Three Shuffled Steps Backwards

These past few weeks have felt like one long exhaling breath as we have searched to find ourselves and our lives again. Wondering a bit, where do we go from here? Feelings of numbness, sadness and glimpses of hope have all risen and fallen with the passing of days. A sort of listless ache has come over my heart. An inner battle that I can’t seem to get past. The trauma that we faced has left what feels like an indelible gaping hole in me. The bleeding has stopped. But now a scar remains. I want so badly for that scar to fade. To strike what has occurred from my memory.

But it still aches. And sorrow still smirks in the distance.

I want to get back to living again. Living my ‘real’ life. The way things, in my mind, were supposed to go. Before everything went so…wrong.

I can’t seem to process all the loss and come out unmarred. Even so, I try. How I foolishly try. It seems the moment the pressure lets up a bit and my feet are no longer to the fire, I find I collapse into old habits of self-focus and self-determination. I can do this. I can and will do this, even if it strangles a bit of my spirit in the process. Had I not learned anything about true strength in the past months? More, about my own engulfing weakness? And the beauty found in my own admission of weakness?

Had I so quickly forgotten, “For when I am weak, then I am strong”? [emphasis added]

But the pain has since turned to numbness, and everything that once raged red has now turned to grey. Even still, I can’t help but wonder why I feel such a need to cover to my scar? To hurry up and cover up any and all evidence of ever being broken. Why do I battle day in and day out to get fitter? Get faster. Get stronger. Get slimmer. To control my size. And my family. To control my health. And my rate of healing. To control what others think of me. And how I appear. I find myself even trying to control the exercises given to me by my physical therapist! And for what?

I can’t seem to find my way.

And it frustrates me.

Today was no exception. Trudging my three-year-old and myself to the car, we made our way to physical therapy in hopes of good news. The rain beat down on the car as we drove, and I tried my best to dismiss the growing ache in my right hip. How could this be happening again?

I had just endured not one hip replacement. Not two. But four.

Four. (Three hip replacements and one incision and drainage)

Pain just wasn’t an option I was willing to come to terms with.

Even so, I hurt.

We made our way into the waiting room, quickly sitting down as I waved familiarly at the secretary. Megan hurriedly threw her coat off in one jubilant motion, only to request I sing her favorite, “Twinkle Twinkle” while she hopped and spun about the room. Her eyes, so joy filled, as I sang. So proud of herself as she moved. Delighted to have gathered the affections of the others in the room, she let out a squeal. I watched, proudly, holding back laughter of my own. I was so thankful for this girl and her youthful ability to be fully in the moment. For her sweet joy that flowed so freely, often pulling me out of myself.

Reminding me to get out of my own way.

How I needed that reminder today.

Two minutes later the others had lost interest, and Megan hopped up on the chair next to me, putting her head on my shoulder and exclaimed, “Mom, I just love you in my heart”.

I was loved through the eyes of a child. My child. And wasn’t that enough?

Moments later we were brought back to an exam room where I was told to put on a pair of oversized shorts for exam. As my physical therapist entered, I began to share regarding my recent right hip pain. I watched as concern came over his face. I knew this wasn’t a particularly good reaction.

Over the past weeks he had cautioned me regarding pushing too much and the dangers in overdoing it, potentially leading to injury. He knew I was motivated. In fact, he had tried to temper such motivation at just about every visit, trying to get me to see what real time progress actually looked like.

I breathed in deep and exhaled, not knowing what was coming next.

He stated, “A single hip replacement typically takes six months to return to baseline (with a good amount of hard work).” He went on to say, “A double hip replacement, well those are just tough. But you, you haven’t had a double hip replacement. You’ve essentially had two major surgeries to each hip. It’s going to take some time.”

Take things slowly? Give it some time? These were not things I did well. I already believed the exercises he had given me to be somewhat feeble and in need of a good ramp up.

This was not the promise for complete healing after four months as previously stated by my surgeon, preoperatively of course.

But my gut told me he was right. Even though I hated to hear it.

A few moments passed, and he recommended I use a cane and hold on any more therapy in the interim.

A cane? I thought I was done with assistive devices! Wasn’t that the point of surgery?

