The Island: The Return

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

 Baby faces.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

After a momentary lapse of cognition, I flipped.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Weston and Sara ready to go "motor speed."

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

Then it was a race to get to the beach.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Kurt also took B fishing again...

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

The kids enjoyed the local wildlife. 

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

 Check out that green ray!

But nothing could beat the company.

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

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

Kudos to Danielle and Ryan who somehow keep him fed.

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

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

Wow...just wow. 

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

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

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

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

A Legacy of Grace

Mother's Day is almost here. I've been gratefully thinking of my mother and wondering what kind of mother my children will remember when they are grown. It won't be Supermom. She died long ago. I no longer measure my worth by perfect birthday parties, trips to the zoo, little league, and ballet classes. (Not that I think there is anything wrong with these things. I just can't do them due to my health. If I could, I would!) I don't beat myself up over dirty bathrooms or piled high laundry. I know I don't have to follow the latest Pinterest trends to be a good mother. But last night as I lay wide-eyed in the dark listening to swirling wind and pelting rain batter our little tin roof, I wondered what legacy I am creating for my kids. What impression are my words and actions leaving upon the little souls I care for?

Though I'm glad I have learned not to hold myself to an impossible standard, I know I sometimes allow my illness to excuse bad behavior. I'm ashamed to admit it, but deep down I justify my sharp tone, exasperated sigh, and angry body language with the pain turning my stomach inside out and the fatigue transforming me into a useless rag doll. Extenuating circumstances permit me to withhold empathy from the small boy who late at night cries real tears over real fears which seem ridiculous to me, right?

Wrong. 

My illness does not entitle me to any free passes. I have one shot to make the most of this parenting thing. Disease has stolen so much from me. I cannot play the victim, and allow it to thieve away my best opportunity to make the love of God tangible to my precious ones.

But there is this very real problem of being a sinner. Trial is a wine press--it squeezes and applies pressure until juice is extracted from the fruit. What is inside is what comes out. I exude sin because I am full of sin, full of self. Despite my best efforts, I am unable to live up to even my reduced standards of "good motherhood." I will inevitably fail to be the woman I want to be.

It was with these thoughts anxiety began to use my insides as percussion instruments, almost drowning out the sound of the rain. I remembered how I had endlessly chided Sara for picking the pretty purple flower out of the butterfly garden with a disgusted tremble. I shuddered as I recalled my impatience with the kids as they noisily dragged up chairs to our too-small counter in our too-small kitchen, crowding me out of my workspace, asking to "help," which may be the most exhausting request of all. I saw in my mind's eye two sets of sweet brown eyes filled with confusion and hurt, and had a wild thought--I'm failing! I am ruining my children!

I suddenly realized I was trying on that old cape I thought I had put away two years ago. Supermom may be dead, but the woman left behind is still trying to save herself. She still believes her performance will determine how her kids turn out. Gently, tenderly, Truth sidled up beside her, and whispered to her in the dark--

Micah and Sara don't need another savior. They already have One.
They don't need a perfect mother. They need a penitent one.
They don't need to witness unflinching strength. They need to behold God's glory in human weakness.
They don't need a hero. They need a damsel running again and again to the ultimate Hero with all her inadequacies, failures, and sin.
They need "I'm sorry," "Please forgive me," "Mommy was wrong," and "This is why Jesus had to die--for mommies like me."
Micah and Sara need grace.

Grace doesn't give me permission to be the biggest brat in the house (Romans 6). Rather, it gives me the grit to keep aiming for God's smile in the face of failure. It assures me that He is somehow working good in, through, and in spite of my brokenness. He does that, you know.

Grace holds the balance--I can neither parent so poorly I ensure the destruction of my children nor perform so well that I ensure their success. Grace both covers my failures, and puts me in my place. It supplies a welcoming smile on my tired face when baby birds chirp--"Help! Help! Wanna help!" It provides binding when sharp eyes and words wound tender souls. It silences the broken record-like reproach, and finds a glass jar in which to showcase a purple flower freshly-picked by tiny, well-meaning fists. It calms the fears of a sick mother in the night, inspiring her to rise, lean on fresh mercies, and try again. It fills her with the Sweet Spirit who enables her to love in the little things until the little things make well-worn trails through the little ones' hearts, leading them home to Grace Personified.

The mom who burns her cape is the bravest mom of all. This mom courageously admits her limits, and waits with expectation upon the Lord to perform what she cannot. She plants the seed and pleads for it to be given growth. She knows how weak she is, and trusts in the infinite power of her God. She is a mother on her knees because she knows without her Savior neither she nor her little ones can stand. She knows God is after her dependence, not her capabilities.

I am not the mother the holiday cards talk about. I am the mother who yells and fails and falls flat on her face. But from the ground I call out to my God. My kids hear it. They see it. They drink of the wine pressed out by trial--fermented, aged, entirely transformed by glorious, glorious grace.

Grace, grace, God's grace......

Feet quick to run to Jesus and an extravagant expenditure of grace. This is my legacy. And I'm okay with that.

 

Happy Mother's Day! 

I have a cape to burn.

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.

A Year of Wait, A Year of Peace

 "When Heaven is going to give a great responsibility to someone, it first makes his mind endure suffering. It makes his sinews and bones experience toil, and his body suffer hunger. It inflicts him with poverty and knocks down everything he tries to build. In this way Heaven stimulates his mind, stabilizes his temper, and develops his weak points." 

 --The Book of Mencius (Chinese, 300 BC)

quoted in Timothy Keller's Walking with God through Pain and Suffering

January is always hard for me. I've tried to like this lackluster, step cousin of a month all my life, and just can't quite manage it. I think I shall give up the endeavor entirely, and attempt to peacefully coexist with the grey, cold, hard month of January, accepting her just as she is because she has much to teach me.

As the first month of the year, January offers an opportunity to reflect upon the year now gone and the new one to come. For the last three years, I have kept a regular journal which I like to review as a part of my new year contemplations. Upon the pages recorded in 2013, I find assurance of God's faithfulness, a reminder that January passes and clear evidence of quiet, mysterious growth over time. I rediscover surprises--both good and bad--and find how wrong my guesses concerning the future often are. The latter discovery has so humbled me, in fact, that I have resolved to make no resolutions this year, for a staggering amount of my good intentions and serious efforts crumble to dust. No worries though--dust has its place. And I do not have to dig deep to discover treasures hidden in the rubble.


1) Mom's jubilee birthday celebration. Though jubilee often manifested itself in perplexing ways, I don't think a one of us would fail to recognize its presence in 2013.

2) Brandon's personal and spiritual growth. A stronger marriage for the struggle. I so respect and admire this man.

3) God planted in my heart a desire to adopt. I expect a significant passage of time before this desire comes to fruition, but I am excited and expectant.

4) My Papaw, Jenny and myself looked death in the eye (almost simultaneously), and were granted more time.

5) Jubilee's first summer garden. I consider that first garden to be the miracle prayed for on my behalf on the 8th of June.

 

6) New friends. Meetings and reconnections with old friends.

7) The time spent in my parents' home this summer. A renewed closeness with each of my parents.

8) The inception of the novel I am writing.
 
 9) Jenny's wedding.

10) Richard Morrison becoming a part of our lives through his marriage to Hannah. This man is a blessing to us all. We are thrilled to have him in the family. P.S. The wedding was beautiful, and I was able to attend.

All wedding photos taken by Jolly Tucker Photography.

11) Growth in the children: Micah has overcome fear and awkwardness. Therapy has helped him become who he really is--outgoing, friendly, hilarious and unafraid. He is learning with every question he asks, and like any four year old, he asks a ton! Best of all, I see the seeds of the gospel taking root in his little soul, and it thrills this mama to no end.

