Is That Really Necessary God?

Yesterday I caught a few sweet moments of peace, as the boys napped simultaneously in their cribs for a full thirty minutes. It wasn’t much, but the bliss of silence calmed my heart almost instantly. I crawled into my bed, pulling the white down comforter up close, as the fall sun shone through the room, softly illuminating the shadows while the brightness of the changing leaves danced before my window. Those few quiet moments left alone with my thoughts felt glorious, even restorative.

As I closed my eyes, I began to think about the word joy. What if joy were like an arrow? The thought caught me off guard, as I’ve always seen joy as an “extra” in my Christian walk. What I REALLY needed was for God to get me through. To help me endure the really hard things. If he sent joy too, great! But I guess I’d always seen joy as one of those flashy (potentially annoying to others) accessories you sometimes put on once you’ve already picked out your outfit. It wasn’t necessary or even all that helpful aside from an emotional boost here or there or the occasional warm and fuzzy feeling. Joy was something adorned by those more expressive and free with their emotions. But was it helpful?

Perhaps the haze of twin parenting had caught up with me. The boys will be nine months this week and still aren’t sleeping through the night. The fatigue I had so hoped to circumvent has caught up to me. And then some. And with it has followed cruel and unrelenting lupus. Burning rashes have made their way back to my hands that have begun to ache, and sores have found their way back into my mouth. My hair hasn’t stopped thinning since I delivered the boys, and I’m now clearly beyond the time frame for postpartum hair loss. My prednisone dose continues to rise and with that so also the scale. Moreover, the chemo I received two months ago has done nothing to abate my stirring disease.

Things seemed to be heading in the wrong direction again. Why would I care about something so seemingly trivial as joy?

In the book of Nehemiah, the governor at the time (Nehemiah), tells the people not to grieve but to be encouraged, “for the joy of the Lord will be your strength” (Neh 8:10). Anyone who has spent any time in Christian circles has likely heard this verse. On repeat. Seen (and potentially even bought) the bumper sticker. But if we’re being honest, I’ve always secretly cringed at this verse. (Yes, I have a long way to go.) It has always felt so superfluous and intangible. How would being giddy help me? How would flitting about make my lupus any better? How would it make me a better mom or wife?

But maybe, joy had a different definition. One not so dependent on mood swings or personality types. I feared joy to be fleeting, easily turning sour at the next bump in the road.

And I had known too many bumps.

Sure, I had heard the adage that “joy is not about our emotions”, but what does that even mean? By taking away the emotional aspect, I found the term to be even more vague and elusive.

The Hebrew dictionary defines joy as “blithesomeness, glee or exceeding gladness”.

Exceeding gladness. I could use some of that in my life.

See, joy, I believe God has been showing me, is a posture of the heart.

“The joy of the Lord will be my strength” (emphasis mine).

And where there is strength, there is power.

Romans 15:13 says, “May the God of hope fill you with all joy and peace in believing, so that by the power of the Holy Spirit you may abound in hope. “

With his power comes hope.

Hope was something I could hang onto.

What if his joy really was like an arrow? What if joy, rather than being swayed by emotion, was actually a powerful force used by God to target and destroy things like hopelessness? What if it was a heavenly weapon used to shoot holes in the depression in our lives? What if it was a gift used to pierce the lie that “things will never get better”? What if it was a fiery missile used to annihilate the lie that we “are all alone”?

In 1 Thessalonians, Paul writes to the church saying, “you received the word in much affliction, with the joy of the Holy Spirit”.

Even with affliction there can be joy.

Even with chronic illness there can be joy.

Even with loss there can be joy.

In God’s turned upside-down kingdom where the small will be great and the weak are the strong, his joy is found in abundance. And so, I will sing with joy every day that I am alive. Because he is faithful when I am faithless. Because he is fighting for me beyond what I can see. And because he is speaking to my heart in a million little ways if I would just quiet my mind and my heart long enough to listen.

*Breathe in: Merciful Father,

Breathe out: Send strength.

Breathe in: My Provider,

Breathe out: Send peace.

Breathe in: Gracious Holy Spirit,

Breathe out: Send JOY.

~“In his presence there is fullness of joy.” Psalm 16:11~

*Prayer style adopted from “Loving My Actual Life”.

