Category: healing

How hard can it be? Re-visit

~ Kristin ~ 3 Comments

First written in February 2018, this post further examines the topic from Righting the Course. I’ve cleaned it up for you here in May 2019.

It sounds pretty easy. I mean, it’s really just one independent clause. I’ve read it, or heard it read, certainly dozens of times in my life.  In my mind, I see Jesus peacefully walking along a dirt path, probably next to the Sea of Galilee, wind blowing through his hair, gazing lovingly toward his hearers. His voice is gentle, as though he’s giving the simplest of invitations, “repent and believe the gospel.”

How hard can it be to 1) repent, and 2) believe the gospel?

Pretty darn hard it turns out.

I have spent a fair amount of time writing about repentance. It’s such an archaic sounding word, isn’t it? Kind of King James-ish, if you ask me. Why in the world would I use a word like repent in 2018 when it conjures another image, one of a wild-eyed, locust-eating John the Baptist, shouting at the top of his lungs, “Repent and be baptized!”

Can’t we all just hold hands and sing Kumbaya?

We could. We could gather together, hold hands, and sing Kumbaya. It might be soothing for a moment, but it wouldn’t provide the healing and restoration that true repentance gives.

Perhaps way back in confirmation class was the first time I heard repentance described as “a turning”. I have imagined myself walking down a street of my own making headed toward a future that only seems bright, and then, realizing that the path is actually headed toward harm, I turn on a dime to head in the opposite direction toward a future hand-crafted for me — one that I don’t have to manipulate myself into.

Doesn’t that sound so “one and done”-ish? Yeah, true repentance isn’t like that. True repentance is realizing that I keep ending up on that same darn street and that I have to keep turning around and heading in the other direction. I am bent on turning. I keep ‘figuring out’ a better plan, a more exciting path, a way that seems right to me.

The road I typically end up on is one that promises to make me happy. In my younger years, it promised make me thinner. Over the years, it has offered financial security, family peace, work satisfaction, physical healing, or some other sort of relief from some other sort of stress. It promises an escape from the troubles of this world. But guess what — it has not once delivered.  Oh, sure, I walked a path for a while that certainly made me thinner, but it also left me empty. I have patched together short-term fixes for all kinds of messes, but none have lasted. All of my efforts lead me to the same conclusion — I do not have the answers.

So, I turn. I walk away from my own path, and I promise myself, and God, that I’ve learned my lesson. I’m done trying to soldier through. I’m done coming up with my own solutions.

But before long, whether I realize it or not, I’m back on my own path.

Why?  Because I forget the second half of the clause — “believe in the gospel”.  I know, I know, more John the Baptist, but guys, the dude was running around shouting because he understood the good news! He knew what has taken me a lifetime to learn — all my answers are crap. They set up me to be my own rescuer and they inevitably fail. John the Baptist understood that Jesus was the answer, and not just in the Sunday school answer kind of way.  He was the solution. The remedy. The Way.

But you know, even though I believe that, I don’t always believe that. Instead I believe that I need to solve my own problems, pay for my own mistakes, and forge my own path. I get confused and think that repentance means guilt and punishment.

It doesn’t.

Let’s picture the scene a little differently. Let’s have Jesus walk right up beside us wherever we are today. Let’s have him walk with us on our path for a little while; let’s hear his voice and begin to trust him. I see him walking as quickly or as slowly as we want to go. I imagine him making a lot of eye contact, so much so that I stop looking at whatever it is that I’ve been chasing at the end of the path of my own making. Before long I  want to go wherever He is going, just so that I can continue to see those eyes and hear that voice. I imagine hearing him say things like “Follow me. I love you, and I forgive you. Don’t worry; I’m preparing a place for you.”

Turning isn’t so hard when you know that you are turning toward love, when you recognize where you belong, and when you understand, finally, that he’s had you all the time in the palm of his hand.

In repentance and rest is your salvation; in quietness and trust is your strength.

Isaiah 30:15a

For Us, re-visit

~ Kristin ~ 2 Comments

This post, written in September 2017 and polished for you here in June 2019, illustrates another instance of how sharing my skill-set with a friend worked to shape my growth. After I read the initial two chapters, Marv Fox and I spent the next 18 months or so reading, re-reading, writing, and re-writing. Marv is now truly a friend. If you’d like to read his book, Become, you can purchase it at this link.