 

Sara has responded well to changes in her diet. Her cognitive development and emotional control have improved tremendously. I thought she might be a slower learner than Micah, but it turns out that I was wrong. Now that the allergy-induced brain fog has cleared, she is incredibly observant, soaks in information like a sponge and makes impressive connections between concepts, events and persons.

 

It comforts my sore heart to know they are blossoming in spite of the limitations my illness creates. (Thanks to the family members who help me water my little flowers.)
 

12) My own growth. I don't say this with any pride in myself for I know the achievement belongs to the Lord alone, but I am a better person for living through 2013--January and all. I know and love my Jesus better, and that one fact makes me better in every way a person can be better. There are many "miles to go before I sleep," but growth is the thing.

The lesson of 2013 was "wait." I asked the Lord to show me what it means to wait upon Him years ago, and He answered. Not as gently as I had in mind, but He answered. Though I am still very much in a waiting period and still learning to wait well, God has revealed that 2014 has a new theme--"peace." Peace in knowing what is wrong with me and understanding my prognosis, peace in not knowing the future. Peace in fear, peace in loss, peace in heartbreak, peace in grief. Peace, peace, peace. Pure, perfect peace transcending all we comprehend of life and death.

While I have resolved not to make resolutions (as it seems I am powerless to make anything happen regardless of the strength of my will), I have in mind a collection of challenges for myself. Some matter more than others. God is my peace in success or failure.

2014 Challenges:

1) Know Christ more fully.
2) Seek diagnosis and greater understanding of my disease at Mayo Clinic in May.
3) Potty train my girl.
4) Send my boy to school. Those of you who know me know I wanted to homeschool my children before I had children. However, I believe that for homeschool to be successful, a mother must be able to get her children out of the home regularly for cooperative learning and socialization experiences. I am unable to do that, so I believe it is in Micah's best interests to attend school. Thankfully, we have found a school which matches our educational philosophy and goals.
5) Love my family and friends in creative and meaningful ways; freely accept the love they are able to give; forgive disbelief and misunderstanding.
6) Be "joyful in hope, patient under trial and faithful in prayer."
7) Work on the novel.
8) Read more; Facebook less.
9) Stop trying to predict or control the future.
10) Dance during hard moments. Literally--dance.
11) Laugh upon every opportunity.
12) Stop waiting to feel better to live. Weigh the risk and reward. Pray for wisdom. Live.

While January 2014 seems to be no different than the Januarys which have come before and though I have not had a truly "good day" yet this year, I am brimming with anticipation. My girl will be potty trained soon. No more diapers! My boy will turn 5 and go to kindergarten. I will go to Mayo and turn 30 soon after. Brandon and I will celebrate 10 years of marriage. And then there are many surprises which will come our way. Some surprises will be welcome, some will be unpleasant, but all will be for our good. I can rest in the face of the unknown because "the Dayspring from on high has visited us 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).

Peace--a beautiful word.

May 2014 be a year of peace for you, too.

A Quick Update and Prayer Requests

On Friday morning, I had an allergic reaction after breakfast. Thinking I had developed an egg allergy, I was crushed. Thanks to the guidance and wisdom of the Lord, I discovered the problem--too many high histamine foods in my diet. A combination of kombucha, tomatoes and tomato products, cinnamon, curry, cumin, berries, dried fruit and eggs sent me into a hyperimmune state, and I am currently unable to eat. Again.

Mostly, I am relieved. No true egg allergy! Yay! And the fact that I was able to catch the problem before I worsened is a huge blessing. On the other hand, it's frustrating to be in the same old place again. I feel very unwell. I am working hard to chug the water through burning and discomfort, so I don't become dehydrated.

My doctor treated me today at her home with energy work, Zyto and RIFE. She is fabulous, isn't she? Another blessing! I feel better after the treatment, but need to continue my fast well into tomorrow. I will also be detoxing as I do after each treatment, so I will be uncomfortable to say the least. I hope to be ready to eat a little something at dinner tomorrow night, but will have to wait and see. I will know if I will be ready for food when I take my supplements tomorrow afternoon. If I tolerate them well, I will eat dinner.

I need to get well quickly. My sister's wedding is two weeks from yesterday, and I really want to be well enough to stand with her. We also have a family vacation planned immediately after Christmas. I don't want to ruin our plans....for the thousandth time.

Please pray for:

1) Strength of body and my "inner man"; renewed hope and sufficient grace.

2) Quick improvement.

3) Health to attend Hannah's wedding and family vacation.

4) Brandon. His load is overwhelming when I get like this.

5) The kids. They feel very off-kilter when Mama isn't well enough to care for them.

6) Wisdom and clarity. We are always seeking guidance from the Lord concerning my health. For better or worse, we have only gone where He has led. It is possible He is leading somewhere new and--frankly--quite risky and difficult.  We are not in a hurry to make a decision. I have no interest in rushing desperately into another dead end or turning away from a door the Lord has opened. We will wait for clear direction with eyes, minds and hearts wide open.

7) God's glory in our suffering. His glory is worth it all.

Thank you for praying for my family through another difficult time.

"It is said that in some countries trees will grow, 

but will bear no fruit, because there is no winter there."

 --John Bunyan

Jubilee Farm

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"You visit the earth and water it,

You greatly enrich it;

The river of God is full of water; 

You provide their grain,

for so You have prepared it.

You water its ridges abundantly,

You settle its furrows;

You make it soft with showers, 

You bless its growth.

You crown the year with Your goodness,

and Your paths drip with abundance.

They drop on the pastures of the wilderness,

and the little hills rejoice on every side.

The pastures are clothed with flocks;

The valleys also are covered with grain;

They shout for joy, they also sing."

-Psalm 65:9-13

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

 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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


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

Happy Thanksgiving.

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:

A Portrait of the Gospel

My spirits tend to sink when weighted by a chain of hard days. I wish I was past this weakling business. I'm not. Here's the lovely thing--the bad days were proceeded by several good ones.

Brandon and I attended Brian and Jenny's wedding in Houston. I will try to give an adequate description of the day, but I am afraid words will fail. The highlights are as follows:

The way was prepared for me. I had prayed long and hard concerning the event. I held it loosely so the sting wouldn't be too great if plans fell through. A thousand things could have gone badly, any of which would have prevented me from attending. Not one came to pass. We were nervous. We remembered too well our last trip to Houston, specifically the drive back home through the rain as I struggled for breath and clung to my Epi pen. We were driving west and almost at the Texas state line when the Lord gave me a word--"redemption." I spoke it aloud. I told Brandon that this trip would be the opposite of our last. God was going to redeem the trauma of the year before.

 The hotel room made me sick, but my reactions were controlled with TBM and BioSet (energy/acupressure work). Jenny had asked my groomsman escort not to wear cologne. The bridesmaids--strangers almost--elected not to wear any fragrance on my behalf without being asked by anyone. There are only a handful of people in my life who make this kind of accommodation for me. I was stunned by their thoughtfulness. My mask was still needed, and it provided sufficient protection until I passed a particularly fragrant wedding guest in the reception area. My reaction was not life threatening, but I was made unwell enough to require treatment.

God smiled on the day. The air was cool and crisp. Sun rays glowed golden, slipping through morning shadows to dry the dew and warm our shoulders. God's seal of approval was apparent in every detail. His Spirit hung quietly about us all, manifesting in joy, calm, intentional moments and physical strength for Jenny. And she looked absolutely beautiful.

I generally don't cry at weddings, but I cried at this one. It was simple and impossibly sweet. Every expression, word, musical choice and ceremonial symbol bore significance. The congregation was called to sing, "Ode to Joy"--a fitting song for the event. When the chorus began, voices like angels rang from the loft above. The church had granted Brian and Jenny an unexpected gift of a women's choir to bless them. They blessed us all.

