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.