Relinquish

If I could I'd fold myself away like a card table

A concertina or a Murphy bed, I would

But I wasn't made that way 

-Oh my God, Whatever, Ryan Adams

And behold, a leper came to him and knelt before him saying, “Lord, if you will, you can make me clean.” And Jesus stretched out his hand and touched him, saying, “I will; be clean.” And immediately his leprosy was cleansed. 

Matthew 8:2-3

There is an intense isolation in chronic pain.

I don’t know about you, but it’s important to me to be understood—not just in matters of my various physical conditions. I long to make sense to people, probably because I rarely make sense to myself! If others can make sense of me, then perhaps I’m not such a jumble of a person. If you understand me, maybe I can understand myself more. When I don’t feel heard, I feel out of sorts, out of touch. I’m guessing that we all have these kinds of feelings and reactions when others don’t “get” us. 

So when we add an invisible chronic pain condition to the mix, it gets complicated. You can’t see any evidence of how I feel. You can’t see the fibromyalgia “cape of pain” across my upper back and shoulders, you can’t see how all my muscles and joints fees inflamed. Even my skin feels on fire sometimes. You can’t see the lack of sleep due to being so damn uncomfortable, how I lay awake into the wee hours due to body-wide aches, despite taking pain medication or rubbing essential oils into my skin or turning off electronics an hour before bed time, or any of the other myriad of fixes for insomnia I’ve tried. You can’t see the monthly cramps that pierce my pelvis like a knife, bending me in half and making me sick to my stomach. 

How do I reconcile my predilection for being understood without much fuss with having unseen physical conditions? Now, the fear of not being believed is one I struggle with on a daily basis, let alone merely being understood. I’m beginning to realize I’m asking a lot when I ask others to understand me these days! I’m asking you to believe something you can’t see, after all. I’m asking you, in some sense, to step into my shoes, imagine yourself in my place on my couch, in the line at the pharmacy, filling out paperwork at the doctor’s office. 

It’s very easy to start feel like I’m invisible. Like it’s not just my fibromyalgia that is unseen. Like if you can’t see my pain, you can’t see me. It’s easy to assume I’m merely the extent of my pain, of what I’m feeling. It’s a battle to counter these feelings, let me tell you. Especially when I can’t always rely on the mirror of others to help me figure things out. If others don’t believe me, maybe I’m making this stuff up. Maybe it’s all my head. Maybe my pain isn’t as serious as I think it is. Maybe I don’t need to rest as much as I think. But then I calm down and think about the last 4 years or so, and remember. I remember the aches and the struggles and the efforts to figure it out. I remember the suffered relationships, the cutting back of activities, the many lessons of learning to communicate well.

These things are slowly teaching me, though, to relinquish my desires to be understood. Because that’s actually not the most important thing. It’s not even attainable! Even if I didn’t have fibro, you still couldn’t understand me completely. You still would have to take my word on how I feel. I still would have to figure out how to own my feelings and responses and choices without the approval or the opinion of others. So it will always be difficult. And even though I feel alone and invisible sometimes on my worst days, I know the people around do see me. My awe-inspiring husband believes me and takes care of me and takes on so many responsibilities out of love and joy and a desire to help me. He believes me more than I believe myself often. The friendships and relationships I have became so much closer, more honed because things have changed.

And not only by my husband and family and friends and co-workers. The One who saw and touched the ill and those on the outskirts sees me, too. He dignified the existence of the invisible and untouchable ones by physically touching them. He recognized the powerless and their situations, and saw them. Wherever we are at in our lives, we can be bold because Jesus sees us. He has compassion on us, He is waiting to heal us. Let us not fold ourselves away in our pain and our circumstances, but be free to kneel before Jesus and say, “If you will.” 

Peace on Earth

Meanwhile the cross comes before the crown, and tomorrow is a Monday morning. 

C.S. Lewis, The Weight of Glory

I came that they may have life and have it abundantly.

Jesus, John 10:10

Christmas is in one week. We’re all rushing around, finding gifts and putting up sparkly lights and eating lots of sugar. I’ve got Christmas music playing on my iPod at work. I ran around the mall tonight, trying to find an ugly Christmas sweater. We’re planning family events and the food (of course) and how much fun we’ll all have. We’re trying to budget presents. We’re basking in the light of our happy Christmas tree. 

And why do we do all these things? Why do we spend the money, why do we dig out the Christmas boxes of decorations, why do we make all the plans? 

Because one day, all will be well. 

One day, all will be right. All will be redeemed. All the pain will disappear, all the sad tears will dry. All the questions we have will be answered. Our bodies will be healed, our minds will be at peace. All the horrible things that have ever happened to us will be corrected and redeemed. All the wonderful things we’ve experienced will be more beautiful in the context of a world made perfect and whole. Our broken relationships will be fixed—all hurts and misunderstandings will fade away. 

One day, we will see all the people we love how they are meant to be—whole and shining. One day, our loved people will not be sick, not be haunted by their pasts. We will look at their faces and wonder how we never really saw how special, how wonderful, how incredible they are. They will amaze us—they will be everything they ever wanted to be, and more. We will be able to spend time with them and laugh and cry happy tears together. 

For now, we fix our gaze on what is to come-on Jesus coming to redeem this entire broken world. For now, we suffer with those who suffer. We pray for wars to end, for relationships to heal, for illness and poverty and discrimination to end, for grace for all. We do what we can, wherever we are, to bring heaven to earth. We hang lights in hope, we give presents to remind each other of our love, of our grace for them. We remember the promises of Scripture, we remember the stories of Jesus. We also remember how He had to come to earth as a baby, to be like us in our pain and sorrow and joy and relationships. We remember how He lived and loved and suffered—and we remember that He did it all for us. We remember we have a Savior who is Christ the Lord, who loves all us all to pieces, and gave us the Great Gift of Himself. 

Waiting for a Calm Sea

I work hard every day of my life

I work till I ache my bones

At the end I take home my hard earned pay all on my own 

I get down on my knees

And I start to pray

Till the tears run down from my eyes

Somebody to Love, Queen

And he awoke and rebuked the wind and said to the sea, “Peace! Be still!” And the wind ceased, and there was a great calm.
Mark 4:39

Life is like the sea. 

