A Long Road to Joy

            Every Sunday, an enthusiastic greeter at Colby Wesleyan Church met me at the door: “Good morning, Janis!  How are you today?”

            “Hanging in there” was my standard grim reply.

            Single parenting was simply too hard for me.  Constantly overwhelmed and always lonely, I trudged through the routine of each weekday:  taking my daughter and son to school, teaching at Colby Community College, picking them up after work from day care (until they were old enough to go home alone), and straightening out squabbles between the two in the evening.  Yes, how I loved my kids with everything I had, but how exhausting solo parenting proved to be.

            What I see now from a perspective of years is that I was—and had been—in the throes of significant depression for a long time.  Eventually I was prescribed antidepressant medication.  It helped, but joy still eluded me.

            During those single parenting years, I clung fiercely to Jesus.  He kept me going day after day, week after week, month after month, and year after year.  Sunday mornings were my oasis of fellowship, Bible study, and worship.  I had a few friends.  I bragged on my children’s successes and agonized over their problems.  I mostly enjoyed my job. 

            I served in various church capacities, participated in worship, and maintained personal devotional times for the most part.  God grew me.  He was faithful in every way.  Yet eventually, out of personal pain, I started turning my back on Him.  Instead of clinging to Him, I doubted His goodness.  I alienated my teenage son and college-age daughter through my ill-advised second marriage.  Still, Jesus loved me even when I did not love Him.

            It wasn’t until I moved to Whidbey Island, Washington in 2008 that joy began to invade my life.  Becoming my mother’s primary caregiver was a cakewalk compared to what I had lived through in recent years. My brother and I shared responsibilities, we lived in a gorgeous setting, and the three of us got along well. 

            I can’t really say how joy took over.  I joined a church choir, and the music reached my inner being even while my mind still fought and struggled with gospel truths.  The pastor of Whidbey Presbyterian Church handed me a lifeline in the form of a Stephen Minister, who mentored me and became a close friend. Choir kept me going to church faithfully, and the twenty-mile scenic drive to get there wowed me with its natural beauty.  In multiple small ways, God brought emotional healing into my life, and with it, joy.

            God’s love conquered my heart’s defenses.  His faithfulness rebuilt my trust in Him.  His creation proclaimed His glory.  My Savior’s redeeming love, goodness, holiness, and faithfulness overcame my grumbling and replaced it with gratitude.  God IS good, and I can join the psalmist in exclaiming, “Shout praises to the LORD!  He is good to us, and his love never fails” (Psalm 107:1, CEV).   

Occasional Housekeeper

            At best, I am an occasional housekeeper.  For days, weeks, even months at a time, I easily ignore the dust bunnies that multiply as fast as real rabbits.  Dishes and laundry are my specialty, but beyond that my house tends to be gritty and gray around the edges.

            However, there have been times in my life in which I have applied hard work and determination to make my home an oasis instead of a dusty desert.  Sometimes months pass in which I exercise excellent habits and maintain a place for everything and everything in its place.  But just when I begin to believe that I have turned a corner, it fills up with dust and clutter.

            Saturday morning, after buying two dozen eggs and a bag of cucumbers at the farmer’s market, I decided to cruise around town.  At an estate sale, a bright purple and turquoise butterfly comforter and sheet set caught my eye.  Occasionally over the past few years, I have looked for new bedding, but never found something that wowed me.  Perhaps I should wonder why I am drawn to the bright colors featured in pre-teen décor, but never mind that. 

            One thing leads to another, they say, and that’s what happened Saturday afternoon. Because the old hot pink and lime green valance did not match the new colors, I was inspired to hang the light-blocking drapes that have waited patiently in the hall closet for several years.  The next thing I knew, I was cleaning out my closet, dusting under the bed, changing out the funky antique California orange crates for an end table, and taking down pictures that clashed with my new bedding. 

            That evening I felt the satisfying fatigue that follows hard work.  My heart was seized with gratitude.  Not so long ago, a few hours of cleaning and rearranging was an impossible dream because of my poor health.  For the ability to spend an afternoon doing occasional housework, I give God thanks.

Port Removal

            I yell at the first slice, and the surgeon promptly doses me up with more local anesthetic.  Since the area is already mostly numb, the bee sting effect is muted.

            The nurse has already warned me about the pulling and tugging and pressure, so I am not surprised.  However, I cannot get the chest x-ray out of my mind.  Never--before or since the port placement under sedation just over two years ago--have I considered how long the tubing is.  Seeing it extend from the port just under my right clavicle, down the jugular vein, and past the bottom of my right lung unnerves me.  Pull and tug, pull and tug, and then pressure applied to my neck to prevent jugular bleeding.  I try to concentrate on slow, deep breathing instead of the long tubing.

