dad's health was deteriorating, but if he resigned my parents would no longer be able to afford their house. Mom encouraged him to retire anyway.

My parents brainstormed about possible jobs my dad could do. A bad back is a bigger obstacle than one might think when considering a career change at the age of 60. They asked the Lord to guide them, and waited with eyes wide open.

One day, Mom came upon Proverbs 27:27--"There will be enough goats' milk for your food, for the food of your household and maintenance for your girls." (ESV)

She shared the scripture with Dad. "Maybe you could farm," Mom suggested. "You can grow our food, and maybe even make a little money." Dad once wanted to farm for a living, but his grandparents discouraged him so he went to college instead. Mom has always dreamed of a Little House on the Prairie lifestyle. It was a crazy idea, but my parents are just the right kind of crazy for this brand of adventure. 

If my parents were to become farmers, they needed to sell their house and find some land. They discussed moving closer to Farmerville to be nearer to Mom's parents and my family. Mom asked her dad to look for property outside of Farmerville. In no time at all, he secured the twelve acres which would become Jubilee Farm.

But there was one small problem: to buy a farm you need money, and money was something my parents did not have. Mom's parents agreed to help. They covered the cost of the land with Mom's inheritance and a promissory note which Mom and Dad would pay within a year upon the sale of their house. It didn't quite work out that way. Eighteen months later, they still haven't sold their house. Instead, they paid the difference with Dad's inheritance, which came in only a few weeks ago. Talk about a leap of faith....

After Brandon took a walk on the new property and had a talk with my dad about the merits of reducing and eliminating debt, Brandon came home to me one May afternoon with the looney notion of selling our house, buying a trailer and forming a commune with my parents and sister on the farm-to-be. My health was tanking at the time. "It would be nice to have your parents close by," he said. I thought he had lost his mind. But eventually, I lost mine, too, and we became the first family to take up residence on Jubilee Farm. 

The land here--it isn't prime property. This place used to be a dump. Literally. There is a lifetime's worth of glass shards in our front yard. Three pipelines run through it, and there isn't a lot of marketable timber. It's rutted, weedy and wild. It isn't pretty. The soil is acidic and rock hard, which is the opposite of good farmland. However, it's lack of apparent potential made it affordable, which is what we needed. And we know that the Lord does not see as man sees. Man looks at the outward appearance, but the Lord sees deeper and farther (1 Samuel 16:7). He saw potential and beauty, and helped us see it, too. Even Jenny, who visited before many improvements were made, declared the property possessed "a blessed quality."

In January, I shared the story of how Jubilee Farm earned her name. What I didn't share is the passage the Lord used to speak a blessing over our little farm. I read it in January, just before Mom's Jubilee Birthday celebration, and inscribed it in her birthday journal.

"You visit the earth and water it,

You greatly enrich it;

The river of God is full of water; 

You provide their grain,

for so You have prepared it.

You water its ridges abundantly,

You settle its furrows;

You make it soft with showers, 

You bless its growth.

You crown the year with Your goodness,

and Your paths drip with abundance.

They drop on the pastures of the wilderness,

and the little hills rejoice on every side.

The pastures are clothed with flocks;

The valleys also are covered with grain;

They shout for joy, they also sing."

-Psalm 65:9-13

Brandon tilled the ground. Dad put his Master Gardener's knowledge to use, and balanced the pH of the soil. In March, we planted the gorgeous baby plants the Yakaboskis sold to us, and watched them grow. The work suited Dad, even with his bad back. It actually made him feel better.

 

Unfortunately, some mistakes were made. Overwhelmed by the bug population trying to eat our lovely little plants, Dad used a mild pesticide early in the season. In his defense, almost no one around here has much success at organic gardening. He simply gave in to what the Master Gardener class taught him, and what other gardeners do themselves. But it didn't kill the bugs, and I couldn't eat the first of the produce as a result. Later, he tried a more potent pesticide. I didn't know he was spraying again, and walked outside with the kids about 20 minutes after everything had been doused. The poison, which is a neurotoxin, almost killed me. I do not exaggerate.

The initial exposure is the worst reaction I have had to date, and there were long term effects. It put me in the bed for weeks, and set my health on a steep decline. I made some mistakes of my own, and found myself unable to eat or drink again during the first week of June. I was watching all of that gorgeous food come into my kitchen, and couldn't eat a bite of it. I struggled to believe God's promise to me that I would live because I felt like I was dying. I will not rewrite what has already been written, but it is important to note that a prayer meeting took place on my behalf and things drastically changed afterward. 

Yes, mistakes were made, but God trumped them all. Within a few days, I was eating again. Granted, it was only raw eggs and cream of rice cereal at first, but when I began to eat "real food," I could suddenly eat from the garden. Zucchini, squash, tomatoes, tomatillos, eggplant, peppers, onions, cabbage, all of it! I could even eat watermelon to which I have been allergic for years. I could eat foods then that I cannot eat today. And best of all--the food was healing my body. As I ate, I could feel a gentle tingle throughout, almost as if I was feeling the healing taking place at a cellular level. I will never forget the sensation.

When I finally climbed out of survival mode, I realized how well our garden was doing. Others gardeners would comment that their gardens weren't doing as well, and they had years of experience. Rains came regularly and at the right times, nourishing the plants and washing away the poison. Dad, determined to never use pesticides again, began to pick off the potato bugs and tomato eating worms by hand. The Louisiana summer was not overly hot. We grew enough safe, beautiful food to feed our families, to share with our friends and to sell at nearby markets well into the month of July.

The excitement we experienced in the summer is mostly over now. We have greens to look forward to, but a recent frost killed our squashes and only a few green tomatoes remain to be fried. But when I look back at what came to pass, I tear up a little. 

God used the garden to save my life. The thought leaves me speechless. 

It overwhelms me that as early as the spring of 2012, God was actively answering the prayers offered for me in June 2013. Think about this--as you make your requests before God today, His answer is already in the works. He resides in our past, present and future, and is not bound by time or money or our limitations or our mistakes. He reigns over all. And He is building with us a rapport of faithfulness so when the next trial comes, we can say with greater assurance, "God, You are faithful, and You are good. I trust you."


I am thankful for Jubilee Farm. I am thankful for what she says about my God. He is the ultimate Gardener, enriching the soil and the soul, bringing the rain and sunshine as needed for growth. He crowns the year with goodness. He makes our paths drip with abundance.

Happy Thanksgiving.

But YES The Hippopotamus

Much has changed for the hippopotamus over the course of a month. It is my utmost pleasure to report all changes have been good, encouraging and praiseworthy! Like the heat and humidity of this long, Louisiana summer, the intensity of my crucible has receded, and a new season has come.

Light breezes sometimes carry the scent of burning leaf piles to Jubilee Farm. Fall squashes and bitter greens grace our table almost daily. Blackeyed susans line our red clay road. A lone scarlet leaf skipped and tumbled past my feet on our last walk. Autumn has come quietly, but soon she will burst into robust song. As the season goes, so--I believe--will I.

All change requires a catalyst--even natural change and especially personal change. We people are resistant to the seam ripping and pinpricks that go into being tailored to fit our individually designed purposes. Autumn rides in on the breath of God, which tilts the planet just so. The new developments in my story were heralded by a similar wind. God has spoken. Through his Living Word, through dreams, in provisions and circumstances, He has delivered the same message over and over: "Come out of that cocoon, Little Coward, and trust me."

Two days before my last post, Jenny asked me to stand in her wedding. (She and her husband never had a wedding.) The evening after the post was published, my sister called to ask me to stand in hers. In a period of three days, I was asked to be present at two major life events belonging to two of the most important people in my life. I could not bear to miss either celebration--one of God's power, the other of His grace--and yet I was at a loss as to how I would manage. I barely ventured outdoors due to danger. How could I knowingly stand before a room full of people doused in all manner of harmful chemicals without upstaging the bride with a horrible reaction? My sardonic sense of humor replied with, "You could always be her something blue."

Fortunately, the Lord rescued me from unhelpful, dark humor, and offered me real, practical solutions. While on Facebook one day, I saw a post from a lady who had recommended a particular brand of mask which was effective at filtering fragrances. I searched for the old message, found the link and ordered one rather impulsively, knowing there was a high probability I would not be able to tolerate the mask. Sure enough, I muscle tested the mask when I received it in the mail, and no dice.

For weeks, Dr. Yakaboski had been urging me to call her chiropractor friend, Dr. Lynette Frieden. I put it off  because there was no money. With well over $2,000 in unpaid medical bills, it seemed irresponsible to seek the help of another doctor who may or may not be able to help me. The idea would not leave me alone, however. When I asked Brandon if we could possibly afford it, he said we would make it work somehow.

