Motherhood and the Singing of Grace

Come, Thou fount of every blessing

Tune my heart to sing Thy grace

-Hymn

I am the vine; you are the branches. Whoever abides in me and I in him, he it is that bears much fruit, for apart from me you can do nothing. 

-Jesus, John 15:5

There’s a lot about being a mom NO ONE TELLS YOU. 

Like, how it now takes 3 hours to watch a 45 minute episode. 

Or about the FLUID. Oh, the fluid. So much of life now is about the FLUID. 

Or how you develop laser eyesight in the darkest of nights, searching for a fallen pacifier for your desperate infant. And your own desperate self. 

Or how 3 in the morning feels much the same as 3 in the afternoon. 

Or how you will cry more than your baby over trying to get her to eat. 

Or how you don’t really mind all the poops and diaper changes.

Or how you can live off your baby’s smiles FOR DAYS. 

Tonight I was dead tired. Like, so tired. I haven’t slept for a full night since the SPRING OF THIS YEAR. AND IT’S PRACTICALLY CHRISTMAS, PEOPLE. It’s just better not to think about it. And for the countless time, I had to go wash a sink full of bottle parts and pump parts because this is my life now and for the foreseeable future. WHEN ALL I WANT TO DO IS WATCH TV. That’s really ALLLLLLL I WANT TO DO. And eat snacks. My desires are oh so simple now. Oh, wait, that’s all I ever really wanted to do before…ahem. 

But alas. My task was in front of me—the approximately 2432587235 bottle and pump parts to wash. I stood in front of the sink, waiting for the water to heat up. And I had to while the Daughter napped. THIS WAS MY WINDOW. 

And a strange thing happened.

In spite of my aching exhaustion, in spite of just needing to zone out, in spite of feeling generally discouraged, I felt the urge to SING. 

Oh yes, that’s another thing they don’t tell you. 

As soon as they hand that baby to you, you become a freaking SINGER and SONGSTRESS. It’s innate. It’s inevitable. And thankfully, my daughter has a father who is NOT tune-deaf and can teach her to sing correctly. Her mother, on the other hand, loves singing but it’s a total happy accident if she sings in tune. 

Anyway, I’ve been singing pretty solidly for 6 months now. In the beginning, it was old Keith Green songs and hymns, as those were all I could remember at 2 in the morning. Now I’ve STUDIED UP and can sing some more common lullabies and baby songs, and let me tell you, Twinkle Twinkle Little Star and You are My Sunshine are BIG hits around here. Also, Good Morning from Singin’ in the Rain, because this is ME we’re talking about. 

So there I am, the hot water spilling out of the tap, and suddenly, Come Thou Fount of Every Blessing starting spilling out too. And as I sang to myself about Jesus seeking me when I was a stranger, and rescuing me from danger, and how great a debtor I am to His grace, and asking Him to seal my heart for His courts above, my super annoying and very repetitive task wasn’t the worst. And my exhaustion, a very real thing, wasn’t too much. As I reminded myself about His gospel, His good news, I remembered that it’s good news for me now. 

In this new season of life. For a tired new mama with fibromyalgia and a million things to do and think and worry about. The gospel of Jesus—the news that God loves me, a sinner, and invites me into His kingdom—is a refreshing wind, a long and peaceful and deep exhale. As I moved into O Holy Night, I was more at peace. Not because anything had really changed. I’m still going to have to wash these finicky plastic pieces many more times. I’m still going to be exhausted for what feels like FOREVER. I’m still surrounded by temptation to worry and fret and complain about hard things. But the simple act of lifting my voice lifted my spirits and thoughts to the One who listens, who hears, and who is with me, always. 

So as long as motherhood feels crazy and wonderful and reveals HOW COMPLETELY OUT OF MY DEPTH I AM, I will be singing away. So for the rest of all time, really. So sorry not sorry. Good thing I’ve been practicing night and day, huh. 

Your coffee should be the size of your infant's head. 

Have You Had Enough Water?

I got troubles Lord, but, not today

Cause they gonna wash away,

They're gonna wash away.

-Joe Purdy, “Washed Away”

"Come, everyone who thirsts, 

come to the waters; 

and he who has no money, 

come, buy and eat!

Come, buy wine and milk

without money and without price.

Isaiah 55:1

“Have you had enough water?” 