            The outpatient surgery is done.  The second x-ray is taken, and I am glad to see for myself that the tubing is gone.  But I am still shaken as the nurse walks me back out to the waiting room. 

It’s like old times, proffering my arm to the familiar face at the radiology front desk to have her snip off my wristband.  I compliment her on her new (to me at least) hairstyle, and she is happy to see me.  We high-five over the port removal, and then my friend Mona and I are on our way, first to the check-out counter where I receive my six-month and one-year appointment times, then out to my car and down the highway to Owasso and lunch.

Today, two days since the event, the incision site still hurts, and I am still somewhat shaken.  Seared on my inner vision, the x-ray image of that long and snaky tubing still unnerves me.  In the effort to de-traumatize myself, I’ve thought of all kinds of wordplay to describe Monday’s procedure:  I was de-ported.  I am port-less.  I can refer to my ex-port while examining its import on my life.  Funny that the smallest and last bit of my cancer treatment experience has turned out to be traumatic after all the big and hard parts that stretched out over most of a year. 

Now I understand even more of how amazing God’s presence has been during my cancer treatment.  He gave me peace during all the truly difficult times:  diagnosis, waiting, chemotherapy, pneumonia, surgery, and radiation.  My quarterly check-ups since then have been marked by happiness to see those lovely souls I recognize: check-in staff, technicians, nurses, doctors.  Knowing that God is in control and trusting myself to His will, whatever that may entail, provides peace that banishes fear.  He will help me learn from this tiny bit of trauma, and I thank Him for extending my life.

Dear Anne

Dear Anne,

It’s almost nine years since you took your last breath and flew off to meet Jesus.  I’ve never stopped missing you.

Remember your little black rolling bag that you took to conferences?  I’ve had that bag these nine years and only used it a few times. But recently, as a newly hired adjunct for Rogers State University-Bartlesville, I started using it to transport my notebooks and textbooks for the two classes I teach.

One day, the bag started to catch as I pulled it.  I didn’t know what was wrong until, at home, a large chunk of plastic fell off:  an essential piece that helped keep one of the two wheels aligned.  There was no way to fix the bag, so I threw it away—rather sadly, I must say, for every time I used it I thought of you.

Though I still have many more mementos you left me, I don’t need them to remember you.  How could I ever forget the older sister who terrorized me as a child and who became my beloved friend as an adult?  You were fiercely intelligent, strong, and opinionated.  You were loyal and brave.  Underneath the brazen exterior, though, lived a wounded heart.

The day after you died from ovarian cancer, I cried and howled like I never had done before nor have done since.  It was so hard to have you gone after being by your bedside every day for two months.  Yet I was also relieved for you to be free from the agonizing pain you suffered.  It wasn’t until I had breast cancer in 2016 that I understood more of what you had gone through in your three years of ovarian cancer treatment. 

I miss you every day--especially on holidays when we would call each other--and, of course, on your birthday (June 20) and death day (October 3). Every year that I live past 56—the age at which you died—feels like a bonus gift. 

Someday, we will be reunited in heaven, and I will get to know you as a completely healed person, who God always intended for you to be.  You will be the Anne I always knew, yet also the Anne I can only imagine, free from sin’s harm and bondage.  We will laugh and reminisce and share our exuberance over Jesus, the great healer.

Love,

Your little sister, Janis

My Greatest Need

            On page eighteen in Rick Warren’s book, 40 Days of Prayer, were two questions: “What are you lacking in your life simply because you’ve never asked God for it?  What is your greatest need?”

            My written prayer response on February 23, 2018, was brief but heartfelt: “My greatest need and what I’m lacking in life is energy.  Most of the day I rest—wasting hours on Kindle and the Internet (instead of spending time in the Word).  I want the energy to fulfill God’s purposes in my life.  Forgive me, Father, for wasting time.”

            Naturally, my vision for God’s answer was far different than His.  Though I lacked the faith to really believe God was going to restore the energy I lost to fibromyalgia over twenty years ago as well as the energy I lost to cancer treatment two years ago, I hoped for a miraculous answer delivered immediately.

            However, what followed was not what I expected.  Having recently recovered from influenza and a sinus infection, I was hoping for health.  Instead, what followed was hard-hitting seasonal allergies, an ear canal infection, an eye infection, and then a severe outbreak of what I did not know.  A biopsy revealed atopic dermatitis (a type of eczema), the treatment for which was a high dose of steroids (60 mg) for three weeks. The dermatitis disappeared, I temporarily felt great, and then came the month of tapering the steroid dosage.  Once I hit 20 mg per day, the eczema reappeared with a vengeance, and my energy tapered down to zero, just in time for the birth of my granddaughter on May 24. 