I am thrilled I went. Dr. Frieden does more than bone manipulation, which was surprisingly helpful in itself. She also performs a particular form of energy medicine called Total Body Modification (TBM). Dr. Frieden actually came to Dr. Yakaboski's office to perform TBM on me in May after my near deadly encounter with a pesticide. I respond so well to TBM that Dr. Yakaboski created a treatment program for me which includes basic TBM and BioSet. I receive this treatment weekly in her office, and we use it at home as a rescue remedy in lieu of Benadryl and epinephrine since I no longer tolerate either drug. It totally looks like voodoo, but it works. And it's not voodoo. It's science.

Anyway, I have seen Dr. Frieden three times. I now have more energy and less pain. I can tolerate the smells of essential oils, which I have wanted to use for medicinal purposes. My neuropathy has calmed way down so I no longer feel stinging sensations all over my body several times a day. My monthly discomfort is greatly reduced. I now tolerate the new "super mask." And in what may be the most exciting development of all, I am sleeping better.

To further support better sleeping habits, I stopped napping, opting for light exercise and a bath instead. Yoga has proven especially beneficial. Certain poses grant me pain relief and an energy boost. After only two weeks, I am stronger and less depressed.

Feeling better has made me braver. I have been intentionally doing (reasonable) things that scare me. I began small. For my first attempt, I set up a picnic for the kids on the back porch. The next step was a short walk down the road. Walks turned into swinging little red heads and looking on while they play in the sandbox. The fear fueled vigilance I kept on my first few outings ebbed little by little. I can now relax, notice smiling flowers and enjoy my children. Yesterday, I only startled once when something flew buzzing into my face.

In spite of my improvements, unless God had moved hearts other than my own, I would yet be a self-imposed prisoner in my home. My Nona has been inviting me over for Saturday afternoon coffee for weeks. Finally, my mother acted as chauffeur to ensure I actually went. That was almost two weeks ago. I did not return home perfectly well nor extremely sick, and I very much enjoyed the fresh faces, stimulating conversation and my herbal tea.

To build upon my motivation to get out and get going, a college friend and a family friend who attends the church in which I grew up both shared they had dreams about me last week. In the dream of my college friend, I was in the midst of a group of people smelling a wildflower. In the dream of the family friend, I was in my home mingling with a crowd. Lots of children were running around. I learned of both of these dreams within 36 hours. I think it is interesting to note that I have not seen either of these women in years. It seems random, but if you gaze at the situation in the right slant of light, you will see design. God has spoken to me several times through my own dreams. Now He is speaking to me through the dreams of others. How cool is that?

I was given a dream this summer which foreshadowed public humiliation, danger and survival. All three aspects were highly likely if I was to do the thing I was considering after learning of the dreams of my friends.

I attempted church on Sunday.

Yes, it was humiliating. Masks draw attention--more so than protective gloves, might I add. I would have preferred being invisible over the stares I received. Yes, it was dangerous. Even through my "super mask," the smells were too many and too strong. I reacted, and spent the remainder of the day in bed. And yes. I survived.


I am happy I went. But the best moment of worship on Sunday morning was not in a sanctuary. It was in my car on the way to the service.

You see, I am never aware of the depth of my suffering while I am in the middle of it. Contrary to all reason, I have never been abidingly unhappy in my pain. God has been too good to me in the dark moments. I have hurt. I have bled. I have wept. Yet I have never despaired because I know that Jesus knows and has been there Himself and is there when life becomes unbearable. It is only when God gives something back that I truly taste the bitterness of my cup. The feeling is something akin to a desperate breath searing my lungs after being underwater for too long. In those moments, I have learned to let myself grieve over what I lost. I loose hot tears and sloppy sobs from a deep, hidden vault in my soul. And then I let it go. When I do, tears of mourning become tears of unspeakable joy. My eyes open to what God has done, to the new paragraph He has written. I am struck with wonder. I sense my smallness, my unworthiness, God's enormity and His attention to detail. I am pulled into the cosmic riptide of God's infinite love. Gall transforms into the sweetest wine, and I become intoxicated with His goodness. The suffering is transformed into something glorious, something I can never regret or mourn again!

I think it is important to understand that my little trip to church is not about me. It is about God. To me, to my family, to all of you who have prayed so faithfully, He is saying, "Behold what I have done." He has all but slayed me, but He has brought me back to life. He has taken it all away, and now He is giving it back. He has heard you. He has heard us. And we have only begun to see what He will do.

Lord willing, this hippo will be at Jenny's wedding next weekend. Please pray for my safety and Brandon's peace.

Ants in My Pants

Non-southerners, meet the fire ant:

(Photo credit: http://southernfireantcontrol.com/faqs.php)

If you live in a white state, you just. don't. know.

(Photo credit: http://www.fireant.tv/)

 

The ants featured in Pixar's A Bug's Life? NOT fire ants. Had they been, those grasshoppers would have been running for their lives....assuming they survived the initial encounter.


Non-southerners, these are the ants you call "pests."

 (Photo credit: Edge Pest Control)

Compared to a fire ant, these guys are pets. Here in north central Louisiana, we call them "piss aints." You could cuddle them. And if you didn't want to, they are very easy to kill. All of those cute little natural poisons on Pinterest would work on a piss aint. Not so with the fire ant. Go ahead, hose him with vinegar. The fire ant will swim through it, and keep on trucking. Soap? Nope. And if you aren't unlucky enough to be allergic to essential oils, chalk, and other home remedies, you will do little more than make the fire ant unhappy anyway.

This is an unhappy fire ant.....

(Photo credit: http://arstechnica.com/science/2013/01/fire-ant-supergene-controls-social-behavior/)

right before he latches onto your flesh with his creepy mandibles and begins stinging you repeatedly.

For the largest portion of the population, a fire ant sting hurts and forms a pustule.

(Photo credit: MSU Cares)

Others, like my sister, experience localized swelling. For example, she was stung on the hand, and her entire hand swelled. And then there is the estimated 0.5% to 5% (of which my son is a former member and I am a current member) who experience anaphylaxsis. (Source: ACAAI)

On Friday, June 28, we woke to a fire ant invasion in our little trailer on Jubilee Farm.

Brandon killed several before he left for work, but they just kept coming. I attempted battle. I tried vinegar. Then I tried dish soap and vinegar together. Then I called Brandon (because he knows everything), and he told me to use my homemade shampoo/conditioner/body wash/shaving cream concoction. It worked, but only on contact. And there were just too many.

I should have given up, and fled the house. But I am a stubborn woman, and I did not want to be supplanted by measly little ants.

Stupid, stupid, stupid.....

I'm not sure where I picked it up, but when I sat down in the rocking chair to read to Sara, I felt a familiar pain on my right side right above my hip. I killed it before it stung me again. Good thing, too. Within two minutes, I had broken out in hives.

The poor photo resolution makes it difficult to see, but the area around the bite turned red and raised into welts. Every welt hurt like the dickens, so I lost track of where I had been bitten. No pustule was left behind.

I managed to call my dad for help before my thinking went fuzzy. I began to wheeze and cough before he arrived, so I took my Acute Rescue knowing that the preservative alcohol would be a small problem in comparison to the one I faced. As soon Dad stepped through the door, I had him perform BioSet on me twice, which relaxed my swollen airways for a few minutes. I am unsure of how much time passed before I began hacking again, feeling dizzy and confused. When I felt my face begin to swell like a balloon, I kind of freaked out. I made the (arguably hasty) decision to use my Epi Pen because my normal reaction regimen wasn't working. I was getting worse. For the third time in my life, I stabbed myself in the leg with a needle.

I say the decision to use Epi was arguably hasty because A) I am allergic to sulfites which preserve the epinephrine and B) I had little intention of actually going to the ER. The protocol for anaphylaxsis is not very flexible in my area. If I were to go to the ER, they would only offer a steroid shot, which would be life threatening for me. If I were to refuse the steroid, they would ask why I bothered to come at all. So it was decided by five people (three of which are medical professionals) that I should skip the garbage, the skeptical looks and the ginormous co-pay, remain under Brandon's vigilant eye, and let my natural doctor tend to me.

This is me post-reaction. You may be able to tell that the right side of my face is significantly swollen.

After my reaction, the war against the ants continued to wage. On Saturday morning, it was decided that I needed to be removed from the house. A dear friend, Eddie Davis, helped Brandon move our necessities to my parents' home in West Monroe and spray for the ants. We attempted to move back home the night of July 4, but our stay was short lived. We were there maybe 12 hours before Sara was stung while sitting in my lap. Upon further inspection, I found the ants spread around the house. Their numbers were greatly reduced, but as it only takes one, I could not safely stay. Brandon's grandmother helped me and the kids pack up a second time. We have been at my parents' house since.

The fire ant problem at Jubilee Farm is severe. We theorize that they have tunnels underneath the ground rather than mounds, which is why there are so many crawling around everywhere out there. After much debate, we have decided to have a professional come spray. The decision was difficult because we have no way of knowing how long it will be before I can safely return home. The poison is potentially as big of a problem as the ants. We are unsure if we are looking at days, weeks or months before I can be in my place again. We hope to spray early this week.

