The Power of Worship

Worship changes things.

The posture of a soul. The climate of a household. The complaints of the body. There's all kinds of healing to be found in turning from ourselves and the concerns of the moment to behold the beauty of God.

I used to have episodes. Spells, I called them. In the evenings, when I was tired, drained, and weary of discomfort, I'd still have to cook. Cooking seemed a monumental task in those moments. Impossible. Living felt impossible.

Arthritis made it difficult to peel vegetables. Phantom stakes drove into the fibromyalgia points in my neck and shoulders. Heat radiated from my skin, tender to the touch. A tension headache would form, unable to be helped by medication or essential oils. I was too sensitive. Still am. And the worst part was the dark cloud which hung over my head, weighing me down.

Either the pain isn't as bad now or I'm used to it. Maybe both. The cloud still visits me sometimes. 

But God (a lovely pair of words, don't you think?) is faithful. He speaks into the cloud. Through the storm of pain and discouragement, I feel Him. Nudging me, reminding me. I'm here. Reach for me.

I always begin with prayer. I ask for help with plain words, sometimes gasped, depending on the level of discomfort. But help doesn't always immediately come.

I move on to gratitude. I reflect on God's kindnesses. They're always there, even in the midst of the ashes. Eventually, with eyes to see and practice, you don't have to look very hard.

A couple of years ago, I thanked God for the strength to stand at the kitchen counter. Back then, I didn't take that strength for granted. Then, maybe I thanked Him for the squash in my hands, which would bring nourishment to me and my family. The infant clinging to my ankles. The little boy bouncing off the furniture. The husband on his way home from work. The messy house.

Gratitude penetrates the cloud, but it doesn't always chase it away.

So then I preach to my soul. Words hidden in my heart find their way to my tongue, sounding from my pulpit at the kitchen sink.

"Why are you cast down, O my soul? Why are you disquieted within me? Hope in God, for I shall yet praise Him for the help of His countenance." (Psalm 42:5)

"...If God is for us, who can be against us? He who did not spare His own Son, but delivered Him up for us all, how shall He not with Him also freely give us all things?" (Romans 8:31-32)

 Be bold. Be strong. The Lord your God is with you.

The cloud begins to lift.

But worship is the ace in the hole. It not only dissipates the cloud; it often relieves my physical discomfort. Or at least makes it less important.

Saturday night, I had a bad case of the ickies. You know what I'm talking about. I was all out of sorts, self-conscious about stupid things, and grumpy about having to figure out what to do with the pound of bison I'd thawed. My family was in a funk, too, and not the fun kind.

I remembered my ace, and decided to make it my first play.

Everyone was watching TV, so I grabbed my iPod, stuffed in my earbuds, and turned up a favorite worship album. I sang softly as I cooked and folded laundry, and you know what? I wasn't the only one helped. The atmosphere of our home shifted.

I've learned to expect that. Which is why worship has become my go to remedy for maladies of all kinds.

One night last week, Sara threw a major hissy fit right before bedtime. Girl's got a temper.

  I know you wouldn't believe it looking at this precious face.

But yeah...

I'm a firm believer in not going to bed angry, so I asked God how to help her. Silent prayers in the rocking chair weren't doing the trick, and she was too hysterical to pray herself. I sang a few of her favorite hymns. It helped, but she continued to thrash and cry, inconsolable.

I asked her to sing with me. We sang her current favorite, "At the Name of Jesus." Then she calmed enough to look up at me and say, "I wanna sing 'Jesus on da Cross.'"

I combed my fingers through her downy curls. "I don't know that one, Love. Will you teach it to me?"

Sara sang the following words to a simple melody which made the former music teacher in me proud. She made me repeat the phrases, which helped me to remember the lyrics long enough to copy them down in my journal:

Jesus on da cross...
His name is glorious...
He won da victory for us...
He died on da cross...
So He could save us...

Not a bad little song. And in the process of singing it, her anger evaporated. I tucked her into bed peaceful and content.

Now I wonder how many of my own passions I can reprocess into worship. Fan of experiments that I am, I'll be trying it out in the weeks to come.

In the meantime, what about you? Have you experienced the healing power of worship? Post your story in the comments below so we can all marvel at the healing weapon God has given us.

"Make a joyful shout to God, all the earth!
Sing out the honor of His name;
Make His praise glorious.
Say to God,
'How awesome are Your works!..."
(Psalm 66:1-3)

 

Agree with the Enemy

 Original image via Flickr Creative Commons courtesy of J Brew

Have you ever run through a patch of bull nettles? Well, neither have I, but Superman once did and told me what it was like.

I've experienced the spiritual equivalent many times. I'm nipped, pinched, and stung until I take off at an aimless sprint, desperate to find my way out only to find myself farther in.

That restless nettling is often accompanied by words. Words of condemnation.

You are filthy with sin. 
How can you think something like that and call yourself a child of God?
You may look good on the outside, but you know you're rotten at the core.
You're a failure.
You're an addict.
Look at how much time you wasted today.
You always say the wrong thing.
You don't deserve to be healed.
You're a sad excuse for a mother. 
Look at you. You can't help yourself. How can you expect to help others?

When I stop to identify the tone and timbre, I know immediately--that ain't my Shepherd's voice. This isn't the way God deals with His kids.

But recognizing the presence of the Enemy is just the first step. I can't simply wish him away. I have to engage. Whether I feel like it or not.

And let me tell you something--he's fiercely clever and more patient than I'll ever be in this life. He always pounces when I'm too tired or sick to fight. He hits me where I'm weak.  

And 99.9% of the time, he attacks me with the truth. 

Satan may be the Father of Lies, but he knows me. He sees me read my Bible. He watches as I soak up solid teaching.

An outright lie won't work on me. When one comes, I literally laugh out loud, and say something like, "Seriously? That's what you're going with today?"

So he comes at me with half-truths.

It's true that I'm filthy with sin, that my thoughts are impure, that I'm rotten to the core. That I'm a failure, an addict, a time-waster. I do say the wrong thing at the wrong time. I don't deserve to be healed. I am a sad excuse for a mother. I can't help myself...much less anyone else.

How to fight little-'t' truth: 

 

I had the pleasure of falling asleep last night and waking up this morning to bull nettles.

Those fiery little arrows were aimed as true as the words. They paralyzed me. Until God reminded me of a battle tactic I learned from family friend, Deb McCracken, a few years ago--

"Agree with the Enemy."

 

 It may seem counterintuitive, but I've found it exceedingly helpful.

Think about it. When the Enemy attacks with the truth, should we counter truth with a lie? Does it really help to say, "Pssshhhaw...I'm not a sinner. I'm just fine, thank you very much. I'm a great mom. I do deserve to be healed. By the way, why haven't I? What gives, God?"

Umm....no. Let's not abandon truth just because it hurts.

Instead, we zero in on the weakness in the Enemy's attack. You can bet your bottom dollar that he will never come at you with the whole Truth.

So agree with the Enemy, and then...

Complete the Sentence.

 

When the Enemy comes at us with half-truths, it's our job to complete the sentence. Writer type that I am, I always enjoyed these exercises in elementary school. Even if you didn't, you must learn the skill if you want to win the battle.

A helpful hint: All Truth ends with Jesus, and it can only be found in God's Word. (This is why it's so important to know the Bible. You can't walk in victory without it.)

When you've completed the sentence...

Preach to Your Soul.  

 

Soul preaching is an important skill for all believers because our feelings don't always align with the Truth. Take a page out of David's book (Psalm 42), and preach Truth to yourself.

For example:

Yes, I'm filthy with sin, but Jesus died for me while I was at my worst (Rom. 5:8; Eph. 2:4). If He gave His life for me then, He won't abandon me now (John 10:28; Heb. 13:5). 

My thoughts aren't always pure, but Jesus is transforming me by renewing my mind (Rom. 12:2). Lord, help me to think on things that are true, noble, just, pure, lovely, good, and praiseworthy (Phil. 4:8).

My Pharisaical tendencies break my heart. I'm sure they break God's heart, too. But Jesus loves Pharisees. It was to Pharisees Jesus said, "How often I wanted to gather you together as a hen gathers her chicks under her wings" (Matt. 23:37). Praise the Lord, I'm willing to be gathered!

What does it matter that I'm a failure when Jesus has fulfilled the law for me (Rom. 8:3-4)?

Show me the man or woman who isn't an addict. God loves addicts! Addiction cannot separate me from the love of God (Rom. 8:38-39). Lord, heal my addictions by satisfying me with Yourself.
 
Thanks for pointing out that I wasted time today. Lord, I repent. Thank you for never wasting a minute of your life on this earth. Help me to follow your example. 

I totally said the wrong thing today. Jesus, thank you for your promise that all things work together for good to those who love you--even my failures (Rom. 8:28). Transform and purify what I said. Teach me your ways and words. Fill me with your Spirit so that I may speak the truth in love and keep silent when silence is best.

I don't deserve to be healed, but I open my hands to whatever good gift it pleases you to give for the good of your Church. Help me be a faithful witness to your grace, whether it be delivering grace or sustaining grace.

I'm not a great mother, it's true. I thank you, Jesus, that my children's salvation doesn't depend on my mothering skills but on your marvelous grace. Cover my efforts with that grace.

God, it's true that I can't help myself. But you say, "Blessed are the poor in spirit, for theirs is the kingdom of heaven" (Matt. 5:3). You didn't come to help the strong, but the weak. Because your strength is made perfect in my weakness, I trust you to empower my poor efforts to strengthen my brethren. I thank you that you are our Helper and that no one counts on me (Heb. 13:5-6).

 
As you can see, these preaching sessions can easily turn into prayer, and that's how I found my way to freedom this morning. May this bit of battle strategy help you find a little freedom, too.

"There is therefore now no condemnation to those who are in Christ Jesus, who do not walk according to the flesh, but according to the Spirit."

-Romans 8:1

There's a Place for Us

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

But nothing presses me quite like the question...

Where do I belong?

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

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

My activity was aimless. 

 

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

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

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

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

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

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

 

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

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

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

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

A word about invisible ministry...

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

In the Midst of the Ashes: Where Loneliness Meets Its End

The following is a devotional I presented at a tea party for widows yesterday. These ladies are a fun group, full of zest and spunk. They entertained and blessed me with their sharp wits and sweet spirits. I don't presume to have taught them anything. In truth, they have much to teach me. But I pray they were encouraged and that I was a faithful messenger of God's extravagant love for widows and lonely hearts everywhere.

In the Midst of the Ashes: Where Loneliness Meets its End

 

You may wonder what a married 30 year old mother of two knows of loneliness. In short--enough. 

Last year, the doctors at Mayo Clinic diagnosed me with an illness called Mast Cell Activation Disease, an allergic disease which upsets every system in the body. Following the birth of my daughter in 2011, my health spiraled out of control, and has worsened over the years. I became a virtual shut-in before age 30. No church, no parties, no dates, no restaurants, no movies, no Disney vacations, ball games, or dance recitals. A lot of life passes me by, and all I can do is watch. 

In August 2012, under serendipitous circumstances, I met Jenny, who quickly became my best friend. She, too, was a young mom, her kids the same age as mine. She loved the Lord and struggled with an all-consuming disease of her own, which put her in a position to understand me better than anyone else. We spoke on the phone and texted daily, encouraging one another, learning and growing, sharing the joy of the Lord. Like David and Jonathan, our souls were knit together by the hand of God—until the cancer ripped her out of my arms and put her out of reach. Jenny died in March 2014.

I haven’t lost a husband or a parent, and I hope I don't for a long time, but my heart is a graveyard marked by lots of little tombstones. So while I won’t pretend to understand loneliness as you do, I can relate.

Loneliness is a kind of suffering.

Suffering, to me, is any event or circumstance that challenges or destroys the identity—who we are, how we define ourselves. Think of the injured athlete, the CEO who loses his job, the young mom diagnosed with Stage 4 esophageal cancer, the wife who loses her husband.

Suffering strips us down and leaves us naked. And it's in our nakedness, we discover a problem.

The Problem: We are alone.

You aren’t lonely because you’re a widow.

I’m not lonely because I’m a shut-in.

We’re lonely because we’re alone.