-Me as camp counselor

-Me as pregnant lady (to myself)

The above question is SUMMER CAMP GOLD. Middle schoolers, high schoolers, and even their college-age leaders forget to drink water. So asking about water became a quick knee-jerk response to alleged ailments of all kinds, during my 5 summer’s stint as a camp counselor and staff directer. Tired? Have some water. Headache? Did you have any water? Upset stomach? Water will fix that. Mysterious aches and pains and complaints that only come up during a week of cafeteria food and morning-till-night activity? LET US BEGIN WITH WATER AND GO FROM THERE. More often than not, the complaint went away after a few sips of good old H2o. 

After my years of suggesting water to countless dehydrated students, this question is now lodged in my brain as the Captain Obvious all of health questions. Water is BASIC, and yet we all probably sometimes forget to drink up when we most need it. I am, of course, preaching to the choir, because ironically it’s only been in the past couple years that I have really embraced trying to reach that magical 8 cups a day. I know, I know, after years of pushing water on students, I now finally push it on myself. I now ask myself constantly HAVE YOU HAD ENOUGH WATER, SARAH. The answer is usually no, because I am pregnant. 

I now find myself constantly thirsty, constantly reaching for my jar of water, constantly slogging my way to the bathroom. YAY MOTHERHOOD. Sidetone: I am trying to enjoy each and every trip to the bathroom BY MYSELF, as I know it will be years until I can experience that privilege once again. Today I ran across Psalm 63, which begins like this: 

O God, you are my God; 

earnestly I seek you; 

my soul thirsts for you; 

my flesh faints for you, 

as in a dry and weary land where there’s no water. 

Psalm 63:1 

Having experienced an increase in thirst these last few months, this verse stopped me in my tracks. Having read/heard/sung this verse about a billion times in my 3 decades of life, I started to read it in a rote, matter-of-fact, boring tone, as is so easy to do with familiar passages of Scripture. But now that I’m thirsty ALWAYS, I thought about the very real and visceral image of being so thirsty for God’s presence that it feels like a desert without Him. I tried to remember the times in my life when I’ve been this physically thirsty. Of course all I can really remember is the recent months of pregnancy, because PREGNANCY. And hormones. And pregnancy brain. Thirst is a real and powerful motivator, and it’s one of the most basic human needs. Even food comes after water in the list of our physical needs, WHICH IS WERID. Because FOOD. 

I’m realizing more and more that God’s presence and help and love are my most basic needs. At the beginning of Psalm 63, it says “A Psalm of David, when He was in the Wilderness of Judah.” It makes total sense to me that David could have only written such a prayer in the middle of a wilderness, and that his physical surroundings mirrored his internal struggles and desires and fears. We all find ourselves in the wilderness of our lives, of our days. And yes, more often than not, my soul is thirsty. My flesh faints. And it feels like a dry and weary and waterless land. The wilderness of soul is a familiar place. The untamed lonely spaces of thirst and deserts of all kinds close in and hem me in. And I need water. I need Living Water, the kind that Jesus offers to the woman at the well in John 4. And this is not a 5 year plan or a far-off hope: this is a real and Captain Obvious kind of need. David is pretty clear that the antidote to his bone-deep thirst is God Himself. He seeks after Him like a man lost in a desperate desert, searching for an oasis. 

David goes on to say that he has looked upon God in the sanctuary, beholding His power and glory, realizing His love is better than life itself. And he chooses, in the middle of the wilderness, to praise God as long as he lives. This is a glorious sneak peek into what a life of seeking after God looks like. In the middle of our own wildernesses and desert places, let us seek God in sanctuary like thirsty people searching for water. God never leaves His seekers thirsty, although He always leaves us in places where we will still search for Him. This is one of the mysterious truths of desert places. It is only in the wilderness that we will even realize our most basic need for water, that we will even seek sanctuary, that we will even choose to bless Him, our Help. 

This year, at the beginning of 2017, as I look forward to a year of intense joy bringing a baby into the world, it might seem strange to be talking about wilderness and water. But as we all know by now, the other side of joy is sorrow. There are never perfect conditions for having a baby or raising a child, and I only have the slightest glimmer of how much help and hope I will need for being a mother. But because I know I am thirsty, and I know that God can be found and known, I will continue to ask myself if I’ve had enough water, and I will continue to seek Him. 

This is me after 8 weeks of summer camp. Notice I am not following my own advice about water. 

There's water in coffee, right?

ELECTRIC TEA KETTLE. GAME CHANGER. 

Not kidding about the jar of water, people. 