Honest Talk

 

The boys will be eight months next week. And if we’re being honest I have tried and failed *many* times in working toward a healthy eating and exercise plan since their birth. It has taken all the energy I have and then some to get to this point. And while I couldn’t be more thankful for my precious boys, I recognize my own need to live more graciously not only toward others- but even more so, toward myself.

I find myself struggling through a minor flare, requiring more prednisone and watching the scale move in the opposite direction. My inner voice reels with shame as I watch the numbers rise. And while my rational mind knows there are some things I just *cannot* control, I find myself too often affected by it all. Is it possible that God is showing me through my own struggle that I am *still* not in control? That perhaps I still haven’t quite grasped the lesson? Cough...previously, refused the lesson...#honesttalk

I *often* wonder if this apparent roadblock was put here for good. I cringe as I write these words knowing just how many times I have stubbornly crashed into said roadblock headfirst. Willpower! Determination! That was I all I needed to succeed, I felt. The thing is I had all the determination in the world. But my body. It had other plans. I have learned that this body of mine is intolerant to most diets and all forms of extreme exercise. I realize this may not be a big deal to most, but for a former college athlete who has found therapy and release and even *joy* in exercise most of her life, it comes as a frustrating loss.

Despite my best efforts the majority of diets I have tried have landed me in a flare- leading to more prednisone- leading to more weight gain. It’s been an exhausting cycle of disappointment and despair. But this morning I was reminded of a God who takes that which was meant for evil and uses it for *our* good. Could that be the case here? Could he be working an eternal weight of glory in me, if I CHOOSE to let him? Oh how many times I have chosen myself instead.

Maybe sharpening me on the inside is what actually counts. Maybe this wall I keep hitting, preventing me from any “progress” is a blessing. A blessing with regard to eternity. Because maybe this sharpening, this friction is something that will bring me closer to him and a little less focused on myself. Maybe the fit moms in heaven will be the ones who look a little worn and soft here on earth. Maybe they’ll be the ones a little less concerned with selfies and six packs and perhaps a little more concerned with *allowing* themselves to be inwardly sharpened, no matter how painful it may be.

I’m praying today that as I move toward a healthier beginning my internal self would shine a little brighter regardless of what happens on the outside.

Be reminded today that he really does redeem ALL things for good.

If we let him.

#momthoughts #lupus #honesttalk

 

Collapsed Hips and a Double Blessing: A Year in Review

 

It’s hard to believe that one year ago today I entered Griffin Hospital by wheelchair for what would unknowingly be the darkest time in our lives. I didn’t know as I entered the double doors and was wheeled through the lackluster hospital corridors that we had simultaneously entered into a time of sorrow and perpetual loss that would far extend beyond that particular day.

 



Oblivious to what was ahead and assuming the worst had already transpired in requiring a hip replacement at such a young age, we certainly couldn’t have predicted a botched replacement and the need for me to endure the same grueling surgery not one week later.



 

We couldn’t have predicted that pain relief measures would be altogether ineffective and that the pain I had been experiencing in my hips would soon be considered negligible compared to the pain I would all too soon come to know.


 

 

We hadn’t considered the possibility that my “good” hip would go on to collapse (despite assurances that it would last for years to come) a short four weeks after my other leg had been repaired.

 

Nor did we foresee a brutal fourth surgery for an infection of my newly repaired hip.

 

 



Was this real life?

Sure, we had grown accustomed to loss over the past years in battling my lupus and all that came with it. We were no strangers to too many medications, waiting rooms and IV infusions; but this hit on a whole different level.

Feeling utterly stripped of any and all possibly remnants of hope, it seemed all-consuming loss had come to stay. And destroy everything in its path.

And even as the physical pain ever so slowly began to subside, there lie an inner ache that lingered far longer than I would have liked. It was a mourning, not only for the physical loss that we had endured, but also for the loss of what we believed our lives ‘would be’.

For years I watched as others went on to grow their families. I envied those whose dinner tables were filled with the hustle and bustle of raising larger families. We had our girl, and yes, she was our whole world. Her sweet and cheerful personality more than filled our home. Even still, a small part of my heart ached.