Unpredictable, constant movement. Terrifying in a storm, blissful on a peaceful day, the sea is always changing, always beautiful. I live by the water, by a bay. Cocooned by mountains and flatlands and rivers, I am most at ease next to water. I can sit on a bench or a beach and watch the waves come and go, tides ebbing and flowing for hours. The sea is like breathing, like a rhythm that I can’t find anywhere else, let alone in my own head. It’s a peaceful metronome, the coming and going of crashing waves. 

Life feels like those crashing waves—they just keep coming and coming. It’s one thing to watch beautiful waves beachside—another to be engulfed by never-ending tides. When you are up to your neck in rising waves, the last thing you want is more water. How can it be peaceful or beautiful when there’s too much of it? There are days when life is simply overwhelming, and I’d like to simply stand on the beach and watch the water for a while, instead of tumbling over and over in its wake. I’d like to catch my breath before jumping back in, or splash around in the tide pools, or turn over a few barnacled-rocks. 

Fibromyalgia has been a furious tidal wave these last few months, weeks, days. I am drenched in exhaustion, soaked to my bones and muscles in pain and aches. Endometriosis is a tsunami of stabbing pelvic pain, allowing no time to come up for air. I’m tired from fighting all these waves of chronic pain, weary with battle fatigue. I’m tired from trying All The Things, of endless resting and putting my feet up, which is a little bit ironic. I’m desperate for a peaceful sea, to be able to lie on my back and just float for a while, even a little while. 

I’m desperate for Jesus to do for me what He did for the disciples, when He calmed their storm. He was exhausted, sleeping during a storm in a rickety boat. When will He wake up and see that I’m frightened, that I’m crazily trying to get my boat under control, but I can’t do it by myself? When will He cease these winds and rains and waves? Until He does, I will grit my teeth and hold on. I will hold on to the fact that there were terrifying moments even for the disciples He was physically with-those moments before He calmed the storm. It must have felt like an eternity to them, waiting for Him to act. But when He did, oh my. He rebuked the elements, He put the sea back in its place. And there was a great calm. And the disciples knew that Jesus was more than their great Teacher-He was the One who commanded the winds and the seas.  At last, here is the One who is bigger and larger than all my storms, all the things that life can throw at me—I am safe even though I am at sea. 

We Get to be Ok

Well I know that you heard a lot about
Things you can't control
So many things we like to have
We just cannot hold
You gotta be kind to yourself

She And Him - Me And You

In peace I will both lie down and sleep;
For you alone, O Lord, make me dwell in safety.

Psalm 4:8


Health burn-out.

It’s a real thing.

Because I’m living with fibromyalgia and endometriosis, I am now an avid list-maker, symptom-researcher, tip-reader, and pain-documenter. I've picked up numerous tricks for dealing with my set of circumstances. Avoiding large amounts of sugar seems to help. I've been working on my water intake, which for this coffee-loving girl is a JOB and a HALF. Taking supplements on a regular daily basis makes a huge difference, too--and I've never been one for schedules. I make a lot of random to-do lists-on backs of receipts, in small notebooks, on ripped out sheets of paper--my brain is often foggy and if I don’t write things down, well, they may be lost FOREVER. I read a lot about what works for other folks with fibromyalgia, what doesn't work for them. I try a lot of things-eating coconut oil, sipping on apple cider vinegar, stretching gently, avoiding wheat and dairy, soaking in Epsom salts, and resting as much as I can. My most recent health project is a daily fibro log, where I document levels of pain and fatigue, noting activities and what I eat.

It’s very, very easy to focus most of my energy on getting well, on feeling better, on finding new things to try. Too easy. After all, it’s a good thing to want to improve one’s health, right? When you feel good, you can do more, be more, see more, experience more. Our culture values busyness and activity and accomplishments. There seems to be no room for rest without movement, for space to be ill, or encouragement to do what you need to do if it‘s outside the norm. Sometimes it can feel like if you can’t take a selfie or fire off a round of jealousy-inducing pictures or statuses, you really have nothing to offer. What can a physically limited person like me hope to offer the world? Or even offer to my little corner of the world, to my friends, to my family, to my co-workers, to my community?

It’s during this frenzied line of thinking that I need to just take a freaking moment. And breathe. In. And. Out. Repeat.

Because I believe that everyone has worth and value regardless of what they can produce, I suppose that has to go for me, too. That even though I am researching my brains out and trying new things constantly to feel well, I still get to be where I’m at. I can still rest and enjoy life even though I will always be searching for wellness. I can shed the false guilt that comes along with having to be still. I will give myself a break from thinking about health and just live life how it is right now. Balancing the reality of fibro with responsibilities and goals and dreams will probably always be in the cards. When I calm down enough to realize I’m still An OK Person, it’s easier to see the ways I am doing well and taking care of myself and being available to the people to around me. Heck, I can even see how this stupid fibro thing has prompted me towards more gentleness and empathy and humility. My expectations are becoming, ever so slowly, more realistic. I am letting others help me more often; I am savoring good times with my favorite people more. I see how much I need Jesus and faith and prayer and grace and other people more and more, and that is a brilliant thing.

Megaphones and Haircuts

"I wish that I could be like the cool kids,
'Cause all the cool kids, they seem to fit in.
I wish that I could be like the cool kids, like the cool kids."
-Echo Smith, Cool Kids

For Christ’s love compels us, because we are convinced that one died for all, and therefore all died. And he died for all, that those who live should no longer live for themselves but for him who died for them and was raised again.
The Apostle Paul, 2 Corinthians 5:14-15


I made it to my haircut appointment a couple weeks ago. I’d had one scheduled in late August, but had to cancel last minute due to extreme fatigue and achiness. It’s been quite the struggle this fall to get past my aches and pains, so I was pretty proud of myself for managing to get to my appointment. My hair was in quite the state, I assure you. Two months past its expiration date, needing a desperate thinning and trimming. Plus, everyone knows that Haircut Day is just another term for Best Day Ever. 

I’ve been going to my hair lady now for nearly five years-she’s fantastic. Whenever I see her, I’m in constant awe of her style, her makeup, and her hair…naturally. It’s always PERFECT. It is, of course, the number one trait you should look for in a hairstylist-ENVIABLE HAIR. She’s always sweet, kind, funny, and laughs at all my jokes (the second thing you should look for in a hairstylist). Plus, my hair always looks perfect after I walk out of the salon-mmmmmm. Happiness.