When Limits Make Us Free

Such as I have give I Thee. 
—Old Sunday School song

Because we have such a hope, we are very bold. 
—The Apostle Paul, letter to the ancient Corinthian church

Basically, it seems to me that there’s never enough. Never enough time, never enough money, never enough time with friends, never enough cookies. Sometimes it’s hard not to focus on what is lacking, rather than on what is present. I think I start to see everything in my life as either a drain or a resource. While important to identify life-giving activities and pursuits, as well as what depletes us, it can also turn into a very self-centered mind-set. How do we balance what we have with what comes our way? How do we not let everything and anything become weights that make us look constantly inward? How do we make what we have into enough? 

Maybe what I really feel is that I’m not enough. I’m not enough for all the things demanded of me. I’m not enough for all the things I expect from myself. Even though fibromyalgia has made me let go of a lot of expectations from myself, there’s still so many things I would like to see myself do and accomplish. I’m not even talking about the Book I’m going to write to someday, or travel all around the globe. I would like to be able to hike a mile without a break or feeling like I’m going to die. I would like to be able to make dinner consecutive nights in a row. I would like to be able to go to church again on Sundays. Just a lot of little things that add up to big things in my head. 

What I’m finally realizing though, in the middle of all my yearnings and desires to do more, to be more, is that it’s good to not be enough. It’s actually freeing being able to say I am not enough. This life is too much sometimes, and I just can’t do it all. Sometimes, most times, I can’t even do the little things. 

Here’s why it’s ok: Not being enough, not having what it takes, not being able to pull myself up by my bootstraps, not being able to reach for the moon because I’m tired and it’s too far away, makes me see how much I need others. How much I need Jesus. How much I need to ask for help, for support, for ideas, for comfort. How much I need to pray and be open and vulnerable and honest. With myself, with others, with God. It takes guts, I think, to look in the mirror and say, while I’m not enough, I’m actually ok. In the middle of my not-enoughness, I will find that that the opposite is true. What I thought was being-enough, was actually impossible. The paradox is admitting that when we are utterly incapable of doing life by ourselves, we will learn how to do what we can well. When we realize our limitations, our smallness, we can accomplish the possible, and we will see that, yes, that actually is enough.

While I don’t have a ton of energy to give, or a million dollars to give to charity, or a best-seller to give the world, I have other things to give. I have time to sit and laugh and talk—I’m usually not in a hurry. I am not afraid to pull out the frozen taquitos to serve a guest. I have time to pray for others, to ask God for help and healing and direction. While I’m working on getting better physically, I’m learning how to care for this body, this great and bumbling gift from God. I’m trusting that being chronically ill will make me into a more compassionate and giving person. I’m learning to love God and love others no matter where I’m at, no matter how much I have to give, because, really, it’s not about me.

It’s about God taking whatever I have to give, and making it enough. It’s about that hope and that trust in Him, that He knows what He’s doing, even with a broken person like myself. He can take the smallest of things and make them beautiful and significant, like woven threads in a tapestry. This makes us bold in our giving, no matter how small. We are free to give what we have, knowing that God can and will transform the smallest sacrifice, the littlest gift. 

Hope in Focus

You can dance in a hurricane, but only if you’re standing in the eye. 

-Brandi Carlile, The Eye

Since we have such a hope, we are very bold. 

-The Apostle Paul, 2 Corinthians 3:12

I’ve been thinking a lot about hope lately—how necessary and hard it is to hold close. 

Sometimes hope is a hot potato. You just need to not drop it, or it’ll fall on the floor and get dirty and smashed. But on the other hand, maybe hope will burn us if we hang on it too long. If hope is not realized, not seen, will it harm us, dent us, make us misshapen? And if hope is too hot to handle, does that mean it’s just too much to hope for? 

Maybe hope is more like one of my lost earrings. I know it’s there somewhere—I just can’t find it. Must be buried in a drawer or under some furniture. It will look really nice when I finally find it, use it how it was meant to be used. Someday it will surface. But for now, I’ll just have to live without it. 

Brightening up our movie collection with happy lights. 

This elusive thing called hope seems, then, so dear and fragile. It’s also one of the great facets of the faith-the Apostle Paul says that after everything else in life, three things remain: faith, hope, and love. So in addition to being a bit slippery to hang on to, it’s essential to following Jesus as we travel this world. Makes it a bit tricky, doesn’t it? Hope gets rained out, gets benched when we need it the most. Circumstances and choices collapse on top of our wishes and desires, snuffing them out, breaking them in half. But without hope, we merely limp along. We get by. And we wonder where the abundant life, the good life went. We then set aside our expectations so we won’t keep stumbling over them. Hopes may get moved to a “someday thing” or a far-off thing in our minds, and we move on to functioning. 