            It was horrible to be unable to help my daughter and her family.  Just walking across the street to their house was almost more than I could manage.  Fortunately, they managed with the help of friends while I rested in my recliner at home and took multiple naps in my bed every day.  A month later, after the itching became ferocious, I decided to go back to my dermatologist.  She explained that the next line of treatment would be oral chemotherapy.  I could not face that. I decided to try a detox diet developed by Dr. Mark Hyman, who, by the way, was a co-author of another Rick Warren book, The Daniel Plan.

            The next day—Wednesday, June 27—I started the process of giving up coffee, which took a week.  But I immediately jumped into all other aspects of a new way of eating:  organic fresh, non-starchy vegetables; a little bit of organic fresh fruit; lean meats; and proteins such as farm-fresh eggs, tofu, nuts, and seeds.  That was it.  I quit dairy, gluten, sugar, artificial sweeteners, and artificial flavorings and preservatives. 

            Within a week--though my eczema was no better and the itching was just as intense--I noticed something unusual:  fatigue had disappeared along with most of my usual aches and pains.  I had energy I wasn’t used to.  All through July, August, and now into September, the old fatigue has not returned, my thinking is clearer, and I no longer live in my recliner.   On August 2, a job fell into my lap:  as of August 21, I am teaching two composition classes at Rogers State University, Bartlesville campus.

            That’s a lot of history to put you through, but it is for a purpose.  Clearly, God answered my prayer asking for energy.  However, it was not the way I thought it would be.  I did not expect to sink down into more health issues and a greater fatigue than I had ever known before, but that is what it took to get me to do my part (about which I was clueless).  I know that God can heal instantly and miraculously, but often His purposes require our response, too.  The hardest things, it seems, are intended to bless us through growing our character if we cooperate with Him.  There is no way I could exercise the self-control it takes to stay on my limited diet on my own; I have no doubt that the Holy Spirit is helping me every single day. 

            By the way, the eczema has slowly improved, and I have hope that the sores and the itching will disappear in the coming months as I continue a healthy diet.  But even if they don’t, I have what I lacked and sorely needed:  energy to fulfill God’s purposes in my life.

           

My Enemy's Name

            As I drive home from Tulsa, a familiar weariness settles over me, yet a burst of clarity cuts through my foggy brain. I suddenly know my enemy’s name.

            My enemy is not my health insurance, though it stings to pay a coinsurance of $240.02 for my annual mammogram.  (I must digress here to say I received another “everything’s fine” from the radiologist’s reading of the films.)  My enemy is not even my eczema, which is gradually getting better, though new sores appear here and there.  (I’m sporting two types now:  atopic and dyshidrotic dermatitis.)  What is my enemy, then?  Sugar.

            You see, after my mammogram at Hillcrest Medical Center, I do what any salad-loving person would do:  have lunch at Panera.  Somehow I resist the temptation of the scrumptious-looking bakery items, but I decide to test my gluten tolerance by having a half sandwich with my strawberry poppyseed salad.  Both are delicious.  I even eat the bag of potato chips.  However, I drink water instead of coffee. 

             As my energy flags on the drive home, I realize that between the slice of white bread, the potato chips, and the sweet salad dressing, I am experiencing a carbohydrate crash.  It’s a good thing I did not add a muffin to my meal, because then I might have fallen asleep and had a car crash, too.

            So little sugar, so much effect.  When I get home 45 minutes later, I go straight to bed and sleep.  Waking up an hour later, I still feel weary, so I eat a small handful of pepitas to fuel my body with protein.  I scratch my intensely itching hands.  Later, I make a delicious stir fry for supper: zucchini, green pepper, red pepper, and onion seasoned with olive oil, pink Himalayan salt, black pepper, turmeric, garlic, paprika, and basil.  As soon as the vegetables are crispy-tender, I crack two farm fresh eggs and mix them in.

            The next day, my eczema flare flares up a little more.  The weariness has left, but my awareness remains.  It’s a happy/sad feeling to know that a couple simple carbs and a little sugar can momentarily destroy my newfound energy and well-being.  Sad because I do love the foods I’ve given up, but happy because finally I have the energy to live a life beyond my recliner.

Is my cat a dog?

                Tango, my champagne tabby, came from ARF (Animal Rescue Foundation).  A highway worker found her on Highway 60, between Bartlesville and Nowata, and brought her in a year ago last spring. I adopted her in November.

When I first got her, Tango wanted constant attention.  If I sat down, she was on my lap.  Well, not exactly.  Her idea of lap sitting was stretching out across me right under my chin.  That was, admittedly, better than the in-the-face sneezes from one end and the stinky farts from the other. 

                Sometimes I wonder if no one taught her how to be a cat.  For instance, she likes to lay on the floor at my feet, just as a dog would.  Though I have never owned a dog, I have had many cats in my life over the years and none of them ever laid at my feet waiting for my attention.  She also comes when called, though she doesn’t believe in obeying other commands unless they are reinforced by the presence of a certain spray bottle.  What’s more, she does not jump or step into cardboard boxes—she doesn’t even seem tempted to.  Instead, she chews onardboard and shoes and thin electrical cords.