This goes for sufferers and non-sufferers alike.

That feeling we get that no one really understands? It’s not just a feeling. It’s reality.

Proverbs 14:10 says, “Each heart knows its own bitterness, and no one else can fully share its joy.” (NLT)

This is true even in the best of times, but suffering makes it truer. Suffering comes with a veil that hems us in and keeps others out. Fellow sufferers can come closer than others, but even in your common sorrow, you are alone. You are individuals shaped by unique circumstances. Not one of us can understand another perfectly.

So what’s the remedy?

First, let’s look at the example of someone who survived extreme loneliness.

The Example: Job

Two men in the Bible understand loneliness better than anyone else. One is Job.

In October of last year, I began studying Job and haven’t really stopped. He’s become my friend, and I love him dearly.

In the first two chapters of Job’s story, he’s called “blameless and upright” three times, twice by God Himself. When God calls Job “blameless,” He doesn’t mean sinless. He means genuine. Job genuinely loved God. And it was his conspicuous godliness that drew the attention of both God and Satan--the catalyst for the destruction of the wisest, richest, most righteous and beneficent man in the East.

Don’t miss the height of the fall. The longer the fall, the more bones you break. 

The longer, the richer, the deeper the marriage, the greater the loss.

Satan predicted Job would curse God when he lost it all. But he didn’t.

Instead, Job tore his clothes.

“Naked I came from my mother’s womb, and naked I shall return” (Job 1:21).

Job was stripped. His true self was showing.

Job grieved.

“…he fell to the ground…” (Job 1:20).

And he worshipped.

“The Lord gave, and the Lord has taken away; Blessed be the name of the Lord” (Job 1:21).

Job’s identity wasn’t rooted in possessions, influence, or even his family. So Satan went after Job’s health. And Job was struck with a painful, repulsive, isolating disease.

In this, Job met his breaking point. But not because he lost his health.

Job broke because he knew that God was ultimately responsible for what happened to him. God let the lion loose. Job knew he hadn’t done anything wrong, yet God had apparently turned His back on him.

Job shattered because he believed he’d lost God’s love.

Immerse yourself in this stunning imagery:

“And the Lord said to Satan, “Behold, he is in your hand, but spare his life. So Satan went out from the presence of the Lord, and struck Job with painful boils from the sole of his foot to the crown of his head. And he took for himself a potsherd with which to scrape himself while he sat in the midst of the ashes” (Job 2:6-8).

Look at Job. Impoverished, bereft, sick, and apparently forsaken by God, he makes his way to the ash heap outside the city where refuse is burned.

The ash heap outside Jerusalem was called Gehenna. Jesus used Gehenna as a metaphor for hell. Hell is “where the fire is not quenched and the worm does not die” because man is separated from God (Mark 9:44).

Alone, dejected, rejected by his wife, and taunted by the people he’d once helped, Job climbs a lonely hill of smoldering garbage and makes his bed in hell (Psalm 139:8).

Scrape, scrape. The potsherd is his only friend. It alone empathizes with his broken state.

After months of isolation, Job’s dearest friends gather to him, but all they can do is weep. They don't recognize him. He's emaciated, bald, scarred, and there's something deeply wrong in his eyes. His suffering terrifies them into a week long silence (Job 2:13; 6:21).

Scrape, scrape. The potsherd and the snap and crackle of flames are the only sounds. Until Job opens his mouth, and sobs into the dark.

Satan had predicted Job would curse God. What Job does instead is curse himself. Then he leans in, and calls out to God from the ash heap.

Job challenges God, doubts Him, praises Him, pleads for Him in some of the nakedest prayers of the Bible. And it’s there—in the midst of the ashes—that God stoops to Job, and Job gets more of God than he bargained for.

Job’s story raises two questions:

1. Why did God allow Job to suffer so much?
2.   How did Job survive?

The answer to both is Jesus Christ, who is also the solution to our loneliness.

The Solution: Jesus Christ

Prior to Job, there was no room in the world’s wisdom or moral canon for innocent suffering. Job’s friends insisted he must've sinned because all they knew of justice was “reap what you sow” with an immediate harvest in mind.

Job’s validation by God in the beginning of the story and his vindication at the end of the story bust that theory wide open, making room for the truly innocent suffering of Jesus Christ.

The stories of Job and Jesus are strikingly similar: A prince plummets from glorious heights to the depths of hell. He’s a good man—innocent, blameless, accepted by God, deserving blessing, honor, glory, and power, and yet, he receives God’s wrath.

Why?

For the glory of God and for the good of the world.

Jesus experienced true loneliness so you would never know it. So the worst Satan could do is make you feel lonely.

He accepted my isolation so I could have a Friend who doesn’t weary of my overwhelming needs.

He absorbed your widowhood so you could marry a Husband that can’t die.

But Jesus isn't enough. We need the Helper, the Advocate. 

Loneliness ends only through the gift of the Holy Spirit.

Job didn’t have the Holy Spirit as we do today, but the Spirit evidences Himself in Job’s worship, his boldness, his faith, in prophecies, in images of the cross, in spiritual fruit such as patience, faithfulness, gentleness, and self-restraint with those insufferable friends of his.

Job didn’t know God was with him the whole time, but He was.

We’re like Job. We’re unaware of the Holy Spirit. We undervalue Him, underutilize Him, and misunderstand Him. We don’t comprehend that the gift of Emmanuel—God with us—is something better than God beside us.

We have God in us.

The Holy Spirit lives in us to give us peace in an uncertain world (John 16:33), to tell us the truth (John 14:17), to help us bear fruit (John 15:5), to give us faith in the dark (John 14:20), to help us see Christ for who He is (John 14:19), and know the depth of God’s love (Romans 5:5) so even if we don’t know why we suffer we know what the reason isn’t.

It isn't because God doesn’t love us (Timothy Keller).

God doesn’t leave us orphans and widows (John 16:18; Isaiah 54:5).

He stooped to us, died for us, and now He's in us.

Listen to the gospel according to Hannah:

“The Lord kills and makes alive;

He brings down to the grave and brings up.

The Lord makes poor and makes rich;

He brings low and lifts up.

He raises the poor from the dust

And lifts the beggar from the ash heap,

To set them among princes

And make them inherit the throne of glory.”

(1 Samuel 2:6-8)

To survive loneliness, we must:

•  Look at Jesus and gaze at the cross.

 “…let us lay aside every weight, and the sin which so easily ensnares us, and let us run with endurance the race that is set before us, looking unto Jesus the author and finisher of our faith, who for the joy that was set before Him—[us]—endured the cross, despising its shame, and has sat down at the right hand of the throne of God.” (Hebrews 12:1-2)

• Attune to the Holy Spirit.

Be filled with the Spirit (Ephesians 5:18).

Walk in step with the Spirit (Galations 5:25).

Listen to the Spirit. Give Him opportunity to speak in His word and through prayer.

May 2013 may have been the loneliest month of my life. I suffered a major reaction to a pesticide, and became so ill I couldn’t eat. My grandfather had terrible complications with his heart surgery. We all thought he would die, so my mom was with him. Jenny was dying. I didn’t expect her to last through June. My husband thought I was dying, and emotionally checked out. (This disease is so big and bad it's too much for Superman sometimes.)

I was alone in an empty bed, in an empty house, on a dirt road, in the middle of nowhere.

But my heart was filled with the love of the Father, my vision enraptured by the beauty of the Lamb. The Spirit sat with me in the midst of the ashes, and my lonely bed became a gateway to glory.

I remember being on the phone with Jenny one day during that time. We were both on what could’ve been our death beds but for the grace of God, and we prayed and praised with frail hands lifted to our Father. For a moment, the clouds parted, the Spirit smiled, and we ascended.

It's a glorious memory. But loneliness is a long suffering. And survival isn’t enough.

Our destiny is to be “more than conquerors through Him who loved us” (Romans 8:37), to take the very thing Satan sends to destroy us and use it against him to the glory of God.

To achieve such a thing, we must answer the gospel call.

The Call: Clothe the Naked People

The world is full of naked people. Really naked people. A few who know they’re naked and many who don’t. These include church people.

          To the lukewarm church, Jesus writes:

“Because you say, ‘I am rich, have become wealthy, and have need of nothing’—and do not know that you are wretched, miserable, poor, blind, and naked—I counsel you to buy from Me gold refined in the fire, that you may be rich; and white garments, that you may be clothed, that the shame of your nakedness may not be revealed; and anoint your eyes with salve, that you may see. As many as I love, I rebuke and chasten. Therefore be zealous and repent. Behold, I stand at the door and knock. If anyone hears My voice and opens the door, I will come in to him and dine with him, and he with Me.” (Revelation 3:17-18)

Suffering separates the sheep from the goats. Once suffering rips off our clothes and our true selves are exposed, we’ll know whether we wear filthy garments or the rich robe of Christ’s righteousness, and so will everyone else (Zech. 3:3-5; Isaiah 61:10).

And sometimes, our temporary nakedness exposes the real nakedness of the happy and oblivious.

When a hungry sister sees us fat and satisfied with the fullness of God, she may be inspired throw the door wide open next time Jesus knocks.

The way we deal with loneliness may help others see they’re the lonely ones.

So put that loneliness to good use. Curb the empty calories of activity, and feed on the Bread of Life (John 6:48).

Be brave. Walk deeper into dark Gethsemane, and get alone with God. Be willing to leave your friends behind for a while.

We often have to travel farther into the desolate wilderness to find our way to the Promised Land.

Holy solitude is the remedy to loneliness.

It's the thorny prison where the Lord is sanctified in our hearts and we learn our defense for the hope that’s in us (Hosea 2:6; 1 Peter 3:15). When we come out on the other side, people will know that we’ve been with God. 

Believe me—when they see the fire in your eyes after everything around you has burned to ash, they’ll ask about your hope. I was never asked about my hope until it defied rational explanation.

Last year, a friend of mine, who’s also a mom suffering chronic illness, asked me how I stay content in isolation. In my letter to her, I recalled the ache I used to carry in my chest, and compared it to a black hole. After brushing up on my quantum physics last week, I understand what an inspired metaphor that was.

Black holes form when stars can no longer support the weight of their own gravity and collapse on themselves. This is suffering.

The star then creates a cosmic vacuum so that anything that crosses the event horizon gets sucked in without any hope of escape. Suffering stimulates the insatiable hunger of our souls. Without realizing it, we consume resources and people ill-equipped to meet our needs until there’s nothing left.

The more a black hole eats, the bigger it grows. Support, attention, entertainment, distraction—instead of satisfying us, they make us crave all the more, which inevitably leads to addiction. Addiction has been a constant battle throughout my illness.

So what’s the end of it?

The black hole needs a taste of something as infinite as its need.

Particle and anti-particle pairs pop into existence all the time throughout the universe. Usually, the opposing energies just cancel each other out. But when they form near the event horizon of a black hole, one can get sucked in before they cancel out.

The other particle escapes, emitting something called Hawking radiation. The black hole which threatened to eat the universe alive is now sending out pieces of itself. Over time, it loses energy and evaporates.

There is no better imagery to describe what happened to me. The black hole of my loneliness ate everything, and grew bigger with every bite. In desperation, I cried out to Jesus and ate Him.

Little, daily bites of infinite, eternal God satisfied me so well I began emitting holy radiation back into the lives I’d sucked dry until the vacuum evaporated.

The gospel of Jesus Christ is the end of black holes everywhere.

We eat Him, and go feed the world.

We’re clothed, and invite people under the robe.

Because there’s no end to Christ, there’s no end our supply. Like the widow’s jar of oil (1 Kings 17:14) and the five loaves and two fish that filled 5,000 men with leftovers to spare (Matthew 14:19), there’s enough Jesus to clothe you and the entire world.

Clothing naked people is the heart of the gospel. It’s what Christ came to do, and He calls us to share in His mission.