Two minutes later we made our way out to the car, Megan, happily singing in the back seat while I was in another world completely in the front seat, mulling over the past hour in my mind. How long would this setback take? Would I ever be free from hip pain? Was there something wrong with my internal hardware?

And then it occurred to me that perhaps I was missing the point.

Really missing it.

Perhaps the point all along hadn’t been to spare me from any further calamity but instead to teach me the true meaning of rest. A part of me cringes even now at fully embracing this, as I have been wired from the start with the heart of a doer. Rest has never been something voluntary for me. I spent years as a pre-med major in college pushing and striving, somewhat cleverly believing God needed me and my achievements. Even after having been diagnosed with lupus, more time was spent pushing and striving towards becoming a nurse practitioner. Sacrifices were made. Anything it took to get things done. But what I didn’t recognize was that my youthful zeal wasn’t actual spiritual progress. Spiritual fervor coupled with holier than thou travel plans to some remote land- not to mention being subtlely aware of the praise that came with said travels-just didn’t amount to a whole lot. Where was God to be found in all of the ‘me’? And how has it taken me so long to recognize this disparity?

Psalm 23 says, “He makes me lie down in green pastures”. Surely, that was a verse I could relate to, having been made to lie down quite a bit over the past years. And still, I wander.

It seems the real power is found in the quiet. In the resting. In perfect trust.

That is where he shows up best.

Jeremiah 17:7-8 says, “But blessed is the one who trusts in the Lord, whose confidence is in him. They will be like a tree planted by the water that sends out its root by the stream. It does not fear when heat comes; its leaves are always green. It has no worries in a year of drought and never fails to bear fruit”.

Oh, to be like this beautiful tree! And even more, to take a lesson from my girl.

Rest, fully present and trusting in him who created us, singing to him always, “I love you in my heart”.

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“But I trust in you, O Lord…My times are in your hands…” Psalm 31:14,15

Micah 7:7 says, “But as for me, I will watch expectantly for the Lord; I will wait for the God of my salvation. My God will hear me.”

Waiting on Him Who Restores

Our fears from the start of this hip replacement crisis have begun to transpire, as we have discovered my wound has become infected. We got the frustrating news today that I will need to undergo another surgery on Friday. This will be my fourth surgery. Since September. Being on prednisone and (even just having lupus) puts me at a much higher risk for infection and slows wound healing. And so today, I had an urgent visit with my surgeon, as he picked at my wound with scissors and other instruments, and painfully opened in some areas to drain and further assess. We went through several rounds of me holding gauze while he went on to grab more. And as I held the blood soaked gauze to my leg, I couldn't help but note Megan sitting no more than six inches from me on the exam table, perfectly content to be holding stickers in one hand and a lollipop in the other. And it was then that I was struck by the dichotomy that has become my life. To face without any real relief, persisting medical problems. Some scary. Many pain filled. And all so draining. All the while to have a sweet three year old by my side. Looking to me. And to how I respond. Looking to me to be strong. Looking to me to make things fun for her. And more, to make things okay for her. 

I wasn't happy to hear the news. More, there are more risks as we move forward, praying the infection does not move into my bone (which would require an entire new hip replacement, hospitalization with six weeks of IV antibiotics, ect). But I will say, today, despite the chaos and the mess, I am thankful to the Lord for my girl who in her sweet unknowing way, continues to bring unexpected healing to our hearts. 

With loss, particularly physical, it's all too easy to fixate on what is gone. What you used to have. What you used to be able to do. What you are missing. Matt and I have felt from early on in our marriage that our youth had been taken from us due to chronic illness. The things that we longed to do as a couple just haven't been possible.

 

But we have this girl. And on our worst days, her silly laughter somehow breaks through our pain and fills our home with joy. 

It feels like a bit of a gut punch needing to go in again. Only to have chemotherapy waiting for me on the other side of this. But I was recently reminded by a dear friend that there is one thing (amidst all the confusion) that God makes very clear. 

 

He restores. 

 

And so, today we are thankful for our girl. Our gift from him who restores. While it may feel nearly impossible to "be thankful" for what is occurring in this frustrating moment, we choose to GIVE thanks, intent on setting our hearts above, for our sweet Megan.