                Every morning, Tango scratches at my bedroom door within seconds of me getting up, often even before I turn on the light.  She wants breakfast, of course.  Early on, before I found a dry cat food that did not upset her sensitive stomach, the food would go down and then come right back up.  Thus, I started the unfortunate habit of feeding her four tiny meals a day, a practice she appreciates that I hope to discontinue someday.  However, I am a sucker for her persistent pleas for food at the appointed hours.

                She does have a lovely, soft meow and an expressive purr.  She has claimed most windowsills as her territory but has kindly not jumped up on the kitchen counters yet.  She enjoys playing with and eventually eating any unfortunate insects or spiders she sees and even catches flies. 

                So maybe she is more cat than dog after all.

                 

The Itch

                Since I started this new way of eating—no dairy, gluten, sweeteners, or preservatives—on June 27, the most unexpected results have been the return of energy and the reduction of pain.  These are big-time results since I’ve had fibromyalgia for over twenty years.

                 One of the first things I noticed is how long the days are when I’m not sleeping in or taking at least one nap every day.  That means I’m getting a lot of things done, right?  Wrong.  Instead, I spend a lot of time on itching.  Unfortunately, the itchy eczema has not gone away. Yet.

                So I scratch. Or try not to scratch.  Or research itching and atopic dermatitis.  I keep hoping to find some new (to me) homespun remedy, but I haven’t yet.  So I apply coconut oil head to toe four or more times a day.  I ice the itchy spots.  I do bits and pieces of work around the house but avoid any activity that could raise a sweat.  I take cool to lukewarm showers and use glycerin bars for hand and body washing.  And I keep trying not to scratch, which is really hard when everything itches.  My skin is so sensitive that when I scratch, it looks like I’ve been clawed by a cat. 

Dealing with the itch takes a lot of energy that I’d rather spend elsewhere.  However, my bad back limits what I can do (though it does not prevent frequent baby-holding sessions at my daughter’s house when Ava is fussy and Dana needs to make dinner).  So does my extreme aversion to sweating:  I can’t face doing anything strenuous because sweat triggers more itching.

A couple days ago, I looked at my wood music stand and thought about playing my flute again.  It’s been months since I’ve picked it up because I did not have the energy. Before I could act on my good intentions, a new eczema spot erupted on the pad of one of my fingers.  It hurts when I just touch it, so flute playing is out for a while longer.

                It appears that my eczema is getting creative, too.  Besides the atopic dermatitis, there is an outbreak of dyshidrotic eczema on my hands.  A scaly bump has appeared on my scalp.  A sore showed up on a skin tag, and other sores have cropped up on moles.  And there are sores in other places I won’t mention.  Rashes come and go.  Most sores erupt complete with their own deep scabs.  Sections of skin are raised and rough.  For several days, my neck burned even though it had no sores.

                Ah, yes, I am complaining.  I was just itching to tell you all about it.

Amazing Day

            It’s been an amazing day doing normal household tasks.  Before I tell you why such ordinary stuff is amazing, let me indulge my pride by telling you what I’ve done.

            Saturday morning means farmers’ market, just a few miles away.  After getting some cash at an ATM, I was ready to start strolling through the market at 8:30 am.  It was already hot by my standards but nowhere close to the 106 degrees heat index that arrived midday.  Fifteen dollars got me a dozen eggs, lettuce, cucumbers, grape tomatoes, red cabbage, and a white onion.  Pleased with my purchases, I put them in the cooler I keep in the car.  Good that I remembered the ice packs today.

            Getting in my car, I realized that now was better than later to round out my shopping at the local Walmart.  First destination:  produce section.  There I picked up a few sweet potatoes, heads of broccoli and cauliflower, jicama, organic celery, bananas, and a bag of organic Pink Lady apples. From there, I wandered the grocery aisles, picking up organic peanut butter, and pea protein-fortified unsweetened almond milk.  I hit the Omega-3 jackpot with canned tuna fish, red salmon, and smoked herring fillets—all sustainably caught or wild. Yum.

            Back at home, I unloaded the car, put away the food, and cut up some celery, cucumber, and jicama.  Instead of dipping them in hummus, I ate them plain along with a handful of grape tomatoes.  And then I was ready for a nap, and it was only 10:30!

            I never ignore my body’s siren song for naps, so I dutifully obeyed, waking an hour later.  After applying round two (or was it three) of coconut oil to help ward off the itching attack that was threatening, I added the protein I had neglected at my exceedingly early lunch:  peanut butter on banana.  What an exquisitely sweet treat along with my second cup of Teeccino/coffee for the day.  (I’m at the half and half point still.)