Unfortunately, I kind of derailed after the trip. Now ask me if I regret going. (Hint: See facial expressions in photos above.)

Pain, brain fog and heightened sensitivity set in the evening we returned home, growing worse each day. These symptoms are often accompanied by depression. Depression is a nasty foe, particularly so because it consumes a person with self. Self is never a good focus. Self fails in every way. It blinds you to what is real and vital. It takes from you without ever giving anything back.

It is a shame that after freshly experiencing something so beautiful and divine, I returned home to wallow. Like a pig in filth.

I allowed unholy thoughts to pour in and puddle--This is too hard. I've been sick so long. I may never be well. I am forgotten. No one understands what my life is like.

At Jenny's wedding, I was asked, "What is your illness?" This question is always hard for me. It reminds me there is no name for what I have. People understand names like "cancer" and "diabetes," but they cannot understand the craziness I've got going on. If I say I have allergies, people think I'm being extremely dramatic about a runny nose. If I talk about immunity or methylation, their eyes glaze over with information overload. My disease is a mystery to me. How do I answer the question? I try. It always comes out in too many confused words.

When there is no name for the disease, there is no established protocol. My doctor and I really have no idea what we are doing. Muscle testing keeps us from making major, life-threatening mistakes, but really all we have to go on is trial and error. Two prospective treatments have recently come to my attention. I did not realize how desperately I was hoping to be a candidate for either or both until Dr. Yakaboski tested that I was a candidate for neither. I wasn't prepared for the disappointment.

More unholy thoughts--You are a freak. No one knows what is wrong with you. You are too sick to tolerate the treatments that can make you better.

There are people who need me--my time, my "spoons," my prayers, and all I have been thinking about is myself. Last night, I had enough. I'm sure God had enough before it began. I wielded my secret weapon--the self sermon.

I preach a mini sermon almost every day either for me or the kids. I have gotten pretty good at it. I began preaching to myself out loud over my stove as I cooked. Micah and Sara were unphased. Eight kinds of crazy are accepted here. I began by quoting scripture to myself:

"Why are you cast down, O my soul? And 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 I say, 'My foot slips,' Your mercy, O Lord, will hold me up. In the multitude of my anxieties within me, Your comforts delight my soul."--Psalm 94:18-19

"'My grace is sufficient for you, for My strength is made perfect in weakness.'"--2 Corinthians 12:9

"Let us run with endurance the race that is set before, looking unto Jesus, the author and finisher of our faith, who for the joy that was set before Him [US] endured the cross...." Hebrews 12:1-2

"When my heart is overwhelmed, lead me to the rock that is higher than I."--Psalm 61:2

I did not realize how bad I was feeling physically until this inexplicable weight on my body and haze in my brain lifted. Last night Scripture literally brought a manner of healing to my body. Not just to my soul. To my body.

Enjoying the new clarity, I began pouring my heart out to Jesus. My feelings were utterly selfish, but He listened. And He not only listened--He responded.

Me: I feel so misunderstood.

GOD: Is not my understanding enough for you?

Me: Ouch. Yes, it is. I feel forgotten.

GOD: The eyes of God of the Universe are upon you. You cannot comprehend what this means.

Me: Wow. Yeah, I guess I don't. Well, how am I going to get better if I cannot tolerate treatment?

GOD: You will continue to patiently walk in my wisdom until my purposes are accomplished and you are healed. The treatments of man are irrelevant to you.

Me: And there ya go. I feel unimportant.

GOD: When Jesus was born into the world, He was God made into flesh yet only his parents and a few animals were present. During His world changing ministry, He only had a handful of friends. Jesus made Himself unimportant. This is your model. Do not forget the cross. Your importance to Me was made clear there.

Me: I am ridiculous.

Later, Brandon ministered to me as well. He listened. He validated my feelings. And he preached to me from Scripture, the gist of which was Paul had it way worse than you and was joyful in all things so suck it up! Perfect! I was taken aback by this sweet manifestation of the Spirit in my husband. Generally, men like to play Mr. Fix It. You offer a problem; they offer a solution. Brandon knew he couldn't offer me a real solution, so he offered me something better. He gave me an ear and a godly kick in the pants.

Even the sum of these things fell a mite short of what I really needed. I needed a flag to follow--something greater than myself as a rally point. The Billy Graham special reminded me of what that is tonight.

Billy Graham is gifted. He preaches a simple message simply. The gospel of Christ is incredibly elementary. A preschooler can grasp it. It is also devastating, earth rending, life changing. Tonight I recalled my purpose. I have been bought with a price. I am owned. My purpose is to enjoy Jesus regardless of my circumstances, to make Him look beautiful to the world, and to spread His fame. I cannot do this if I am looking at myself. I am entitled to my feelings. God gave us the capacity to feel. But I must not allow my feelings to consume me. I must be consumed by the truth and permanence of the cross.

Looking at the cross requires looking away from ourselves to gaze at something glorious--something worth living, worth suffering and worth dying for. The cross demands everything we are; the resurrection supplies the power to give what is demanded. We are not victims, brothers and sisters. We are warriors, overcomers, victors!

I thought about Jenny's wedding again after the special. It was a true to life portrait of the gospel. We are a broken bride. We are sick with physical, spiritual and emotional maladies of all kinds, the names of which do not matter, for it is all disease in need of healing. We are frail and imperfect. We need to be saved, restored and healed. Though we have done nothing to deserve it, God has clothed us in a lovely, white gown. He has made us radiant with His love. This is our reality right now, and we are still only our shadow selves. We are not yet who we really are. We still carry our brokenness with us. But if we will just keep looking to the Groom and bask in the love shining from His eyes, we will make it down the aisle just fine.

 "God has been too good to me to play the victim anymore."--Jenny

I Am The Hippopotamus

Have you read But Not the Hippopotamus by Sandra Boynton?  I had not until last night, and my eyes unexpectedly filled with tears as I read it to the kids. Micah is a sensitive guy. He is always disturbed when I cry while reading, so I tried to hide my red eyes and swallow the lump in my throat.

Basically, all the animals are busy--having fun, doing life--"but not the hippopotamus." He is always observing, never participating. This hippo is living my life! Or I'm living his. Whichever.

Currently, being the observer is not my choice. Well, maybe it is my choice. I suppose I could choose to continually risk my life, feel horribly ill, impede my healing and burden my family, but I am fairly certain that would be a poor choice. Regardless, my separateness is necessary for my safety and well-being.

Having to stand on the outside looking in has been quite the refining fire for me. For starters, I've had to overcome jealousy. Yes--I get jealous.

I have struggled with jealousy since childhood. Of all the feelings I've ever felt, jealousy is the absolute worst. It eats the soul alive. I know it's wrong. I am aware of its ugliness. I hate it. I hate myself for feeling it. Jealousy is so bad we treat it with the same taboo we reserve for "the big ones" like adultery, thieving and murder. If we talk about it at all, we are usually referencing someone else's jealousy and never our own. It's embarrassing!

While my shame is yet incomplete, I will admit to being jealous over the stupidest things. I've been jealous of people who can eat pizza, of people who don't have to cook every night, of people who have all kinds of conveniences they take for granted, of people who can see movies at the theater, of people who can go to church, of people who can wear makeup, of people who have energy to clean the entire house in a day, of people who can take their kids to the zoo, of people who can go on vacation, of people who can pop a pill to get pain relief, of people who seem to have as many babies as they want while I dream of a house full and will not be able to have another.

Thankfully, jealousy has not beaten me. Some time ago, I discovered the cure! His name is Jesus.

Instead of merely willing myself to wish the object of my jealousy well and scolding myself upon every failure to do so, I look at Jesus and rest in His presence. I gaze upon His beauty, dwell upon His goodness to me, worship His person, speak aloud His Word, and am thereby made entirely content. I cannot help but wish the whole world well!