We have a method of determining when it is safe for me to go back home. I refer to it as "setting out the fleece." Basically, we will set out open baby food jars containing pure water in each room every few days. The water will "catch" whatever impurities are in the air. Brandon will bring  the jars to me, and I will muscle test each one for safety. When each water jar is "safe," I can return home.

This newest trial hasn't been easy. My home had become my safe haven. I love it out there. I hate not knowing when I can get back. My kids are homesick. Brandon has to drive that much further to work, and tend to our home before coming home to us. We see less of him. And while they aren't as bad, there are fire ants here, too. They even found their way into the house on Sunday. I think they must smell me or something.

However.......

There is so much for which to be thankful.

1) I have a place of refuge. My parents have been trying to sell their house for almost a year now, and they haven't had a single bite. If they were living on the farm already, I would have had no safe place to go. It's a super nice, spacious home to boot.

2) I have live-in help, which is very nice.

3) I am rooming with my favorite people and best friends. No one gets me like my mom. I have so enjoyed spending time with her. My dad is funny, caring and easy going. If you have to take refuge somewhere, these are the people to take refuge with.

4) The reaction to the ant sting did not set me back in my food tolerance at all. Praise the Lord!

5) God is teaching me important spiritual lessons in this as well. His methods are not always gentle, but His purposes are always good.

I do not like being uprooted by ants, but I can't stay where they are so active and prevalent. These guys are serious....

 (Photo credit: 6LEGS2MANY)

What other insect knows how to make a flotation device out of  its own body to ensure survival during flooding? These crazy things are a plague upon the earth.



How you can pray for us:

1) Patience and contentment for all of us. We are itching to return home, but we may have to wait awhile yet. There is no sense in being upset about it.

2) A swift return. Mom and dad need their space. They need to sell their house. And we need to be home. My prayer is that the poison will dissipate quickly. We do not plan to spray indoors, so rain will help.

3) Brandon's strength and sanity. The man lives a hard life. Pray for him.

4) My safety. I do not need to get stung by an ant or a wasp or a bee or anything like that anytime soon. My hope is that I will be protected supernaturally until my body can better handle insect venom.

5) My continued improvement. My eating is still going very well. I have been able to add magnesium powder to my diet which has allowed me to discontinue my enemas. I am glad to have that hour back every day, and after having a rough experience a couple of weeks ago where I was unable to expel the enema water for several days, I am thankful to not have to risk repeating the experience.

Once again, thank you for your concern, well-wishes and prayers for us, especially those of you who have not given up on us after all this time. We feel incredibly blessed to know you and be loved by you. God bless you all!

What Nine Years Have Wrought (A Health Update)

Nine years ago, I was beautiful, vibrant, healthy, relatively allergy-free, and making peace with every foreseeable outcome of my upcoming marriage. I wore the ring of a man whose body was at war with him. Brandon was pale, thin and soon to undergo a bowel resection. I understood that marrying a man with Crohn's disease may bring about a future full of all night vigils by hospital beds and years of nursing at home. I determined to earn my degree before we had children to serve as a fallback in case he ever became too sick to work. It even occurred to me that I could be widowed in the prime of life, and would somehow have to raise and provide for a family alone. To these possible futures, I agreed.

Over a year into this debilitating illness, the shock has not worn off. I had planned to be Wonder Woman, yet I find myself less capable than Lois Lane. While I manage to cook a meal most nights and tend to my children's basic needs in the morning, I am largely dependent on the help of others. I spend a significant portion of the day in bed although I would much rather be with my kids and busy about my home. In my wildest daydreams, I did not imagine this life.

I did not imagine the dulling of my mind either. My mind used to work like this:

I had an amazing memory. Several things could be rolling around in my brain at once. Connections were contsantly being made. One by one, those 2,000 something tabs have closed down until I am doing well to remain on a single train of thought for any length of time. Sometimes, my brain goes into "sleep mode," an odd phenomenon. I can be lost in thought one moment and lost in oblivion the next. This problem has made everything from prayer to getting dressed challenging. Writing is miraculous. Brain farting is humbling.

When I consider how my situation continues to deteriorate, I am tempted to feel a little frightened. I am afraid to lose any more of my mind. My mind has always been a comforting retreat for me, full of stories, big thoughts and possibilities. I don't want to lose any more weight or hair or strength. I am afraid of becoming an invalid.

On my hardest days, I am tempted to fear the future. The prognosis for flouroquinolone toxicity is dismal. Patients who have an instant reaction to the drug are usually ill 6-7 years. Patients, like me, who slowly decline over a period of weeks and/or months are said to never recover.

I grieve the enormous difficulty that has befallen my family and myself. I daily wrestle to make peace with my reality as I did with the various futures I envisioned nine years ago. I present my health to the Lord, an offering to Him to bring Him glory. I fight the fear and lean hard into Jesus, trusting Him implicitly knowing full well He allowed this catastrophe--for good, always for good. And yet....

I CANNOT AND DO NOT ACCEPT MY PROGNOSIS.

I absolutely need a miracle, and I absolutely believe I am going to get one. One day on this side of eternity, I believe I will be well. On that day, I will have many people to thank--doctors, family members, friends who have labored in prayer, commiserated with us, and shown us generosity--but it will be God who does the healing because He is the only One who can. All of you precious people who invest yourselves in our family by reading, praying, encouraging and serving will get to witness a miracle. I am not supposed to get better, but I will. By stating this, I'm not trying to inspire others with positive thinking propaganda. Positive thinking has its place, but I honestly couldn't care less about giving people the warm fuzzies. The weight of this trial is far too heavy to be limited to doling out warm fuzzies. But if witnessing a true blue miracle strengthens your faith and causes you to more earnestly seek the Lord Jesus, well then--hallelujah!

In the meantime, I continue to seek treatment as the Lord directs. Neither my doctors nor my most devoted prayer warriors were comfortable with the experimental NAD IV treatments. Dr. Yakaboski (my local natural doctor) along with Dr. Kuplesky (Dr. Yakaboski's M.D. partner), Dr. Armine (MTHFR specialist), Dr. Mestayer (the psychiatrist who performs the NAD treatments) and a compounding pharmacist in South Louisiana are working to get it in an encapsulated form for me to take under Dr. Yakaboski's strict supervision. It could be ready as early as the beginning of next week. The idea is to start small and observe my response. My future with the treatment completely depends upon how I respond to the capsules. Dr. Yakaboski has also been busy conferring with two other doctors and the author of the blog Surviving Cipro in order to open up treatment options for me. One of the doctors is a specialist who will help me with my IgE, IgG and leaky gut issues. The other is a doctor who specializes in homeopathics. This doctor believes her sulfur homeopathic will help my body open up my transulfuration pathways (methylation). I have successfully used homeopathics in the past, and feel hopeful that this one will help me.

However, I have to approach homeopathics with a little caution now. I had an anaphylactic reaction to preservative alcohol last week. Preservative alcohol (usually derived from grains) is found in many things (including homeopathics) given to sensitive patients. Grain alcohol also preserves my Acute Rescue drops (my preferred rescue remedy for anaphylactic reactions) and the B12 (dibencozide) drops I need to treat my methylation issues. Dr. Yakaboski made a special house call on Saturday to clear my alcohol allergy. The clearing held, but I will continue to avoid preservative alcohols when possible so I can use the Acute Rescue drops when needed. Cleared allergies occasionally resurface after awhile. To be safe, I evaporate the alcohol out of the B12 every night before taking it. I plan to do the same with the sulfur homeopathic.

I have explored and muscle tested the safety of several possible "quick healing" treatments said to help floxy patients. I am not currently a candidate for any of them because of my extreme sensitivities. I don't really know what we are going to do or how long recovery will take. I don't know if it will be a treatment, a combination of treatments, time, an instantaneous touch from the Lord or all of the above that will cure me. So for now, we pray. We listen. We wait. And I protect my psyche.

I avoid negative information concerning floxy patients. It isn't helpful, and I don't think it applies. I avoid the news, and rely on my Facebook friends to let me know when something major happens. I avoid Facebook when it stresses me out although it makes up almost all of my social interaction outside of the immediate family members who help me. I distract myself, and work hard to "find my happy." I began a gratitude list in late March, which now has 122 items. I copy them in my journal, thanking God for each gift from His hand. The photos below represent a few.

 Micah is cooking a squash he helped plant, watched grow, and harvested. I did the knife work, but he seasoned and stirred until it was perfectly golden brown. We had so much fun!

 He was proud of himself. He even ate the squash--no coaxing required!

 One morning's haul...

 A dance party with baby girl. She likes to shake that booty!

 Clothing....it's overrated.

 Is there anything cuter than a naked baby in the garden?

 I'm thankful for those thighs, too. Scrumptious!

I joined Eric Whitacre's Virtual Choir 4.0. I'm still learning my part. I hope to record my video soon. The piece will be premiered for the Queen at Buckinham Palace in July. It will be my first chance to be part of a worldwide musical event. I am very excited!