Jesus says in Matthew 25:34-40,

“Then the King will say to those on His right hand, ‘Come, you blessed of My Father, inherit the kingdom prepared for you from the foundation of the world: for I was hungry and you gave me food; I was thirsty and you gave Me drink; I was a stranger and you took Me in; I was naked and you clothed Me; I was sick and you visited Me; I was in prison and you came to Me. Then the righteous will answer Him, saying, ‘Lord, when did we see You hungry and feed You, or thirsty and give You drink? When did we see You a stranger and take You in, or naked and clothe You? Or when did we see You sick, or in prison, and come to You? And the King will answer and say to them, “Assuredly, I say to you, inasumuch as you did it to one of the least of these, My brethren, you did it to Me.”

Which leads us to the promise.

The Promise: The End of Loneliness

This is Isaiah 58:6-9:

         “Is this not the fast that I have chosen:

To loose the bonds of wickedness,

To undo the heavy burdens,

To let the oppressed go free,

And that you break every yoke?

Is it not to share your bread with the hungry,

And that you bring to your house the poor who are cast out;

When you see the naked, that you cover him,

And not hide yourself from your own flesh?

Then your light shall break forth like the morning,

Your healing shall spring forth speedily,

And your righteousness shall go before you;

The glory of the Lord shall be your rear guard.

Then you shall call, and the Lord will answer;

You shall cry, and He will say,

‘Here I am.’”

The promise is God with us—the end of loneliness. We aren’t widows anymore. Our Eternal Husband is with us in our grief, in our loneliness, in the midst of the ashes, and He says to us:

“Here I am.”

Closed Doors, a Reluctant Ice Queen, and Frozenness

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

(Hosea 2:6)

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Do you know why God hedged Israel in?

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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


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

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


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

Graveside Thoughts

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

I've always liked that winded feeling.

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

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

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

So here goes:

9/4/14 

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

Either way, I needed to honor her memory.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Why?

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The look isn't for me.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Accepted

No miracle yet.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Accepted."

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

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

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

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

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

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


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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

God says to Job, "I accept you." 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Another Kind of Miracle

In my previous post, I shared how I have experienced a better miracle than physical healing. It seemed to encourage those of you who have prayed me through the ups and downs of my struggle over the past couple of years, but I began to feel concerned for those just tuning in. I can see how someone new to my blog may be left with questions, confusion, or discouragement due to thoughts not quite complete. I can't have that.

God forbid I preach a false gospel or make the sufferer's road more treacherous than it already is. I do not want to perpetuate hurtful falsehoods spoken by well-meaning non-sufferers, and I do not want to add new doubts you have not previously considered. Please allow me to clarify my thinking.

First, your suffering is not necessarily a direct consequence of some moral failure.

I become very impatient when people suggest all suffering comes from lack of faith or a particular sin or whatever. Such statements are neither true nor helpful. While it's true some suffering is the consequence of sin, our suffering is never in proportion to our sin.

The best of us may suffer much.
The worst of us may suffer little.
And none of us suffer as we deserve.


The God of the Bible is not a tit-for-tat God. No. He's a God who, through infinite condescension, entered into our suffering and brokenness, and carried it all to the cross. Where it stayed.

Neither is God naive. He knows we are spiritual whores who run after other lovers time and again, yet He says, "I have seen [her] ways, and will heal [her]" (Isaiah 57:18).

Through His pain and suffering, we are healed (Isaiah 53:5). For those who receive Him, there is no debt left to be paid. God is satisfied (Isaiah 53:11).

Your suffering is not the price for your sin. You could never pay it anyway. God requires nothing from the guilty sinner when "Jesus" is the plea of her heart.

The cross was enough.
I will say it again: The cross was enough.

If suffering isn't cosmic payback, what is it?

Most suffering is an opportunity to walk in His steps (1 Peter 2:21), an invitation into the "high and holy place" where God dwells (Isaiah 57:15), and the thing which entitles us to all Christ will inherit--"if indeed we suffer with Him" (Romans 8:17).

Thus, suffering is a gift.

If your suffering is hard, if it doesn't feel like a gift, if it is breaking your heart, you are not "less than" spiritually.

The sufferer's road to joy is long, hard, and fraught with bumps, stumbles, and pits of self-pity, and don't let anyone tell you differently.

When a sufferer pastes on a smile and tells you they are fine, their words are lies and make-up covering an ugly truth: they are still trying to save themselves. 

They are trying desperately to stay strong because denial is easier than facing the darkness and walking through it. This is a great sadness because the darkness isn't such a terrible place. Not really.

"Who walks in darkness and has no light?
Let him trust in the name of the Lord and rely upon his God.
Look, all you who kindle a fire,
who encircle yourselves with sparks:
Walk in the light of your fire and in the sparks you have kindled--
This you shall have from My hand:
you shall lie down in torment."
-Isaiah 50:10-11

The night of suffering reveals the truth of our spiritual poverty. It serves to show us there is no way to save ourselves. Not even with our little religious fires like Bible study, prayer, church going, and service. We can't strong arm God into rewarding our feeble attempts at morality.

The fires we build to keep ourselves warm are only tiny sparks in the cold, dark world of suffering, and they lead us to torment, which is just another way of saying "a place without God."

 

There are no steps A, B, and C to joy.  

Those who claim otherwise are selling something--probably a book based on a false gospel that will make them rich and leave you bankrupt. 

There is nothing you can do for yourself other than seek the face of God. No one ever obtained real joy by seeking joy. The only way to obtain joy is through seeking God. Bible study and prayer are essential, but don't confuse holy pursuits with tasks on a checklist.

Just go on--give into it. Give into your need. Rely upon your God. He came "to give light to those who sit in darkness and the shadow of death, to guide our feet into the way of peace" (Luke 1:79).

Take His hand, and walk the way of the cross. It will beat you bloody, but it leads Home. 

Honesty is key.

 

If you read my posts from the last couple of years, they are full of lament. I did not win my fight for joy overnight.

It has taken more than two years of carrying my pain to the feet of Jesus over and over and over again. Two years of prayer, weeping, and waiting and things getting much, much worse before they got better. Two years of trustful determination to experience the sweet promises of God.

As in the parable of the widow and judge, I "pray[ed] and did not lose heart" (Luke 18:1). I kept asking for joy--a promise, a command of the Bible--until He gave it.

Believe those promises, Sister. God is faithful and able to fulfill them.
Ask for them, Brother. They were written for you. 

James tells us to "count it all joy when [we] fall into various trials" (James 1:2). We are to "rejoice always....and in everything give thanks" (1 Thessalonians 5:16-18). 

These are commands. Commands we cannot obey on our own. Like faith, joy is a gift of God (Ephesians 2:8), a gift He delights to give. Ask for it.

Ask, and be prepared to wait. But don't be afraid to wait. "For they shall not be ashamed who wait for Me" (Isaiah 49:23).

 --Mike Pilavachi

Remember: "He who promised is faithful" (Hebrews 10:23), and His faithfulness is not contingent upon our own: "If we are faithless, He remains faithful; He cannot deny Himself" (2 Timothy 2:13).

 

In the waiting, God works another kind of miracle.

This other kind of miracle is meek in appearance but holds a quiet power. It's a miracle that can only be measured over time--

Growth.

Growth in faith. Growth in trust. Growth in grace. Growth in valor.


It's in the valley of the shadow of death we learn to conquer our fear, not on the mountain top.
It's in the pit we learn to reach for the only Hand strong enough to pull us out. 
It's in the ocean of grief we learn who commands the tempest without and within, who keeps our souls from drowning.
It's in the dead of night we hear our Savior's song.
It's in the wilderness we taste the sweetness of manna.
It's in the fire we find we are more than the sum of our successes, failures, lesser loves, and short-sighted dreams, all which burn away like dross.

It's at the gates of hell we learn God really is with us wherever we go.

Out of the whirlwind, He speaks (Job 38-41).
Unkindly, He kindly shows us God (Piper, "Job"). 
And when we see Him, all we can do is cry, "Woe is me! I am unclean!," and repent in dust and ashes.

So, if you are suffering and wondering what is wrong with you that you are empty and wounded and just not strong enough to smile--hold on, dear one.

Hold on. 

Hold onto Jesus.
Ask for joy.
Feast upon His promises.
Wait for His timing.
Believe in His infinite goodness, wisdom, and power.
Rest in His sovereignty.


Don't give up.


Thank Him for everything, even your pain. Not because pain is good, but because He is good, and He is allowing this pain for good and glory your brain is too weak and fractured to comprehend. 

There is purpose in it all. Some He may let you see, some you will never know this side of eternity. 

Seek Him. Trust Him.

One day, in the midst of your pain, there it will be--joy!

The Second Anniversary: In Acknowledgment

The Lord has acknowledged the second anniversary of my health collapse by granting me a rare, good day this 2nd of May in 2014. I was well enough to take the kids outside for a few minutes after lunch. As I soaked in the heat and healing of the sun, I thought about the fact that one day there will be no need of a sun because we will have the Son with us for all eternity. He will be light, warmth and healing forever. The life humming in my cells in response to golden rays is a foreshadowing of the eternal state of my soul. Hallelujah!

The weather was perfect. I listened to songs of breeze and birds. I took the kids over to Dad's up and coming butterfly garden where flowers of every vibrant shade are blooming. We made our way to Daisy's grave where Dad planted the yellow rose bush in her memory. I miss that dog. Honeysuckle climbs the shady pine standing tall next to the little patch of still-bare red earth. I breathed deeply of its sweet, heady perfume. We made plans for the blackberries just beginning to emerge from the blooming brambles in our front yard. There will be pie! I found an autoimmune paleo approved recipe on Pinterest the other day. Lord willing, the kids and I will make it together. I wonder if the berries will be ripe before I leave for Mayo in a couple of weeks.

In the stillness of these moments, I have reflected on the scared, young mother I was two years ago. I quietly bless her heart with a sad, knowing smile. She thought she was dying while--in fact--she was coming alive for the first time.

The road has been admittedly difficult--full of heartache and disappointment. In many ways I am sicker today than I was two years ago. I had every intention of planning my "I'm healed"/30th birthday shindig at this time, but I still don't know the name of my disease--assuming there is a name--and my symptoms remain largely uncontrolled.

Nonetheless, I'm not sorry. I would not trade what I have seen and known of God for perfect health.
I have had the privilege of learning the meaning of the psalmist's words:

"Those who sow in tears
Shall reap in joy.
He who continually goes forth weeping,
Bearing seed for sowing,
Shall doubtless come again with rejoicing,
Bringing his sheaves with him."
-Psalm 126:5-6


I have given Jesus my tears and brokenness. In return, He has given joy and wholeness--by giving Himself again and again and again. He is joy. He is wellness. If I miss this, I miss everything.

For all He has brought me through, for all He will do-- 

"Bless the Lord, O my soul, and forget not all His benefits:
Who forgives all your iniquities,
Who heals all your diseases,
Who redeems your life from destruction,
Who crowns you with lovingkindness and tender mercies,
Who satisfies your mouth with good things,
So that your youth is renewed like the eagle's."
--Psalm 103:1-5

I would like to dedicate this beautiful song to my Superman, who has faced with me the difficulties of these past two years with courage and faithfulness. You have loved me as Jesus has loved me--knowing me fully and loving all you know. Thank you, B, for drinking this cup with me, enduring the miles, and not leaving me to face the dragons alone. Happy second anniversary.

If you are new to my blog, I recommend these posts:

The Journey and A Rough Landing: The first post I wrote after my health collapse

The Rough Landing and A Journey: The one year anniversary post

The Upside to Being Laid Low

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

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

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

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

But even there--

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Hallelujah, what a Savior!

Happy Easter.

Drowning and Swimming at the Same Time

"I didn't know--" She tried to swallow the overwhelming sadness caught in her throat. "Jonathan dies in battle." 

The world fell still and cold around me. I am David. And who is David without Jonathan?

11/3/12

 taken November 2012 at the Toledo Bend lake house

When our friendship began in August 2012, Jenny was studying the book of 1 Samuel with her women's Bible study group in Houston. I had known her for about two weeks when she declared I was the David to her Jonathan. What an insightful foreshadowing that was.

"[T]he soul of Jonathan was knit to the soul of David....then Jonathan and David made a covenant because he loved him as his own soul."