When life gets rumpled, when it gets stuck in a seemingly endless montage of gray days and rough nights no matter the weather, how do we relight the candle of hope? How do we set it bravely on top of our lives? How do we make our lives receptive to hope and expectation? 

I think that it does come back to putting one foot in the other, even though it seems like a poor substitute for felt hope, for realized expectations. At first it seems almost false to “just function,” as though we’re putting on an act. But when hope is absent or faint, it makes sense we must practice having it. We must practice hope, even when it feels foreign or nonsensical. Just how I know my lost earring is there somewhere, we must live in the reality of hope, even though we can’t always feel it or see it. When we visit with friends, we are practicing hope. When we read a favorite book or start a new hobby or project, we are practicing hope. When we say “I love you” or “I care about you” to the loved ones in our lives, we are practicing hope. When we plan our future with open hands and open minds, knowing that things can change at any time, we can do so in hope. 

When we are practicing hope and expectation, we can more easily look to the Maker of Hope and Peace. We can remember that Jesus is indeed the Author and Creator of Hope. We can remember all the things He’s done for us in the past and use them to light our way. We can look forward to what He’s going to do in the future with us and through us. When we don’t even know what to hope for, we can rest in the fact that Jesus intercedes for us and knows what we need. We can rest in His love, knowing that He can use us in all our weaknesses, even when we don’t have much strength that we can give. Although we can’t summon hope like a magic spell, we can ground ourselves in remembrance and thankfulness. And when we do, I have a suspicion that hope will begin to bloom, as they say, where we’re planted. 

Hope > Weariness

So lift your voice just one more time

If there’s any hope may it be a sign

That everything was made to shine

Despite what you can see

So take this bread and drink this wine

And hide your spirit within the vine

Where all things will work by a good design

For those who will believe

Josh Garrels, Beyond the Blue

For we know that the whole creation has been groaning together in the pains of childbirth until now. And not only the creation, but we ourselves, who have the firstfruits of the Spirit, groan inwardly as we wait eagerly for adoption as sons, the redemption of our bodies. For in this hope we were saved. Now hope that is seen is not hope. For who hopes for what he sees? But if we hope for what we do not see, we wait for it with patience.
The Apostle Paul, Romans 8: 22-15

It’s March 20th, the first day of spring. A new season, winter is over. Flowers will soon be in full bloom, the trees will awaken from their long hibernation. The days will continue to lengthen, letting the sun shine longer shadows into the evenings. Around the Pacific Northwest, people will dust off canoes and bicycles and hiking shoes. Folks will switch hot lattes and mochas for iced coffees. Sunglass sales will go up, as our Washington eyes are still used to grey and rainy days. Thoughts go to sprucing up decks and balconies and porches, and spring-cleaning the inside of homes. Exercise routines will move from gyms and in front of TVs to outdoors at last, warmer and less wet weather beckoning us to tracks and parks and hiking trails. 

Bringing spring inside! 

Today I’m home with fibromyalgia. Full of deep aches and insidious fatigue, I’m laying on the couch in my two favorite blankets, in long grey yoga pants and my ancient black fleece jacket with the replaced zipper. The rain has been beating against all the windows today, heavy wind blowing down the stove vent. I’ve already taken one nap, and in contemplation of another. I found some leftovers in the fridge for lunch, thankfully, which I ate while watching an episode of Poirot. I’m surrounded by empty water glasses and half-eaten bags of trail mix and half-read books. 

All this to say I’m not feeling my most springy or full of ready-to-bloom potential. Still exhausted by a recent colonoscopy, I’m now staring down an exploratory laparoscopy in a couple of weeks, to hopefully diagnose endometriosis. The last month has been full of preparations and paperwork and calling doctor’s offices and appointments and talking to supervisors and insomnia. Not to mention fighting a horrendous cold and viral infection. Even though I’m not ready to hit the trails or plant a garden, I’m very much looking forward to a changing of seasons, both outside and in all these physical circumstances. I’m praying in desperation that all the seeds planted in wild hope in the last month will come to some kind of fruition, that all the preparation and plans will provide answers and action to take. I’m ready for spring in this body. 