Distraction is like cheap numbing medication. It shields me from some of the pain for short intervals, while gratitude provides little sunbursts throughout the day. Gratitude reminds me that God still loves me and life is still worth living. 

To further help me along, I have been reminded of Jenny's words--"God has been too good to me for me to play the victim anymore." God does all things well. My illness is not an exception. My illness is a mercy. It's a severe mercy (as Jonathan Edwards would say), but a mercy nonetheless, for it is bringing not only me but my entire family into deeper relationship and greater conformity with Christ. Too many days, I have dwelled on the length of time I spend in the bed when I would rather be doing things. Too often, I have focused on the bad, missing the good. To counteract my Polly Pessimist tendencies, I am training myself to respond to those who ask about my day with a list of my victories rather than my struggles. 

Allow me to practice: 

Yesterday, I enjoyed a quiet morning with Sara. We cuddled, watched Mickey Mouse and read nursery rhymes. I washed dishes, and listened to a Timothy Keller sermon. Thanks to my grandmother, I was able to rest in a quiet house all afternoon. When I woke, I cooked a simple dinner and had a phone conversation with a friend. I was able to eat three meals! I kissed my boy's freckled nose, and rocked my baby to sleep as I sang hymns. I ended my day with a long, relaxing bath and a special word from the Lord. It was a good day.

While reciting my victories is all well and good, it will only carry me so far. We frail humans are tempted to measure all things by the measure of ourselves. I cannot afford this mindset. For the average person, measuring life in such a way cheapens it, reducing it to a feeble shadow of what life should be. For me, making myself the measure of anything is suicidal. My victories will not sustain my hope, even on the good days. And the days when victories are few or obsolete? I shudder at the thought.

Thus, I must look outside of myself--to my God, to His victories. 

"Great is the Lord, and greatly to be praised;

And His greatness is unsearchable.

One generation shall praise Your works to another,

And shall declare Your mightly acts.

I will meditate on the glorious spendor of your majesty,

And on Your wondrous works.

Men shall speak of the might of Your awesome acts,

And I will declare Your greatness."

-Psalm 145:3-6

When I consider the God who created the heavens and the earth in a day, the God who conceptualized everything from Mount Everest to the butterfly, the God who calmed the wind and waves with a word, the God who had the power to lay down His life and take it up again, the God who formed me in my inmost being--faulty mitochondria, poor methylation, quirky personality, brown eyes, crazy hair and all--living through these difficult days with my faith, hope, joy and peace intact doesn't seem so impossible. And neither does a miracle.

Nine years ago, I never considered that I would be the one critically ill while Brandon bore the burden of a sick mate. We are mercifully spared from knowing what is coming for us around the corner. Nine years ago, I knew so little of the God who so loved me. In spite of the difficulty, I cannot regret what these nine years have wrought. Knowing God is worth it all.

Who knows what the next nine years may hold? A miracle, certainly. 

As for the rest, only time will tell.

The Rough Landing and a Journey

On this day a year ago, I crash landed into the world of chronic illness. I had been sick for a long time prior, but the anaphylactic reaction that took place on May 2, 2012 flipped my world upside down entirely, and I haven’t been able to right it since. I easily recall the emotional trauma of those early days. I remember thinking my life was over, that if I didn’t die I might want to. Today, I smile wisely and compassionately at the scared, broken young woman I was a year ago because the woman I am today knows the girl’s life was far from over. Rather, she was standing at the threshold of something new entirely, something the girl had secretly longed for her entire life--adventure. 

I have always been a girl with a plan. Those plans usually involve safety and comfort, so I was an unlikely, ill-prepared candidate for an adventure as adventures are never safe or comfortable. My first steps were as awkward and faltering as those of a newborn fawn. Every time I finally found my stride, the terrain would inevitably change, forcing me to adjust. Again. At times, I have forgotten my destination. When I manage to remember my heading, I forget to enjoy the journey. I am fairly certain even the pre-There and Back Again Bilbo Baggins would have been a more promising candidate for this sort of thing than me, but alas--this is my road to haul......minus the cool factor of elves, dwarves, hobbits and Gandalf.

Slowly, I am learning that "promising" isn't on the list of prerequisites for the reluctant adventurer. As a matter of fact, the only thing necessary on an unexpected journey is the decision to take a step. And then another. After that, it is all about a metamorphosis over which the adventurer has little to no control.

Truly, everything has changed. From my appearance to my diet to my habits to my home (we bought a farm!), I am not who I once was.

 June 2012

 August 2012

 January 2013

April 2013

(A mask is now a necessary accessory for all public outings.)

Much of my outward beauty has faded over the past year, but that just happens on adventures. For awhile, you care and then you realize that other things are more important--like putting your energy into taking care of sick babies, cooking dinner for hungry co-adventurers, or foraging for healing herbs down by the creek.

As I am an Hermione at heart, I have done a ton of reading and research to plot my best course. Along the way, I have picked up a lot of tools to add to my arsenal. Many of you probably consider my ways very quacky. That's okay. Thank God we are all different! But don't knock it because it's weird. Remember that all adventurers possess a certain amount insanity! Also remember that life has a way of making you eat your words.....and thoughts. I may or may not be speaking from personal experience.

I have acquired new skills, and continue to acquire them all the time. I can cook! I can ferment! I can make my own hygiene products! My co-adventurer husband (aka Superman) is learning to farm! This summer, I will have to learn to harvest, can, preserve, blanch and freeze. Bring it!

A year ago, I was afraid all of the time.....of everything. Those days are over. I still feel fear, but usually only when wasps are involved. And even I have recently stood my ground with a wasp, armed with nothing but a flimsy fly-swat and poor coordination. Months ago, the pain and fatigue (which I have fondly named Mildred and Gertrude) I live with every day kept me from doing things I wanted to do. No more. Hunger continues to be a formidable foe. I still become quite grumpy when hungry, but I have learned to live without monster cookies and gluten-free donuts, which is something. I don't even miss them anymore. Give me carrot "fries," chicken soup and chocolate pudding made with avocados and dates any day of the week! Herbal teas are also becoming a favorite of this former coffee drinker.

Several years ago, I would have scorned the life I live today. If someone had told me that I would become a raging hippy (minus the LSD and free love) who did little else besides stay home, cook, watch plants grow and take care of children, I would have laughed. Or cried. I used to think people like me were very "woo-woo" and boring. And maybe we are. But the point is that I had dreams of being accepted, loved and known for something, and I am none of these things. I fit in with very few people. While I am loved deeply, it is only by a few and many of these are scattered here, there and yonder, hours away from my little life on Jubilee Farm. Because I have disappeared from all of my old social circles, I am largely forgotten outside of social media. At first, my new place in society made me sad, but then I thought of Bilbo. In the Shire, he fit in. He was known and even loved, but the moment he left with the dwarves he fit in nowhere, was known by few and was loved by even fewer. Yet what he did mattered. On this journey, I am learning to embrace the call of being vital to a few rather than optional to many.

The journey has not been easy. I have often despaired. The thrill of adventure has waned, and I feel myself lost in the dark, soaking wet by a never-ending downpour without necessary equipment or adequate rations. The words, "this is too much," have often come to mind recently.

I am not without good company. Many adventurers have despaired along the way. Actually, Good Company is what separates me from all of my favorite storybook travelers. A friend shared these words on Facebook the other day--

"When you say, 'I just can't handle______,' you're preaching to yourself an anti-gospel that forgets the presence and power of Jesus."--Paul David Tripp

Can I get an "ouch!?" Things have been hard. While I am better in some ways, I am sicker in others. I emotionally suffer as those I love dearly physically suffer. There have been disappointments and setbacks and sicknesses and near death experiences, but the last time I checked, Jesus Christ carries the heavy end of my cross. If a situation seems too hard,  I am likely trying to manage it rather than handing it over as I ought. I have forgotten the ultimate Co-Adventurer and the power He possesses. You see, when I'm walking with Him, nothing seems hard. Not really. 

"Therefore since we are surrounded by so great a cloud of witnesses, let us lay aside every weight and the sin which so easily ensnares us, and let us run with endurance the race set before us, looking unto Jesus, the author and perfecter of our faith, who for the joy set before Him [you and me] endured the cross." --Hebrews 12:1-2

I am a year into fairly extreme illness. Endurance is vital. The only way I am going to make it is if I look past the temporal mile marker of healing, straight into the eyes of Jesus which are blazing with unfathomable passion for me. He will go to all lengths necessary to get me into His arms, and He will receive me regardless of my lack of qualifications.

"[God] gives power to the weak, and to those who have no might He increases strength. Even the youths shall faint and be weary, and the young men shall utterly fall, but those who wait on the Lord shall renew their strength; They shall mount up with wings like eagles. They shall run and not be weary, they shall walk and not faint."--Isaiah 40:29-31
 
Sometimes, I am tempted to look back at the blissful ignorance and ease I once enjoyed, but looking back is worse than useless. It's crippling and sinful. 