A friend of mine is writing a book, and he asked me if I would read a couple of chapters. Actually, two weeks ago, ‘friend’ might have been assuming too much on my part. I knew this guy from church and from around the university, but other than a few standing-around-after-church conversations, we hadn’t spoken much. However, in one of those conversations, he mentioned a book that he is writing. He said he’d been giving chunks to people to read, and I casually said that I’d like to take a look.

Not long after that I found a stack of papers on my desk with a note on top that said, “Please call me before you take a look at this.” Last Monday, the day before the first day of fall classes, I called. We chatted about his goals in writing  and his purpose for my reading. The whole conversation lasted maybe fifteen minutes before I said, “You know, God’s timing is very interesting. I think this is a book I need to look at as I face yet another transition in my life.” He said, and I’m paraphrasing here, “If you are getting ready to step into something big, you’ve got to settle in your mind that God is for you. Obstacles are going to pop up and you need to see them as God preparing you, strengthening you, using those very obstacles in your favor. You have got to believe that Romans 8:28 is true; God will work all things together for good.”

Well, I hadn’t anticipated the conversation going there, but I heard those words as though they had been the main intention of the call, even though they were an impromptu 90-second add-on.

The rest of that day was a blur of activity —  helping my daughter prepare to go back to college and preparing myself for the first day of class.  The next morning I woke up early, checked and double-checked my schedule, my bag, my clothes, my hair. I ate my standard bowl of oatmeal and prepared my cup of green tea, my cup of black tea, and a tumbler of water. My daughter snapped my ‘first day of school’ pic which I quickly uploaded to Facebook and Instagram, and then, realizing that I had better get going if I wanted to rearrange the classroom into a circle before the students arrived, I tucked my Macbook, my notebooks, and my water tumbler into my school bag and grabbed both cups of tea because I hadn’t had time to drink either yet.

Yeah, that was a juncture.  You can see it coming, can’t you?

I mean, why? Why do I have to take all those drinks to a 75-minute class.  I end up drinking my tea at room temp most days anyway. Why not take one cup of tea in one hand and one tumbler of water in the other hand? Two drinks is plenty.

Nope. I had to have all three.

I  walked to class, set my bag down, placed all three cups on the teacher’s stand, and rearranged the classroom.  As the students filed in, I grabbed my Macbook and noticed that a few drops of water were on its cover.  I wiped them off casually as I opened it up. As it came to life, I also noticed that a few drops were on the keyboard and on the screen.  A little frantically, I wiped those away as I looked around the classroom and noted the students filling the seats. I clicked a couple keys to pull up attendance and noticed that my MacBook was not responding. I panicked a little, then set it aside; I had student relationships to establish and a lesson plan to complete.  The laptop would wait, but guys, I knew it was dead.

As I moved through my day — that first class, chapel, online chatting with Apple, a trip to a local computer store — I kept hearing my friend’s words in my head. You have got to settle in your mind that God is for you. Did I believe that?  Did I believe that God could be for me even when I made a very careless and very costly mistake? Could He be working even my mistakes together for my good?

Well, apparently I was intended to get this lesson settled because also during the same week, I lost a notebook that I was using as a model with my composition students, the lenses on my glasses became ‘crazed’, we lost both of the keys to our house, and let’s not forget that I am still dealing with compromised health and the stress of observing two adult children move out of our place and go back to school.

Of course you know that if I am willing to write about all of this, a few of the issues have been resolved — I have filed an insurance claim and my MacBook has been sent off for repairs, the university has given me a loaner to bridge the gap, the optical shop has ordered replacement lenses because mine were still under warranty, a student found my notebook in an adjacent classroom, and the keys? Well, the keys are still missing. We’re working on that.

But more importantly, I finished reading the chapters my friend had given me to read, and we agreed to meet to discuss them. I gave him my feedback on content and, less importantly, mechanical issues, and then I told him the story I just told you. I said that even when I was yelling, crying, and fighting my way through all these setbacks, I wasn’t without hope, because I kept hearing him say, You have got to settle in your mind that God is for you. I kept reciting Romans 8:28.

Marv Fox

He smiled and nodded as I told him everything that had happened, and he said something like this, “God is strengthening you because He is getting ready to use you. As you managed all these difficulties, He was building your stamina, getting you ready for what is coming next.”

He doesn’t know me.  He doesn’t know that for years I have told students that “God is always preparing us for what is coming next.” He doesn’t know that I have been kind of beaten down lately — grieving a bit, wallowing a bit. He doesn’t know that I needed a dramatic reminder that God is still God and that even in the midst of my failures He is for me.