Whenever I get my haircut, though, I’m reminded of how my fibro makes me look to others who aren’t around me all the time. I’m jolted out of my usual space. Normal, everyday conversation topics suddenly seem awkward.

How are you? Horribly achy and tired. Completely sleep-deprived. Oh, just fine! Just a little tired, that’s all.

What have you been up to? Hanging out on my couch. Nothing much, just the usual. You know.

Planning any trips? Uhhhh, to the pharmacy? Nah, not any time soon. Maybe for our anniversary?

What’s new with you? Trying a new vitamin supplement! Woohoo! Making it to this haircut! Haha!

I have told my hairstylist a bit about my chronic life, though-filled her in what fibromyalgia is, what endometriosis does. It’s a bit disconcerting to see someone else, although kind and interested, try to understand. I can see the confusion, reflected back in the large mirror that seems to amplify my tired face. It feels like I’m trying to explain my entire life when I explain what fibro’s done to me. I feel like I have to apologize or validate myself for my chronic pain. My fibro keeps me from “getting out there,” and so life feels small at times, especially talking to someone I only see occasionally. It reminds me of the impact fibro has on me. I feel like a bit of a freak in these times, to be honest. It’s sure not my hairstylist’s fault-it’s mine. I have these expectations of what my life should be like, what it should have been by now. I compare my life to everyone else’s, and that never ends well, even if you don’t have a chronic pain condition. I hear other’s stories and observe their high moments on social media, and feel laaaaaaaame. I think of all the things I want to do, the things not done, not experienced. Talk about the road less traveled; sometimes, it feels like no road is being traveled at all right now.

And then somehow I’m usually reminded that we all have something. We each have something about us that makes us feel lame, like we’re on the outside, like we don’t have what everyone else has. Things that we struggle to make sense of, let alone to other people. We all have story after story after story about our struggles; how we’ve succumbed to trials at times, and how we’ve overcome them. We have health things, we have personal bents, we have histories, we have issues. We don’t always see ourselves or others clearly because of our something.

For me, fibro makes it so clear that I can’t depend on myself for happiness or security or peace or a sense of identity. Shockingly clear-like plunging into an icy river. Fibro, and everything it leaves in its terrible wake, makes me ask a lot of my own questions, about life, faith, identity. All the things that matter.

Is God really for me in this? 

Why hasn’t He healed me? 

Can God really use my pain and turn it into something good? 

Where is the hope that my faith promises? 

Can I still live a good life with this chronic pain?

Complicated questions that can’t all be answered instantly or flippantly or easily. In the past few years, I find myself rereading known Scripture passages and testing them against my new normal. While I don’t know why God hasn’t taken away this physical pain, I can say with confidence that yes, God is still for me. He is instilling in me new roots, a new and growing sense of identity, which has nothing to do with what I can do or produce or experience, and everything to do with simply being loved by Him. Daily I choose to follow Him-I choose to love Him and my neighbor. Only because I know God, the Maker and Redeemer of this world, loves me. It sounds so simple, yet it’s taking a lifetime to realize. I’m slowly realizing that God only wants a relationship with me-this is what He wants for me, this is what I was made for.

Perhaps God is using my fibro to weed out perfectionist ideals, my insistence upon independence, or any number of things that keep me at arm's length from Him and others. C.S. Lewis puts it so eloquently in his book, The Problem of Pain, “We can ignore even pleasure. But pain insists upon being attended to. God whispers to us in our pleasures, speaks in our conscience, but shouts in our pains: it is his megaphone to rouse a deaf world.” I hope that whatever season we find ourselves in, whether we battle against struggles or find ourselves in joyful places, we will find and see that the love of God does indeed compel us, infusing our daily living with His joy and hope and peace.

Downcast

Every inch of you is perfect, from the bottom to the top.
-Meghan Trainor, All About that Bass

[…] My soul is cast down within me; therefore I remember you […] deep calls to deep at the roar of your waterfalls; all your breakers and your waves have gone over me.

-Psalm 42: 6-7


I wore my new leopard-print shoes today, for the second day in a row.

It was highly necessary.

I had a doctor’s appointment at 7:30...in the AM. The AM, I tell you. The morning. After a sketchy-at-best night’s sleep, tossing and turning and listening to the trains running along Bellingham Bay all night long, I stumbled out of bed at a very ungodly hour and put my best face forward. And my favorite new shoes. Facing one’s lady doctor that early is no small endeavor, and you gotta be prepared. Knowing that morning is not my best time of day-ha!-I wrote down all my questions, recent symptoms, and advice from the internet on how to get your doctor to listen to you. Be specific. Be descriptive. When does it hurt? What makes it feel better? I found myself having to be more than usually reflective on my chronic pelvic pain. Seeing my monthly woes listed out in plain black and white made me feel even more desperate to have some answers.

I’m glad I had my new shoes on. Leopard-printed courage. The news is not conclusive, but it’s still not the best news I’ve ever received. High levels of hormones due to my increasing age (whaaaaaaaaaaa?) and/or endometriosis.

ENDOMETROSIS???

Another chronic pain condition? On top of my fibromyalgia? Areyouserious.

I admit I’ve had my suspicions for some time, but to hear it as a real possibility from my lady doctor makes it kinda SCARY and REAL. After I woke up a little more after my appointment, the reality sunk in a little more and I had to hold back tears more than once today.

It’s discouraging, you know? You try, and you try, and you try. You pray. Your husband is wonderful and takes such care of you. Your friends and family gather and love on you. You fight through pain and exhaustion until you can’t. You take your supplements, drink your filtered water, heave yourself on the exercise bike, and take many naps. And yet, the body fails. And yet, courage fails. And yet, there are still no easy answers, easy solutions. And yet, there are still many struggles ahead.

So I find myself downcast today, this first day of Fall, this day of imperative cute shoes, this day of glorious, delicious rain. I find myself utterly incapable of the task ahead of me-living life in this new realization of more chronic suckiness. I find myself without bravery or guts today when it comes to facing my pain. All day long, in the midst of foggy shock and disappointment, I find myself clinging to God, to His promises. Remembering that all can be well with my soul, because He is with me. I find myself having to grit my teeth, and choose that His grace is truly and really sufficient in my great weakness. That His light can shine through this very broken jar of clay. That because I have hope in Christ, I am actually very bold. 