            Then, what to do?  I remembered the bills and paid the first of the month set.  From there I started some laundry, cleaned my bathroom sink and my BI-PAP accessories.  Three loads of laundry were done by suppertime, which was a lovely boiled dinner of sweet potato, broccoli, and onion, followed by a can of sardines.  (Kind of a strange combination, but it was good.)

            And still it is only six pm.  Now comes the explanation of how this ordinary-sounding day has been amazing.  A mere week ago, any one of those activities would have worn me out for the day.  Seriously, that’s how bad things have been energy-wise.  It felt so good to do the things that other people easily do in a day, instead of dragging them out over an entire week.  It’s an amazing new normal.

Mutiny and Other Topics

            I got over the self-deception.  Last night my scratching was outright mutiny against doctor’s orders.  But I’d rather write about other things.

            A week ago, a large patch of thickened, red, hot, and exquisitely painful skin suddenly appeared on my sternum.  Today I realize most of it is gone, miraculously replaced by normal, smooth skin.

            This morning, soon after I emailed a friend, saying I had not experienced a single food craving, I became ravenously hungry.  I had a handful of raw almonds for a snack, which cut the edge just a little.  (At times like that, I normally reach for carbs.) 

            This afternoon, feeling rather cooped up in my house on this 108 degree (heat index, that is) day, I decided to take the short drive to Dewey to see what a particular little market had for sale.  I was thinking cauliflower, broccoli, sweet potato.  None of those were available, but I bought a couple tomatoes for tonight’s salad and a quart of blackberries.  They reminded me of the huge berries at the farmers markets on Whidbey Island. 

            Berries are low on the glycemic index and permitted on my detox diet, so I ate some on the short drive home.  They were the sweetest, juiciest berries I have ever eaten.  Or maybe their sweetness had something to do with the fact that I have consumed no sugar for four days. 

            I’ve had a good day, and it is only four o’clock.  The plumber came at nine (don’t ask), I took care of some long-neglected filing, paid bills, did some fretting over the damage done to my budget by paying the plumber, cleaned out my inbox, cleaned half of my half-bath, and sundry other items.  It occurs to me that list, as boring as it may be to you, is quite exciting to me.  It shows me that I am getting some energy and drive back.

            Now, if I can just stop scratching . . .

           

           

Scratch-Proof?

            I planned ahead.  After the nightly coconut oil slather, I found a pair of long-sleeve, long pants summer pajamas, turned them inside out, and put them on.  You see, seams irritate my now-sensitive skin; however, perhaps the sleeves and long pants would deter scratching the same.  I had thought of wearing gloves to bed as well, but I didn’t want to get too hot and start sweating.  Heat and sweat set off terrible itching; cold and ice packs soothe my skin.  With the central air vent above my head and the ceiling fan above my feet, I was ready for a good night’s sleep.

            And I had one, with a single waking episode to test me.  I did not pass the test.  As usual, I woke up scratching.  “Oh,” I thought to myself, “I’m not supposed to scratch.”  As my fingernails slowed their frantic pace, I told myself that this was a different kind of scratching that was allowed—and kept scratching.  Eventually, I fell back asleep.

            In the morning, I remembered the episode and had to laugh at how easily I deceive myself, even when half-asleep.  I do not know what my sleepy brain meant by acceptable scratching, just that the thought allowed me to continue what I was not supposed to do.  I think there is probably some sort of profound truth concerning self-deception, but I’ll leave that for you to figure out as I scratch my head, wondering what it might be.

Turkey Time

            In this last week of June, I’ve decided it is turkey time.  But not in the way you might think.  For instance, Thanksgiving before last, my then-four-year-old granddaughter decided that if eating too much turkey makes you sleepy, and if her uncle Joseph was napping after dinner, that must mean that he was sleeping with turkeys.

            My turkey tale is twofold. Both parts are related, though in an obscure way unless you add “cold” before turkey. You see, as of today I am going cold turkey on two of the biggest elements of my lifestyle:  dairy products and scratching.

            I love all things dairy:  a cold glass of milk, plain Greek yogurt with frozen blueberries, all cheeses, and all ice cream or frozen custard flavors.  Today I gave my last half gallon of milk and a lovely cheese tray to my son.  (We purchase our groceries separately.)  Then I collected the remaining dairy products—Greek yogurt, cream cheese, Half & Half, and heavy whipping cream—and put them in my daughter’s refrigerator.  Normally, there would have been butter as well, but I ran out of it a couple days ago.

            Why am I ditching dairy?  Because I’m hoping that doing so will calm down this post-steroid eczema flare.  Dairy is not all I’m ditching, but it surely is the hardest . . . well, except for bread and sweets.