But God knew.

It still blows my mind. Every time.

I’ve got a new friend, guys, and a fresh perspective.

God is for us.

Meanwhile, the moment we get tired in the waiting, God’s Spirit is right alongside helping us along. If we don’t know how or what to pray, it doesn’t matter. He does our praying in and for us, making prayer out of our wordless sighs, our aching groans. He knows us far better than we know ourselves, knows our pregnant condition, and keeps us present before God. That’s why we can be so sure that every detail in our lives of love for God is worked into something good.

Romans 8:26-28, The Message

26-28 

You’d be amazed

~ Kristin ~ Leave a comment

You’d be amazed to know what happens when you sit down, shut up, and pay attention.

You notice things.  You finish writing a confessional blog about sitting with your grief, walk a few steps to your bed, lie down, open the book you have been reading on and off for over six months, and the very next words that you read are these:

Maybe grieving over plans changed is part of the plan to change us.*

Then, after sleeping for just a few hours, you hop in your car and turn on a podcast** to hear two women discussing shame and vulnerability.  You’re stunned because as they share their failures,  you feel somehow drawn into the discussion like you’re a member of the sisterhood of the fallen.

As the podcast finishes, you arrive at a restaurant to meet a  woman for lunch — someone you’ve never met before — she offhandedly mentions her struggle with autoimmune disease,  and before you know it, you’re choking out something like, “It’s so frustrating because I like to be a positive fun person, but right now, I don’t feel like that person.”

Then, a couple hours later, in a session with your therapist, you hear yourself recounting the most mortifying moments of your week when your child brought her friend to your house ahead of schedule to ‘surprise you’ and you made them leave so that you could finish cleaning and you weren’t joking. When the therapist says, “so we’re going to work on your need to be in control and your ability to be kind to yourself,” you sit in stunned amazement that 1) you actually confessed the story out loud and, 2) she gets you and this is only the second time you’ve spoken to her.

You leave your session, drive through Starbucks to buy a tall lemonade before picking up your four-year-old great nephew and taking him home for dinner.  After dinner you chat about serious things like whether or not a four-year-old can actually run faster than a race car, then hear your nephew, the four-year-old’s daddy, say “you are such a blessing to us” as he walks you to your car.

You drive home, wiping tears off your cheeks because you are overwhelmed at the richness of the day, walk into your house, plop down on a chair next to your husband, and try to give him some snippets that can somehow convey the way God spoke to you all day long, but you are so exhausted from the last twenty-four hours that you can barely make coherent sentences.

After a total knock-out sleep, you wake up and eat a bowl of oatmeal on the way to your physical therapy appointment. Then, the angel who is your therapist places her hands directly on the exact spots that have been screaming for attention.  She just barely touches you, but the warmth and intention radiating from her hands moves from your skin through your joints and directly into your heart.

It’s several hours later, after you have baked banana bread, prepared chicken curry, drank tea with a friend, choked up at the opening chapel service on your school’s campus, talked with three out of four of your children, made major financial decisions with your husband, cried over a minor miracle, started crocheting a new afghan, and laughed at the Weekend Update, when you realize that for the last two days God has been placing His hands directly on the exact spots that have been screaming for attention.  He has just barely touched them, but the warmth and intention radiating from His hands has moved directly into your heart.

That’s what happens when you sit down, shut up, and pay attention.

I think I might try sitting with this a little longer.

Blessed are those who mourn, for they will be comforted.

Matthew 5:4

*Ann Voskamp, The Broken Way.

** Jen Hatmaker’s For the Love, “Episode 2: Brenae Brown”

Sitting with it, Re-visit

~ Kristin ~ 9 Comments
Click here for audio, or read on.

This week and last, I have shared posts that tell the story of my journey with autoimmunity. I have said in my posts that I am thankful for this journey. This post gets at the heart of why. Written in August of 2017, it conveys a critical part in my healing — the time I have spent sitting and considering the previous chapter of my life. Everyone doesn’t benefit from illness, but my physical illness has made way for a much deeper healing.

I literally have to sit here with it.

I would rather run, but I don’t have that option any more. I have to sit with it.

In my soldiering years, I was continually in motion. Dawn ’til dark. I was picking up, dropping off, buying, cooking, cleaning, planning, teaching, grading, and when I could squeeze it in, I was literally running. Though I was acutely aware that I had four other humans living in the house with me (who else was I picking up, dropping off, buying, cooking, and cleaning for?), I rarely sat still very long to actually look at them, listen to them, watch them, hear them.