I am moving through life right now in one of the great and terrifying paradox of Christianity-when we are weak, then we are strong. Hope is shining through in leopard print flats, faith and grace, and the love of others, but for today, it’s ok to be a little bit downcast.

Here's How We Don't Give Up

I'm tired of giving up so easy
Tired of giving up at all
Tired of giving up so easy
Tired of giving up at all

Nobody said it would be easy
Nobody said nothing at all
And I'm tired of giving up
-Ryan Adams, Tired of Giving Up

Every good gift and every perfect gift is from above, coming down from the Father of lights with whom there is no variation or shadow due to change.
-James 1:17


It’s been super hard to write lately. 

Like, really hard.

I’ve battling severe fibro pain and aches the last few weeks. There’s been some sleepless nights, some really long days. Everything feels like extra work. Some mornings I wake up and the thought of moving nearly shatters my hips, my feet, my legs, my shoulders. All the things you need to, you know, move around. Taking a shower in the morning can be really killer; I practically need a nap afterwards. Surviving on caffeine, short bouts on my exercise bike, and a remote control, I haven’t been feeling very creative at all. I haven’t written much for the blog, in my journal, or that novel I’m always meaning to write.

And you know what?

I guess it’s ok.

I admit I’m just practicing saying that. The concept of not pushing myself forward forward forward is not sitting well with this perfectionist. It doesn't seem right. How can it be ok to just let it go sometimes? Aren’t we supposed to pursue our dreams, foster our creativity? Maybe it’s ok that my writing will look differently than what I imagined. Maybe I’ll be working out this fibro thing instead when I can open up a blank document? Maybe not the next great American novel?  Maybe by putting my thoughts in order, seeing them on the page, I’ll come to some peace about this condition that seems to eat me alive sometimes. And maybe that’s just ok.

I can tell you instead, perhaps, about the beauty I’ve seen lately, even through the fibro. A friend at work gave me a heated towel for my back-that was a beautiful gift. It told me that someone saw me, and believed me that everything hurt. Or how about the time last week Ben and I sat on the couch and watched cat videos on Youtube  for an hour and laughed ourselves silly? Just to relax together and laugh at hilarious cats was so good. Or the many, many times I’m gathered with friends and family at our local Mexican restaurant eating and laughing and telling our stories together? I see grace, beautiful grace, given me when I’m able to make a meal, fold some laundry, take a walk around the block. There’s beauty in the ordinary. I will say that fibro makes me slow down enough to be able to see that, even when I don’t look up enough.

I want to write about these times, the moments that make up my days. Yes, there are some really hard days, some really hard moments. I cry more easily now. I say no a lot more easily now. But there are so many more instances of grace and love and beauty, even with all the feelings of inadequacy and some stalled dreams. My friends are gifts, sparkling my life with the colorful confetti of their time and laughter. My family is a gift-always caring, always asking, always knowing me. My husband is a gift-his incessant love towards me is daily grace: he makes Jesus look so good. Even my desires to write and be creative and be an artist are gifts from God-He instilled me with them, after all; I can trust Him with my dreams. I must breathe in the middle of this rough season and remember all these good things, all these gifts from our good God. I will write the good things, the hard things when I can, and tell this real-life story.

A lovely moment in Rome with my buddies. 

Some happy faces at my graduation party!

This one keeps me sane and laughing.

My darling family. 

My other always family. 

Me and the One. 

Full of the Ordinary

All my life
Been shaking
Wanting something
Holding everything I have like it was broken
Gimme something good
-Ryan Adams, Gimme Something Good

Every good gift and every perfect gift is from above, coming down from the Father of lights with whom there is no variation or shadow due to change.
-James 1:17


Well, just doing life these days.

Nothing too crazy, too out-of-the-ordinary, too extravagant.

Actually, we have gone to see two movies in the last two weeks, speaking of summer blockbuster extravagance. And we will see another in a couple weeks. Because…this. But other than that, it has been neither wild or crazy.

We have The Work and The Weekend-dividing our time into rest and livelihoods. We have appointments, meals, hang-out times, and game nights. There’s the shopping, the cleaning, the laundry, the dishes, the recycling. This is the Pacific Northwest, after all. Figuring the fibro out is a daily thing-how to rest, and how to push through; how to breathe through it all-the pain and the exhaustion, but sometimes just the plain unfairness of it all. There’s the texts, the emails, the messages that make the day so much better.

In the past few weeks, I've tried not to see the looming mountain that is August. I've tried to ignore it, block it. Focus on the present and all that. But here we are. I've felt more grief about my miscarriage in the past few weeks, knowing that August and my would-be due date has been steadily approaching. I stopped counting the weeks I “should” be a long time ago, but now it’s mind-boggling and mind-numbing to think that I would be quickly approaching 40 weeks. The start of our baby adventure, the start of a new, terrifying, and completely wonderful season. Names could have been chosen, a nursery all set up by now. Ah well. Grief is thankfully smaller now, not as all-encompassing. But there is a hole in my heart that will never fully close, never completely heal. 

So grief is a part of life now. And so it should be-for to ignore this pain, this season would be heartless. I must give my grief space and room and air-even though it does not require as much now. I’m faced with the reality this month all over again, and I must look it in the eyes. I will hold this month close-cherish my first child with remembering, with celebrating, with writing. I will give thanks for his or her life, and the joy that his or her existence brought.

Even though this month is full of the ordinary, the normal, not full of the anticipation we hoped for, it is still good. There is still joy to be found. This life is a gift. The pain, the aches, the uncertainties, the smallness and the grandeur of life-it is all gift. All grace. The grief of miscarriage, the grief of chronic pain-it is all pointing me back to the Gospel, to the Creator, to the Giver of life. I find myself needing to be held-held by a heavenly Father from whom all good things flow, and from whom all comfort for all sorrow comes. He is the One to whom I bring all my broken things, and while He does not fix them all, He is sad with me. There is also the promise of redemption, of hope, for transformation for all things. The Apostle Paul says in his letter to the Romans that creation itself longs for transformation, for healing. I will cling to the promises, the hope, the love and joy of Jesus this month, this season, and in this ordinary and splendid life.

Resting Up

I'm sittin' on the dock of the bay
Watchin' the tide roll away, ooh
I'm just sittin' on the dock of the bay
Wastin' time
-Otis Redding, Sitting on the Dock of the Bay

Be still, and know that I am God.
Psalm 46:10


If fibromylgia has taught me anything, it’s how to rest up. Necessity is the mother of invention, and all that. Leisure is now not merely just a matter of choice, but an affair of how will I relax today? I have work clothes…and I have relaxing clothes. Not much in between. Not that there’s anything wrong with having several pairs of yoga pants from which to choose. Am I right?

