in this, we rejoice

I really really don’t have time to write this post this morning, but some ideas God just sticks in your heart, and those ideas - they rub together and ignite a flame, and that smoke-smell hits your nose, and where there’s smoke, well....

{ Five minutes. I’ll write this in five minutes. }

I had an excision this week. It was the second of two procedures springing from that one night I brushed my hair back and noticed a spot on my scalp and freaked out and showed my mother who freaked out and insisted we show my Lyme doctor who freaked out and sent me to a dermatologist who showed her P.A. who scheduled an appointment and grabbed a knife and cut it out.

During the excision, when the first shot of anesthesia pierced my skin and that tiny piece of flesh was scraped out, I bit my tongue to avoid speaking out loud what I was thinking: the frustration, the ache that something else was being taken away. It stung. As the nurse came into apply the bandage, I rolled onto my side and prayed, Lord, you know what it was like when Lyme entered in and you know how it's robbed these years of my life, so now - why are you letting something like this happen again?

{ Three minutes } 

This morning, almost a full week after the surgery, I listened to the book of 1 Peter and picked up coffee and dropped off jackets and -okay - just looked for an excuse to drive around in the rain.

And this morning, I heard the trickle of tears flowing behind the words of the letter, a letter written to exiles, people who didn’t just have an inkling of what it meant to lose something: but who knew what it was like to lose it all.

Peter’s words - I’ve always wondered if maybe he was just penning drama the way he described the inheritance  that belongs to those who have been born again:

“...imperishable, undefiled, and unfading, kept in heaven for you...” 

But this morning, I heard it: the emphasis on the living hope these people could grab onto without fear that it would suddenly slip through their fingers. God knew the lives of these people: He knew what they needed to hear. He knew how they had hurt because their lives had changed, and how they felt like they had nothing left on this earth. He knew they needed something to hold onto, so He gave them the most glorious promise to claim as theirs. They were a people grieving losses, but in this they rejoiced.

{ Thirty seconds }

The stunning beauty of these words sinks into my soul, filling all of the hollow spaces carved out from the losses of the years. “Though you have not seen Him, you love Him” – would these words penetrate as deeply as they do now if I hadn't gone through the seasons of stripping away? Merciful God, that He would take what Satan meant for evil and use it to bring forth inexpressible joy -

In this, I rejoice.

{ Three... two... one... }

Blessed be the God and Father of our Lord Jesus Christ! According to His great mercy, He has caused us to be born again to a living hope through the resurrection of Jesus Christ from the dead, to an inheritance that is imperishable, undefiled, and unfading, kept in heaven for you, who by God's power are being guarded through faith for a salvation ready to be revealed in the last time. In this you rejoice, though now for a little while, if necessary, you have been grieved by various trials, so that the tested genuineness of your faith—more precious than gold that perishes though it is tested by fire—may be found to result in praise and glory and honor at the revelation of Jesus Christ. Though you have not seen Him, you love Him. Though you do not now see Him, you believe in Him and rejoice with joy that is inexpressible and filled with glory.... ~ 1 Peter 1:3-8

a quick post because

I can’t read through messages from fellow cluster headache patients without sobbing. One guys says the episodes are destroying his life. One girl says all she does is cry. And they write these notes and ask if I can take away their pain, if I know how to stop the cycles, if I can make their lives better -- and I used to think I couldn’t offer them anything, but God is showing me that Christ is a gift and He's everything.

Pain’s universal. This doesn’t just apply to sickness. The places in our hearts where hurt cuts deep are the very holes that God fills back up with purpose, with Christ, when we let Him. And this hollowness caused by disappointment can be filled with grace. Grace that pours peace in our souls and shows us the way Christ heals. Sometimes, it’s not the way we want. But there’s never an “in vain” when you’re “in Christ,” and in our suffering, we are free to cling to Him and find all we need to endure - because Jesus suffered first. 

And just... this - He is the answer you've been trying to find. Hold tight to Him, friend. It won't be much longer.

Blessed is the man who remains steadfast under trial, for when he has stood the test he will receive the crown of life, which God has promised to those who love him. ~ James 1:12

anxiety and elephants

Last night, my symptoms flared up and brought on the most severe pain I have experienced since the treatment began. This morning, I woke with hurt dissipated, a new phase of illness begun. How do you describe this period, these moments between episodes, this pause between pain that may be for a moment, that may last for a lifetime?

People keep checking in, trying to find my head in all of this waiting. I’ve transcribed some of the most recent conversations and divided them into a handful of posts. But this feeling that’s creeping in now, this creature that’s dripping drool on my toes and panting in anticipation of my standing up and dealing with it?

I can only describe it this way :

Imagine a woman. A woman who walks into a room. A woman who walks into a room, a room that’s less than ordinary, a Pinterest portal: Anthropologie meets Martha Stewart meets HGTV meets Barbie Dream House.

(I digress.)

Imagine a woman walks into a room: she steps onto cold hardwood floors and feels a dark presence, a deep shadow, wrap around her shoulders. She looks toward the hallway, but the shadow has passed.

The owner of the house walks into the room and takes no notice of the woman’s startled demeanor. He beckons the woman to pay special attention to the new piece of art flown in  from one of those European countries that everyone considers the authority on paint splattered in the shapes of circles and squares.