I have to sit with that now. I’d much rather be running.

When one got migraines, went off to school, and then developed an eating disorder, I didn’t stop what I was doing. No. I drove to emergency rooms, packed boxes, drove miles, dropped off, made appointments, picked up, and kept moving.

When another joined the military and started jumping out of planes, I didn’t sit down and think about what that meant. No. I bought supplies, cooked farewell dinners, drove to a bus, dropped off, and kept moving. I can’t even remember if I wrote letters.

When another was brutally assaulted, I was so busy moving I didn’t even realize it had happened. For almost two years. And when I finally found out, still, I didn’t stop what I was doing, sit down, and grieve. No. I grabbed broken pieces, dropped them in the passenger seat of the car, and drove them to someone who I thought could put them back together again. And I kept on moving.

I have to sit with that now.

I didn’t choose this.

No. Even when disease started crawling into my joints, I tried to keep moving. I trudged through long days trying to manage responsibilities and ended up collapsing at home at the end of each day. All my good hours were spent in hot pursuit while my hours at home, with the ones who needed me most, were spent in a daze of pain and fatigue.

It’s been over three years since I admitted the need for change. In those three years I have tried again and again to return to my former ways, but I can not. This disease is literally slowing me, sitting me down, and forcing me to face the things that I have not wanted to face. It’s forcing me to learn new ways. And, still, I resist.

I try, futilely, to keep busy. I have crocheted a hundred scarves, hats, afghans. I have put together a million puzzle pieces. I have read thousands of pages of print.

But, without fail, fatigue comes, and I must stop the busy-ness and turn to stillness. And even when I am exhausted, as I am right now, it’s as though I fight against rest.

The past several nights I have limped to my room lugging heated packs that I drape on my neck, hips, back after I’ve awkwardly lowered myself into bed. Then begins the battle of shifting and moaning and repositioning that sometimes lasts several minutes but tonight lasted much longer, and I couldn’t turn off the images that kept playing out over and over on the HD screen that is my imagination. Finally I groaned myself out of bed.

Come on, Kristin. Sit with it. Admit that you missed so much. Acknowledge that the ones you love have hurts that you haven’t wanted to see. Grieve that. Cry.

Acknowledge that you couldn’t do it all. You couldn’t soothe all the hurts. You sometimes didn’t even try.

And the hurts keep coming. The car needs servicing. The dog is aging and ill. A laptop isn’t working. Can’t a girl get relief from some of this pain?

And then comes the realization that the physical pain is a symbol. A tool.

 A gift.

Man, I hate to admit that it’s a gift, but without it, I would still be running. I would still be accumulating regret.

The illness hasn’t solved my problems, but it has allowed me to see them.

And as I see them, I am finally taking the time to sit with them and cry. The tears keep coming as though they just have been waiting for the opportunity.

I’m trying, really trying, to sit with that. I believe the healing will come in the grieving. So, I’m going to take some time to grieve. Soldiering me wants to schedule the grieving for Mondays at 10am for the next three weeks and be done with it. 

Sitting still me isn’t in a rush.

I’m learning to sit with that, too.

There is a balm in Gilead to make the wounded whole;
There is a balm in Gilead to heal the sin-sick soul.

Sumballo, a Re-visit

~ Kristin ~ 3 Comments

This post, written right after Christmas 2015, seems relevant today. As you gather all the pieces of your holiday celebration and ponder them in your heart, may God grant you the wisdom to see the big picture.

This morning, I opened my morning devotion from Beth Moore’s Whispers of Hope: 10 Weeks of Devotional Prayer and found this verse from Luke 2 — the Christmas story:

But Mary treasured up all these things and pondered them in her heart.

Luke 2:19

When I’ve read this verse in the past, I’ve pictured Mary holding baby Jesus in her arms kind of shaking her head in disbelief; I’ve imagined her saying, “Well, you weren’t kidding, were you? You said I would conceive and bear and son, and here he is!” I’ve imagined pondered to mean “wondered in astonishment.” However, Beth Moore, a biblical scholar, corrects my image a bit; she says pondered is translated from the Greek word sumballo which means “taking many things, casting them together, and considering them as one”. These words make me picture tossing many snapshots onto a table, discovering connections between them, and finding the theme of the collection.