"But I press on, that I may lay hold of that for which Christ laid hold of me....forgetting those things which are behind and reaching forward to those things which are ahead. I press toward the goal for the prize of the upward call of God in Christ Jesus."--Philippians 3:12-14

 Lot's wife looked back at the destruction of Sodom and Gomorrah, and was turned into a pillar of salt. Israel, while wandering in the desert, languished at the monotony of manna, and cried out for the comforts of her former slavery in Egypt. Looking back says, "God, I don't like where You are taking me. I don't trust You. I don't believe You." Looking forward says, "I believe in the Promised Land, and I trust You to take me there. I will gladly walk in this desert. It's hot and tiresome, but I will rest in the shadow of Your wings. I will joyfully eat this manna. It is enough because You are enough."

My journey is not haphazard. Every encounter, every bend in the road achieves some purpose unknown to me. It's all a part of my story, predestined by a Perfect Author. Knowing this gives me permission to enjoy meeting ogres along the way. The ogres shape my character, too.

"Rejoice in the process. Growth in grace is gradual over time."--Tim Lane

You know, it's okay if the heroine sheds a few tears along the way. It's okay if she pauses occasionally to ask, "Why?" That's just real life. We aren't called to stuff our emotions any more than we are called to wallow in self-pity. I believe we are instead called to invest our emotions, entrusting them to our Faithful Creator who sees the big picture while expectantly awaiting the return we will receive for doing so. 

While the plot twists before me are unknown and treacherous, my destination is sure.

"Therefore, I run thus: not with uncertainty."--1 Corinthians 9:16

My ultimate enemy--spiritual death--is already defeated. Nothing else truly threatens me. No matter what, I end up in the Everlasting Arms. 

While I am not where I had hoped I would be one full year into my adventure, I soldier on. The Lord has recently blessed me with a second wind, just as I desperately needed it. He does that whole "supplying all my needs" thing pretty well. With an Adventure Buddy like that, I think I'll be just fine. Ogres and all.

A Few More Pieces of the Puzzle

A couple of posts ago, I mentioned that the Lord was leading me to look deeper into the autoimmune nature and genetic origins of my illness. Well, I have been doing just that. My worsening symptoms are helping to spur me on in my quest for information. Thanks to the Lord's direction, what I'm learning and what my doctor is learning, I am beginning to understand why I have been feeling like death warmed over.

As I have mentioned before, I suffer from methyl cycle (MTHFR) genetic defects. While the abnormalities in these genes do not gift a person with an undesirable disease from birth, they do predispose one to ill health. Based on what I am learning in Dr. Connor's book, Help, My Body Is Killing Me, these defects are basically latent genes that can be "turned on" during the course of a person's life, causing a lot of trouble including autoimmune disease. After doing some research, I conclude that I have suffered from methyl cycle defects for most of my life, but I feel I can pinpoint the specific events that fully awoke these sleeping little monsters--allergy shots (and corresponding steroid treatment) and my pregnancies. Dr. Connors explains that once the genes are turned on, they cannot be turned off. However, they can be managed by diet, supplementation and lifestyle alterations. I have a loooooooong way to go before I get to the management state, so for now I am one super-dysfunctional, toxic, autoimmune mess.

On Wednesday of this week, I met with Dr. Yakaboski for a consultation concerning what she learned at the MTHFR genetic conference last weekend. We have not yet received my highly detailed saliva test results via 23andme.com (due within 3 weeks), but based upon the case studies at the conference, she has a few good guesses about which defects I have. We already know that I have the homozygous A1298c defect from the blood tests Dr. Cave ordered back in October. Dr. Yakaboski suspects further defects including CBS and COMT. After two days of intense research, I am certain I have the CBS defect. I could be the poster child for this mutation!

CBS (cystathionine beta-synthase) initiates the trans-sulfuration pathway of the methylation cycle. Its job is to convert homocysteine (an amino acid) into cystathionine (the middle man) and its metabolites down the way, which I assume are very important. Symptoms of a CBS defect include:

• Elevated urine sulfate level (CHECK! At my last appointment with Dr. Yakaboski, my urine sulfate level was at the highest possible reading of 1600+)
• Low/normal homocysteine level (CHECK! This was confirmed in the bloodwork ordered by Dr. Cave.)
• High blood ammonia levels (This has not been confirmed by blood test, but I show physical symptoms of having high blood ammonia including a "fog-like" state of the brain and severe bloating of the lower abdomen.)
• Intolerance to sulfur containing drugs, supplements and foods (DOUBLE CHECK! Does anyone remember my downward spiral at the beginning of 2012? It was highlighted by several near death experiences with sulfa/sulfur substances.)
• Adrenal exhuastian (CHECK! The presence of sulfate stimulates the "fight or flight" response, releasing cortisol in the body. The cortisol stress response is a good thing when being chased by a bear. It is life-saving in those kind of situations, but let's face it--I'm not being chased by a bear. Dr. Cave, Dr. Kuehn and Dr. Yakaboski have all three found that my adrenals are exhausted.  Did you know that you can naturally heal adrenal exhaustion by modifying your diet and lifestyle? You can!)
• Brain fog (CHECK! My brain is so foggy that real life often takes on the characteristics of a dream. It's weird and unhelpful when caring for children and managing a household.)
• Abnormalities in sugar control (CHECK! I have had blood sugar problems all my life.)
• Difficulty sleeping (CHECK! CHECK!)

The CBS defect causes methyl cycle "middle men" to be turned into ammonia, more ammonia than the body is prepared to handle. When an overabundance of ammonia is present, BH4 (an essential cofactor of amino acid hydroxlase enzymes) is depleted. For every one molecule of ammonia, it takes two molecules of BH4 to metabolize it. So individuals with the CBS defect are BH4 deficient. Now, BH4 is muy importante. It is responsible for making the neurotransmitters dopamine, serotonin and norepinephrine. A BH4 deficiency also prevents arginine (an amino acid) from converting into nitric oxide, which is essential for neurological, psychological and cardiovascular health. Instead, the arginine is converted into free radicals (superoxide and peroxynitrite) which cause immunodeficiency, toxicity, and cell death. Funny story--I just told Brandon a few days ago that I felt as though every cell in my body was slowly dying.

After learning all of this fascinating information, my first thought was, "Where can I find a BH4 supplement?" But it isn't that simple. Until the other methyl cycle pathways are working properly, one should not begin BH4 supplementation. If a long-closed pathway is suddenly opened, a bad detox reaction will result. Detox reactions can be severe, and should be avoided when possible. Healing methyl cycle pathways is a process and a slow one at that.

I can't change my DNA, but I can change what I feed it. Step 1 of the healing process will be to change my diet.....again. If you have known me for any length of time, you will hardly believe the next words you read--I am doing away with meat. For awhile, anyway. It turns out that by restricting my animal protein, I can reduce my ammonia burden, preserving BH4, which will in turn allow my amino acids to begin making neurotransmitters and nitric oxide properly again. Going (mostly) vegetarian will also help my body achieve a more alkaline state, which is important. My body's environment is currently very acidic, a state in which disease of all kinds thrives.

In addition to avoiding meat as much as possible, I will also begin eating a diet low in sulfur/free thiols. Until now, I have been eating mostly high sulfur foods. Until yesterday, I have eaten three or more eggs every morning for breakfast, meats and high sulfur veggies for lunch and dinner, chocolate almost every day and as much farm fresh goat milk as I pleased. All of those foods are on the "High in Free Thiols" list. My eating habits have a lot to do with my increasing fatigue, state of yuckiness, depression, and sensitivity to toxins, but I had no way of knowing that until Wednesday. Changing my diet so drastically requires baby steps. For now, I will eliminate garlic altogether and reduce the number of eggs and the amount of high sulfur vegetables I eat. These vegetables include garlic, onions, broccoli, leafy greens, cauliflower, etc. As far as fruits are concerned, I am allergic to the ones high in free thiols, so no worries there. I will continue drinking meat stock, and strive to stay within the confines of GAPS because gut healing is still a very important factor in my healing protocol.

While I am eliminating several foods from my diet, I will also be adding foods. During the last two weeks, I have felt the Lord prompting me to try ghee (clarified butter) again. He just keeps sending me signals and information about ghee. God often speaks to me through repetition, so He has my full attention. On Wednesday, Dr. Yakaboski told me that a big part of getting well will be healing the mucous layer of my gut. Until I heal the mucous layer, probiotics will do me little good. If the probiotics aren't doing their job, I can't kill off the candida albicans, which inhibit gut healing. Foods that heal the mucous layer include ghee (I'm making some now, and I'm sure I will tolerate it!), ground flax and hemp seed, colloidal silver, slippery elm, marshmallow root, okra (yuck!) and sunflower lecithin.The plan is to add these food into my diet one a time every 3-4 days to be sure I can tolerate them. I am now keeping a food journal so I can track exactly what I'm eating and any reactions I may have.