 

While we wait for him who restores...

 

#teammaver #eyesup

 

 

Too Complex and Really Hard

Today marks six weeks since my hip replacement. And while still recovering, we have learned my other hip has gone on to collapse, leading to a greater abundance of pain. And so, in two short weeks we will be facing yet another hip replacement surgery. It has come as a huge surprise, having to climb this cruel mountain again so soon. We are weary and worn, fighting off a complete sense of defeat.

 

We received the additional news this week that my lupus is again active, leading to more pain and fatigue. Unfortunately, the meds used to treat it are too severe to be given preoperatively. So we are needing to move forward, despite a flare.

All of this feels too complex. And all of this feels really hard. 

 

I've recently been reminded of the story of Joseph, a man who was sold into slavery by his own brothers. He later went on to spend time in jail for a crime he didn't commit. In his heart he remained faithful to God- though at each turn it seemed God was not hearing his prayers. In fact, not only did it seem God was not hearing him, it seemed for years things were only getting worse.

That was a story I could relate to. As it has seemed the more we pray, the more dismal the picture has become. Rather than getting better, at each turn, I've gotten worse. 

Even so, we can't deny the profound grace felt and the overwhelming sense that we are being carried. 

My house is clean, as a friend has hired someone to clean for us. There is food in our fridge, as friends have generously bonded together to provide a meal delivery service for us. People have prayed, and people have called. And God has met us at each step, providing for our every need. 

In the midst of all our pain, he really does carry our world. 

Joseph's story wasn't finished. In the end, God reunited Joseph with his brothers. Not only that, but he also gave him a position of authority, using him to feed the entire nation of Israel during a famine. 

God had been there the whole time. The whole time he was trustable. The whole time he was working. Orchestrating for greater good. Even in what felt like the dark.

John Newton says, "...everything is needful that he sends; nothing can be needful that he withholds...".

Every. Single. Thing. 

Tim Keller says, "Again and again in the Bible, God shows that he is going to get his salvation done through weakness, not strength, because Jesus will triumph through defeat, will win by losing, he will come down in order to go up. In the same way, we get God's saving power in our life only through the weakness of repentance and trust. And, so often, the grace of God grows more through our difficulties than our triumphs."

And so today we are holding to this promise, believing as stated in John 13:7, "You do not realize what I am doing, but later you will understand"...

 

 

Though He Slay Me

 

 

This past week was not at all expected. My surgery was more difficult than we could have imagined. The spinal anesthesia didn't take, and as a result my muscles were tensed throughout the surgery, causing my surgeon to have to work really hard to pull my muscles apart to get to my hip...This led to more pain than I have ever experienced...and continue to experience. Unfortunately I was not completely out during the surgery, and the numbing the spinal would have provided was not available to me. 

 

We got the terrifying news yesterday that my surgical leg is now longer than the other due to excessive stretching, requiring yet another surgery this coming week. 

 

I don't know why all this is happening. 

Or why it has to be so hard. 

But I do know and believe to my core that our pain is not without a purpose. 

 

Job 13:15 says, "Though he slay me, yet I will trust him." 

 

John Piper says,

• "Not only is all your affliction momentary, not only is all your affliction light in comparison to eternity and the glory there. But all of it is TOTALLY meaningful. Every millisecond of your pain, from the fallen nature or fallen man, every millisecond of your misery in the path of obedience is producing a peculiar glory you will get because of that. I don’t care if it was cancer or criticism. I don’t care if it was slander or sickness. It wasn’t meaningless. It’s doing something! It’s not meaningless. Of course you can’t see what it’s doing. Don’t look to what is seen. When your mom dies, when your kid dies, when you’ve got cancer at 40, when a car careens into the sidewalk and takes her out, don’t say, “That’s meaningless!” It’s not. It’s working for you an eternal weight of glory. Therefore, therefore, do not lose heart. But take these truths and day by day focus on them. Preach them to yourself every morning. Get alone with God and preach his word into your mind until your heart sings with confidence that you are new and cared for."