You with the Facebook photo of your steaming hot Johnny's pizza? Enjoy that cheesy goodness! God bless you!

You who just posted that you picked up curbside because you were too tired to cook? I am so thankful you had that option.

You who took that selfie, dressed to the nines for your hot date? You look gorgeous! Have fun!

You with the eight kids who just announced your next pregnancy? Praise God! Babies are glorious!

Other challenges of separateness include--

• learning to be alone without feeling lonely, learning that because I walk with Christ, I am never alone

• working through the frustration of not feeling useful

• feeling sad and guilty for not being able to "show up" for the important people in my life

I missed my sister's birthday party last Saturday, which disappointed us both. Jenny called me yesterday, and asked me to be a bridesmaid in her wedding. She and her husband never had a wedding before, and they want to have one now. I think it's a glorious idea! I want to be there more than I want an entire Johnny's Sweep the Kitchen pizza to myself! I am asking God to make a way if He wills it. As of now, I cannot see one. And then the holidays are rapidly approaching. We will celebrate, but it will not be the same. Family gatherings and nostalgia are hard things for me to give up.

One might think that missing everything would get easier, that I would become accustomed to it and accept it as my norm. The hard truth is that though I do accept it and I can be happy in spite of it, it grows more painful with each missed event like a wound that opens again and again, never healing.

Living this life, it's easy to focus upon all the things I cannot do. There is an overwhelming number of them! But this negative focus impedes my walk with Christ, fills me with discontent and shrinks my ministry further. Discouragement is a cloud which affects everyone.

Of all the things I can't do, I must remember the most vital of them all--I cannot have my children growing up in a dreary, bleak environment. As wife, mother and homemaker, I set the tone of my home. I have a responsibility to myself and my family to be a person who takes joy in what I can do, surrendering all the "can'ts" to the authority and goodness of Christ.

I can read my Bible and memorize scripture. I can pray--for myself, my family, for friends, for people I have never met. I can be happy in the Lord. I can cook, wash dishes, clean and fold laundry. I can smile at my babies, kissing them as often as I like. I can listen to and answer the unending questions of a four year old and anticipate his desires--happy faces in his food, for instance.

I can sing hymns and songs for an audience of three (Micah, Sara and Jesus). On days when I am unable to put one foot in front of the other, I can read books until I lose my voice. On days when I do not struggle quite as much, I can scrub a bathtub or sweep the floor. I can read. I can write. I can hide love haikus in my husband's lunch, and greet him with a smile when he comes in from work. I can talk to my friends on the phone. I can help and encourage others who share similar health problems. Because I cannot expend any energy outside of the home, I can expend all of my energy inside it! What a blessing!

There is much for which to be thankful. I was starving to death in June, and look at me now! I'm scrubbing a toilet here and there. On Saturday, I vacuumed for the first time since March. I survived it, too. I need less help from others, which is also a significant improvement.

I am the hippopotamus. I have yet to join the world......but one day I will. Meanwhile, if I keep "looking unto Jesus" I can reflect His light into the hearts of my people. I can make this single-wide trailer the warmest, happiest place on the planet for them. 

My life is different but valuable, slow but effective, separate but full. And truly--I am very happy.

A FEW CLOSING TIDBITS:

Recommended reading: The Hidden Art of Homemaking: Creative Ideas for Enriching Everyday Life

by Edith Schaeffer

Admittedly, the title makes it sound like the target audience is Mennonites and old biddies, but this book is for everyone from the retired adventurer to the young mother to the career-driven bachelor. I have Brandon reading it, and he's not even human! The book is about discovering and cultivating one's creative talents in order to honor Christ, enrich one's own life and bless others.

A Fun Fact:

I had planned a version of this post yesterday afternoon before reading But Not The Hippopotamus, but as I read it, I knew I would include it in the post. I did not know it would make the title until I finished the rough draft.

Prayer requests:

• My allergies have my body on edge right now. Serious reactions are popping up here and there. This creates more stress for Brandon and more difficulty for me.

•  I get a weekly treatment on Tuesdays. As a result, I am sick on Wednesdays. If I come to mind on any given Wednesday, give me a shout out in your prayer time. 

• The kids are struggling with their allergies as well, Sara more so than Micah. It's difficult keeping up with everyone's individual sensitivities and needs!

A Fun Update:

I continue to work on my novel, and am having a wonderful time! Work is kind of slow, which can be frustrating, but I recently received the following word from the Lord:

"I am your life. Marriage and motherhood is your career. Healing is of utmost importance. Writing is your hobby."

I think that is a pretty clear outline of my priorities!

Thanks for reading! God bless!

The Three Little Sinners: A Tale

Once upon a time, three little sinners lived in a small house in the country. The three sinners were often able to mask their bad behavior with good manners, keen wit and the gift of being easily satisfied with life. Sometimes, they were so good at it that they almost forgot they were sinners. However, particular sets of circumstances had a way of faithfully drawing out the bad behavior and parading it about with all the delicacy of an wild elephant. Such was the case upon the day our story begins.

On this day, all three sinners awoke irritable, ill and out of sorts. The smallest little sinner was provoked by a runny nose, headache, stifling congestion and disturbed sleep. She was the least practiced at ignoring her discomfort and hiding her sin so it was no wonder at all that she cried and cried all the day long, refusing to be consoled. She was perfectly determined to be unhappy, and--as I'm sure you well know--anyone who is perfectly determined to be unhappy will be perfectly successful.

The second little sinner woke up with an astonishing case of "The Naughties." Like a moth to a flame, he was drawn to every scrap of naughtiness to be found lying about the small house. And apparently, there were many. He began the morning by lying to his mother (who also happens to be our third, largest and most extravagant sinner) whilst looking her squarely in the eye. His indiscretion was discovered easily enough. When his mother corrected him, he took hold of another shred of naughtiness--

"Mamma?" the little sinner said, "I didn't even cry." Because the day was yet young, her patience still mostly untried and her last conversation with the Lord fairly recent, his Mamma calmly replied, "Son, I am not trying to make you cry; I am trying to teach you to obey God."

Awhile later, the second sinner discovered another bit of naughtiness hidden in a pile of wooden blocks on the floor. The smallest sinner was playing with the blocks, enjoying a brief window of contentment. The second sinner must have missed her unusually powerful cry. Abandoning all manner of self control, he grabbed a block and threw it with enthusiasm toward the head of the smallest little sinner who released a wail so profound the walls creaked and the tin roof clattered in response.

At this, the third sinner (who is said to be an adult) lost. her. mind. She did not yell (upon this instance), but delivered deadly looks to the second sinner as she attempted to console the smallest sinner without success. After the worst of the screeching subsided, the largest sinner grabbed the second sinner by the wrist, fixed him in her fiery gaze and proceeded to shame him. The second sinner was corrected once again, but there was no one to correct the largest sinner except the Holy Spirit, who delivers the most memorable corrections of anyone. The largest sinner was reminded that shame is the devil's game and has never led anyone to repentance. Only love can do that. (It's always rewarding to be compared with the devil.)

And so the largest sinner was driven to tears and apology. The second sinner received her apology with grace, and draped his arms about her shoulders in a forgiving embrace.

It would seem that all should be right with the world after such a moment, but that was not the case. The smallest sinner bawled and brayed until the mother realized an early nap was in order. The second sinner continued his naughty ways, making unnecessary noise while the smallest sinner slept, disobeying direct orders and sassing his Mamma (a serious offense in that part of the world). The smallest sinner was howling again within five minutes of being up from her nap. Physical discomfort, fatigue and frustration nipped and gnawed at the largest sinner who eventually released a cry of her own--"Aaaaaahhhhhhhhhhhhhhh!"

Of course, this did nothing to help matters in any way. The smallest sinner only cried louder, the second sinner was thoroughly amused, and the largest sinner who was already spent had expended unnecessary energy. 