I’m ready to wake up in the morning and not feel pain everywhere. I’m ready to hop in the shower and get ready for the day without needing a rest afterwards. I want to be able to go on a hike or walk on a rocky beach in this beautiful part of the world on weekends, without having to think twice. I want to say yes to social invitations without having taking stock of my physical abilities. I’m ready to have activities in the evenings after work once in a while without needing every single one to rest. I’m so ready to say goodbye to brainless distractions and pursue true leisure, like reading more and writing and being creative in the kitchen or with paper and charcoal. I’m looking forward to feeling my age, and not like a 90 year old trapped in this body. 

For now, it’s still the middle of a long winter for these bones. For now, I do what I can. I take steps towards feeling well. I rest when I have to. Ben and I make our home beautiful and inviting and easy to relax in. Every doctor’s visit, every call to my insurance company, every salad and smoothie I consume, every nap I take, every gentle stretch and walk, every time I say yes to seeing friends and family, is an act of radical hope and faith. And this all is truly enough while I wait. I am hanging on to hope that while this is a truly tiring and confusing season, it is only a season. Seasons change and ebb and flow. Flowers blossom and trees turn green only after winter’s cold months. Let’s hang on to hope together. While we face life with all its curves and setbacks, let’s look forward to all the good things that are waiting. 

Searching for the Next Well

I don’t know about the truth. I only know how I feel. 
Agatha Christie, The ABC Murders


Count it all joy, my brothers, when you meet trials of various kinds, for you know that the testing of your faith produces steadfastness.
James 1:2-3

So, you guys. I’m prickly right now. About health, about pain, about advice or questions from well-meaning people. Even though I’m making some surprising progress with appointments and scheduling procedures to find things out (hellooooooo colonoscopy!), it’s all feeling a bit desperate. 

It’s harder and harder to focus on the positive. Or even do things that supposedly have a positive impact. Today, for example, I needed to get out of the house. Like, for reals. Yesterday I was down with Horrible and Bad Cramps that stopped me from moving around the house, let alone outside of it. So today, a beautiful and gorgeous sunny day only found in the Pacific Northwest, a walk sounded ideal and even necessary. 

Inspired by a friend who did the same this morning, we drove to the Boulevard Park, a paradise of water and green lawns and big rocks and lovely walkways. But everyone else in the world had the same idea for this afternoon, too!  We finally made our way to the boardwalk—I was overwhelmed by the sheer amount of people, dogs, bikes, scooters, skateboards. I can’t remember feeling that claustrophobic in the open air! Touching shoulders with nearly every passerby, and being told “BIKES!” from behind. Shudder. You would have thought all that exposure to vitamin D (the first from actual sunshine in months) would have helped somewhat, but alas. More aches and pains descended, and coupled with the intense struggles of the last few weeks, and well, you have a disappointing Sunday. 

The patience necessary for all these things isn’t always at the ready, I admit. It drains away with the daily exertions of Life. I’m waiting for anything to improve. Anything at all. I don’t always know how to find my next well. I can’t trust dietary changes or exercising or rest or surgery or any new health claims. It’s so hard to find my center in all this chaos—it’s always been so key to me to be at peace within my head and soul. I want to find again the things that bring me peace and happiness and meaning. I want to discover new things that inspire creativity and deep purpose. I want to feed my soul even while my body is holding me back. I want to sink into Scripture again and find peace. I want to experience again the redemptive love of Jesus. 

I want to read my books and write my thoughts and watch my murder shows and drink my coffee without guilt—to recharge so I can be fully present with the ones I love. I want to make beautiful things and have a hospitable home for others to come into. I want to move my body in exercise without feelings of ‘is this enough?’ or ‘is this too much’? or ‘is this even right??’ I want to shed the guilt that comes with chronic conditions. I’m constantly judging myself for canceling on people, for resting, for asking for help when I long for independence, for saying no too many times, for asking people to come over instead of being able to go out. I want it to be ok if my house isn’t perfect, if my clothes aren’t folded the minute they come out of the dryer, if my face shows the strain of chronic illness. 

I am not sure what the next few weeks hold, what with various procedures and appointments. Will we find anything conclusive? PS. Please don’t let it be IBD or IBS. Please please please. Regardless of what we find, I need my peace of mind to be anchored in something other than medical know-how. I have a feeling that any road to any sort of recovery is going to be long and annoying. I must keep searching for deeper wells of renewal and strength. This is where the real struggle is—because there will always be hard things, there will always be the temptation to give in, and give up on hope. There is always a choice to keep hoping and searching for the good things in life, the things that bring us hope and peace, and I want to make that choice every day. 

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. 

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. 

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.

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.