1 Samuel 18:1,3

I am hesitant to use adequate language to describe our friendship because I know it may be interpreted incorrectly by some. It makes me tremble to think there are people who might misunderstand what I want to communicate. So I offer this disclaimer: don't fall into the cultural folly of thinking the only love of great strength is romantic love. It isn't. Today's cheap definition of romance could never stand up to what we had. Stated briefly--ours was a covenantal friendship. To borrow David's words in 2 Samuel 1, "[She was] very pleasant to me; [her] love to me was wonderful, surpassing the love of [men]."

Ours was a connection unlike anything I have ever experienced. My friendships are few, long-lasting and miles deep. Normally, I watch a person carefully before I choose them, and I give my heart by inches. But Jenny and I did not choose each other. We were given to each other. Our friendship began fast and furiously--yes, like falling in love--and our souls were irrevocably entwined before I knew what had happened. The kind of love God was calling us to was whole, true, painful, put-your-soul-on-the-line love. 

You cannot protect yourself in that kind of love. No wall you build or shield you bear can stand up to it. And you would not want it to. Not really. It is the kind of love that changes you forever, leaving behind invisible tattoos upon you both with each meeting and conversation. It is the kind of love in which you see the other person's most admirable strengths and gravest sins and love them still--maybe more. You battle her dragons and she battles yours--back to back and swords at the ready. You praise her successes without a hint of jealousy, angst or irony. Without a hint! Even when one of you is dying and the other is beginning to heal. You want to suffer and die in her stead, and would if you could. You can't, but you hurt with her. You pray for her. You offer what little strength you have and hope it helps. You become so connected you melt into her and she melts into you so that you no longer can tell where you begin and she ends. You can boldly tell the truth always because you never doubt how loved you are. You can challenge one another, disagree, say hard things and come out better and stronger on the other side. You don't worry about offending. Pure love cannot be offended. Ever. With the exception of Christ's love for the Church, ours was the purest I have known. I say that because self-service was never a thought, offense never took place and mutual understanding was a reflex--words optional. We were for one another more than we were for ourselves.

And I have lost her.

She passed on March 8, 2014 after two years of intense suffering. It is a great mystery to me that I am standing, walking and talking. Have you ever attempted to tear apart something knit together? It's almost impossible to do and once done, the only thing left behind is a frayed mess of something now unrecognizable. I feel less like myself without her in the world. I am drowning in an ocean of grief. That is what grief is--drowning. When a wave hits you, it takes the breath away. It literally aches and burns in the lungs. Though I have been actively grieving for her for almost a year--for her suffering and in knowing she was slipping away--I haven't gotten any better at the whole "grieving well" thing, whatever that looks like.

Yet I am surviving. (Surviving sucks, by the way.) I stand because the mercies of the Lord hold me up (Psalm 94:18). I am too wounded to walk, so the Lord is carrying me in His arms (Isaiah 40:11). Talking is hard. Writing is harder. But this is a chapter in need of writing, and we all do what we must. Somehow I smile. I smile at the nosegays the kids and I craft from the delicate wildflowers popping up in our yard because "nosegay" was Jenny's favorite word. I smile at my children, my husband and all things happy because she was happy, she is happy and she would want me to be happy. I smile because she is no longer suffering. She is free! She is no longer wearing those "sick rags," but is instead clothed in gleaming white robes of righteousness! I smile because she is in the best place with the best Companion. All the needs, longings and hopes of her soul are entirely fulfilled. That knowledge is precious to me. The loss is sharp and brutal, but I am swimming in a sea of hope because I know I will see her again. And I'm going to be okay--even here and now--because as much as I loved the girl, she wasn't my everything. I was careful about that. Jesus is my everything, and He's not going anywhere. He is actually nearer for the pain.

To my surprise, Jenny was buried about an hour from Jubilee Farm, so Brandon and I were able to attend the burial service. The drive was gorgeous. Life was bursting from the ground in fresh, vibrant blooms. New calves chewed bright green grass near their mothers' knees. Warm sunlight poured from the heavens--a smile of victory from my yellow-souled friend. Wind rushed through the trees, making music in honor of her free spirit. I had prayed for a perfect day. God delivered.

As I hugged her family--each embrace feeling like another difficult goodbye--and gazed at that horrid coffin and that awful hole in the ground, the voice which kept repeating, "It's over, it's over," was drowned out by the Voice of Truth--"It's only beginning. It's going to be more than okay. All this heartache and all this pain will heighten the ecstasy of the reunion to come! Believe Me and rest joyfully in hope!"

 On the way home, budding pear trees reminded me of the reality of the resurrection. When I see her again, my Jenny will not be some ethereal wisp of what she was. She will be a perfected version of herself in physical form. She will laugh, eat and dance. I will recognize not only her spirit, but her face. And she will recognize me. Our dreams will be fully, exponentially realized. We will

"join hands and grin conspiratorially at one another before taking an unbridled, running leap and plunging into the vast, deep waters of endless Jubilee!" (Quote taken from my post "Dreams of Jubilee")

taken 2/10/13 at Juliet's first birthday party

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

On February 19, the day of our final communication on this side of heaven, I wrote the following tribute to my covenant friend:

The only show of light more precious than the first sun rays of the morning caressing the earth in happy greeting is the glow of late afternoon. With a mustering of effort, an aria bursts forth on golden breath before lapsing into lullaby. There is something glorious about the victory of the moment. It is a final act of  rebellion against the gathering darkness before she fades peacefully into her rest. And nothing in creation is more graceful than her farewell painted in fire and roses on the western horizon. Though we are saddened to see her go, we are filled with unspeakable gratitude she came at all, whispering secrets of her Creator only she could tell and leaving life in her wake. We will weep at the loss, but will take comfort in the assurance we will see her again, renewed and more glorious than we can now conceive.

photos taken November 2012 at the Toledo Bend lake house

Though she appears in many posts written between September 2012 and March 2014, the following are my "Jenny posts" in which she is featured:

"Sometimes, Kismet Happens"

"Like a Lake"

"Dreams of Jubilee"

"A Portrait of the Gospel"

The Secret of the Cosmic Scales

I have been on quite the journey since Thanksgiving. My latest little crisis forced me to face some harsh realities--physically, emotionally and spiritually--and though I am a bit bruised with all the jolting around, I am in a better place for it. The Lord's leading isn't always gentle, but hallelujah!--He never lets go of the hand that reaches for Him.

As our burdens press us, weighing us down, He is present in equal measure, holding us up with His mercies (Psalm 94:18). In Morning by Morning, Charles Spurgeon writes about what I call "The Secret of the Cosmic Scales," based on 2 Corinthians 1:5--"Here is a blessed proportion. The Ruler of providence bears a pair of scales--in this side He puts His people's trials, and in that He puts their consolations. When the scale of trial is nearly empty, you will always find the scale of consolation in nearly the same condition. When the scale of trial is full, you will find the scale of consolation just as heavy. When the black clouds gather most, the light is more brightly revealed to us...." (from February 12).

Sometimes the light brings warmth and clarity. Sometimes it exposes the darkest corners of the heart. I have experienced both as you will see in my journal entries. (These entries have been edited for the sake of space, grammar, flow and a small measure of privacy.)

_________________________________________________________________________________

11/29/13

"I think it's time to look into a major research hospital like John Hopkins or Mayo," Mom said. Her thoughts were echoed by my prayerful grandmother later in the day.

Miserable and confused though I am in the wake of my latest reaction and resulting flare, I am not so sure. The words resonate in the deep places, but I am afraid. I fear the danger, the expense, the difficulty, the time away from my kids, the hardship on my family, but most of all I fear the possibility of being disappointed--again. I'm not sure I could take it. If I go, I must know beyond all question God wills it.

Brandon and I are against this, God. So if it is Your will, change our minds.

11/30/13

I talked to Mom on the phone this morning. She has been researching. She believes I have a type of "mast cell activation disease." If so, Mayo is the place to go.

After reading several medical articles about the disease, I am almost certain she is correct. While there is no way to be sure without proper testing, it is the only disease we know of which covers all of my symptoms, and indeed, I have almost all of them. It explains not only everything I am experiencing in this moment, but also what I have experienced throughout my life. I am both thrilled to have answers and saddened to discover there is no cure. Mast cell disease is usually managed by a mountain of medication (which I am unwilling to take) and avoidance of triggers (which I am already doing to the best of my ability).

So, what can they do for me at Mayo? I have already proven that I do not tolerate antihistamines or steroids. I see little point in the exercise. Why go if I cannot tolerate treatment? I can change my diet and continue my routine here.

From Jesus Calling: "Talk with Me about whatever is on your mind, seeking my perspective on the situation. Rather than trying to fix everything that comes to your attention, ask Me to show you what is truly important. Remember that you are en route to heaven, and let your problems fade in the Light of eternity."

"I will instruct you and teach you in the way you should go;

I will guide you with My eye." --Psalm 32:8

Lord, I give you my problems. Please show me what is important to You.

12/3/13

I suppose there is no harm in running a couple of preliminary tests locally. As clear as a whisper in my ear, God spoke the name, "Dr.__________," which is interesting because of all the doctors I have seen, he may be my least favorite. Sigh. I will call his office.

12/4/13

"Be humble and pretend to be unintelligent," I was advised prior to today's appointment with Dr. ________, but I had already ruined the appointment before I arrived at the office. I was unaware I was speaking with the nurse when I scheduled the appointment the day before. My words were pretty snarky and sarcastic, which alerted me to something rotten within myself. I said stupid things stupidly. From the moment the nurse attached my face to my name and voice, she was cold. As was Dr.___________. He was obviously warned of me. He probably remembered me, too, which couldn't help.

I took the advice I was given. I was soft spoken. I put my inner Hermione Granger aside, and pretended to be clueless. But he called me out when he grew tired of listening to my long list of symptoms for the second time. "So what would you like me to do? Why are you here?" he asked. Because I had told the nurse which tests I wanted run when I scheduled the appointment, he already knew the answer to the question and was waiting for me to ask. The entire exercise was awkward and unpleasant, and it's all my fault. He softened just a bit at the end of the appointment when I said, "I appreciate all your help," but irrevocable damage has been done by my lack of discretion. The fact that he thinks I'm a hypochondriac doesn't help matters.

However, I have learned something about myself from the experience: I have been deeply hurt, and I blame medical doctors for my pain. But that isn't fair. First of all, no doctor goes about trying to hurt his patients. They may not always know how to help, but they never intentionally do harm. Also, Dr. ____________ tried to run these tests 18 months ago. I apparently refused them though I have no recollection of the term "tryptase" prior to last week, and if I did, I certainly wouldn't have understood the significance then. Doctors are only human. They have all been blinded until now. The doctors did not cause my suffering; God did. God blinded them.

For years, I have blamed doctors for their poor and inadequate treatment when the truth is that God could have turned on a light bulb for any one of them had He wanted to. Therefore, the only logical conclusion is that He didn't want to. He has me on a journey, and the destination is not all about physical healing. It may not be about that at all. He has a purpose in mind, and His purposes are all good whether or not they include diagnosis, treatment and healing. I have to let go of my pain which comes from the anger, defensiveness, and blame I feel toward the medical community, which I now need. Doctors are not my enemy. 

Here I am, Lord. I blame You. I blame You, and I thank you for my pain; not because pain is good, but because You are good and you mean this pain for my good. My pain, my deep hurt, is a mercy because it sends me to You. I acknowledge that you have darkened minds and will shine a light when and where and upon whom You will.

12/7/13

As I was crying moments ago over the life and death of David Brainerd as told in Piper's The Hidden Smile of God, the thought came to me--"How carelessly Brainerd and Jonathan Edwards regarded health." In answer, God replied, "And you hold it altogether too precious." Out of the exchange flowed a liquid revelation. I could only float along--

I must be careful to view my health, whether good or poor, as a tool for God to wield as He desires for His glory. It is better to hold it in mean esteem than to hold it too dear. Souls are at stake. My soul, Brandon's soul, the souls of my children and whoever else God places in the wake of this illness. Eternal souls are far more precious than mortal lives, than my mortal life. I must be careful of idolatry.

12/9/13

I don't know the correct course. Every time I think I know the next several steps to take, I encounter something which holds me back. I am still "The Planner." I want to know what's next and prepare myself, but God is asking me to trust, to wait, to obey. I remind myself my burden is light in comparison to the weight of glory (2 Corinthians 4:17).