Bedtime was met with relief by the largest sinner. She hurt all over and was dragging her limbs about as if they were burdened by heavy weights. She was sullen and withdrawn, disappointed with the day and her performance. She felt utterly defeated and was certain every word spoken, decision made and action carried out was the wrong one. She would ruin her children entirely!

As the largest sinner laid her head upon her pillow, the Holy Spirit reminded her, "Little sinner, I love you. I see into your very core. I know the depths of your wickedness, but you cannot guess the heights of my love. My blood was spilled for this day and the one tomorrow. You can neither parent so well that you will ensure the salvation of your children nor so poorly that you alone would be responsible for their damnation. Let go of your guilt. Your performance won't save you anyway. Only my love can do that."

And so the largest little sinner believed the Holy Spirit. She quieted her mind and eventually fell into an exhausted slumber, and there she stayed until the smallest sinner woke her at 4:15am howling like a banshee once again.

The largest sinner winced and quailed as she sat up, already guessing at the difficulty of the day. She was angry when her husband left early for the woods. She grew angrier when it became obvious she would not get anymore sleep. She felt overwhelmed when the second sinner woke at 6:45am demanding breakfast and asking many questions, which required her to speak before her preferred hour of 9:00am. Then, she remembered the Source of her help, spoke the word "grace,"and set about her duties and delight.


To be continued, I'm sure.....

Necessary things, updates....

Composing a blog post wasn't my first choice for today's morning activities, but my conscience tells me that an update is overdue. And it's right. So many of you pray for me with diligence. Like me, you like to pray current, specific prayers for those God places upon your hearts. Furthermore, updates are reports of God's accomplishments and foreshadows of accomplishments to come. Updates are fodder for our souls. They serve as proof that God cares about our tiny troubles, listens to our humble words and stoops Himself to our lowly planes to bind up our wounds and heal our diseases.

Good and necessary things, updates--even when something else competes for our time, attention and passions. Besides the adorable red-heads dancing about my living room, that is.

Do not think for a moment that I am not grateful and still in need of prayer. Some days, I am certain that the prayers of others are the difference between grit and cowardice, joy and despair, even life and death. It's just that I--

Tell you what: I will let you know what I am up to at the end of the post. To business!

As I look back on the last few years, I clearly see juxtaposed intervals of time owning unique sets of weather conditions, slants of light and challenges thereof. Seasons.

Sometime during our stay with my parents, I entered into a new season. I was eating well and having fewer reactions, but I began having trouble napping. My insomnia worsened. I would wake feeling as if I had not slept at all. Fatigue was suddenly my greatest foe. I became even more sensitive to cold, and wore a sweater about the house much of the time. Brown and bumpy patches formed on my skin. I put on several pounds with incredible speed. Not long after we returned home, I noticed I became hoarse after reading to my children. I felt a constriction in my throat upon swallowing. The shape of my neck was different. These and other symptoms alarmed me to the fact that something new was amiss.

After researching and consulting with my doctor, I realized that my hypothyroidism had worsened. She told me the adrenal and thyroid glands share a symbiotic relationship. When one suffers, the other does as well. I have this horrible suspicion that the decision to use my Epi Pen the day of the ant bite is largely to blame. Epinephrine can do nasty things to the adrenal glands. My adrenals were already in a sad state, and did not need the hit they took that day.

In addition to adrenal exhaustion, I am suffering from an iodine deficiency. I no longer use iodized salt, and I did not replace the iodine as I should. So now I have a goiter. Lovely.

Hypothyroidism tends to be degenerative; therefore, I couldn't ignore the problem. I knew I was unlikely to tolerate the leading thyroid replacements on the market. Thankfully, my doctor is extremely resourceful. She found tablets and homeopathics to support both my adrenals and my thyroid, and I tolerate them! Praise the Lord! I am also adding minerals to my drinking water and taking a high dose of iodine daily. After taking my "meds" for a couple of weeks, I no longer feel like I'm getting worse every day.

Endocrine system malfunctions are not my only battle, for we have come to that time of year--the time during which my entire life becomes one big allergic reaction. I have reacted to cinnamon, goat milk and butter just in the last four days, and had an anaphylactic reaction to a balloon that found its way into my house on Saturday. I stupidly picked it up to throw it outside, and promptly broke out in hives on my palm, wrist and neck. Breathing troubles followed. You know--the norm.

I'm not the only one having problems. Sara has an allergic rash that flares any time she is exposed to an allergen. The skin under Micah's eyes has turned dark and puffy. Dad is having trouble with a few foods as well. So yeah--that time of year.

But you know what? It's just a season. This one, too, shall pass.

In the meantime, I covet your prayers. With reactions, comes pain. Pain makes fatigue more difficult. Fatigue makes food restrictions more frustrating. Food restrictions make me irritable, and I don't need to be irritable because I have two sweet babies who are in need of extra empathy as they face their own discomfort.

Yet, in all these things, I am not only more than a conqueror. I am also having the time of my life! On August 9 as I read Jesus Calling, the Lord gave me a mental image. From there, the image exploded into an idea, which gave way to a plot and characters. And just like that, I am writing a book. (!!!!!)

Not only am I writing a book, I am writing within a genre I have always enjoyed--fantasy. I never intended to write a fantasy because it always seemed too complicated and daunting. But maybe it's not a fantasy because it doesn't have elves, dwarves, dragons or wizards. Or maybe it is because it does include magic, prophecies and a make-believe land. I have even drawn a map! The story is going to be allegorical for sure. And it's a romance. And it's an adventure.

I am basically writing my favorite kind of book. As a matter of fact, I feel antsy to get it done so I can read it! The inspiration was so beautiful and cool, but what is even cooler is that God is giving me clear directives to follow as I work. Writing this book is actually drawing me closer to the Lord. Now that's cool.

Thank you for continuing in your prayers for me and my family! Please keep it up! And I would be so honored if you would pray for me as I write this story. I know God has plans for it, and will use it to build and strengthen His church. In the end, it will be His masterpiece. I'm just the lucky duck that gets to be the vessel.

Okay, okay.....let me get on with my day so I can get on with my fun!

The Coward vs. The Fear

We returned to our trailer on Jubilee Farm two weeks ago today. After 27 days of being away from home, I drove northward from the city of West Monroe in a state of ecstasy. There were many comforts I enjoyed while staying with my parents--a large kitchen, a jacuzzi bathtub, live-in help, and delightful company--but truly, there is no place like my place.

I nearly skipped through the doorway of my little house, laughing in delight. Then I cried. I attempted a needed afternoon nap, but I couldn't control the tears. Sleep eluded me. After the unexpected tsunami of happiness receded, I found an old enemy lurking on the shore. As I relished my soft bed and searched for drowsiness, The Fear reached into my chest and took hold of my heart. The very part of me which had been pounding with hot joy only moments before found itself suddenly frozen and bound in place by black, winding tentacles.

The presence of The Fear made no sense at all. God had crowned the day with goodness. I was resting my tired, aching body in a room bathed in brilliant afternoon sun. I was breathing in familiar, safe scents I had missed for well nigh a month. And yet, there he was haunting me. Alone, he whispered. You are home, but now you are alone.

It was an absurd lie. Brandon was sitting in the living room with Sara even as he hissed.

He persisted. Your mother will begin teaching soon. Hunting season is on the horizon. Your well of helpers is about to dry up, and you will have to navigate your life alone feeling as you do.

Well, sleep was out of the question, thank you very much. My first tactic against The Fear was the least effective. Distraction. I turned on the television. The Fear continued to whisper, but he had to compete with my favorite digitally recorded programs.

Inevitably, the time to prepare dinner arrived. I sighed, turning off the TV. The Fear still had my heart in its icy hold. Alone, alone..... It would have been nice if he had left me alone. I was going to have to fight.