Not that relaxing has ever been difficult! I’ve always enjoyed slow mornings and lazy Saturday afternoons. Sitting on a bench at the Boulevard Park watching the sunlight ripple and dance across the bay. Curling up on the couch watching scary movies is surprisingly relaxing; at least, after the credits roll. Reading novels has also always been a favorite way to truly relax. Sinking into stories, other places, other times refocuses and refreshes, bringing the things that make us human into light.

Lovely Bellingham Bay. 

When I was a teenager, relaxing also included activities: doing, moving. I used to take long leisurely bike rides around our neighborhood--around the orderly Sunnyland streets or up and down the woody trails at Cornwall Park, wherever the mood struck. I can still remember the freedom in strapping on my helmet, hopping on my bike, and pedaling under my own strength. I could go anywhere I wanted, anywhere I could bike to! It didn’t feel like work, though. That was the main thing. Movement and effort and exertion isn’t work at all when you’re strong and stretched and well-practiced. Wonderful to feel the wind in your hair, the wind in your sails, the pavement stretched out behind you and in front-miles of possibility, feeling peace in the freedom going under your own steam.

So when something like chronic pain and fatigue take away the ability to move as easily, what does that mean for leisure and movement and freedom? Because now I struggle with seemingly chronic stuckness. My lovely couch feels like a heavy anchor sometimes. These days, my movements are not made up of variety and impulse and going wherever the wind takes me-I can usually be found in only a few places. So it’s easy to feel like my world is smaller. Perhaps you feel the same way about your current season of life? My days are marked not by activity and movement and doing so much as things like survival, researching ways to feel better, and resting like a boss.

Of course, life is made up of just those things, isn’t it? Survival through tough seasons, be they seasons of work, relationships, health, choices for the future. Finding ways to have the good life through wise decisions-water, exercise, rest and sleep, healthy relationships, etc. Learning to rest well, however, is not just about getting those eight hours of recommended sleep or getting those magic eight glasses of water. It’s a holy activity for the believer and follower of Jesus.

From the beginning pages of the Bible to the ending chapters, humans are meant to be in relationship with God. Adam and Eve walked in the cool of the day with God-before sin, before the fall-this was their main activity. Not marked by seasons of toil and mere existence-but by relationship with the One who made them for His enjoyment. And then we see Jesus, a Rabbi, a teacher of influence-famous through His healing of the sick and the preaching of the Gospel-call His followers not just servants, but friends. Servants are known for what they can do, what they can produce. Friends are known for enjoyment-we choose our friends-we have things in common, we laugh at the same things, we are there for each other in different seasons.

We are known to God and loved by God not for what we can do, not for our levels of activity, not for our items checked off on a to-do list, not for how many miles we put on the bike. He delights in us and over us for our mere existence. God doesn’t care what you do. He cares about you. He cares about me. This makes my current season, and indeed, all my seasons of life, full of purpose and wonder. This makes my mere existence not so mere after all. Knowing I am loved by the Creator because He made me, not for what I can do-this changes everything. This changes my pain. This changes my evenings and weekends of rest. This changes the workday. This changes all my relationships. How I think about the past, the future.

And yet how hard it is to remember this one simple fact that transforms! You are loved. I am loved. I want to remember this-have it stamped and etched and written and burned into my identity. I want all the days I am given to be enfolded  and embraced and enveloped by the fact that no matter what is happening, what I am capable of doing or not doing, God’s undying and transformational love is truly enough.

Giving Up Superwoman

Everybody movin' so fast
Makes you feel like you’re already part of the past

Ray LaMontagne, Airwaves

Whatever you do, work heartily, as for the Lord and not for men, knowing that from the Lord you will receive the inheritance as your reward. You are serving the Lord Christ.
Paul, in his letter to the Colossians


I want to be Superwoman.

Reality check. 

I will never be Superwoman.

At least, not the one I envision in my head. I am an independent female with opinions and goals and responsibilities and relationships. But I also have chronic pain and fatigue. I’ve been trying, I realized, to be the exact same person as before my condition, and that’s just not realistic. I’m finally seeing this. It’s taken months (years?) to even see that I can’t do it all. Even if I didn’t have fibromyalgia, I still can’t do everything I think I should be doing. No one else expects me to do it all, have it all, be it all. I’m the only one who expects Superwoman status from myself. 

I’ve been wanting to see fibromyalgia as something I can tell to pipe down, to take a quiet time, to take a backseat. This is my life, after all. But fibromyalgia is a loud beast. It insists on being heard. I find myself being the one to take a backseat, to take a quiet time. It’s pretty weird, having to revolve life around something like this “invisibility cloak” of a condition. It’s not always obvious that I’m not feeling super. I can usually function pretty well and get through the day. But other days, usually weekends, I need a lot of downtime. I’m not good at having fibromyalgia, and it will probably never be easy to work to around.

I’m getting better, though, at adjusting my expectations because of fibro. Such as learning to ask for help. This is really hard for that Independent Female I mentioned earlier. Even with my husband, who is the kindest, most thoughtful man ever-he helps me with things before I even think to ask. Being chronically ill is a pride-buster, for sure. I am currently working through being able to widen my circle of people I would ask for help. That is a big step for me. I’m like a two-year old screaming: “I WANNA DO IT MYSELF!”

And of course, I’m working through asking God for help. How true for all of us, though, is that? Whatever our circumstances are, we always need to be working on asking God for help, for strength, for encouragement, for grace, for peace, for healing, for compassion. If we’re not ill ourselves, someone we know is sick or in pain. We are all in need, of things only God can give us.

It’s so hard to step back and remember that no one needs me to be Superwoman. It’s ok to adjust my heavy expectations for myself, and just live and do what I can, and try to do those things well. I will practice taking stock of where I’m at physically, admitting I need help, and definitely celebrate my ordinary and shining victories, small as they may seem. I will celebrate an afternoon of shopping, an evening of hanging out with friends. I will enjoy every moment of cooking a meal or dusting the bookcases. This seems to be a higher calling, a more realistic expectation than demanding super-human feats from myself.