12/11/13

Struck with insomnia once again, I spent some dark, quiet moments in prayer tonight before rising out of bed to write. At least insomnia can be useful. I was praying for ____________ and ______________, telling the Lord how hopeless their situations seemed to me. He spoke the word "seemed" back to me with emphasis. Because of Jesus, no situation is truly hopeless. Their is hope in life and in death "because we do not look at the things which are seen but the things which are unseen because the things which are seen are temporary [not real] and the things which are unseen are eternal [true, real] (2 Corinthians 4:18)." So I prayed for them and others and myself that we would all have eternal eyes, that we would know "the hope of [our] calling, the glorious riches of [our] inheritance in the saints and the exceeding greatness of His power toward us who believe (Ephesians 1:18-19)."

12/13/13

My test results all came back negative. All this means is that I am unlikely to have systemic mastocytosis, and I will receive no further help from Dr. _________ unless it's a psychiatric referral. I don't know what to do. A big part of me just wants to drop it, and continue as I am. I feel no inclination to pursue diagnosis or avoid it. I feel totally at peace. I will put this aside until after Hannah's wedding. I must concentrate on being well enough to attend.

________________________________________________________________________________

I was able to attend the wedding with very few complications. Praise the Lord! On Sunday, I wrestled as I rested and recovered. It was not a struggle of fear. I was simply asking as Abraham did in Genesis 15, "Oh Lord God, how shall I know?" I was back and forth on whether to pursue things further, feeling like I should but questioning my motives and weighing the cost.

I found a couple of mast cell disease groups on Facebook, and read several posts. As I read the stories and questions of others, I began to understand the value of a diagnosis. We must understand things in our minds at some level before our hearts can believe them. I needed to know the practical points of having a diagnosis before being convicted of its worth.

1) Without a diagnosis, I can get very little accomplished in the medical community. Running tests and getting at-home care have proven to be a bit of a nightmare. With a diagnosis, the specialists I encounter are less likely to think of me as a nutter and actually work with me.

2) If I ever have an accident or need surgery, I need a diagnosis in my records so the doctors/surgeons will know to be careful with me and be prepared for life threatening situations during and after surgery.

3) If something happens to Brandon and I am unable to work, I need to be able to apply for disability. I must have a diagnosis to do that.

4) Many conditions are genetic. It is important I know what is wrong with me so I can better care for my children. They already share several of my symptoms though theirs are not as severe at this time.

And there are other reasons. Shallow and stupid though it is, I want a name to give people when they ask me what is wrong with me. I don't care they won't understand the name or what it means; I just want to be able to give an explanation in five words or less. Knowing what is wrong will give me better insight in caring for myself. I will likely continue with natural medicine exclusively because antihistamines and steroids have turned on me in the past and because I have found mast cell disease patients who are doing quite well only using natural protocol, but it is never a bad thing to know the treatment options. Also, I have a rabid curiosity that needs to be put down. And I can trust that whatever it is that is wrong with me, whether it's mast cell disease or something else, Mayo will dig until they find it.

It was Monday morning before I officially decided I would pursue diagnosis with Mayo Clinic in Rochester, MN. I also decided I will wait until May. I will have to be away for a minimum of two weeks, so we will need all hands on deck. My mom finishes school in early May. She may actually be my travel companion due to the length of the stay and her background in medical laboratory science. Six months also gives me time to arrange my affairs. If we fly, I will have to arrange a private flight. Driving will require lots of planning. I need to find a suitable place to stay. Hotel rooms do atrocious things to my health. The kids will need looking after. And six months gives God time to redirect us if He wishes.

I have been consistently asking God for clarity, and He gave it to me Monday night. My sweet friend, Caroline, who is much like me in health and beliefs about healing, is also in the middle of a health crisis. In rare form, she visited the ER the other night and was referred to none other than Mayo Clinic in Rochester. She spent the day there today (Tuesday). We often find ourselves on similar wavelengths concerning our health. I was astounded that the day I made my decision, she was referred to the very hospital we have chosen. How very kind of God to confirm my decision in such a clear, personal way!

So you see, on one side of my "cosmic scales" sat a health crisis and all the grief that accompanies it, a big decision, revelation and repentance of hidden sin, and a major family event. On the other was God's exquisite nearness, loving rebuke, clear direction and extravagant goodness. I am still amazed that I am happiest when life gets hard, but that is the reality of life lived with Jesus Christ.

You may be struggling as I am to "get into the Christmas spirit" this year. I haven't been in the mood for festivities. I haven't had much patience for Christmas pop tunes. Give me Christmas worship! Worship is what the heavy-laden spirit needs. I invite you to experience with me the greatest gift of Christmas--Emmanuel, God with us. No matter the brand or weight of your suffering, God sees. He knows. He cares. Little or big. Sickness or grief. Draw near to Him this Christmas season. Rest your head upon His breast. Allow Him to fill your loneliness, provide balm to your wounds and bring joy to your sorrow. Blessed are you if you mourn. You will be comforted. Blessed are you if you hunger. You will be satisfied. (Matthew 5)

"Troubled believer, do not fret over your heavy troubles, for they are the heralds of weighty mercies."
--Charles Spurgeon, Morning by Morning, February 12.

The Cup

During periods of trial, time plays odd games. The days are long though they trip along like merry children. You wonder where and how they went. A season is born and buried while you are living from one breath to the next. You emerge from the rubble of the last windstorm, certain a lifetime has passed since you last saw the sun. Nope. Just a month. You check the calendar to be sure.

The previous four weeks have gone like that. Kind of. The suffering hasn't been life threatening, but it's been real and very hard. I'm not fighting for survival anymore, just the will to survive. I've got breath in my lungs and food in my stomach, but I haven't been able to pin down joy or hope or faith for longer than a single moment at a time.

Difficult circumstances have exposed deeply seated, uncomfortable emotions, which had so long been hiding under the rug I had forgotten all about them. As I tried to cope with a physical setback and the suffering of those I care for, the unwelcome feelings bubbled to the surface, demanding to be dealt with. Emotion became thought, which in turn became need. After some graceless floundering about, need became prayer.

God was acting before I uttered the first plea. He gave me several cues to seek physical support for these powerful feelings. One lovely feature of natural medicine is that it treats the whole person, not just flesh and bone. I talked to Dr. Yakaboski last week about my concerns. At our appointment this week, she performed a Zyto scan. My top five stressors were "afraid," "fear," "pain," "intensity," and "disconnected." I'm not sure I could have better described myself. Using the Zyto machine, she made a water-based homeopathic to treat the specific stressors. After the scan, she performed B.E.S.T. during which she "cleared" what I felt to be the most troubling thoughts and feelings. Relief was immediate. I have felt better physically and emotionally since the treatment, and I continue to take the homeopathic.

In His usual perfect timing, God prompted a friend, who also happens to be my primary physician, to send a lovely care package. The letter, Bible verses and mixed CD of worship music speak far deeper and more poignantly than she knows. As I listen to the music and put the Scripture to memory, I am suddenly Moses so weary from holding up my arms. I cannot let them droop because if I do the battle will be lost, and even though the battle wages only in my own soul, the stakes are higher than I can imagine. My friend is Aaron, holding up my arms when I no longer can. With her help, I have caught my second wind. I remember I am not alone. Oh, how we need one another. Oh, how blessed we are to be part of a family.

The Lord provided me with tangible assistance through my doctors and friends. In His Word, He gave answer. And none too gently. He is not a tame lion, after all.

To my fear of being forgotten, He says, "Are not five sparrows sold for two copper coins? And not one of them is forgotten before God. But the very hairs of your head are all numbered. Do not fear therefore; you are of more value than many sparrows" (Luke 12:6-7). 

To my desire for love from certain people in my life who withhold it, He says, "abide in My love" (John 15:9).

To my loneliness, He says, "When you pass through the waters, I will be with you; and through the rivers, they shall not overflow you. When you walk through the fire, you shall not be burned, nor shall the flame scorch you....Fear not, for I am with you" (Isaiah 43:2,5), and "Be content with such things as you have. For He Himself has said, 'I will never leave you nor forsake you'" (Hebrews 13:15).

To my desperation to be understood He says, "The heart knows its own bitterness, and a stranger does not share its joy" (Proverbs 14:10), and "For we do not have a High Priest who cannot sympathize with our weaknesses, but was in all points tempted as we are, yet without sin" (Hebrews 4:15).

God has shown me this truth--no one can enter into my suffering except for Christ Himself. Likewise, I cannot enter into the suffering of another. I can only be perfectly understood by One. There is a veil which prevents anyone from treading upon the holy ground between Christ and the individual believer. Not even my husband or mother can pass through.

Do you see it? Jesus Christ has audaciously set Himself up to be the answer to all my needs, to every longing of my heart. He never once mentioned the remembrance, affection, company or empathy of another human being, which I suppose is handy since I'm rarely around people above the age of four. But it wasn't the answer I was looking for. And somehow it was more.

Jesus isn't only ready and willing to enter into my suffering. Infinitely more importantly, He is inviting me to enter into His, "to know Him....and the fellowship of His suffering" (Philippians 3:10). He is offering to me His cup--the one He so wanted to pass Him by, the one He drank dry to rescue my soul from deadly self-sufficiency. Dude, I don't want the cup, either! I, too, have asked, begged God to take it away.

And yet I wonder--is there anything more intimate than sharing a cup? I have shared with my parents, my sister, my husband, my best friend, and only sparingly even then. You have to really know and love a person to swap backwash. The thought strikes me--Jesus is the ultimate Father, Brother, Husband, Friend. To know Him and all His names, we must taste the wine of His suffering, bitter though it is.

His love gives me courage. With Him, I say, "Not my will, but Yours." I will drink with the One who snatched me from the jaws of death.

Sharing the cup is not a one time decision; it's a daily one. In the early days of my suffering, I decided that knowing Christ was more important than health, but as time passed and the burden of this all-encompassing illness only grew heavier, I began to desire healing more than the glory of God. Essentially, I became an idolator.

Once upon a time, I may have volunteered to have a little "health scare" or something mildly earth-rending to bring me closer to God. I'm weird like that. But this thing--it has dragged me farther than I ever wanted to go. I never wanted to hurt this badly, lose this much. I never desired my death. And that's what this illness has wrought. I may be breathing, but the woman I once was is no longer with us. I have been absolutely ruined, torn apart. I will never recover.

 This is what the cup does. It kills you.

"Most assuredly, I say to you, unless a grain of wheat falls into the ground and dies, it remains alone; but if it dies, it produces much grain. He who loves his life will lose it, and he who hates his life in this world will keep it for eternal life." John 12:24-25

The One with whom you share the cup brings you back to life.

"Jesus said to her, 'I am the resurrection and the life. He who believes in Me, though he may die, he shall live. And whoever lives and believes in Me shall never die. Do you believe this?'" John 11:25

Below is one of the songs my friend included on the CD. Listen and be blessed:

"Frankly, My Dear, You Have Been Floxed"

When I heard the words, "you have been floxed," spoken by Dr. Jess Armine during Friday afternoon's consult, I did not understand what they meant or even know if they were true. After some detective work, which required a long string of phone calls, I was left with the feeling that the breath had been knocked out of my lungs. Crushed. Bruised. Betrayed by the God I love. I took the kids outside to distract myself so I could gather some control. Only a few steps out my door, I fell to my knees in my sister's gravel driveway sobbing so forcefully I thought I might vomit. My kids saw, but took it in stride. The children of sick mothers are like lion cubs, unaware they are too small and dependent to be so brave.

The last couple of weeks have conditioned my babies into a c'est la vie mindset. On Sunday, May 5, I was exposed to a pesticide that sent me into toxic shock and put me in bed for a week. On Mother's Day, I finally emerged from my sickbed only to quickly return when my children arrived home from church smelling strongly of perfume. I was unable to hold my children at all that day. Eight baths and four days later, I could still smell the perfume at the nap of Sara's neck. For the first time ever, I was forced to wear my mask in my own home. Sara hates my mask.