I began with my favorite weapon. "The Lord is my light and my salvation. Whom shall I fear? The Lord is the strength of my life. Of whom shall I be afraid?" I recited Psalm 27:1 silently.

You know you aren't ready to parent your children and manage your home when you can't even manage yourself.

"Fear not for I am with you. Be not dismayed, for I am your God. I will strengthen you. Yes, I will help you, I will uphold you with my righteous right hand (Isaiah 41:10)," I countered, again in my mind. "God will grant me either strength or help. So there." I almost stuck out my tongue.

The Fear was quiet for awhile, but he would not release me, and I could not wriggle out of his grasp. I prepared and ate dinner his prisoner, alternately praying and reminding myself of things that are true and real. By the time I began working on the dishes, I was growing tired of the struggle. I doubled my efforts by preaching to myself aloud.

"Why are you cast down, O my soul? And why are you disquieted within me? Hope in God, for I shall yet praise Him for the help of His presence (Psalm 42:5). Grace, grace. Sufficient grace. Your grace is sufficient for me (2 Corinthians 12:9)."

Brandon raised his eyebrows, but otherwise did not respond. The man is difficult to weird out these days. He has seen and heard too much. I remembered the promise of James 5:16 ("Confess your trespasses to one another, and pray for one another, that you may be healed."), and offered him context.

As I told him of The Fear and how he had presented himself after a high moment and proceeded to attack immediately without a scrap of reverence for my joy, I realized something: this always happens. Any time I am allowed even a moment of celebration--a good day, an answered prayer, a marked improvement, a memory made, a personal victory....especially if I share that celebration with others--rain is sure to flood my parade. For every happiness, there is an equivalent assault. Such an observation is sufficient to make anyone afraid. Sometimes, the rain comes in the form of a setback. Other times, it presents itself as an emergency. That day, The Fear came to call. I loathe that guy, but I can always choose whether or not I will play host to him. Because I'm sick, it's easy to make a pet of him--feed him, shelter him, excuse his mess--but I must turn him away every time he comes to my door. A moment of fear is only a weakness. Granting it entry is sin.

The Fear's tentacles slipped a bit when I shared my plight with Brandon. I continued to preach from the pulpit of my kitchen sink. I could breathe again. I recounted truths about God's abiding presence. My soul remembered it was never alone. I declared that I would be bold and courageous because God is always with me. I almost felt brave. I listened to my Worship Mix playlist on shuffle and sang the lyrics like a battle cry. It wasn't pretty, but it was effective. The Fear eventually fled as quickly as he had appeared.

The Fear will come looking for me again because he knows me. He is aware of my weakness. I am The Coward. I am afraid of many things--setbacks, wasps, spiders, fire ants, needles, clowns, balloons, peanuts, perfume....I'm afraid of being sick because being sick is hard. I'm afraid of dying because I don't want to abandon my people. I'm afraid of getting well because I will have to become something new, and change may be the scariest thing of all. But I am a child of The True King, and victory is already mine. My destiny is secure. God knows what I need, and He delights to give to me. He is perfect love; perfect love casts out fear.

When I bathe in truth and bask in the presence of The King, I am brave. I am strong. Yes, fear is a weakness. But as with all weaknesses, it is also an opportunity to lean into Christ and draw from His endless stores of strength, courage and joy.

Ants in My Pants

Non-southerners, meet the fire ant:

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

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

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

 

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


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

 (Photo credit: Edge Pest Control)

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

This is an unhappy fire ant.....

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

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

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

(Photo credit: MSU Cares)

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

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

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

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

Stupid, stupid, stupid.....

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

However.......

There is so much for which to be thankful.

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

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

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

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

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

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

 (Photo credit: 6LEGS2MANY)

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



How you can pray for us:

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

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

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

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

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

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

Happy Birthday To Me--Part 2

Although I cannot be certain what caused my abrupt decline during the first week of June, I have my suspicions. I blame it mostly on my being an insufferable rule follower. While this quality made me a model student in school, it has proven to be a problem in other areas of my life. Model students don't make many friends, but they do draw negativity in the forms of disdain and jealousy with impeccable magnetism. Excellence to the letter can be crippling for the Christian, making one highly susceptible to legalism. Fortunately for my soul, the Lord showed me a long time ago that being a goody-two-shoes doesn't earn me any marks in His Book. Where my health is concerned, rule following hasn't done me many favors either.

I have followed every doctor's protocol with precision. Each time, I have suffered for doing so. I can trace this pattern back to the spring of 2006 when I first began seeking relief from my allergies. I never missed my allergy shots. I hated needles, but I was there each week believing, hoping I would get better. I got worse. A lot worse. When I would develop the inevitable sinus infection during stressful times in college, I took the medications and steroid shots prescribed by my primary physician. Which also made me worse. I did everything my OBGYN suggested without question. Bad idea. After my health collapse in 2012, I followed the advice of the immunologist, gastroenterologist, and rheumatologist, undergoing their tests, taking their medications and paying their outrageous bills. To my detriment, of course.  When Dr. Cave sent me home with an overwhelming amount of drugs, supplements and homeopathics in November, I made a chart, methodically taking the right thing at the right time. One by one, I grew intolerant to them all until I had a severe reaction to the methylation supplements in early March. And then there is the incident involving the Cipro. My BioSet practitioner was helpful overall, but I responded poorly to several of her suggestions as well. Dr. Yakaboski has been the exception. She alone has done no harm. While her treatments cannot heal me, they make my life liveable and grant me much relief.

In addition to seeing doctors, I have remade myself time and again in a desperate search for safe nutrition. After attempting several difficult diets and being met with failure upon failure, I finally stumbled upon the GAPS diet, which I began last September. I followed the diet and lifestyle protocol as rigidly as my resources would allow. GAPS was instrumental in improving my health knowledge and practices, but because I am an extreme case, several of the diet's major tenets not only failed to help me but have caused more problems. I do not tolerate bone broths, and I have recently learned the probiotics and ferments which are so wonderful for everyone else have actually increased my hyper-immunity. In the past few months, I have altered my diet several more times, trying out juicing, raw greens, a low-sulfur diet, a vegetarian diet and others. Nothing has helped. Upon another doctor's recommendation, I added ground flax and chia seeds to my diet to help build a mucous layer in my gut. Flax and chia are great for most people. Though I knew deep down they would not be good for me, I followed the instructions with perfect obedience anyway because I simply cannot help myself. It took about two weeks for my body to rebel. And I am here to tell you, I am full of sass, even at the cellular level.

God allowed me to enjoy my birthday party on June 1, a kindness for which I am very grateful. On the night of June 2, I had an allergic reaction to Brandon's toothpaste....from kissing him.....after he had swished and gargled water to protect me from the smell. On the morning of June 3 (my birthday), I forgot to check my tolerance to my daily dose of ground flax seeds, and had a severe reaction to them. I was teeter-tottering by Tuesday morning when I reacted to the ghee I had come to enjoy in my rice cereal. After that, I couldn't eat anything at all without extreme nausea, gastrointestinal pain, systemic inflammation and swelling in my throat. I was struck with a strong sense of déjà vu when it became impossible to sip water without burning and nausea. I sipped anyway, but without food it just wasn't enough. We began working on getting home health out to the house on Wednesday in order to avoid the hospital. By Thursday afternoon, it was obvious that home health services were not going to work out, and I was too dehydrated to go any longer without fluids. Without any remaining options, we headed to the ER.