Morning Glories

But perhaps God is strong enough to exult in monotony. It is possible that God says every morning, "Do it again" to the sun; and every evening, "Do it again" to the moon. It may not be automatic necessity that makes all daisies alike; it may be that God makes every daisy separately, but has never got tired of making them.
-G.K. Chesterton, Orthodoxy

Let me hear in the morning of your steadfast love,
    for in you I trust.
Make me know the way I should go,
    for to you I lift up my soul.
Psalm 143:8

Every weekday morning is the same. I wake up when it gets light or when the upstairs neighbors start moving around. I then roll over and bury my head back in the pillow after glancing at the clock to see how much more sleep I can wring out of the morning.

The alarm goes off at 8 am. I turn it off, knowing it will go off again in 5 minutes. I snuggle deeper in the blankets. After a few more rounds of this, I finally throw the covers back and stumble into the bathroom for a quick shower, the daily baptism into being human for another day. If I was not too tired the night before, I would have laid my clothes out-one less thing to do in the 30 minutes I give myself to get ready and out the door. While I slap on some makeup and use a brief diffuser on my mane, the Husband of the Ages makes a breakfast smoothie of berries, kale, flax, and coconut milk. I’m out the door by 8:47. Ben always walks me to the car and waves me off down the street.

These are my mornings. Made of rituals of squeezing out more rest, delaying the inevitable rise out of delicious cozy sleep and deep blankets. Usually the thought of coffee, “nectar of the gods,” as an old friend called it, is enough to inspire me to thoughts beyond my blankets.

If only every morning included one of these. 

I have never been a morning person. Clearly. I have always enjoyed lounging in bed for hours on weekends, happily drinking coffee or crunching down toast or having an indulgent read in pajamas. All while getting to wake up slowly. Delightful. Life-giving.

The last few years, though, have intensified my lack of enthusiasm for mornings. Along with the usual reluctance, I now face the dreaded aches and pains that fibromyalgia throws at me each morning.

I wake up and take stock of how bad it is
today, curled up and eyes closed still. Mind fogged with sleep, it comes to me in waves of awareness. Damn. Another bad day. The aches pin me down, the deep pains spread through me like branches on a tree. It takes everything in me to move, to throw back those covers, and face the day. When my feet gingerly touch the floor, more aching pains shoot through my feet. Ah. Here we go.

Once I get moving, I can usually keep moving. The hot water, as hot as I can stand it, wakes me up and releases my tight muscles. The concealer under my eyes helps me feel like I don’t look like a cast member of The Walking Dead. Ben’s Wonder Smoothie gets me to have some breakfast when otherwise I would only have coffee.

These routines--simple, yet hard as ice sometimes--prove to me that once again, I can do this. I can do this thing called fibromyalgia. Every day when I get up, knowing my feet will sting and that my body will feel like lead, I am beating it. Every day that I grab my car keys and head to the door, I win. And even on the weekends and evenings when I‘m hard at rest, I am still beating fibromyalgia. I have my evening rituals, too-British murder mysteries, hanging out with friends and family, easy dinners, sometimes a walk around the block or a ride on my stationary bike, working on reading through the top 100 novels list.

All these things help me live life in the middle of figuring out fibroymalgia. Because we all need to find our calms in the storms, eyes in the hurricanes, don’t we? Finding those activities, those routines that make our hearts sing, instilling courage and hope and consistency in the darkest of times, well, that’s when you know the hard things won’t beat you.

Still Allowed to Dream?

The condition fibromyalgia involves systemic pain, particularly soreness in the joints, soft tissues and tendons. The cause of the disorder remains unknown but it primarily affects females between 20 and 50.
-Definition of fibromyalgia, dictionary.com

The Lord is good to those who wait for Him, to the soul who seeks Him.
-Lamentations 3:24-25



I’m 30. I have a chronic pain condition.

Am I still allowed to dream?

These days, I’m tired. I’m in pain. I find that my dreams are small, shrunk by chronic pain, chronic exhaustion. Life feels much smaller, more about existence and survival. I was going to change the world, you know. I was going to do things. I was going to have a life marked by holy activity, sacred busyness. It’s hard not to feel I was promised a life of big things--in my teens and early twenties, life was all about potential. People tell you what you’re good at, what they can see you doing, what subjects you excel in and should pursue. Butcher, baker, candlestick maker-the world is your oyster.  You can be anything you want to be. You can and should be doing Important Things. As a follower of Christ, those Important Things should be all evangelical, mission-oriented, and sometimes full of Dos and Don’ts, Shoulds and Shouldn’t’s, depending on to whom you were listening at the time.

Now that I’m 30, my goals are not quite so lofty.

These days, I usually dream of rest. I dream of enough magical time and space to rest. I long for free time, down time, time enough to maybe just relax enough to feel good again. I go back and forth hoping for healing. Some days I muster up the courage to ask God for healing-to change the new make-up of my head that now processes everything as pain, everything as a deep ache. Most days, I don’t ask Him, so I don’t have to hear “no” again. Because that gets really old. And raises up age-old questions of faith, God’s intentions, and plain old-fashioned patience and trust. Most days, I chalk it all up to a broken world, broken by that terrible and glorious thing called free will; broken by illness and sadness, a world that doesn't readily invite God in. My pastor told me, straight-up, that asking for healing is a trippy experience. It’s just plain weird. But we are told to ask for it, so we must keep asking. Some days, I ask others to pray for me when I just can’t do it for myself.

But I've been starting to wonder if it’s OK to still have big dreams, even though life is clearly a lot more realistic. I’m a lot more aware of my limitations. I wonder that even if I didn't have fibromyalgia, would I still be overwhelmed with life and all its choices? Would I still have enough gumption to have a huge dream, to set a grand goal? To plan out an adventurous life, one that is full of grace and beauty and checking off to-do lists? Because I really like doing that last thing, too. Would I pursue my  beautifully sudden dreams of motherhood? To not be scared off by my miscarriage, to not listen to the fears that I probably wouldn't be a very good mother? Could I still set off towards my dream of writing? To shake off the heavy mountains of excuses, to find the silence and space required? Am I still allowed big dreams, at my age when things should be set, when minds should be made up, when the course of one’s life is already in furious motion? Am I allowed a different life than the one that directly in front of me?