Mealtime has also been strange and sketchy. Although I have been following gut-healing protocol religiously for over 7 months, my digestive health has been declining rapidly. Old allergies have reemerged. New ones have developed, seemingly for no reason. Since Wednesday, most of my diet has consisted of eggs, rice cereal and boiled squash and broccoli, and no two meals are exactly the same. I may be able to tolerate eggs at breakfast, but that doesn't make them safe for lunch. I now have to muscle test everything before I put it into or onto my body, or risk an anaphylactic reaction that will put me back in bed. Regardless of how gentle the meal, I experience digestive pain after eating. I also grow very lethargic, as if all the resources of my body are expended upon digesting my food. For the last several days, someone (sometimes me) has made a meal for Brandon and the kids. While they are eating, I proceed to muscle test several foods to see what my body will accept. I make my meal, and sit down to eat as the family finishes. Mealtimes have been our main family time until recently, which makes this small upset feel bigger than it is.

With the exception of Tuesday night of last week, I have not been well enough to bathe my children for over two weeks. Everyone misses me bathing the kids, especially me! I love bath time! When bathed by someone other than Brandon or me, they often cry and throw angry tantrums. The night I bathed them, they smiled, played and laughed heartily.

 I asked Micah, "Did you miss Mommy giving you a bath?"

He nodded his sweet, red head.

"What did you miss?" I asked, fishing for a compliment. I was rewarded.

"I miss the way you wash my hair," he said quietly.

My little guy is particular, and he likes that I anticipate his wishes. I warm a towel for him in the dryer. I give him a large washcloth with which he covers his eyes while I pour water over his head, carefully avoiding his eyes and ears. He expects cuddles once he is out of the tub and wrapped in his warm towel, and likes to be dressed in the bathroom with the door closed. Sara likes routine, too, and feels her life is ruined when I am not around to meet her every desire. But they accept their lots and manage, as must everyone who lives under this small roof.

I have been struggling to understand my lot. I was doing everything I knew to do, and I knew a lot. I was eating perfectly. I was making my own hygiene and household products. I was getting sunshine, fresh air and light exercise. I was often upbeat and positive despite my circumstances. I was praying for healing, fully believing it would come. Yet I was getting sicker, which is a terrifying thing. After consults with Sterling Hill (an expert in epigenetics) and Dr. Jess Armine (a methylation specialist), I now understand. Understanding has been soul-rending.

As soon as my DNA results from 23andme arrived, Dr. Yakaboski contacted Sterling, who quickly began translating my results using her fabulous genetic charting system. On Tuesday, she explained the chart and gave me an overview of my results. While Dr. Yakaboski was on vacation, she arranged a consult with Dr. Jess even before the blood work he had requested had been sent off. He was kind enough to agree.

At the beginning of the consult, Dr. Jess was careful to explain that I am not the sum of my genetic abnormalities, which is a relief because I have a ton of them. My DNA may predispose me to certain conditions, but the presence of an abnormal gene does automatically indicate the abnormality is expressing. However, many of my less savory genes are expressing. To make matters worse, I possess combinations of genetic abnormalities that are particularly unhelpful when they are present together. My problems extend beyond what I will discuss in this post, but I will cover the issues we are addressing at the moment.

Dr. Jess is unsure of the order in which my problems began. I am genetically predisposed to have leaky gut syndrome, IgE elevation (allergic response), DAO enzyme deficiency (DAO breaks down histamine), IgA deficiency (contributes to inflammation and slow healing), etc. From what I understand, as my gut continues to leak food molecules and toxins into my blood, my body recognizes these "bad guys" as antigens. Antibodies form to attack the antigens, and memory cells are created. When the same antigen presents again my antibodies remember it, and my reaction worsens, raising histamine levels (which I am unable to break down) and causing anaphylaxsis. My leaky gut has exacerbated my inflammation problem to the point that I am now in an autoimmune state. My body is attacking itself, causing Hashimoto's hypothyroidism and adrenal exhaustion among other problems.

Furthermore, I do not methylate properly. The A1298c mutation Dr. Cave discovered was just the tip of the iceberg. My methylation processes are in sad, sad shape. Methylation is an essential biological process. If the body is not methylating well, the body is not operating well. My body is not metabolizing folate or detoxing properly, contributing to my steady descent. I also have a gene (VDR--Vitamin D Receptor) which will make it difficult to donate methyl groups to my cells, so I'm going to be tricky to treat.....as if my insane allergies and leaky gut make it easy in the first place.

Now for the part that is so very difficult for me to comprehend--My mitochondria (power houses of the cells) are genetically predisposed to dysfunction. They probably have not been working properly for quite some time. In November, I put something in my body that--as Dr. Jess explained--was "equivalent to dropping an A-bomb on my mitochondria." If you have have been following my blog for awhile, you may remember from this post that my doctor in Baton Rouge found the bacteria Pseudomonas aeruginosa imbedded in the lining of my gut. To effectively kill this bacteria, I was prescribed Cipro, an antibiotic from the fluoroquinolone drug family. Due to a genetic predisposition and very bad luck, I am now a victim of fluoroquinolone antibiotic toxicity, meaning my already fragile mitochondria have been devastated. Thus, my body is currently unable to heal. So no matter how perfectly I follow GAPS or a natural lifestyle, without intervention, I cannot get better. 

The severe effects of this toxicity (burning pain, shooting pain, numbness, tingling, dizziness, dyspraxia, insomnia, agitation, anxiety, memory loss, extreme chemical sensitivity, impaired concentration, joint pain, tendon ruptures, nausea, constipation, diarrhea, abdominal pain, vomiting, fatigue, hallucinations, dementia, schizophrenia, muscle deterioration, and weight loss to name a few) are not the most crushing aspect of this diagnosis. Last summer, my family prayed so intensely for healing. We are sure God led us to Dr. Cave in answer to those prayers, which means one of two things--either we do not know our Shepherd's voice or.......this is His doing. I reject the first option. It's unbiblical. I know my Shepherd's voice, and I follow. Within seconds I landed here--God led me to this crucible.

The feeling of cosmic betrayal is very real. I cannot approach the question of "why" without heartbroken tears. With the psalmist, I cry, "My God, My God, why have You forsaken me?" (Psalm 22:1). Never before have I experienced a pain so severe.

Because He is my lifelong Lover and Friend, I went to Him, asking Him why He would let this happen to me. He gave answer thus:

"Be glad and rejoice in My mercy. I have considered your trouble. I have known your soul in adversities. I have not shut you up into the hand of the enemy. I have set your feet in a wide place." (Psalm 31:7-8)

"I have not hidden my face from you, My afflicted one. I have heard your cries." (Psalm 22:24)

"My thoughts are not your thoughts, nor are your ways My ways. For as the heavens are higher than the earth, so are My ways higher than your ways, and my thoughts than your thoughts." (Isaiah 55:8-9)

"Do not worry, my child. No weapon formed against you shall prosper." (Isaiah 54:17)

"I AM for you. Who can be against you? I did not spare My own Son. No good thing will I withhold from you. In all these things, you will be more than a conqueror through My Son's love. You will overcome by the blood of the Lamb." (Romans 8:31, 32, 37, and Revelation 12:11)

"Do not fear. You are Mine. I have brought you to this crucible, but I will not abandon you to it. As you walk through this fire, I will be with you. You will not be burned. I am with you." (Isaiah 43:1-2)

"You are hard pressed on every side, yet not crushed; persecuted, but not forsaken; struck down, but not destroyed. I was crushed, forsaken and destroyed for you." (2 Corinthians 4:8-9)

He will not give me a reason, you see, though I have searched and listened intently. I am only given a promise--I do not walk alone. I would love a little insight, a straight answer, but I know from experience His promise is enough. He always makes good on His Word.

Neither God nor Dr. Jess left me without hope of healing. I have been given three assignments:

1) Attempt to rebuild a digestive mucous layer by eating up to 2 tablespoons of mucilaginous fiber per day, rotating the fibers. These fibers include ground flax seeds, ground chia seeds, ground slippery elm, ground marshmallow root, and okra pepsin. The hope is that rotation will prevent me from forming an allergy to any of them.

2) Find a form of dibencozide (B-12) that can bypass the gut. I found some drops that I will try to take through my nasal cavity. If that doesn't work, there are other (less savory) ways.

3) Research NAD (nicotinamide adenine dinucleotide) therapy, and consider joining a clinical trial offered to floxy patients in which NAD is given intravaneously for 4-6 days. The trial will take place in Springfield, LA. As a trial patient, I would only be responsible for the cost of the drug.

Brandon and I have been researching NAD. I will likely participate in the trial. The NAD should be able to "reboot" my mitochondria with little to no side effects, assuming I will tolerate the IV tubing and treatment environment. I am not looking forward to the challenges the trial will present to my family and me, and the treatment will have to be affordable. However, I do believe that God will make a way if it is right for me.

Fluoroquinolone toxicity is a very serious condition. Some people never recover. Some people lose their minds. Some people die. But I do not believe that will be my story. I definitely need a miracle, and I believe I'm going to get one. I believe I can be healthier than I have ever been, but I'm not putting my hope in clinical trials or doctors (as wonderful and generous as they are) or even healing. I'm putting my hope in Christ. It may seem a crazy move to place my trust in the One who put me in this awful place. But I owe Him everything. There is nothing He could ask that He doesn't deserve. He experienced far worse than the hell I'm in when He was hanging on the cross to make good on my sin. He stayed there though it was within His power to call the whole thing off so that one day I would be safe and whole with Him eternally, when none of this, however long and hard it proves to be, will matter. He has been in my place and worse to save something more important than my body--my soul--so that even if I depart this life under the worst of circumstances, who I really am will not come to an end.

I am not my diagnosis. I am not the sum of my DNA. I am not this sickness. I am something more, something of infinite value, something Jesus Christ gave everything He had to salvage. That is what truly matters. That is what will last. Not this nightmare. And maybe, through these trials, my brave, little cubs may catch a glimpse of their own infinite value, and get a foretaste of the surpassing worth of Jesus Christ. It will all be worth it. And it will all work for good.

PRAYER ANSWERED BY CROSSES

I asked the Lord that I might grow

In faith, in love, and every grace;

Might more of His salvation know,

And seek more earnestly His face.

'Twas He who taught me thus to pray,

And He, I trust, has answered prayer;

But it has been in such a way 

As almost drove me to despair.

I hoped that in some favoured hour,

At once He'd answer my request;

And by His love's constraining power,

Subdue my sins, and give me rest.

Instead of this, He made me feel

The hidden evils of my heart,

And let the angry powers of hell

Assault my soul in every part.

Yea, more with His own hand He seemed

Intent to aggravate my woe;

Crossed all the fair designs I schemed,

Blasted my gourds, and laid me low.

"Lord, why is this?" I trembling cried;

"Wilt Thou pursue Thy worm to death?"

"Tis in this way," the Lord replied,

"I answer prayer for grace and faith."

"These inward trials I employ

From self and pride to set thee free;

And break thy schemes of earthly joy,

That thou mayst seek thy all in Me."

--John Newton

(1725-1807)

Disclaimer: I do not hold Dr. Cave responsible for the damaging effects of fluoroquinolone antibiotic toxicity. She simply did what she knew to do. Fluoroquinolone drugs are prescribed widely throughout the world, and there is no way to predict when or to whom this toxicity may occur.

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.

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.

The Top Five Reasons I Love Being Sick

No, I have not become a masochist.

In most ways, I loathe being sick. I despise pain, discomforts, social alienation, fatigue, and dietary restrictions, but my sickness is so much more than the sum of my symptoms. I have been thrust into an alien world. Now that I am no longer suffocating in an atmosphere my fragile lungs are not accustomed to, I find that I don't mind this strange, sometimes desolate planet so much. In fact, I can find things that I truly like about it. While I will never stop looking for a way to get back home, I have found a way to be happy here. Much of my happiness comes from this little list of blessings I could have only received in a place of long-term suffering:

1) The People

The book, Embracing Obscurity, mentions a "secret society" of sufferers. Initiation is hell, but there is a hidden sweetness to be found in all the bitterness of membership. In my earliest days of suffering, this community enveloped me as if I had been there forever. These people know. They understand. They have held me up. They always know exactly what to say and not say. It is comforting to look into an eye and find the same altered light I feel in my own, to hear another voice with inflections of pain and peace trying to find the right balance. The people here have taught me how to give comfort and receive it, the latter actually being the harder of the two. There is much more to learn. In most of the cases I have encountered, the people of the Suffering Planet grieve with those who grieve and rejoice with those who overcome, a rare, precious commodity these days. Sufferers, who are usually social outcasts, have become some of my favorite people. I am proud to be counted among them.