Supplementation is in my future, but drastic dietary changes are enough to tackle at the moment. I will likely wait for my results to arrive and my consultation with the MTHFR specialist before worrying too much about supplements. I have enough to learn, absorb and implement for now anyway. Wouldn't you agree?

I covet your prayers at this time, especially prayers for my "inner man" (Ephesians 3:16). Ask the Lord to help me be aware of my dependence upon Him at all times. Ask that I will open myself to Him fully that He might fill me with His sweet Spirit. Ask for my protection against the Evil One and a wariness toward the weakness of my own flesh. Ask that He might grant me JOY, the real kind, the kind that can only be found in Himself. Ask Him for His continued clear guidance for my doctors and me. And give Him thanks in all things.

"Oh, that men would give thanks to the Lord for His goodness,

and for His wonderful works to the children of men!"

Psalm 107:8

Sources:

Roberts, James C., M.D. "Methyl Cycle NutriGenomics"

Connors, Kevin, D.C. Help, My Body is Killing Me. AuthorHouse, 2010

http://www.livingnetwork.co.za/chelationnetwork/food/high-sulfur-sulphur-food-list/

Thoughts on Jubilee

Maintaining a state of jubilee has been harder than I had imagined. It is difficult to live in mental, emotional and spiritual freedom when the walls of my world are continually closing in. It isn't easy to not think of myself as a sick and struggling mother when that is my reality on most days. It is almost impossible not to fixate on my symptoms when they are constantly changing, surprising me and even sometimes making me laugh at the strangeness of it all. On the other hand, it is an effortless thing to allow my mind to wander to the things I would like to be doing that I cannot do, to my disappointment that I am not the mother I desire to be and to my growing realization that getting better is going to be far more complicated than loosely following a diet for a couple of years.

When I first began the GAPS diet last September, I envisioned a slow and steady journey toward healing. I saw myself getting better and better until--voila! While I rejoice to report that my digestive symptoms have improved significantly during the last 7 months, the ground has unexpectedly crumbled beneath my feet in other ways. My environmental sensitivities continue to worsen. In addition to toxins, fragrances and latex, I have become violently allergic to peanuts. I came very close to going into anaphylactic shock on Sunday evening after attempting to make peanut butter for Micah. I simply breathed in peanut particles released from the garbage can and within a few minutes my body temperature dropped, my sinuses swelled shut and I was struggling for breath. Now, peanuts are banned from the house indefinitely, and life has become even smaller. Weirder, too--I have ordered a good-quality cotton mask to wear in public as a safety precaution. If you ever need a giggle, just imagine the thoughts of my fellow grocery shoppers. On the bright side, a mask may make occasional church attendance possible again.

If the only opposition to my efforts to live in liberty were physical, it is possible that I would be having more success. But we are whole people whose bodies, souls and spirits are all intricately intertwined. When one part of our make up is assaulted, the other areas suffer. If our entire composition is assaulted at once, it is only by the grace of God we stand.....or at least get back up again.

Jenny received disheartening news at her last two doctor's appointments. I know she is going to hate reading this, which is why I feel it necessary to remind her that I love her as my own soul. I can't separate the two anymore so it is impossible for me not to take her hard news personally. (So there! You can't be mad at me.) A couple of weeks ago, she was told that the chemo was no longer working. The liver tumors were larger. The cancer in her esophagus had returned, and it had spread to her lungs and stomach lining. Experimental medicine was considered, but last week she was released from the trial because they had run out of the smaller sized pills and Jenny could not swallow the larger ones. I will not for a moment pretend that the difficulty of the past few weeks has nothing to do with her circumstances. Jenny continues to amaze me by her capabilities in spite of constant pain and a grim prognosis. As she often reminds me, she still has today and God will provide her with breath until He is ready to call her home. I'm just afraid He's going to call her before I am ready to let her go. I know it won't be a goodbye--rather more like a "Bon voyage!" and an "I'll be along soon"--but I tremble when I anticipate the pain I fear is coming.

I have been under considerable duress physically and emotionally, so it follows that I would be affected spiritually. And I have been. I have felt distant from the God I so need, the God I so depend upon for everything from what to put on my daily to-do list to the strength to pull it off. I haven't liked it. With no way to fix myself, I asked Him to fix me for me. I searched His Word for answers. I  prayed. I quieted my soul so I could hear Him. When He was ready, He spoke--

"Let go. Trust me. Give thanks."

The message came to me in no less than five books I was reading at the same time over the course of three days. It came to me in emails, in conversations.

"Let go. Trust me. Give thanks."

I heard it in a podcasted interview online. I saw it on Facebook. It was spoken in a sermon.

"Let go. Trust me. Give thanks."

After several days of being pummeled by these instructions, I received this helpful hint--

"P.S. It's all tied together."
  
It was during a conversation with Jenny that I realized what had happened and was able to verbalize it. "You know?" I said. "I think my problem is that I am suddenly doubting God's goodness."

Now, I know God is good. I have known that since I was three. I have memorized Scripture passages teaching the theology. The cross proves it. Without thinking, several examples of God's goodness to me in particular come to mind. The truth of God's goodness is a part of my spirit's bone structure, but my soul had lost touch with my spirit's conviction in the midst of the day to day struggle of being me. Because I had lost touch with this truth, I was suddenly trying to place the circumstances in my life in an order that made sense to me. It wasn't working. I was becoming frustrated, feeling overwhelmed and getting sick....er.

I had to let go. I needed to trust God. I was called to give thanks. The three instructions are pretty interconnected. To let go, I have to trust. When I give thanks, it's easy to let go. When I'm trusting, I can clearly see God's goodness, and gratitude is a natural by-product of the process. But I couldn't start with letting go or trusting because I can't will myself to do either. However, I could will myself to give thanks. I didn't have to look far to find things for which to be thankful.

1) Jubilee Farm coming to life

 Thanks for the photo, Ann Marie!

2) Baking with babies

3) Sara's first egg hunt

4) Meeting Mr. Clarence, the precious man who provided me with goat's milk last summer when I could eat little else.  Mr. Clarence belonged to my Uncle David's congregation at Good Hope Baptist Church. He gave to me because he loves my uncle and our Lord.

 

5) The first planting and planting party at Jubilee Farm

 Our beautiful plants purchased from Yak's Farm on Hwy. 33

 Enjoying a tomato just a few minutes before getting stung by a wasp. Poor baby!

 Meet Rich who might as well already be a part of the family as Micah now asks for Auntie and Richie. :)

Only two and a half weeks after beginning my Gratitude List for 2013 (inspired by Ann Voskamp's book One Thousand Gifts) I have 45 gifts recorded in my journal. That's forty-five items that remind me that God is indeed very good and worthy of my trust. Forty-five items telling me I can let go.

Living in a state of jubilee is not pretending that life isn't hard or putting on a good face. Jubilee is saying, "God I trust You have our good at the center of Your plan" even when we can't make sense of things. It is looking at the world as a giant gift and life as a grand adventure. It is believing that life is still good even when it is painful. It is being able to say "thank you" when you are lying on a mattress only conscious enough to know that if you close your eyes for a moment you may wake up in Heaven. It is being able to pray as you are about to toss your cookies into the toilet. It is a peace that goes so deep that it doesn't matter if you never get well because healing isn't your real prize anyway. It is knowing that even if you lose a part of your soul, you'll get it back one day. Jubilee is Jesus, and that is something I always have and am never without.

How to Muscle Test and Relieve Allergy Symptoms

I have been planning this video blog for awhile now. I actually intended to post it much earlier, but circumstances would not allow for it. So here we are at my blog's 100th post, and I am entirely veering away from my usual style. 

If you are new here, know that my blog is not a health blog. Usually, it resembles a diary. Lately, I write almost exclusively about my journey to healing and what God is teaching me along the way. If you are interested in learning more about my illness, I suggest reading here, here and here. 

Making the videos was not easy. When we first began, I had difficulty keeping myself from giggling idiotically. Then, I made several frustrating mistakes. In some cuts, I plague the camera with nervous tics and verbal dyslexia. It was a mess! My attempts to order my thoughts and overcome my nervousness make my manner come across as cold and aloof. Oh, well! These were the best takes recorded before I ran out of patience and energy. The first video covers the topic of muscle testing and the second covers BioSET treatments. I hope the information, if not my sparkling on-camera personality (HA!), helps and blesses you and your families.

Disclaimer: This information is not to be used as a substitute for professional medical care, especially during cases of emergency. Practitioners trained in the BioSET system can be located throughout the country. I highly recommend locating a practitioner near you!

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Acknowledgments: Dr. Ellen Cutler, Dr. Carolyne Yakaboski and Dr. Melisa Kuehn. Dr. Yakaboski of West Monroe, Louisiana will be teaching a BioSET class coming soon! Please comment if you would like to receive more information concerning the class!