 

 

I Never Wanted to Become Friends

I never wanted to become friends. Not at 33. I figured we'd probably meet somewhere down the line. But not for many years still. I never wanted to lose my hips. Or my other joints. Not at 33. But the thing is, my God is still here. We can feel his peace, even through all this pain. There is a lot of grey. And a lot of questions. But we can still see marks of his love. We see it in our silly Megan, whose laugh reminds us things aren't as bad as we think they are. And I see it in my guy who loves so selflessly no matter how ugly things get.

 

We have nothing figured out.

 

But we will relentlessly continue to hope in the one who does. 

 

~"For our light and momentary troubles are working for us an eternal glory that far outweighs them all." 2 Corinthians 4 ~

 



Leaning into My Mess

I reluctantly picked this up yesterday. Not exactly a banner day. Megan asked what it was and I told her it was a "cool sticker". The weight of that sticker weighs on me.

 

I think so often when we are faced with difficulties and pain our first reaction is to retract. And run. And get it to stop anyway we can. As soon as possible. Because who wants to suffer?! As a person of faith, I've noted we tend to pray and plead and even beg God to bring relief from the hard thing. Certainly, it is in no way wrong to ask for help. God tells us to call to him and he will answer us. 

 

But the more I face, the more I think by doing ONLY that, we are actually missing the point. Rather than focusing on removal of the uncomfortable hard thing, I think we are actually to LEAN IN. Lean in to the pain. Lean in to the sorrow. Lean in to broken mess of it all. Elisabeth Elliot writes of a gorse bush with thorns stating, "But that flower was to bloom, not in spite of, but BECAUSE of the thorn." It's the leaning in process that gives painful birth to something beautiful. 

Romans 5 says, "We rejoice in our sufferings, because we know that suffering produces perseverance; perseverance, character; and character, hope." A hopeful person is a beautiful person. 

And even more, I think for the first time, I am seeing that leaning in, instead of clawing the sides for escape, there can be peace in uncertainty. 2 Corinthians 12 says, "My grace is SUFFICIENT for you, my power is made perfect in WEAKNESS...That is why I delight in weaknesses...in hardships... in difficulties. For when I am weak, then I am STRONG." I've heard this verse a thousand times, but by leaning in, I really have come to see where true strength lies. I've spent years placing my confidence in my career, academic achievements, athletic ability and even looks. But with all of that taken away, I am finally coming to see it is no longer me, the 'strong independent woman', but God IN me, making me strong. And that is not at all dependent on physical ability. 

Many have said "God will not give us more than we can handle, so he must trust me an awful lot!". I believe God absolutely gives us more than we can handle! Giving us what we could handle would leave no room for faith. 

And faith is a beautiful thing. 

During the difficult painful times and seeming 'showers' of adversity also comes rain to water our dry souls. 

If we let it. 

We always have a choice. 

Adversity changes nothing about God's character. It only changes us. By leaning in to God, these showers can become something beautiful. Something life giving. Something eternal. That no physical limitation can squelch.

Lamentations 3 says, "The Lord is good to those whose hope is in him; it is good to wait quietly for the salvation of the Lord...Let him sit alone in silence, for the Lord has laid it on him...For men are not cast off by the Lord forever. Though he brings grief, he WILL show compassion, so great is his unfailing love." 

"You who have shown me great and severe troubles shall revive me again and bring me up from the depths of the earth." Ps 71:20

 

 



Shattering Bones

News of avascular necrosis and hearing the shattering words that my "bones are dying" in my hips and likely elsewhere has been a hard reality to swallow. Lupus (and the meds used to treat it) have taken so so much from us, and continue to take more. Right now there is a lot of bone pain and resultant disability. We are facing many possible joint replacement surgeries and even more, just a grieving sense of loss. Loss of our youth. Loss of our desperate hopes for a bigger family. Loss of many of the things we used to enjoy doing together (running, going to the gym, tennis, walks ect). As we have watched things decline over the past few weeks, I have truly never understood more these verses or found more peace from these words. There is hope for a beautiful life. In pain his grace is no longer a "nice" word. Rather, his grace is something that comes alive. It has searched out our hurting hearts to bring comfort. And it has burst into our home to calm our weary souls. His grace sits with us in our pain and speaks to us songs of deliverance. Somehow in spite of all the ugliness and sorrow, we can feel his peace.

He really does carry our world.