I knew perhaps I shouldn’t feel this way. Guilt poured over me in recognizing the countless women who so struggled to have even one child. Who was I to be discontent with what God had given?

Psalm 23:1 says, “The Lord is my shepherd; I shall not want.”

I shall NOT want. I wrestled with those words, feeling my own heart did want. I wanted to be healed. I wanted to be free from medical problems. I wanted my pain to end. I wanted another baby!

But God was reminding me he was in fact my shepherd. My good shepherd. All I needed to do was to trust him. To trust that he actually was good. Even in unimaginable pain. He was good. Even in what felt like the dark. He was good. And he was trustable.

Charles Spurgeon says, “To trust God in the light is nothing, but trust him in the dark- that is faith.”

Numerous times we prayed for another child, knowing full well the odds were not in our favor. Three times in particular I laid in bed next to my husband, watching him while he slept, listening to the peaceful rhythm of his breathing.

I had always found the quiet of the night a good time to pray. Really pray. As the noise of the day was at last silenced, my distracted heart could finally think clearly. I began to ask God for twins. I knew it was ridiculous as soon as I prayed it. And I didn’t dare tell my husband for fear that if we were by some chance to become pregnant that he would have some sense of sadness that it was one baby and not two.

I knew there were days where I could barely handle being a mom to one! Why would God give us two? I needed to stop being selfish, I told myself. And so, as quickly as my prayers came, I let them go.

Some time passed, and to our surprise my rheumatologist informed us that even with my new artificial hips it would be okay to try for another baby. He went on to say that my lupus had stabilized to a satisfactory extent and that it would be best to try sooner rather than later in consideration for the timing of my next infusion.

Was this really happening?

Were we really going to try for another baby?

In hearing his words, it was as if a huge sorrow had been lifted from our shoulders. A sorrow we no longer had to carry, as that which we had grieved and considered lost was suddenly being given back to us. And then some.

We began to try for a short month, but it was not without much reservation and deliberation. As excited as we were to have the clearance from my rheumatologist to try for another, we couldn’t ignore our experience with my first pregnancy which had been grueling from beginning to end with many unwanted and scary complications. Were we willing to go through that again? Were we emotionally strong enough to endure another high-risk pregnancy in light of what we had just endured these past months?

We couldn’t be sure.

And the more we talked, the more we realized that perhaps the risk just wasn’t worth it. More, Matt expressed grave concerns for my health, for fear that our desire to have another baby could potentially leave our children without a mother.

I knew his fears were not something I could brush off, rationalize or ignore. I knew life with lupus meant great unpredictability, complications and sometimes poor outcomes. I knew many young girls with lupus had been taken ‘before their time’ so to speak.

And with that, we decided to pursue another avenue: Foster to Adopt. I delved into the Connecticut Child and Family Services website, learning all that I could. I spoke to social workers. I learned about classes. I learned about becoming licensed with the state. It all seemed exciting and new. I went on to sign us up for an open house where we could get the process started. And two days before we were to attend the open house, we received some news.

I was pregnant.

My hands shook as I held the white stick closer to my face, staring intently at the dark pink line. There was no mistaking it. My heart pounded in my chest as I attempted to grasp what that fully meant for my husband and I beyond that terrifying and thrilling moment.

I called him immediately, as he was away on business. There was no way I could wait another second. We both rejoiced and freaked out. And rejoiced and freaked out again.

But what would the picture look like now?

Proverbs 10:22 says, “The blessing of the Lord makes a person rich, and he adds no sorrow to it.”

NO sorrow. Those were words I could hang on to. As fearful as we were for another difficult pregnancy, and as fragile as we were having come through so much, we knew ultimately another pregnancy was a gift from the Lord. And with that, an unexplainable peace rested over my heart.

I knew this verse was for me.

As the days passed, I found myself utterly amazed by this body of mine that I felt had once so betrayed me, this what felt to be ’90-year-old’ encasing was now carrying NEW life. Miraculous new life. It felt as if God had set the reset button on the script to our lives, and the youthful years we had considered lost were being restored.