            Eczema (specifically, atopic dermatitis) has ruled my life since the initial flare early in the spring.  I’ve made a host of small changes to my lifestyle:  lukewarm showers instead of hot ones, unscented glycerin bar instead of soap and body washes, dermatologist-approved All instead of a cheaper laundry detergent, and so on.  None have made a difference.  Every morning and evening I grease up with cold-pressed, unrefined virgin coconut oil, sometimes with a little tea tree or lavender essential oil added.  I’ve tried everything that anyone has recommended, and still the coconut oil is the best for staving off the incessant itch for a few hours.

            Thus, we come to the second part of my cold turkey tale.  I finally went back to the dermatologist today.  She agreed that it was bad, very bad and put me on an antibiotic for the skin infections that have popped up where my aggressive fingernails have been.  She talked at length about next steps, which include lab work and methotrexate and lots of money since my insurance isn’t so great this year.  Then, she ordered me to stop scratching.

            I’m usually good about following doctors’ orders, and I am committed to not scratch under any circumstances.  But it ain’t easy.  In the six hours since I left the dermatology clinic, I have learned a surprising truth:  I scratch all the time: a little bit here, a little bit there.  It’s a deeply ingrained habit.  I mean, while I was driving home and giving myself a pep talk about not scratching, I suddenly found myself scratching.  In fact, I just did it again!

            I must admit that I am not cold-turkeying coffee.  I’m doing that one gobble at a time—mixing with Teeccino (my favorite healthy coffee substitute)—and should be caffeine-free by next week.  I did not want to add excruciating headache to the mix.  Hopefully, I will learn to sleep scratch-free without the turkeys.

Crying

                When I hear babies cry, I die a little inside.  Doesn’t matter if I’m at Walmart and a frazzled mom is trying to finish her shopping.  Or at an airport watching a parent text while the babe screams out her distress.  Maybe she is hungry or wet.  Perhaps she just needs to be held, to have the comfort of warm, loving touch.

                Thus, it should be no surprise that reports from the border about babies and children in distress haunt me:  the breastfeeding baby taken from her mother’s arms, the little girl in the cage of children screaming and crying for her mommy.  The rule that the caregivers are not allowed to hold or touch the children to comfort them.  I ache for those little ones.

                The terrible irony is that their parents have spent weeks or months fleeing for their lives.  They made the crushing decision to leave all that is familiar to protect their children.  They could wait no longer.  Maybe food and water had run out.  Maybe they had just seen their neighbors murdered.  Maybe they finally decided that anything would be better than the hell they were living in. 

                So they arrive at the border asking for asylum, which has never been a crime until now.  They probably know that the wait will be long, but at least their families will be safe.  And then their children are abruptly taken, the parents not told where nor given the opportunity to see them.  I can feel the horror, heartache, and helplessness of those parents, too. 

                Jesus says, “I was a stranger and you welcomed me” (Matthew 25:35).  He tells us to love our enemies.  He speaks through stories to illustrate that every single person in this world, including our perceived enemies, is our neighbor. 

                I don’t know how to solve anything in our world today.  I don’t understand the complex nuances of law or zero tolerance policies.  It seems that cries from our government for justice have forgotten the balancing value of mercy.  It seems that anger and fear are directed at those who are different than us.  Those with darker skin from other countries have become the enemy.  While we have forgotten the law of love, those brown babies keep crying. 

Every Single Thing

            Last week I read Ann Voskamp’s 2010 book, one thousand gifts (and yes, the title is all in lower-case letters).  It was exactly what I needed. 

            It was a blessed week with the birth of my granddaughter, Ava Rose, on May 24.  She joins 2 ½ year-old Josiah, 5 year-old Joelle, and 9 year-old Benjamin.  It was a hard week because of my ongoing fibromyalgia flare, which knocked me out of usefulness with debilitating fatigue.  I wanted to be across the street at their house much more, helping Dana and Shawn with children and meals.  Instead, after an hour with a grandchild or making a meal, I was laid low in bed or on the couch for the rest of the day. 

            And then, one thousand gifts with its wondrous words and profound sacred truths entered my energy-starved life.  Voskamp’s poetic prose reached deep into my soul.  From her I learned afresh the thing God has been pressing into my heart for a good two years with depth, angle, and light I had not yet seen.  And the truth, the joy, is so simple it is hard to say without sounding like cliché:  it is life in Jesus Christ.  We are to live in God’s presence in the present with heartfelt gratitude for every single thing.

            I can trust God’s goodness, his generous grace.  He is in the details, even when the details seem wrong.  He is in the beautiful moments, in the hardest hours, and in all our days.