Without being sick, this kind of sick, I never would have met my fabulous team of natural/integrative doctors--Dr. Stephanie Cave, Dr. Melisa Kuehn, and Dr. Carolyne Yakaboski--because I would still think alternative medicine is all very "woo-woo!"I adore each one, but my favorite (and I can write this because none of them read my blog) is my local Natural Doctor, Dr. Yakaboski. Each doctor has her own pool of knowledge, making each one valuable and necessary to me. What is special about Dr. Yakaboski is that she sees me regularly, listens carefully to me and is taking time to learn about my peculiarities. I'm not saying that I'm the reason she is taking a class on genetic mutations, but I know my case at least offered her a nudge. And I'm beginning to think the information she is currently learning is the key to my healing.

While my illness has created distance in most of my longer-established friendships (not because of any person's fault--that is just what chronic illness does), I have made new friendships, none of which would exist without this illness. Some of them like Jenny, Caroline and Jennifer are or have been sick themselves. Oddly, not one of these ladies lives close by. Others like Emily Wheat and Emilea Talton, God just ushered in to help me along.

2) Personal Growth

When I married 8 1/2 years ago, I was a terrible cook who had never shown much interest in the kitchen. I could scramble eggs, make awesome cinnamon toast and kill perfectly decent food on the George Foreman grill. (If you own this appliance, please do your part to stop the murder of innocent food. Divorce George. Fat is your friend.) While mistakes occasionally still happen, I consistently deliver a good meal made from scratch night after night, and most of the recipes are Melissa Keaster originals. When you can't eat out and people can't cook for you, your only choice is to cook or starve. Thereby, I get lots of practice, and practice has made me quite competent. I'm even tweaking an original "real food" cookie bar recipe.

 I get a huge kick out of making a pretty wide range of yummy food for my family. I am proud of the accomplishment that was born out of very real struggle. It is hard work--both the planning and the preparing! Cooking a different meal every night without a repeat over the course of the week using only 30ish foods while battling pain and fatigue is a real challenge! I suppose it's a good thing that I've always liked challenges.


In addition to learning to cook, I have learned to nourish. Many of my preconceived ideas about health food have been shattered, and I am watching my family benefit from what I have learned. I have discovered that I love feeding people good food. Right now, I have a very real ministry of feeding three eaters in addition to myself, but I dream of a quiet, thriving ministry of feeding and visiting sick people and shut-ins once I am well.

3) Helping Others

I have learned so much information since losing my health. I have an infinite amount more to learn, but I am helping family, friends and strangers alike with the little I already know. I have shown several people how to muscle test for allergies to foods before trying them. If my friends want a natural remedy for some kind of ailment, I either know the remedy or know how to find it. Brandon, the kids and other friends and family who haven't minded being my guinea pigs have benefited from BioSet treatments.

Mostly, I am thankful that I am able to help my immediate people. Brandon has Crohn's disease. While he complains of his weight loss from time to time, he looks great and feels even better. My children both struggle with my genetic mutation and Gut and Psychology Syndrome. I will even go as far as to say that I think I am going to save Sara from becoming autistic. Some of you may think I'm talking crazy, but I have been doing lots of reading and have personally witnessed or experienced the truth of the information. I love that I am in the unique position to see that my kids are sick and need my help while they are still young. Soon, I will be healthy enough to put the necessary energy into getting them better. What an undeniable gift!

4) Spiritual Growth

I have learned to view this new life as a grand adventure. I may rarely leave my home, but no two days are the same. Each one begins brimming with promise. I never know who will walk through my door, who will call, who I will meet, what my children and husband will need, or what God will speak to me on any given day.

I am finally learning a little about the ministry of intercessory prayer. It is truly a labor of the soul. As Christians, we are nourished by the Word of God and we sweat by the work of prayer. Sometimes, this ministry is painful for me because my suffering has made me more compassionate. Friend, if you share a burden of your soul with me, know that I feel a little of its weight. If something has wounded you, I bleed a little, too. I feel your injustice almost as if it were my own. Tears for your sorrow stain the side of my bed. I have been asking the Lord to teach me how to pray for years. It is harder than I had anticipated, but it is work worth doing.

I see people. I am finally looking others in the eye, observing either light or shadow. I want to know hearts. I have time for souls. I want to know how I can meet the needs of body, soul and spirit. This is especially true for my immediate people--Brandon, Micah and Sara. They are my focus now, as it should be.

The most important lesson I'm learning is contentment. Contentment is a difficult and victorious classroom. I can be happy when I'm hungry, when I'm tired, when I hurt, when I'm lonely, when I'm sick, when I'm scared and when my feelings have been hurt if I look to God for joy. I don't do this perfectly or anywhere close, but I am learning. If I live to old age, I hope to say with the Apostle Paul, "I have learned to be content in all things."

5) GOD

Spurgeon's Morning by Morning reads thus on February 12--

"Here is a blessed proportion. The Ruler of providence bears a pair of scales--in this side He puts His people's trials, and in that He puts their consolations. When the scale of trial is nearly empty, you will always find the scale of consolation in nearly the same condition. When the scale of trial is full, you will find the scale of consolation just as heavy. When the black clouds gather most, the light is more brightly revealed to us....Another reason why we are often most happy in our troubles is this--then we have the closest dealings with God. When the purse is bursting with gold, we try to do without so much prayer. But take our food away, and we want our God.....Troubled believer, do not fret over your heavy troubles, for they are the heralds of weighty mercies." [2 Corinthians 1:5]

Upon the stillness of my sickbed, I have often heard the voice of God. I feel His embrace when I ache. I know what the shadow of His wings is like. The sweetness there is so intense that sometimes I feel that I don't want to get well because I want to stay there forever. I have to shake myself, pry myself away, reminding myself that He is not calling me to enter into His rest just yet. I have to toil a little longer, and there is much joy to be found in my toil.

 More than anything, I love the nearness of Christ in my suffering. If you do not know Him today, Fellow or Future Sufferer, I hope you will. As John Piper writes at the end of His poem, "Job"--"Unkindly has He kindly shown me God." The price has been high, but seeing God is everything to me. It is the treasure for which I would sell everything I possess. Take my health, and give me Jesus!

I am certain that healing is in God's plan for me. He has told me over and over that I will get well. Currently, some of my symptoms are getting worse. Some days I feel that I am making a downward turn. But I trust His word to me. I believe Him. I will continue to believe Him if I temporarily take a turn for the worse. And I will never resent this place I'm in. I hate it, but I love it. Because God is with me, it is a fine place to be.

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!"

Of Januarys and Whale Bellies

I hate January. My mother does, too, which would not be of note except for the fact that she was born in January. Upon our last meeting, mom and I decided that January, August and September are the stepsisters of the twelve month family, and January is unquestioningly the ugliest of the three. Poor January.

We have good reason to hate her though. Every year she heralds some kind of grief or hardship. To recap the last couple of years:

In 2011, I encountered teff flour, which was a major catalyst for the downward spiral of my health. I repeated the mistake of allowing this toxic (for me) substance in my body, and quickly thereafter was sick with a horrible stomach virus which was immediately followed by the flu.....all in January.

Last year, Sara was diagnosed with RSV on January 6. Days later, I became alarmingly allergic to sulfa/sulfur products, and almost died several times over the course of a few days.

January 2013 hasn't been particularly kind either. So far, I have suffered the worst burn of my life (the pain of which could easily be compared to the pain of natural childbirth), the death of my great aunt of whom I was very fond (also on January 6....what is up with this day?), a constantly sick infant, a troublesome little virus of my own and hard news concerning Jenny. And January is only halfway over. Sigh.

Also in January, there is always the depression. I would call it a battle, but it's more like a siren song.  Every year, the fanged wind sings its melancholy ballad, I am lulled into a sleepy stupor, and the grey drear swallows me whole before I know what is happening. Fortunately for me, I have learned something from experience which makes being eaten a great deal less frightening this January as opposed to last--God goes with me even to the belly of the whale.

Have you given much thought to the belly of the whale? Most people equate the whale with judgement. I have heard many times that having depression means that there is something wrong with me....that I have sinned somehow and my depression is my just deserts. This explanation is incongruent with what I know of scripture.....not to mention harsh.

David, a man after God's own heart, struggled with depression. The proof is in the psalms. I can't imagine Paul escaping its nasty clutches while under house arrest any more than I can imagine sweet Mary living completely untouched by the contempt and rejection of her friends and family when they discovered her pregnancy. And then there's Jesus--the perfect Man--who perspired blood in the garden and utterly despaired on the cross. I don't understand the why and how of depression, but the examples of the Bible and the Spirit inside of me agree on this--depression is not judgement. And truly, it reminds me a great deal of the fish which swallowed Jonah.

When Jonah was tossed from the boat into the waters of the deep, he was set to drown. As in the days of Noah, the water was the judgement. The fish was something else....something akin to mercy. The fish saved Jonah's life. I'm sure it was a dark, cold, miserable place to make camp for three days. I'm certain Jonah hated his accommodations, but the Lord had not given Jonah over to death (Psalm 118:18), which could only mean that He had plans other than judgement. In his slimy, smelly abode, Jonah waited--waiting was all he could possibly do--and in the waiting, God worked a miracle in Jonah's heart. When he was vomited onto dry land, he was no longer running from God in terror. He was walking determinedly toward Him.

January....depression....the fish--these all represent places you would never chose to sleep overnight. We human beings rush and run and do and sweat and are never still. We are ever anxious for the next event, achievement or pleasure. We crave light and merriment and frivolity and vanity upon vanity. I don't mean this as criticism. It is simply who we are. But Januarys and fish bellies are good for the soul in the same way that brussel sprouts and fermented cod liver oil are good for the body.

January lasts 31 days for most people. My January has stretched over seven months now. Much like Jonah, I despaired when I was first eaten, feeling like God had delivered me to a fate worse than death. (Hunger and physical misery are formidable foes.) But as it happened for Jonah during his three day January, something has changed inside of me while I have sat in the dark of a fish's insides.

One thing that has changed is that I have become more teachable. The Fish Belly Hotel doesn't offer room service, and eventually one becomes ravenous. I am hungry for even the hardest lessons of God. The most recent hard lesson has been that of "embracing obscurity." God has been working humility into my heart for awhile now. (You may remember my post about the death of Supermom.) In the first few days of this January, I released the dream of writing my novel to the Lord. It wasn't easy. I feel very real grief in my heart because dreams die violent deaths, you know. It hurts to say goodbye to something I have wanted to do so badly for so long.

On the other hand, I'm not saying I'll never write at all. Giving up the dream to write my novel had more to do with me giving up the desire to be known for something than giving up the act of writing a book. For the moment, God is calling me to find all of my significance in Him. He wants to show me how cooking meals, washing plates, changing diapers and raising children are dignified endeavors when I offer everything I do "as unto the Lord." He wants me to do small things that no one else sees, appreciates or respects because He is posturing my heart to live for an Audience of One. Furthermore, He wants me to give up "The Joseph Principle," which is the popular belief that God leads us into suffering to prepare us for bigger and better things. While that certainly happens for some people, "sometimes suffering only leads to our greater obscurity but God's greater glory.....God more often allows us to suffer to refine our own hearts....than to prepare us for 'greatness'.....Embracing obscurity allows us to relinquish our dreams for and to Him--to His timing and His ways. We prefer Him to the dream." (Embracing Obscurity, pp. 117-119)

He is also working love for people into my heart. Last June, the Lord showed me that I did not really love people which is essentially the same as not really loving Him (1 John 4:7-11). Because He knows I am unable to venture out much, He has brought opportunities to love others to my doorstep. I have been allowed to feel the sting of rejection, judgement, rudeness, purposeful misunderstanding, disrespect, and thoughtlessness, and have been expected to forgive and love the ones who have inflicted the pain. Forgiveness--real forgiveness (as opposed to fake forgiveness which is simply sweeping the wrong under the rug hoping and trying to forget about it)--is impossible. It is absolutely impossible to confront the wrong and the pain of the wrong and love that person anyway without the Lord's help. Forgiveness requires dependence, a class which always has an available seat at the University of January.