Deuteronomy 30:3,4 says, “God, your God, will restore everything you lost; he’ll have compassion on you; he’ll come back and pick up the pieces from all the places where you were scattered. No matter how far away you end up, God, your God, will get you out of there…”

One week later we nervously entered the obstetrician’s office for what would be our first ultrasound. We took our seats in the carpeted waiting room filled with floral pictures hung from the walls. Beside me sat a pregnant woman in a green dress who appeared ready for delivery at any moment. As we sat I found my racing heart was quickly distracted by the hustle and bustle of secretaries answering phones and women of all ages entering and leaving the office.

Five minutes later my name was called by a woman in navy scrubs carrying a thin chart. We quickly followed her down a pink hallway and into the ultrasound room. We knew today was an important ultrasound. We knew today the technician would assess for fetal heartbeat and viability.

I scooted myself onto the exam table, noting the loud crunch of white paper beneath me, anxious to begin the exam. As I laid back, I glanced over to my husband, noting his excited toothy grin which instantly put me at ease. I knew another pregnancy was an answer to prayer for him as well. And it was good to see him happy again.

A few minutes passed, and I began conversing with the blonde ultrasound technician who wore a kind smile. As we spoke I went on to ask her, “If there’s twins in there, would you be able to tell?”, to which she replied, “Oh yes!”

I exhaled deeply and watched her as she began to place the probe, studying her face carefully for any cues as to what she was seeing. We listened with nervous anticipation as she silently typed on her computer, and then suddenly her expression changed, and her eyes widened. In that instant she turned the screen 180 degrees in our direction announcing, “You’re HAVING twins!”

What?

This couldn’t be happening!

Matt and I looked at each other in shocked exuberance, both now taking deep breaths in and out while repeating to each other, “Oh my gosh!!”

I watched my husband begin to leap up and down with joy, dumb-founded by our glorious news.

Tears began to flow down my face, and a warm feeling came over me in realizing God had HEARD my prayer. AND he had answered it.



So many times over the past year I had cried out to God and pleaded with him for relief and escape. And it seemed things only worsened. There were times I wondered if God was listening to me at all. But this time. This time God had honored my prayer. This time he was showing me he had heard me all along.

He had heard every single one of my prayers.

And so, here we are today, in our twenty-third week, knowing in a few short weeks we will be entering into our third and final trimester.



There have been no complications for the babies or myself. Despite being told by physicians that “one pregnancy often mimics another with regard to autoimmune disease”, we have found this pregnancy to be entirely different.

Entirely blessed.

Entirely miraculous.

“For these children I prayed, and the Lord has given me my petition which I asked of him. Therefore, also I have lent them to the Lord; as long as they live, they shall be lent to the Lord.” 1 Samuel 1:27-28
 

 

New Life

As spring draws to a close, we can't help but exhale the unexpected breeze of serene restoration that has been wafting so sweetly through our home, its warm gusts felt in each room. For the first time in years, I am down on my prednisone. For the first time in years, I am feeling...well. Is that possible? I had long forgotten how to live a 'normal' day. How to go from one place to the next without having to physically pay for it over the subsequent weeks. For the first time in as long as I can remember, the light behind my husband's eyes has returned. His once furrowed brow has softened, and the tenseness of his posture has relaxed. He is laughing again. And we are...happy. 

Happy, while such a fleeting feeling, has been one that I had forgotten how to feel, almost not knowing what to do with what has felt like this new lease on life. Even if short lived, we are so grateful for each moment that passes, each moment that we can be together. 

 

There are still bumps and will likely always be. My hips do still hurt regularly, a frustration I may just need to come to terms with for the long haul. Even so, the heaviness we once knew seems to be fading with each passing day, and with it, the fear that more pain and heartache is cruelly waiting for us around every corner. 

 

Instead, an unexpected rain has showered over the once cracked desert of our lives, its water soaking through to the deepest and most pained places. Once parched and lifeless, our God has brought healing to my body, and even more, to our hearts.

 

Isaiah 41:18 says, "I will make rivers flow on barren heights, and springs within the valleys. I will turn the desert into pools of water, and the parched ground into springs."

 

That which I had long given up on has been restored. And then some. For with Him, and in Him and through Him is LIFE. Meaningful, painful, gloriously beautiful, unexplainable life. 

 

And because he is the giver of all good gifts, never short-handed but full of grace, he has surprised us once again...with new life.

February 2018

 

 

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”.