Special thanks goes to my husband, Brandon Keaster (aka Superman), who filmed the video, held my notes and performed the muscle testing and BioSET treatments.

I Could Only Think of Eggs

I was unwell when I woke this morning. I had obviously caught my kids' cold, but I wasn't surprised. I catch every illness that enters our home these days. I moved slowly. I read Jesus Calling and pondered Psalm 90. At almost 11:00, I was ready for a light breakfast. I ate runny, scrambled eggs--organic, pastured eggs the Lord had so sweetly provided for me last week--and drank a cup of hot, rich chicken broth so my body could spend its energy on healing the cold rather than digesting the food. I took the supplements I continue to tolerate--cod liver oil, Vitamin D3 and my digestive enzyme. I scaled down my plans for the day, and decided to spend some time out in the sun. I was making good choices.....until I took a bite of the coconut-based brownie I made yesterday. 

I dressed Sara and the two of us joined the boys, both of whom were outside. Brandon was finishing his work on the porch he mostly built last weekend and Micah was "helping." I plopped down in the canvas chair almost doubling over from the stabbing pain directly below my sternum. I could tell that I would not get away with the slightest indiscretion on this day, a realization that should have directed me back indoors.

I tried to enjoy the breeze and the red glow the sun cast about my children's heads, but my intense stomach pain and discomfort from the cold prevented me. As the kids played and Brandon worked--measuring, sawing and drilling--an eerie feeling crept upon me. My head grew thick and my stomach tossed with nausea. My chest tightened and my limbs filled with lead. Drunk though I was, I saw the flecks of wood thrown by the saw and carried off by the wind, I remembered that the wood was treated (meaning the wood was toxic), and the Holy Spirit spoke within--Get inside.

Somehow, I managed to get myself and the kids in the house. I immediately turned on Mickey Mouse for the kiddos, and fell onto the couch. I felt so strange. I tried to monitor my own breathing, my only requirement was that it must continue. My body was just so heavy and wrong, and it almost seemed that my soul lifted out of it and hovered above the scene, waiting to see what would happen. I lost all sense of time. At one point, I thought, "Is this what dying feels like?" I never once thought I would actually die, but the question prompted me to croak to Micah--"Tell Daddy that I need his help."

Brandon made his way inside not knowing how poorly I was doing. I told him that I needed BioSet. He helped me up from the couch, and suddenly I was sputtering, choking and wheezing. I hobbled into the kitchen, leaning on him for support. Once there, he realized to make the BioSet treatment most effective, he needed to take a saliva sample with a cotton swab.....which we keep in the bathroom. He propped me upon the kitchen counter and walked away. My chest burned and ached. I struggled for breath, and was as drunk as a skunk from toxic exposure. My legs gave way. I hit the kitchen floor with a thud. I was only vaguely aware of the pain in my hip, shoulder and head from the fall. Brandon was suddenly by my side again with my inhaler. I cried involuntarily as I struggled to get a puff.

I never lost consciousness, but my awareness faded in and out. I heard words like "hospital," "Mama is sick, Baby," and "can you come over." I surrendered myself to whatever fate Brandon deemed necessary. I heard Sara crying, and knew she cried because she knew something was wrong with me. She always knows. I knew when he gave me the Acute Rescue (a.k.a. magic potion) drops. I was able to cooperate when he swabbed my mouth and rolled me over onto my stomach to perform BioSet. Otherwise, I could only lie there, sprawled out in the middle of my small kitchen floor, thinking of eggs--

Recently, my Papaw began bringing me some pastured eggs from a farmer friend of his. I have been eating eggs all along (except for those first few weeks when I couldn't eat anything), but these eggs are different. They taste better, are richer in color. I crave them at all meals and always feel better after eating them. So, I am eating a lot of them. I ran out while Papaw was in the hospital last week. His friend and supplier is a little odd and often drunk, so I couldn't just go get the eggs myself. Before leaving for Baton Rouge on Thursday, I packed a couple of empty egg cartons to take along. Dad asked me why I was bringing them. I told him that I was out of pastured eggs and if we saw some along the way, I would like to stop.

I have made the trip to Baton Rouge several times, and have never seen anyone selling eggs along the way, something I would have noticed because I look for such things. However, I knew that my body needed those eggs. I knew that God knew my body needed the eggs. Therefore, I believed it was quite possible, even likely, that I would find some.

I looked for a road sign the entire trip, and did not find one. After that, I honestly forgot about it. I went to my appointments, both of which were very beneficial. When I finished my massage, Dad was paying for something and a couple walked in carrying large grocery bags. Babette, my masseuse, swept back into the lobby. She greeted the couple and taking the bags from them, asked me if I would like to buy some eggs.

"They are fresh, organic and pastured and they come from happy chickens!" she smiled. My dad's face was priceless. He laughed out loud. I smiled and told her I had two empty cartons in the car and would love to buy some.

In childlike faith, I had packed those cartons, fully believing that God could provide the eggs my body so desired. And He did. It was as simple as that. And that was all I could think of as I drifted in and out of conscious thought.

But you must see that I wasn't really thinking of eggs. I was thinking of God's faithfulness. 

He has promised to supply all my needs in Christ Jesus (Phil. 4:19). On Thursday, He saw that I needed pastured eggs. He provided them. And He did it in a clever way so that His signature could clearly be seen. Many months ago, He gave me a much-needed promise that I would live through this hell so that I would continue to fight my way through it without giving up. Before I was born, he chose Brandon to be my husband because He knew I needed a Superman to save my sickly butt time and again, a man who had the strength to live this life without losing his mind or his love for me.

As Sara Groves sings in one of my favorite songs, "God has been faithful. He will be again."

After Acute Rescue drops, a couple of puffs on the inhaler and two rounds of BioSet, I dramatically improved. After a sinus rinse, a detox bath and fresh clothes, I stopped re-poisoning myself which is always a plus. I have improved a little more throughout the day. I am still occasionally wheezing and suffering from swelling and sinus pressure. I am hurt from my fall to the kitchen floor, and I feel toxic. But I am alive. Thanks to God and Superman.

This verse from Psalm 90 kept coming to me today--"Make us glad according to the days in which You have afflicted us; the years in which we have seen evil." (v. 15)

This life I currently live is a life of affliction, but God is going to do me one better than make me glad for as many days as I have suffered. One day, the breath I take will be my last. Even if I suffer every day until then, my suffering will all be swallowed up by never-ending gladness, by the joy of His abiding presence, never to be remembered again. Until then, I will feed on His faithfulness every moment, something I did quite literally this evening as I ate three of my delicious, nutritious, pastured eggs for dinner.

Tears in the Kitchen (A Health Update)

Something has felt "off" for the last several weeks, a fact to which I alluded in my last post. I did not know what was wrong, and I did not know why it went wrong so I chose to ignore it, hoping I was mistaken. As usual, ignoring what my body was saying was a dumb move. I forced it to take a firm tone. When I ignored the firm tone, my body decided to yell. On Monday, after weeks of little, daily reactions, I suffered a severe allergic reaction to the supplements recommended by Dr. Cave to treat my MTHFR gene--all of them. The folic acid, the methylating powder and the B vitamins have all been rejected entirely.

While I could allow myself to be discouraged by this seemingly unfortunate turn of events, I am actually encouraged. In this, God has offered me very clear redirection on my health journey. Clarity is a valuable gift to the foggy of brain.

 I have noticed during the past few months that while some of my symptoms have improved (i.e. I can eat more than three foods now), others have spiraled out of control. For example, I get sick every time I leave my home. And sometimes I get sick staying at home. The world in which I live is full of substances that pose a threat to me. That burning pile of yard trash you drive by probably doesn't bother you, but it leaves me feeling like someone has me in a choke-hold. Birthday parties and clothes shopping are about equally dangerous. Both have put me in respiratory distress. No more dry-cleaning clothes or Styrofoam cups for me. I can't even visit my sister in her new home because the new building materials emit strong toxins that make me wish for death....and probably have the power to deliver it. I wish I was being dramatic. A healthy body does not notice these things. My body wails, laments and gnashes its teeth at them. Every time I leave my home, I am taking a risk. The risk isn't a question of whether or not I will get sick. Rather, it is a question of how sick I will get. Most of the time, the risks aren't worth taking, and I am increasingly earning the title of "Stay at Home Mom."

Something isn't right. It doesn't only have to do with my supplements. I just look at my body's rejection of them as the tool the Lord used to reveal another bend in the road.


Last weekend, the Lord propelled me into action when He introduced me to a new friend.  Caroline and I met on Facebook. (You can meet Caroline here.) She lives in a different part of the country, and is almost a decade younger than myself, but our symptoms are very similar. The main difference is that hers are worse. She is completely homebound and is currently able to eat only three foods. Sound familiar? She began GAPS about three years ago. Soon after, she began having some problems very much like the ones I am experiencing now.