           

In This Place

            Doing dishes, I look out the window at the familiar scene.  My wild, climbing rose bush has bloomed.  Last week’s storm tipped the tall thorned stems so the top pinks face downward instead of reaching to the eaves.  The driveway is littered with pollen and twigs, the house and yard across the street lovely with its landscaping.  Next to it (number 521 to my 520) sits the comforting sight of my daughter and son-in-law’s red brick house, van and car parked in their usual driveway spots.

            At this moment, the peace of being where Jesus wants me to be floods my soul.  Such a simple, quiet life.  My son with me, my daughter’s family across the street.  The three grandchildren, ages 9, 5, and 2 ½, with baby on the way this month. 

            This week, God has been telling me last week’s sermon.  I called it my Mother’s Day “non-sermon” because it had no preaching points to make but only spilled vulnerability from this mother’s heart.  It was about listening to the Holy Spirit speak in the daily and trusting Him when I am weak.  Since then, He has opened up four insights in my daily devotional readings, perfect in their timing:

            He reminded me to give Jesus my burdens.  My shoulders cannot bear them; His are strong and capable for the task.  He told me to look for him in hard places in my life and I would find Him.  He showed me something new:  that I should never covet the past instead of gratefully accepting the present.  And through the intersection of an image from a novel and a devotional reading, He assured me that He is the glorious open gate that invites and draws hearts to Him.

            The dishes are done until tomorrow.  The roses still gracefully bend down toward earth.  My view out the kitchen window remains the same.  And I am blessed in this place.

Perspective

            The first episodes of extreme fatigue twenty years ago frightened me.  They would strike hard and fast, without any warning system I could detect.  One weekend, my son was off to a Taekwondo event and daughter off to a church youth event.  I was supposed to be a speaker at a women’s retreat.  Instead, I spent two days on the living room couch resting, sleeping, and worrying.

            Why was I so exhausted?  How long would this last?  What were the strange buzzings and tingling sensations that zapped about in my legs and arms?  What was this traveling pain that varied from heavy ache to stabbing knife? My legs were weak when I shuffled across the living room to the kitchen to get a drink or food.  I had no concentration for reading or for listening to music or anything else.   

            But that Monday, life resumed, and I made it through another week of work.  Doctor visits and lab work yielded no definitive diagnosis, though the symptoms seemed to indicate an autoimmune disease called Sjogren’s Syndrome.  It took another six years or so before that label got scrapped and I ended up with what I secretly thought of as the hypochondriac’s illness:  fibromyalgia.

            I was fortunate to have a doctor who took me seriously through those years and who was willing to treat my symptoms.  We tried various medications (thank goodness I had excellent prescription insurance) and ended up with a combination of anti-inflammatory, anti-depressant, and muscle relaxant that reduced my symptoms.  I learned to pace myself, take a short nap over the lunch hour, and read everything I could about fibromyalgia, which is still not well understood.

            My quality of life improved greatly when I quit the work force in 2008—made possible by the generosity of my brothers and mother—to become my mother’s primary caregiver.  I settled into less structured days, simple housekeeping and cooking, and learning the art of living with the slow descent of Mom’s Alzheimer’s Disease.  It was a Renaissance of sorts for me, living in the beautiful wooded center of Whidbey Island; joining church choir, a woodwinds ensemble, and a flute choir; and taking flute lessons.  I had time to write, time to be with my mother and youngest brother, and time to slow down my already leisurely pace when fatigue and pain descended.

            Eventually, Mom’s physical health and memory loss deteriorated to the point that we moved her out of her house and into HomePlace, a memory care facility in nearby Oak Harbor.  I stayed on in her home next to my brother’s and visited her a couple times a week (which I now understand was not nearly often enough).  When Mom died in May 2013, as much as I loved living in such a beautiful setting with dear friends, music, and writing to fill my days, I knew it was time to leave.  The siren song of grandchildren in Bartlesville, Oklahoma pulled me east that October.

            And so here I am, five years later, the same amount of time I lived on the island.  Growing family, dear friends, and church life define my days.  The triple negative breast cancer of 2016-17 took its toll, creating a one-year rest stop from virtually everything except blogging.  I am still very tired; as I phase down from a month of prednisone for a severe eczema flare, life has slowed to a snail’s pace again. 

            But I know more than I did twenty years ago.  I know that today does not determine the forecast of all my days.  Sleep and rest, good nutrition and exercise as tolerated will take me through.  There is a simplicity to choosing one’s activities well.  There is hope for days when I can do more, and peace for the days I cannot.  The joy of the Lord is my strength.

Shaking Things Up

            I don’t know how it happened, but suddenly Google is gone and I’m back to Bing.  My default search engine on my laptop disappeared.

            I spent a whole evening fussing and fuming over this turn of events:  After I clicked to place a blog post on Facebook, both Facebook and Google vanished, leaving me with a basic Microsoft screen that is virtually useless and, come to think of it, a disappeared desktop.