Hospital emergency rooms are full of dangers for people like me, which is why people like me tend to avoid them. The combination of people, chemicals and medical professionals who just don't understand make for a highly unstable and unsafe environment. The evening was difficult, but God manifested Himself in several different ways. He blessed my double mask. I reacted to several environmental triggers, but none of the reactions were severe. One of mom's former laboratory students popped in, and spoke an encouraging word from the Lord. A very nice, conscientious male nurse took charge, and started my IV. Without him, I'm not sure I would have been given any care at all. Overall, I was neglected by the on-duty nurse practitioner (who I apparently offended when I declined x-rays), and left the hospital still dehydrated because I was cut off after only half a bag of fluids. (Dude--that was an expensive--not to mention risky--half bag of saline.) Thanks to a passionate, hard-working doctor and an extraordinary, dear friend who also happens to be a nurse practitioner, I was set up with another IV Friday night (June 7)--this time at home. 

Upon returning from the ER Thursday night (not desiring to repeat the experience any time soon), I began trying to take some food. I remembered reading in Gut and Psychology Syndrome by Dr. Natasha Campbell-McBride that raw eggs are well-rounded, easily absorbed nutrition which put little to no stress on the digestive system. I was feeling too nauseated to attempt cold, raw eggs, so I scrambled, salted and warmed them in a pan before drinking them. They were a bit slimy going down, but they settled perfectly.

If you are unfamiliar with food allergies, you may not know what a miracle it is that I could eat eggs when I could eat nothing else. My tolerance to them is actually quite shocking as eggs are extremely allergenic. I have come to think of eggs as my "manna"--a provision no less miraculous than wafers falling from the heavens.

The ways of God are ever beyond me. 

The Saturday following my birthday (June 8), another small group gathered in my parents' home on my behalf. We left the guest list in the Lord's hands this time, and He put together a small, fascinatingly eclectic group to pray together. I sat in a chair, double masked and hooked up to an IV, as people asked the Lord to heal me and grant me clear direction on my healing journey. The men blessed me by praying with authority and power. The women plead my case before the Lord. An elder and dear friend from my church anointed me with oil. The meeting was both remarkable and not. Clouds did not part, I was not made well with a sudden touch, nor did we hear a distinct, booming voice telling us that everything was going to be okay, but God was present. He honored the gathering He had ordained, and He has answered the prayers of His people. 

Following the prayer meeting, I had some decisions to make about new doctors and treatments. I decided against them for two reasons--

1) A lack of clarity. I just wasn't sure. At the meeting, we all asked the Lord for clear direction. I felt confused, not certain at all, so I chose not to move forward. That being said, if I receive clear direction at any time regarding any doctor or treatment, I will do exactly as God suggests.

2) The story of the woman with the bleeding issue (Mark 5).  God kept bringing her story to my attention because it contained a message for me--"No more doctors." Like the woman in the story, I have suffered much in the hands of physicians, and funds are running low. In the end, the woman wasn't healed until she ran to Jesus, all out of alternate options. God wants to work a miracle here, and I aim to let Him.


And God has worked a miracle already. Within three weeks, I went from being unable to drink water, to eating raw eggs and boiled squash, to pureed vegetables and soups, to well-cooked and carefully prepared meat and vegetables, to things I have been allergic to for months....and in some cases, years.

Boiled zucchini and ground beef purée. I ate baby food for a little over a week.

Broccoli and squash purée (it tasted a lot better than it looks) with lightly cooked scrambled eggs.

Eggplant lasagna made on 6/22 with fried eggplant, fresh tomatoes, bell pepper and fresh herbs from the garden with homemade juice from beets (also from the garden), carrots and apples. In my opinion, this is the best meal I've made in the last year. I'm not only saying that because I have been deprived.

After reading that jalapeños help to reduce inflammation of the GI tract, I decided to make poppers on 6/23. These are fresh Jubilee Farm peppers, sliced in half, seeded, stuffed with fresh goat cheese, wrapped in Applegate bacon (to which I had been allergic since January) and drizzled with raw, local honey. They were heavenly, and I felt great after eating them.

On Sunday night, I made and enjoyed fried green tomatoes. Yesterday, I ate fresh watermelon for the first time in years without Benadryl!!!

Something has changed. I have changed. I have been remade. And truly, it cannot be explained apart from Jesus Christ. 

I am not supposed to be able to eat bacon and chicken and peppers and goat cheese and watermelon.

I should be having allergic reactions every day, as I have for about as long as I can remember, but I'm not.

I eat the food grown from the earth of Jubilee Farm, and I feel good. I get a little burst of energy after each meal, which may not seem like a big deal to you, but I cannot recall a time in my entire life when I felt good after eating. I think what I am feeling is....healing. I still occasionally have pain after I eat, but the pain is nothing compared to what I was experiencing before. (TMI warning!) I have also been to the bathroom twice without the assistance of an enema in the last two weeks, an event that had not occurred since April.

Granted, I have a long way to go without any idea of how long full recovery will take. I have completely released my healing timeline to the Lord. He can and will (with or without my permission) do whatever He wants. And whatever it is He wants, He is doing it now.

Things feel different upon this restart. My journey for the past seven years has been two steps forward, three steps back. Today, I feel like an infant taking slow, faltering steps, but I believe that those steps will grow steadier. Rather than regressing, I will gain momentum. I will eventually run, leap, skip, play and all the things that someone as sick as I have been should never be able to do again.

I will.....because though I am not yet well, I am already healed. It's already been done. Remember, God isn't bound by human limitations. He works outside of time. From His perspective, His work is complete. The promise has been made, the fulfillment set in motion. My job is to believe my God, to think and act as though my healing is as good as accomplished. Of course I must continue to accept my current limitations. I will do all I can to avoid environmental triggers, take naps, guard against overexertion, eat good food, take detox baths, and give myself enemas as necessary, but now I possess the freedom to do these things with the end in mind, something I find to be equally terrifying and beautiful.

In the end, being good at following the rules failed me. Miserably. God has none too gently pried my fingers loose from my beloved little book of shalls and shall nots, completely bankrupt of power to save--another kind of healing entirely. Today, I watch that book smoke in a fire I lit. And I know: I will never be the same again.

To all who have prayed anywhere at any time---thank you. God has heard your prayers! He is answering them at this very moment.

"In fact, [I] expected to die. But as a result, [I] stopped relying on [myself] and learned to rely only on God, who raises the dead. And He did rescue [me] from mortal danger, and He will rescue [me] again. We have placed our confidence in Him, and He will continue to rescue [me]. And you are helping us by praying for us. Then many people will give thanks because God has graciously answered so many prayers for [my] safety." (2 Corinthians 1:9-11 NLT)

Let us praise Him for what He is already doing!


My birthday week may have been slightly disappointing, but the month of June has proven to be one of the most exceptional months of my life.

I may just take up the habit of having a birthday month after all.

It Had to be Blood

 I can't shake her from my mind--the woman with the bleeding issue. Over the past several days, I've read and reread the accounts given in Matthew 9, Mark 5 and Luke 9. I weep every time. This woman and I share a lot of common ground. We've both been sick a very long time. (My allergies have been out of control for almost a decade.) Doctors and treatments fail again and again, and sometimes bring more suffering. We're lonely, not actively a part of the world in which we live. And we're desperate for a healing a touch.

Oh, how my heart resonates with this woman's song. Though she bore sorrows I do not--my friends and family have rallied around me with encouragement and prayer, and I have one very good doctor--I've felt many of her feelings and have thought several of her thoughts.

Today, I sat with pen and paper, determined to get into her mind, and bled onto the page--


"It Had To Be Blood"


Twelve years.
Twelve long years.
Will it ever end?
The weakness,
the pain,
the loneliness that swallows like a pit?
One by one, dreams turn to ash,
disappointments mount,
hopes sicken and die.
I no longer search for doctors.
There have been so many.
So many.
And I confound them all.
After giving them everything I had,
the treatments failed
and made me worse.
My people disowned me long ago,
cast me off--
illegitimate and unwanted.
No one looks me in the eye
as if my shame is catching.
Blood.
Why did it have to be blood?
Why did it have to be me?
My bone and soul grow weary
of the never-ending flow.
Death would be a welcome friend,
but as with all my friends,
I'm utterly forgotten,
left alone to bleed.