We both still believe the GAPS diet to be a great healing tool. I will continue to follow most of the tenants of the diet. However, we are fighting multiple battles, and GAPS alone cannot win the war.

After chatting with Caroline and discussing my supplement problem with my natural doctor (who is currently taking a class on MTHFR/DNA snips), I feel that the Lord is leading me to look deeper into both the autoimmune and genetic natures of my illness. I just received my new DNA test kit in the mail. This new test will offer me more comprehensive results than the blood test ordered by Dr. Cave in October. From there, Dr. Yakaboski and I will have a phone consult with a genetic specialist. The three of us will discuss my results and formulate a new treatment plan. The consult will take place in a few weeks after I have received the new DNA results. I have also downloaded a free ebook by Dr. Connors, Caroline's doctor. The book discusses types of autoimmune-based illness and how to treat them. Dr. Connors also offers phone consultations to people who cannot travel to his clinic in Minnesota.

In the meantime, I am recovering from poisoning myself and trying to limit further poison exposure. I have seen Dr. Yakaboski twice this week to get relief. I hope that after today's colonic, BioSet and BEST treatments, I will soon experience a change for the better. I have no idea how I will do without being able to address my methylation problems for several weeks, but I will leave that in the hands of my Faithful God.

This God of mine has thoroughly earned my trust by proving Himself ready and able to help time and time again. Yesterday, He provided a friend to help me with my children and chores. Last night, He was there for me again. I was in the recliner, feeling as if I weighed 500 pounds and had lived 100 years. I was unsure if I was even going to be able to peel myself away from the chair to get my baby out of her crib.

But He reminded me, "My grace is sufficient for you." I stood.

I had vegetables to prep, broth to jar and a chicken to debone. I could not do it. He whispered, "My grace is sufficient."I began to chop, jar and debone.

It was too hard. I hurt too much. "My grace is sufficient, My Child."

I cried. I cried because it was hard and because God enabled me to do it anyway. "Sufficient. I AM enough. I will help you. I promise."

Tears of grace fell in my kitchen last night, and I knew. No matter how hard the rest of this healing journey may be, there will be enough grace--enough GOD--to bring me through.

Turning a Profit

A few evenings ago, I was foraging through the refrigerator and pantry trying to figure out what I was going to cook for dinner. My monthly food order stock was running low, and we were due a grocery run. Nevertheless, I emerged with a package of ground meat and a few carrots and set to work making them into a meal. As I sliced carrots, I was struck with how my physical and spiritual journeys are so apparently parallel at the moment.

Some days, my pantry is full. The circumstances are good. No one is sick. We have nowhere to be. The laundry is under control. And I'm having a "good day" health-wise. It's easy to turn out a fabulous meal when the fridge is filled to bursting with fresh fruits, veggies and meats butchered three different ways, but what about the days when the storehouses are depleted? How do I serve God when I've suffered a terrible allergic reaction that puts me in bed for half of the day? How can I love on my family the day after being up all night with a sick baby? What does God expect of me when all I have to offer is a couple of carrots and a package of ground meat?

As the Lord has increased my health, He has required more of me at home. He has moved me into a blessed season of "doing" for my immediate people. The Lord has restored my ability to work with my hands and "rejoice in my toil" (Eccl. 5:19), and I have truly relished His gift. It's funny that I never thought I much liked work until I was unable to do it. Lately, I have been baking with Micah, chasing the kids (which they love in this long trailer), reading to Sara, doing a bit of cleaning and looking for ways to serve my husband in addition to the basics of running a household and caring for two young children. This is all only just manageable on my good days. These tasks stretch me even when everything is perfect, but I know it is what I should be doing. The Lord confirms their necessity by giving me the grace to fulfill them. This "spending and being spent" for the souls of my family is satisfying, purposeful work (2 Cor. 12:15), but some days, for various reasons, I find myself with little to spend. On those days, my body and my will fight an inevitable battle that always ends in frustration. I want my body to cooperate with my will to "do," but my body is different than a healthy body. My body does not "push through." It simply quits and shuts down, leaving my will with nothing but good intentions and malfunctioning equipment.

I experienced this very thing only a few days ago. I was lying in bed the morning after a chemical reaction to fragrances. I remember praying a prayer that my mentor, Mrs. Dixie, first encouraged me to pray habitually a couple of years ago--"Lord, what would you have me do today?" Sometimes when I pray this prayer, I get an image in my head or a strong compulsion in my soul. Sometimes, I don't get anything at all at first, but simply know what to do next, one task at a time, including details like what to cook. It's weird and awesome and always an adventure. But that day, I got words--

"Let Me carry you."

I eventually peeled myself off of my bed, and spent the day writing long overdue thank you notes at the kitchen table and tending to the basic needs of the kids. I believe I managed to cook a simple dinner that night, too. My productivity wasn't very impressive. Micah and Sara were disappointed with my lethargy. I didn't have much to offer that day, but God gave me what I needed to complete the tasks He had in mind for me. He also allowed my bad day to take place on Brandon's day off which prevented me from having to call for emergency help.

What I've had to remember many times recently is that God doesn't expect the same thing from me every day. Oftentimes, I expect more of myself than He expects of me, which means that the battle isn't really between my body and my will but between my will and God's will. And when I'm working outside of His will--even if what I'm doing is a good thing--I exhaust myself prematurely and that work is going to burn up in the end. (Thank you for the reminder last week, Mrs. Dixie!) It's only when I'm submitting each step of my day to Him, offering Him each task before I begin it with my heart ready to let it go and allow Him to change my plans, that my energy lasts and my mundane, repetitious little life bears eternal significance.

That being said, no matter what I'm given, God expects me to turn a profit on it. Matthew 25 contains Jesus' parable of the talents. A master was preparing for a long journey. Before he left, he gave money to his servants. He entrusted different amounts to each servant "according to his own ability" (Matt. 25:15). One servant was given one talent, another was given two and another was given five. When the master returned home some time later, the servant given five talents had made a profit of five more. The servant given two talents made a profit of two more. But the servant given one talent was faithless. He buried his talent in a field and left it there. Basically, he hoarded the gift he was given, and had nothing to show for himself.

I don't know about you, but I don't want to be the servant who buried his talent in a field. It's true that I could save my energy on a good day, sit on my laurels and just enjoy feeling good, but I don't want to hear the Lord call me a "wicked and lazy servant" on judgement day (v. 26). I want to earn the commendation of "Well done, good and faithful servant," whether my profit for the day is two talents or five, even if it means risking my energy and health in the process.

God is not a hard task-master. He entrusts and requires only "according to my ability" (v. 15). If I'm given two talents, He doesn't expect a return of five. On the other hand, on days that I receive only one, I am expected to give Him an equivalent return. When Sara is up all night running fever, I am not expected to clean house the next day, but I am expected to hold my sick girl and help her get better. I am not expected to create a five course meal when I'm only given carrots and ground meat, but He does expect something. On days I am given more, I should joyfully give more in return. This is my spiritual act of worship, my reasonable service to a God who has given me everything (Rom. 12:1-2). While God loves the hymn on my lips, He treasures my cheerful service far more.

Allow me to clarify something--I don't work because I'm trying to ensure my spot in Heaven. My seat is already reserved by no merit of my own. My only security is the blood of Jesus, and I'm banking everything I have on His sacrifice. Rather, I work because I am saved. A heart overflowing with gratitude can't help but spill itself out. When our work comes out of being thankful for our salvation and not fear that we may not have it, the work is restful. It nourishes the soul. The yoke is easy and the burden is light because I never have to worry about whether or not the profit I was able to turn was enough. I never have to wonder--

"Did I say enough?"
"Did I do enough?"
"Did I do it perfectly?"

As long as I am walking in step with the Spirit of God, aligning my will and to-do list with His, I said enough, did enough and although I didn't do anything perfectly, I did it well enough. God redeems even my feeblest offerings made in His name.

Mrs. Dixie shared Jeremiah 31:16 with me last week--

"Refrain your voice from weeping
And your eyes from tears;
For your work shall be rewarded,
says the Lord."

God honors any service we render "as unto the Lord." When I have life in my bones, He honors the walk I take with my children as we point to the things God has made. When the stars align, allowing me to clean, He honors that clean bathtub even if that is all I accomplished. When I am unable to stand on my feet, He honors the thank you notes I write to His people. When I am bedridden, He honors my half-alert prayers and muddled whispers of love and adoration. When I only have ground meat and carrots in the fridge, He honors the meal of hamburger patties and carrot "fries" that I provide for my family. Don't forget--He is the same God who fed 5,000 people with a couple of fish and a few loaves of bread. He does much with our little.

So let us lay aside our frustrations that we are given two talents today instead of ten. Let us embrace our two. Let us prepare ourselves to turn a profit on what we are given with happy hearts. Let us rejoice in our toil! Let us live today for the smile of God! Let us each do according to our ability that we may one day hear the sweet, precious words which will warm us eternally to the core, "Well done, My good and faithful servant!"