            For those of you who don’t know what I’m talking about, sorry.  I don’t really know what I’m talking about, either, except that I am frustrated.  Loss of a familiar screen has shaken me. 

            I guess this is a computer-age version of circumstances as old as time:  the sudden loss of the familiar.  Or you could say, having control ripped out of one’s hands.  The unexpected occurring at the worst possible moment.

            The past week or two God has been invading my heart with joy.  I’ve been resting in a season of serenity despite unresolved problems on the home front.  Perhaps part of my mood is from the oral prednisone treatment that stopped a major eczema flare in its tracks.  Whether supernaturally or medically induced (or, I suspect, a bit of both), the presence of peace and the absence of pain is wonderful.

I did not expect a screen change to shake me up.  I’ll adjust.  I’ll cope.  Maybe I’ll even get my computer fixed.  In the meantime, every time I flip open my laptop, God’s object lesson will stare me in the face:  scenery and circumstances change, but He does not.

Cathie

            Memory rises to fill my vision.  Blue sky, sun-shot surf rushing the shore near the bottom of the hill.  The curve to the right on Hastie Lake Road.  The memory of my dear friend Cathie, who took her flight to heaven on January 2, 2016.  Grief is a bright looking back, the knowing that time spent with her is gone this side of glory.

            I still imagine her zipping about Heaven in her electric-powered wheelchair.  Silly, I know.  But that sight somehow sums up the Cathie I knew.  Her rheumatoid arthritis and diabetes and low vision did not stop her.  The chair gave her freedom and speed.  I remember her zipping down an aisle at a flute recital in which I played.  She was going for a seat near the front. 

            It’s not that we knew each other long—five years?  In fact, we became close only the last months before I moved away from the island.  It’s that I felt so at home in her home.  My visits back (just three of them) defined by tea and ginger thins near bedtime, dinner and wine with my brother at her house, conversation and cold-brew coffee mornings.  Sorting through mail, sharing stories, going on errands in her van.

            Why this sun-filled scene today?  I don’t know, but grief’s bright looking back is both hollow with loss and brimmed tight full with joy. 

           

           

           

Life Itself

            Two years ago tonight, I discovered a lump.  My life changed.

            Now a full year out from cancer treatment, my life continues.  I am the same but different.  It would be nice to claim some huge leap into life after cancer.  However, life still plods along in its ordinary way.  Simple joys, everyday problems, daily routines define my days.

            I had imagined some grand and glorious new beginning for my cancer survivor life.  Instead, ordinary is my life.  And there is something to be said about that. 

            In an odd way, the year of cancer treatment was both peak and valley.  The peak was in an inexplicable peace and joy—the presence of God—that sustained me through the valley of suffering.  (Whether that sentence is sentimental or splendid I do not know.)

            Everyone says that after cancer, you find a “new normal,” and I guess that is true.  Health-wise, this new normal is more confusing.  Are my various complaints—fatigue, skin rashes and sores, more memory glitches, aches and pains—from fibromyalgia or cancer treatments or a complicated combination?  (I don’t know.)  Am I emotionally and spiritually healthier?  (I hope so.) 

            So I am going to post this nighttime journaling because I want to mark today on my blog.  It’s 11 pm, just about the same time I discovered the lump two whole years ago.  The miracle to embrace every day, in the midst of the ordinary, is life itself.

Text and Pray

Last Sunday, a series of texts from my dear friend Lee appeared on my phone over the course of several hours.  (Lee and I became friends because of breast cancer:  she was starting chemo about the time I was finishing radiation.)

At 12:17 pm, she sent two texts:

            Are you OK

I don’t know why but I’m very anxious for you praying for you and I love you please be careful

I did not see those texts for over an hour.  At 1:31, I replied:

I’m fine.  Just saw this.  Prayers always appreciated.  Morning service went very well—God showed up. (that’s what I always pray for)

Lee texted back at 1:41:

What were u doing at 11:30--?

I saw that text at 2:26 pm and wrote back:

I was talking with people after church.  Who knows?  You could have been praying me up for some later (or even earlier) time I need prayer and protection.

At 5:40 pm, there was one last exchange:

            Are u busy

            No

And then I called her.  She told me that during the sermon at her church, she suddenly had a load of anxiety crash down on her concerning me.  As soon as church let out, she nabbed a prayer warrior friend and they prayed fervently for me.

Do we have any idea what that was about?  No, but God does. 

And I am struck, once again, by the Father’s care for me.  And blessed by Lee’s immediate prayer response when she suddenly sensed danger. 

To quote Rick Warren, “God is a caring, consistent, close, and competent Father.”  He knows all our needs---past, present, and future—and often calls on His children to pray at just the right time.  Imagine all the intercession happening at any given moment all over the world, and all because our Father, the great I AM, loves us and prompts us to pray for one another.