And then there is the lesson of waiting. I have known for awhile now that I have no idea how to "wait upon the Lord." I have asked saints wizened by age and long life lived with the Lord what it means to wait spiritually. Not one was able to give me a satisfying answer. There is no "Waiting for Dummies" offered at Barnes & Noble, and there is no "How To Wait Upon The Lord in Three Easy Steps" tutorial on Youtube. The only way one can learn to wait upon the Lord is to....well, wait upon the Lord.

I can't describe what I'm doing or how I'm doing it. It isn't simplistic at all. It is mysterious. It is something that God is working in me, not something I am working for God. But I can tell you that waiting is mostly quiet and still. It is working through the same mundane tasks every day, going nowhere, being nothing but in every way exposing yourself to the Lord as fully as a virgin bride to her new groom. It isn't safe. It isn't comfortable. But somehow it's so very right. Sometimes, it is simply enjoying the Lord for Himself and for no other reason. Sometimes, it is crying into His bosom because it's all too much and it hurts too badly. Sometimes, it is lying expectant and breathless, knowing you are on the cusp of something truly magnificent but realizing you aren't there yet. And it is knowing and accepting that the magnificence may be for your eyes only.

 "In waiting, we enter into the cosmic patience of God. At least in part. We begin picking up the deep rhythms of the Spirit, the heartbeat of God. We begin thinking in terms of years and decades rather than minutes and hours.....God's ways are like the rain and the snow that come down disappearing into the earth. No rush. No fanfare. No manipulation. Then when the time is right, up comes the life, 'giving seed to the sower and bread to the eater' (Isaiah 55:10). That is God's way." ("Waiting," Richard J. Foster, Heart to Heart, November 2007).

January is about as fun for me as a three night stay in the digestive tract of a gigantic fish was for Jonah. While I may always hate January, I know that good things happen in January.

Some of my favorite people were born in January, my mom being one of them.
I began a relationship with Brandon in January.
I was delivered from a lifelong sin last January.
I have learned to love Jesus more deeply every January I have been alive.

And I would not give up all the dismal January days I have suffered even if I could because it has given me the following gift--

"Life from the Center is a life of unhurried peace and power. It is simple. It is serene. It is amazing. It is triumphant. It is radiant. It takes no time, but it occupies all our time. And it makes our life programs new and overcoming. We need not get frantic. He is at the Helm. And when our little day is done we lie down quietly in peace, for all is well."--Thomas Kelly, A Testament of Devotion

I don't write this post only to give assurance that I am happy under hard circumstances. I offer this post to you in the hope that if you are living in January (or a whale belly), that the discomfort is well worth the reward. And if you have yet to find yourself in a whale belly (or in mid-January), I hope you will not be too dismayed when you find yourself there. Jesus resides with and within us whether we find ourselves at the gates of Heaven or make our beds in Hell. And truly, He is all we need (Psalm 139:8).

Hope in the Midst of Suffering

Awhile back, a dear friend asked me why I would choose to faithfully serve a God who has allowed bad things to happen to me. One could rephrase the question this way--"Why do you choose to serve a God who claims to be all-powerful, loving and good when He has allowed you to suffer so much?" My friend is an atheist. She is intelligent and kind, and she would not have asked this question flippantly or with ill intent. She truly wanted to know. Instinctively, she knew that I had wrestled with the hard questions which suffering brings into the life of a person of faith, and she wanted to know what I had discovered. I felt she deserved a thorough and heartfelt response, a response I would give to anyone whom I love and respect. I doubt very much that my answer satisfied her because the answers we are given to these questions are never satisfying.

Recent events have me revisiting these questions. Why must Jenny suffer the horrors of Stage 4 cancer in the prime of her life, just as she was given everything she had dreamed of and hoped for? Why have things been so hard for my immediate and extended family lately? Why can't a single compartment of my life or the life of my husband go untouched by hardship? Why were 20 children and 6 adults mercilessly slaughtered right before Christmas? It all seems so preventable, so unnecessary.....

Timothy Keller places these questions and those like them under the umbrella of the "Questions of Suffering." I have extensively read and listened to his thoughts concerning these difficult questions. His insight has profoundly shaped my own, which will be obvious if you are familiar with his teaching. I am going to share with you what I wrote in response to my friend's question. I'm going to share this with you now because if you are like me, grieving and suffering in a myriad of different ways this holiday season, you need to be reminded that our existence yet contains the hope of joy because of Christmas and that the birth of Christ is something worth celebrating even if our hearts are not merry.

I wrote most of the following on August 15, 2012. I have edited a bit in order to clarify my thoughts and speak to recent events:

"[Friend], your question is not unique. I recently read somewhere that according to a nationwide survey, the issue of suffering is the number ONE reason many people reject Christianity. I am going to be very honest with you—you won’t be completely satisfied with my answer because I have not found the answer to why there is suffering ANYWHERE in the Bible. And I’ve looked! All we know is that the Bible tells us that once the world was perfect, but man chose to disobey God. Since that choice, evil, sin and suffering has been a part of the world in which we live, and these things are the result of our brokenness, sinful natures and the destructive schemes of Satan, the anti-God.

The best answer I have found to the “why” of suffering is located in Isaiah 55—“’For My thoughts are not your thoughts, nor are your ways My ways,’ says the Lord. ‘For as the heavens are higher than the earth, so are My ways higher than your ways, and My thoughts than your thoughts.’” That’s not very satisfying, is it? 

For a moment, let’s pretend that the issue is a philosophical one. The problem so many people have generally boils down to this—“The presence of evil and suffering in the world must mean that God cannot be simultaneously all powerful and all good because if He can’t stop the evil, He isn’t all powerful, and if He can stop the evil and doesn’t, He can’t be all good.” This problem turns countless people away, people who have never believed and people who at one time said they did. But turning away from God doesn’t help anyone with the issue of evil and suffering because if one turns away from God how does one define suffering?

 Evil and suffering must be defined by some absolute moral code or who is to say "_____ is evil" or "____ is suffering"? If there is no God, there is no divine law. Nature rules, and we all know that nature rules by violence. So if there is no God, who is to say that violence is wrong? And if there is no God, who is to say that suffering is not natural? If there is no God, we are slaves to evolution, which means that the weak have to die so the strong can live and carry on. Suffering should and would still happen if there was no God. If there is no God, there are no moral absolutes, so “right” and “wrong” are just feelings, and who is to say that one person’s feelings about morality are more valid than those of another? So, while I have no real answer for why I am suffering, I realize that disbelief and anger get me nowhere.

I know you didn’t ask, but I want you to know how I get through my suffering with happiness and hope. We are friends, and I love you. It would be wrong to cut short my response at a philosophical level because the real issue you have isn’t one of philosophy, but one of faith. I don’t mean that in a condemning or condescending way at all. I hope you read this feeling the compassion and empathy I’m trying to communicate. 

I’ve been studying 1 Peter in the Bible, which could be otherwise titled, “Suffering for Dummies.” This dummy (me) has learned a lot from this letter to the suffering, Roman church. I’m going to quote a passage from Chapter 1 not because I’m trying to preach or whop you over the head with a Bible, but because God’s words have power that mine do not. Also, they have been my lifeline, so you can’t understand my attitude about my illness unless you know the source of my hope--

“Blessed be the God and Father of our Lord Jesus Christ, who according to His abundant mercy has begotten us again to a LIVING HOPE through the resurrection of Jesus Christ from the dead, to an inheritance incorruptible and undefiled and that does not fade away, reserved in heaven for you who are kept by the power of God through faith for a salvation ready to be revealed in the last time. In this you greatly rejoice, though now for a little while, if need be, you have been grieved by various trials, that the genuineness of your faith, being much more precious than gold that perishes, though it is tested by fire, may be found to praise, honor, and glory at the revelation of Jesus Christ, whom having not seen, you love. Though now you do not see Him, yet believing, you rejoice with joy inexpressible and full of glory, receiving the goal of your faith—the salvation of your souls.”--1 Peter 1:3-9

In this passage, Peter likens suffering (trials) to a fire. I will give evidence of God’s goodness in a moment, but for now, I will tell you that God’s wrath (God is wrathful because He is just and righteous, and justice and righteousness can’t allow evil and suffering to go unpunished) is also likened to a fire, and it is the ultimate fire. No fire I will ever face [even the soul-burning fire of losing a child to a mass murderer] will be as great as the fire of God’s wrath. I include that tidbit because there is One who faced that fire. Christianity is the only religion in the world that boasts of a deity becoming a man in order to die for His subjects. Jesus willingly left Heaven, giving up His God-ness and all of the privileges thereof, knowing better than any human that ever lived what the fire of God’s wrath is like, and He PLUNGED Himself into that fire so that He could end evil and salvage us. The fact that He did that does not give me the answer to why there is suffering in the world, but it DOES tell me what the answer ISN’T. It isn’t that He does not care! 

 I firmly believe that my suffering is personal to Jesus because He felt everything on the cross that I am feeling now . . . . only much more profoundly. He was cast into utter darkness so that I could live in light. My mind is so blown by that! Though it is old knowledge, it rips my heart to shreds every time I think of it. I cannot think about the cross without tears. Jesus went to the greatest lengths imaginable to keep His promise He made in Isaiah 43—“Fear not for I have redeemed you; I have called you by your name, You are Mine. When you pass through the waters, I will be with you; and through the rivers, they shall not overflow you. When you walk through the fire, you shall not be burned, nor shall the flame scorch you . . . . . Fear not, for I am with you.”

In addition to the blazing emblem of God's love--the cross--1 Peter 1 tells me that I have this “living hope” thing to which I can look when all seems lost. I believe that because the living hope is “through the resurrection” of Jesus that I can bank on that hope being more than just some spiritual, ethereal Band-aid that will somehow make me feel better about my suffering. No. I believe it is going to be a restoration of everything I’ve lost—my health, my dreams, my happiness, and every cent I’ve given away believing that I am indeed laying up my treasure in Heaven. It’s going to be this life, this world made right! 1 Peter 5:10 says, “And after you have suffered a little while, the God of all grace, who has called you to his eternal glory in Christ, will Himself RESTORE, confirm, strengthen and establish you.” (If everybody in the house wasn’t asleep right now, I would shout!)

I believe that everyone has to have a “living hope” to get through suffering without being ruined. So, I wonder, what was Jesus’ living hope? What did He NOT have in Heaven?  What could possibly make the ultimate suffering worth it for Him?

 It’s us. WE are His living hope. And knowing that I am His living hope, makes Him mine!

But none of that is philosophical. That’s faith. It boils down to Jesus, “whom having not seen [I] love. Though now [I] do not see Him, yet believing, [I] rejoice with joy inexpressible and full of glory, receiving the end of [my] faith—the salvation of [my soul.]”   

God has given me the gift of faith, and I have accepted His lordship over my life. The Guy who jumped into the hottest fire in existence to save me is worthy of my submission. Once that decision is firmly made, the “problem” of suffering isn’t really a problem anymore. You asked specifically about Job. I will quote from a poem written about Job by John Piper. It is a sentiment to which I deeply relate—“Unkindly has He kindly shown me God.” 

The reason suffering isn’t a problem for me anymore is that I want to see God more than I want to live a life of ease, happiness or comfort. And the truly amazing thing about God is that He ALWAYS shows up in suffering." 

End entry.

This Christmas season, more than any other, I am thankful to serve a God who is "a Man of sorrows and well acquainted with grief." We need the suffering Savior this year. I need the suffering Savior this year. May we all find our solace in Him during this difficult Christmas season.

And if anyone from Newton, Connecticut happens upon my humble blog, I want you to know that I am crying real tears with you, my soul hurts with yours and I am lifting you before my great and awesome God, who will hold you in His very arms if only you will let Him. Grace and peace be with you.