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

“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.

 

 

The View Through a Different Lens



It was a cool Sunday morning in mid-March. The sun deceptively shone, its rays seen but not felt by its onlookers. Any warmth offered was all too quickly swept up by the lingering wintry breeze that persistently rustled through the leafless trees. We had just left church, and Matt suggested we go to a local vineyard. I was hungry and figured a glass of wine on top of an empty stomach wouldn’t bode well. Still, he persisted, telling me he had packed some cheese and crackers, stating, “It will be fine,” to which I conceded.

Thirty minutes or so later we pulled down a long dirt drive, taking in the rich sight of vines with newly sprouted buds, a promising sign of a nearing spring. Soon all would be in full bloom, succulent grapes and flashes of green leaves bursting in every direction. As we continued I noted a small and picturesque pond in the distance, its waters calm and tranquil. Nearby sat a small wooden bench positioned on a wooden deck adjacent to the pond. I wondered who had previously sat in that bench, imagining an older couple coming to sit and take in the view hand in hand year after year.

As we reached the top of the driveway I felt my eyes widen in taking in the majestic sight. A large and enchanting stone building stood before us with an attached trellis, vines elegantly hanging from above. I knew we had climbed considerably in terms of elevation, and as we exited the car I was suddenly aware that we could see for miles.

As we entered the rustic building we made our way across the room to purchase a bottle of wine, and Matt asked if I would like to go outside and walk around while we drink our wine. Feeling charmed by the warmth of the nearby fireplace, I hesitated. Still, I could see on his face that he was really up for a walk so I agreed, hoping it would be a short one.

As we made our way back outside I immediately began to regret my outfit choice earlier that morning. I closed my jean jacket as best I could against my tank top and began to parade my ballet-slippered feet across the grass. As we began walking I couldn’t help but note a large amount of goose feces sprinkled across the grass. I hopped this way and that as we made our way out in an effort to avoid soiling my now seemingly ridiculous shoes, each moment becoming more and more disgruntled.

It wasn’t long before the grumbling ensued. I was cold. And there was poop everywhere. And he needed to know it.

He just smiled and handed me his jacket, completely unbothered by my worsening attitude.

After a few more minutes of walking, he stopped and inquired if I would like some more wine. I agreed.

“Anything to warm me up!” I silently grumbled.

I quickly turned to give him my glass and to my surprise and shock instead of a wine bottle in his hands, he held up a small box. Suddenly aware he had unknowingly gotten down on one knee (and before I could pull a coherent thought together), I glanced at his glowing face, noting a smile ear-to-ear and heard him say, “Will you marry me?”

My eyes instantly widened with delight, and I felt myself put both hands over my mouth and jump three steps backward. Was this really happening? Was this really happening to me?

I suddenly felt like I was in a dream. More, I had prided myself on being a fairly good detective and generally aware of whereabouts of my partner when we were not together. When did he plan this? How did I not know?

Overjoyed, I accepted happily; and he went on to tell me that our families were going to be meeting us at a restaurant to celebrate the day.

I later learned he had met with my father to ask his permission, to which my dad happily agreed.

I had never felt more loved, cherished or excited as I did on that special day.

The following months flew by with excitement and great anticipation for our big day. I felt the cloud that had long followed me had cleared, and suddenly life was viewed through a different lens. One I had not previously seen through. This new lens was full of love and hope and giddy excitement. The kind of bursting emotions the rest of the world generally loosely tolerates when two people are newly in love.

The world, it seemed, was once again at my fingertips; and I was overjoyed to be living in it with my very best friend.

More, lupus was becoming but a distant memory.

There were days, yes, when I would stay in bed after having been out all day the day prior with him. I sometimes secretly wondered if I could keep up. Keep up with all the living there was to be done. I was bound to make it work somehow. To make the pieces fit as I believed they should.

He was careful with me, yes. Though still actively learning about the nuances of chronic disease.

The real sickness though, the months in pain and in bed were growing smaller and smaller in the distance. Perhaps I had paid my dues. Learned my lessons so to speak and put in my time. Was there such a thing?

I couldn’t be sure.

All I did know is that I had known a lot of bad days. And I was sure as heck going to hold on to these good ones for as long as they would stay.