Because I do want a life that is filled to the brim with the goodness of knowing God. I want a life that is full of good fruit from following Him and His words. I want to be saturated in His community, with His people. I want a life where I can recognize and use the talents and skills and personality that He has given me. It’s hard, in the middle of chronic pain, to even see those things. But even this chronic pain can be used for this good life that I so desire. Gary Thomas, author of Sacred Marriage, said so beautifully that while marriage limits what we can do, it multiples what we can become, and I believe that to be true of all the limitations and circumstances we find ourselves in, even something like chronic pain. I am holding on to hope that all things will be redeemed. This is the promise of the Cross. This is the promise that believers in Christ have always held on to. My dreams don’t have to alter; they are good dreams. They might just look different in the daylight.

Dreaming in Paperback-A Shameless Plug for Novels

“I am a product of long corridors, empty sunlit rooms, upstairs indoor silences, attics explored in solitude, distant noises of gurgling cisterns and pipes, and the noise of wind under the tiles. Also, of endless books.”
-C.S. Lewis

“Never trust anyone who has not brought a book with them.” -Lemony Snicket

Oh my goodness. I"m reading The Secret History right now-it is so sobering and chilling and fascinating and deliciously ironic; the writing blows my mind-just gorgeous and rich and atmospheric. I don’t really like any of the characters-and for a book to be so good without likable characters is amazing. Inspiring. I am so glad I gave myself this book challenge of reading through the BBC Top 100 Novels. It’s given me a goal-a reachable, tangible goal. It’s good to feel like I’m accomplishing something, and especially something in my “field,” something that has always made me feel like me. Reading has been a constant in my life. Stories and characters and emotions and atmosphere and words and turns of phrase find their way into my bloodstream, become part of my make-up. I find myself reading too fast, always too fast, gobbling up words and chapters like someone who hasn’t eaten in days. 

I can’t read slowly, and I can’t stop reading at the end of the chapter. It always has to be somewhere in the middle of a chapter. Chapters always end on too tantalizing of notes, and I just have to keep going. After college, sans syllabuses, lists of books that professors picked out, and due dates for essays, I found myself adrift in my reading. I didn’t know what to read anymore-even though I finally had the time to read whatever I wanted to! But what did I want to read? It started with one of those old Facebook quizzes-“How Many of These Top 100 Novels Have You Read? BBC estimates the average adult has read only 6!” or something like that. Well, it was embarrassing how many I had not read, even though I’d just got done working for a major in literature. Oops. I filed it all in the back of my mind. A few years later, feeling dry and uninspired both in reading and in my own writing, I remembered that list and looked it up. I printed it off and have been steadily working on capturing these titles and marking them off in orange highlighter.

Oh my goodness. I’d never read The Great Gatsby or Of Mice and Men. I hadn’t read The Remains of the Day, only seen the movie. I’d never read any George Elliot, and Middlemarch turned out to be amazing. I couldn’t believe I’d never read Vanity Fair, and it’s now one of my favorite novels ever. Animal Farm and 1984 will always haunt me. I devoured The Little Prince and tried not to read it too fast. I read Possession and was delightfully devastated by the language, the prose, the idea of possession in so many different forms. I also read Atonement and didn’t care for it, even though the writing was gorgeous. I’ve also taken a few breaks from conquering my list-I’ve reread quite a few Mary Stewart novels-which always make me want to travel and maybe take up smoking. Oh, and rereading dear Agatha Christie and Father Brown. I read Miss Peregrine’s Home for Peculiar Children and Where’d You Go, Bernadette?, fun and fast modern reads.

But my heart will forever belong to the misty moors, the rambling houses, the wind-strewn trees of Jane Eyre and Wuthering Heights, the game’s afootness of Sherlock Holmes, the adventures and reality of Narnia, the journeys of Tolkein’s small heroes, the witty manners and romances of Jane Austen, the fierce delight and terror of The Man who Was Thursday, the droll and impeccable Lord Peter Whimsey.
The thing about novels, the reason why I love fiction, is it breaks one’s heart and fixes it all in one swoop. They say the man who’s read books has lived more lives than the man who doesn’t, and this is true. Not only have I lived more lives, but I’ve been privy to a range of human emotion and human reasoning and human experience-books shed light on my own mixed-up and dusty feelings and circumstances. Like with best friends, we can read a good book and say, ah, you too? I am not alone. I am not from another planet-I belong here. In this short and fleeting mist of a life, novels are anchors to the ground, and mirrors to our souls.

I see myself in Rochester-desiring and deceitful, mad with love and lust; I see myself in Jane Eyre, bound to desires but even more to a personal moral code. I see myself in Elizabeth Bennett-an observer of the absurdities of my society but wrapped up in my own perspective entirely too much. I see myself in John Watson, a loyal friend but not always sure what‘s really going on. I see myself in both Eleanor and Marianne-full of passions and fervor, yet held back by conventions and personal hang-ups. I see myself in Dorothea Brooks, unrealistically idealistic and always seeing the best in everyone until it’s too late, putting the undeserving on pedestals. I see myself in Jude the Obscure, feeling the call to be someone, be something, do something important, but always fighting resistance and apathy and things outside my control. I see myself in Dr. Frankenstein-being overwhelmed with feelings of what have I done?

I see myself in Jay Gatsby, working so hard to convince the world and myself that I am something other than what I truly am. I see myself in Eowyn, the princess with so much to give, who was told to stay at home and wait. I read the mysteries, the suspense novels, the detective novels and wonder if I would have had what it takes to solve a mystery, outsmart the bad guys, keep a cool head in dire circumstances-in short, do I have what it takes to be a true heroine? Novels let us dream, dream in infinite possibilities. And when a well-turned phrase or idea rings true, ah, well, that is why we read. The satisfaction of a well-written sentence or paragraph (if it’s Charles Dickens) is enough to make one sigh with pleasure, or even in recognition that another person, another writer, saw something the way I do, too. So much to read and reread and absorb and enjoy. Glorious bliss of too many books to read.

What books have changed you? What are you reading these days?