The woman stares at the owner of the house, watches the owner’s face for some acknowledgement of what is looming outside the room, but the owner smiles and nods in the direction of the canvas. The woman blinks and follows the owner’s outstretched arm to the finger tracing the patterns placed before them. The two stand together before the wall, heads nodding to a rhythm as rehearsed as society itself, until the shadow returns, falling across the picture before them.

The woman pales. She drops gaze to the ground as the shadow covers her toes. A piece of glass hits the floor and flies at her ankle, fragments of a vase knocked off a shelf by the creature stomping in behind her. Her hands fly up to her face and start waving frantically back and forth as she tries to catch her breath. She places one hand against the wall to steady herself and turns slowly to look the creature in the face.

She inhales at the sight of it, and her hand moves from the wall to the painting. As her weight shifts to rest against the frame, she stutters, “It’s… it’s –“

The owner brushes glass aside with his foot, exhaling annoyance. “Ma’am, could you please keep your fingers off the painting?”

The words don’t make it to the woman before she takes her hand off the painting and steps toward the creature. She tilts her head and leans in closer. She turns back to the owner, “It’s a –“

“This piece right here has always been one of my favorites.” The owner moves to a sculpture in the far corner of the room. Behind her, the creature winks. The woman looks at the owner, and then back at the creature looming above her, and then towards the owner’s turned back.

The woman stops the conversation and puts a hand on her hip. “Yes. It’s lovely. Now could you tell me about the pink elephant in the room?”

"Oh, you saw that?"
--

This over-sized monster known as fear that waddles in as soon as the possibility of pain approaches?  Right. About that... I had planned to ignore it, but it's hard to miss, inconspicuous as a neon behemoth standing in an empty room.

But did you see the sky today? I think it might rain.

And those strawberries in the fridge are finally ripe.

The Olympics? You’ve been watching, right? Phenomenal. Really.

And that pink elephant? Yeah, I guess it’s still there. Staining the rug. Keeping everyone from sleeping.

I’d like to think it will find its way back out the door if I sort of walk away from it and just let it be. Let it stay for now.

But it’s in the stillness of the night that its presence drapes over my body, and I close one eye so that it appears to move farther away - then I close the other eye – nearfarnearnearfarnearfar -, but then it sits on my chest, and it sure does weigh a lot, and it seems like that petting-zoo smell might get trapped in the sheets, so I sit up, and here we are.

I’ve been here before.

When pain starts up, everything within me begs for God to make it stop. When the pain stops, I celebrate. It’s in this place that I am able to catch my breath, but I don’t take off my shoes in case I need to run again. But it's not easy to sleep when you don't take off your shoes.

This fear of the pain returning buries deep: it’s become a disease fed by my illness. It wraps greedy fingers around my heart and festers with promises to kill, steal, destroy the steady peace God so readily supplies.

This fear, it’s multifaceted, but it's more than a mere dread of facing a hurting body once again. Bruises and blood, suffering, stress: I’ve survived enough to warrant breaking into a Kelly Clarkson song every now and then. Sure, God alone sustained me, but my pride would have you know I’m a survivor. What doesn’t kill me makes me stronger. Strong-er. Me. Myself. and I.

This fear, it showcases how much I depend on myself and how little I depend on God. God, who runs an entire universe. Katie, who can’t remember where the car is parked.

And I’ve noticed that this fear hides itself in church-talk. It can be seen in reluctance, a heavy-hearted submission when it’s time to address the trials in life. Like, when people say they’re accepting their suffering because it’s what God has planned, but they say it slow, and you can see them in the middle of their situation, comforted as a cat in a car wash?

An enormous difference exists between begrudgingly submitting and willingly accepting what God wills.

And the pink elephant returns.

This fear of what my future holds, this fear of pain coming back, it doesn’t even live inside the “begrudging submission” bucket. It corrodes the edge, discontent and unbelief spilled over and out, building disgusting rot.

This fear shows where my heart is, exactly what I’m thinking about God. It shows the mistakes in my mindset: the errors that encourage me to believe that God lacks the resources to carry me through another bad night, the lies that like to make my Lord out to be a God of scarcity instead of abundance.  

This fear, it tries to trick me into thinking that God does not know what is best for my life and that He won’t be near when troubles start again. This fear, it feeds on the idea that God will draw near in my trouble, but when the pain comes, He won’t be able to handle it.

These fears, they’re overwhelming in the dark. Their shadows worm their way into my room and stretch to the ceiling in overwhelming greatness. Lights turned on, they disappear. The substance of the Light absorbs them: not one shadow is left to dance over me.

My God – He is removing all of my anxiety this way. In gracious love, He illuminates His Word so it glows with the truth of who He is. When my fear begins to make shadow-puppets on the wall of my heart and when dread argues that God will not be able to deliver me from upcoming battles, God shines light and the shadows disappear and He whispers, “Oh yeah? Try me.” 

I called on Your name, Yahweh, from the depths of the Pit. You hear my plea: ... You come near when I call on You; You say: 'Do not be afraid.' ~ Lamentations 3:55-58