There's a whisper on the street--
Jesus is coming!
The One who heals!
I peer outside.
The crowd is thick.
Jairus is with Him;
He's busy with important matters
with clean and lofty folk.
He won't stop for me....
unless I run to Him.
My feet move out my door.
My heart and head pound
to a rhythm I've never heard
and have always known:
If only I could touch Him--
I would be made well! 
If only I could touch Him--
I would be made well!
The noise in the street falls silent on my ears.
I only hear the music that carries me along:
If only I could touch Him--
I would be made well!
Today, my shame is my friend.
Bodies make way to avoid my touch.
Unclean.
My blood makes me dirty.
It can make them dirty, too.

I find myself at His back.
I long to see His face,
yet I know I cannot bear His eyes
beholding my disgrace.
If only I could touch Him--
I would be made well!
The home of Jairus now in sight,
what dignity remains is gone.
And reaching out with expectation,
my fingers brush my Savior's hem. 
I'm met with a jolt,
a surge I can't explain.
I'm well.
I stop and marvel.
I mean to disappear,
but cannot move.
He stops, too.
"Who touched Me?"
His voice rises above the clamor.
My breath catches.
Caught.
I who am unclean have touched a rabbi!
Trembling with fear,
I try to hide among the bodies,
but they don't let me in.
I turn to run, but I'm trapped
in His gaze
where I stand.
So I fall
at His feet.
My story pours from my mouth,
a hemorrhage of the soul.
In His sights, I know--
though I'm well, I'm not.
Dirty.
I'm still dirty.

There's nothing to left to say.
I feel impatience from the throng.
The Man must have a mission
of tremendous importance.
I stare at His feet, which do not turn.
"Daughter," He calls me.
In all my words did I tell Him
my father rejected me long ago?
That I belong to no one?
Surely, I hadn't exposed
so old and deep a wound!
Yet in His address, I know He knows,
and He claims me as His own.
"Daughter..."
Amongst stamping feet and furrowed brows,
there's no hurry in His voice.
I look into His eyes and see my need--
Him!
I need Him!
"Your faith has made you well.
Go in peace.
Your suffering is over."

Twelve years.
Twelve long years.
Twelve years of terrible suffering--
ended.
Weakness, pain, and loneliness--
gone.
Dreams fulfilled.
Disappointment dead.
Hope restored.
Healed, accepted, wanted.
Loved.
Alive!
Alive for the first time!
"Your daughter is dead,"
the servant said.
And I remember--
the daughter of Jairus is sick.
Dead.
Twelve years.
Twelve brief years.
It's no time at all.
A hush falls upon the crowd,
and we hear Him say,
"Do not be afraid. Only believe."
He turns to go and somehow I know
because He's with her,
she will be well.
Because He's with us,
all will be well.

I couldn't know then,
but the day was coming
upon which I'd better understand
the design in my disease.
My blood made me dirty,
unfit for the house of God.
He dried up my fountain,
bound up my wounds,
and made me clean--
ceremonially.
But real cleansing was coming
for all sin-stained robes
upon Calvary
where the world healed by His wounds.
Clean in the Fount
of His Blood.
It had to be blood.

(6/12/13)

I'm still in the midst of my "twelve years." I no longer believe in a cure for my disease, whatever it is. All out of options, I am going to Jesus for help. I am reaching for His hem. As Timothy Keller points out in the chapter entitled "The Waiting" in King's Cross, "When you go to Jesus for help, you get from him far more than you had in mind. But when you go to Jesus for help, you also end up giving to him far more than you expected to give."

 I don't know what more He is going to ask, but for now He is looking into my eyes saying, "Trust Me." I don't understand the delay, but I do trust His heart. Whatever He asks, the reward far outweighs the cost. And maybe one day soon, I, too, will better understand the design in my disease.

Happy Birthday To Me--Part 1

Women know how to get the most out of their birthdays. Only men have birthdays. We ladies get a birthday weekend, a birthday week, or (if you really know how to play your cards right) a birthday month. I have decided I don't want to celebrate for an entire month. I think I'll take my birthday week and move right along.

I'm honestly not sure how to describe my 29th celebration. It was bookended by two precious gatherings for my sake, but the days in between were hard. Very hard. However, I think I shall begin my recount with the actual celebration, which was highlighted by getting out of the house, good food and sweet people who love me.

 Sara called me "Mama" for the first time ever at my party on June 1! What a great gift!

 Micah and Samantha Davis both made me cards! They were perfect!

 The man in the corner gave me four dark chocolate bars and a $25 gift card to iTunes.

 One never errs with chocolate and music.

 We all ate up some baby love. Mr. Will Davis is a sweetheart!

Brandon grilled steaks for everyone while I cooked mine safely on Mom's stovetop. I also made my own me-friendly (at the time) birthday cake. Dark chocolate lovers, rejoice! I'm going to share the recipe. Everyone else can skip the next couple of paragraphs:

Dark Chocolate Zucchini Cake

Cake:

1/2 cup coconut oil

2 cups organic, sprouted rice flour

1/2 cup cocoa powder

1 1/2 teaspoons baking soda

1/2 teaspoon coarse sea salt

1 cup Grade B organic maple syrup

1 teaspoon vanilla extract

3 large eggs

2 cups grated zucchini, packed

1 8 oz. organic, dark chocolate bar, chopped

Line the bottom of a 10" springform pan with unbleached parchment paper, and grease the sides with coconut oil. Preheat oven to 350 degrees. Combine dry ingredients in a medium sized bowl. Scoop out one cup of mix and set aside. In a separate, larger bowl, cream the coconut oil and maple syrup. Add vanilla and eggs. Keeping the cup of flour mixture set aside, add the bowl of  dry ingredients to the wet, and beat until well combined. Place the 2 cups of zucchini in the bowl the dry ingredients were in, add the cup of flour and the dark chocolate pieces, and toss to coat. Then add the zucchini to the rest of the cake mixture, and stir until just combined. Spread the batter into the springform pan and bake 50-60 minutes.

Dark Chocolate Ganache

1 cup full fat organic coconut milk 

8 oz. unsweetened Baker's chocolate, chopped

maple syrup to taste

While the cake is cooling, chop the Baker's chocolate. Bring the coconut milk to almost boiling, and remove from heat. Place the chopped chocolate into the hot milk, and stir until smooth. Add maple syrup to taste. You will use less for a darker chocolate flavor, and more if you prefer a sweeter frosting. 

I poured my ganache over the cake immediately, and set the entire thing into the fridge to cool. If you don't have a ton of allergies, you may want to garnish the cake with chopped pecans or fresh fruit. Strawberries would have been divine on this cake! Maybe next year!

(This recipe was adapted from the blog Sweet Sugar Bean. I'm not good enough to come up with 100% original recipes quite yet.)

After the dinner, per my request, we took communion. I don't get to go to church anymore, and this is the one gaping hole I can't fill from home. I know that communion may be a strange way to end a birthday party, but it was my favorite part of the night. Remembering my Lord in that way at that time was an all important breath before taking the plunge that was the week to follow.

To be continued.....

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.

Thoughts on Jubilee

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

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

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

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

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

"Let go. Trust me. Give thanks."

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

"Let go. Trust me. Give thanks."

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

"Let go. Trust me. Give thanks."

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

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

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

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

1) Jubilee Farm coming to life

 Thanks for the photo, Ann Marie!

2) Baking with babies

3) Sara's first egg hunt

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

 

5) The first planting and planting party at Jubilee Farm

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

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

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

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

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