Turning 30

There’s a hole in my soul
I can’t fill it/I can’t fill it
There’s a hole in my soul
Can you fill it?/Can you fill it?
-Flaws, Bastille

Come to me, all you who are weary and burdened
And I will give you rest for your souls.
-Jesus, Matthew 11:28


Well, I survived my 30th birthday. I didn’t know if it was possible. I’d been gearing up for a panic-pity party-which I attended, of course. Leaving a whole decade behind is pretty scary, and of course, it took me by surprise. The pressure to accomplish, to decide, to perform, to have it all-to graduate, get a great job, travel, marry, have children, get an exercise routine down, decorate perfectly, have great taste, figure out eyeliner-is huge. I think I thought I’m supposed to be Elizabeth Elliot meets Martha Stewart meets a Victoria‘s Secret model. So by 30, I really thought, silly me, I’d have it ALL FIGURED OUT. Smirk.

All disillusionment aside, though, when I think about my 20s, I can’t help but grin. It was good! I lived in Texas TWICE and had many crazy adventures (boozy snow cone shop, anyone? Only two Starbucks?). I’ve been a writing tutor, Christian bookstore clerk, camp counselor, staff director, copy writer, receptionist. I graduated with an English Lit degree, traveled to Italy and Norway. I had a great group of friends called The Sunday Night Club, all of whom got me through college. I believe that reading Agatha Christie or Mary Stewart is a wonderful brain refresher.  I can make foam for a latte. I can also make alfredo sauce out of cashews. I learned how to drive a stick shift and how to live alone. I read a lot of books, watched a lot of British movies and tv, went on a lot of road trips. I’ve spent entire paychecks on coffee.  I got to be a bridesmaid for some dear friends. I also figured out I loved running. I have opinions on Gothic literature and think Jane Eyre to be the greatest heroine in English literature. I learned that probiotics are so necessary for taking antibiotics. Being without a hot water bottle was unthinkable. The doughnut people knew me by name and doughnut. I discovered I liked scary movies more than chick flicks. I’ve set goals to read all the books I didn’t get to in college. I get mad when I have too many weekend plans. I’ve figured out I’ll never be a morning person. I met my best friends, and married my best friend in my 20s. I’ve gotten to know my family all over again through the years, if that makes sense. There were some sad things, too. I lost my apartment to black mold and lost all my books. I was diagnosed with food allergies and fibromyalgia. I had a miscarriage. I’ve been through counseling, because being a human is hard. There has been relational change, job change, living situation change, and spiritual change.

My thoughts on this next decade? The word that keeps coming to mind is embrace. Embracing weaknesses, embracing strengths. Embracing work times, rest times. Embracing and making the most of my time with friends, family, and even introvert time. I am going to embrace and remember the things that I used to think I didn’t  have time or energy for anymore, like reading and party planning and baking and planning trips and finding the worst and scariest B-movies on Netflix. I’ll be embracing the fact that my house, hair, habits, hobbies don’t need to be perfect. I’ll be embracing the fact that it’s ok to be tired from working, tired from having a chronic illness, tired from being alive. I’ll be embracing grace. Grace from my beautiful friends and family and co-workers. Grace from God, who truly blesses me with all I need, even though I am always inadequate. Embracing this life, this new decade with all its troubles and joys, sorrows and mirth.

                                                Getting proposed to on top of a mountain.

Searching for The Dress. 

Posing for Cinnamon Roll French Toast with my buddy, Jessi. 

Couch shopping for my first apartment at Ikea with Sarah. 

My solo vacation to the beach.

Catching rays at the Vatican.

Some of my favorite girls in the world. 

Me and the Madre on top of the world in Norway. 

Mr. and Mrs. at last. 

Tulip Day!

The family at my graduation party from Western. 

My favorite ladies. 

Renovation

O break, O break, hard heart of mine!
Thy weak self-love and guilty pride
His Pilate and His Judas were:
Jesus, our Lord, is crucified.

-Hymn, O Come and Mourn with Me a While

I believe, help my unbelief!
-Father of a sick child Jesus healed, Mark 9:24


I don’t pick up the Bible as often as I’d like.

Before you roll your eyes at me and suggest that I just calm down about having a spiritual high horse, or say the Bible is hard to understand anyway and is full of contradictions and confusion and controversy, or tell me to get on the quiet time band wagon, let me say that I know all of that. Believe me. I grew up in church, surrounded by activities like Sunday school and Awana and Bible quizzing, attending and serving at apologetics camp. I’ve memorized a lot of Scripture over the years, most of which now I couldn’t repeat word for word now, but its truth remains in my head and heart. I’ve messed up a lot in my life, in relationships and life choices, and just in the daily grind of deciding how to live my little life. I’m usually in some stage of doubting faith, usually about my own ability to practice Christianity, because I typically forget that life in Christ is grace-ridden. But my raggedy faith is my own, won through dark nights of the soul, and I believe in the life, death, resurrection, and message of Jesus wholeheartedly. I have a deep, deep love of Scripture. I don’t think I’ve read it all the way through yet, and there’s lots from the Old Testament that I don’t understand. But love of the Word is foundational to my life and my thinking.

So…why don’t I read it more often now?

A simple question that I’ve shied away from. I think I tell myself that I’m too tired in the morning, and I’ll read it before bed. But if my eyes aren’t drooping too much when I crawl in bed, I tend to reach for the murder mystery on top of my Bible instead. You know. I’ve been practicing this technique of “I’ll read it later” for so long it’s a strong habit to break. And this is something I know is life-giving, a fresh wind in my soul, helps me breathe better, and inspires my creativity and introvert self.

I think the real reason is that life-giving things also tend to be hard things. Things that we can break ourselves on. I know from experience that my walls of pride, independence, anger, and malice will be assailed with the good and hard things of God when I read the Bible. I am afraid my little walls and fortresses and towers will be completely breached. God calls me to put to death the things that are not of Him-the ways of anger and gossip and hatred and storing up bitterness. He calls me to put on the ways of love and forgiveness and compassion for everyone, to forgive as He has forgiven me. Such a beautiful and holy way to live, but so challenging. Life apart from Christ beckons me to an existence of mediocre rules and regulations, of the easy life of selfishness. My heart gets hard so quickly-it freezes tight and squeezes shut. Scripture is my exfoliate, my rock tumbler, my pumice stone, the tide that washes all my stones smooth.

I want to read the Bible more…not because I have to, but because I get to. Because it washes my dusty being, because it restores me, because my hard heart must break wide open for His transformation to begin. I long for soul-deep renovation, and it is to be found in the living words of Scripture, in addition to prayer, to solitude, to community, to service, to practicing belief, to being in nature. Knowing Scripture widens my heart and graces me with compassion for others and fills me with the knowledge of His love.