Among Mary’s photos I see — her pregnant body on a donkey on that long journey to Bethlehem, her downcast eyes in the moment when her parents discovered her ‘situation’, her peaceful resolve during tense conversations with Joseph, and her brow beaded with sweat during the labor and delivery amid the straw and dung. I see images of the first glance at her child, I hear the knock on the wall of the stable when the shepherds arrived, I smell the frankincense when she opens the gifts from foreign dignitaries.

When she pondered those moments “as one” what did they add up to for her?

I’m sitting here three days after Christmas in my little house by the river, and I, too, am taking a moment to ‘sumballo’. I’m looking back at the events of the last few weeks — the parties, the visits with family, the gift buying and giving, the hopes, the disappointments, the laughter, and the tears — and I’m casting them together as one.

In fact, this whole blog — every post on every day –has been an attempt to ‘sumballo’. Since I started writing in the summer of 2014, I have been looking back over sections of my life: I’ve been ‘casting them together’ and ‘considering them as one’.

Sometimes we are  tempted to look at isolated moments as defining moments — that time that you lied to a trusted a friend, the year that your parents were divorced, the semester that you failed a class, that car accident that nearly claimed your life, the winning football championship, the Homecoming coronation, the birth of a child. Certainly these moments shape us, but they do not define us — not in isolation. They only offer hints until we sumballo  — until we put these moments into perspective as parts of a whole.

If I am going to look at the fact that for the ten soldiering years of my life I was way too busy, and I often overlooked the emotional needs of my family, if I am going to acknowledge that this behavior was costly to my physical, spiritual, and emotional health and to the physical, spiritual, and emotional health of my family, I can’t view that time in isolation. If I am going to truly sumballo, I need to look at other seasons as well. I need to remember that I also stayed at home with my children for almost ten years — nurturing, hugging, reading, teaching, correcting, and guiding. I need to acknowledge that for the past five years I have been recovering from soldiering and learning a new way. Within each of these periods have been awesome moments  — young children singing happily in the car on a road trip, teenagers rolling on the floor with laughter, and young adults gathering for the holidays. However, each period has also had moments of devastation — betrayal, trauma, and disappointment. If we grasp onto any one moment and let it define us, we get a a distorted view. In order to see the clearest picture, we have to cast all of the moments together. We must consider them as one. Only then, can we discover a theme.

And what is that theme? Way back in my twenties when someone challenged me to write my testimony, I wrote that the theme of my life was “rescued by grace”. Even in those early years, I knew that God had been protecting me, walking with me, holding his cupped hands beneath me to carry me through. He was overlooking mistakes, forgiving wrongs, and allowing me second and third and fourth chances. When I was careless, he protected me. When I was selfish, He was benevolent. When I was hateful toward others, He poured love on me.

He rescued me with grace.

As I am approaching fifty, I look back at all the events of my life, and I ponder them all in my heart. Time and again I see my  failed attempts to do things on my own followed by God’s miraculous provision. I see God transforming my pain into compassion for others. I see my pride falling into humility. I see the love of God.

I wonder what Mary thought as she pondered ‘all these things’ in her heart.  She had to see God’s miraculous provision in a faithful husband, a place of shelter, and safety from Herod. She had to see God transforming her pain and embarrassment into compassion for others. She had to feel humbled in the presence of the Christ child. She had to see the love of God for herself and for all of humanity.

Despite our weaknesses, our poor choices, our sin — He loves us. He has seen every moment — every victory, every failure, every injury and every recovery. None of it has been a surprise to Him. He has gone before us, and He has held us in the palm of His hand. He has cast all the events of our lives together and saturated them with grace.

That is the message that I find when I sumballo.

Don’t wait for Christmas, a Revisit

~ Kristin ~ 1 Comment

Back in December 2014 when I first wrote this post, I was just starting to recognize how hard the holidays can be — how isolating, how anxiety-producing, how uncomfortable. I’ve always loved Christmas, but I’ve had a taste of how celebration can feel during a season of grief. I’ve begun to understand how difficult it can be to be with family and friends — even when you love them. And I’ve been learning a new way.

We spend a lot of time and money getting ready for the holidays. Over the last month many of us have attended parties, dinners, and gift exchanges with family, friends, and coworkers. We have cooked special foods, decorated our homes, and dressed in finery in order to celebrate.

We celebrate the love of family. We celebrate that we get time off from work. We celebrate our friendships. We celebrate the birth of a Savior.

We celebrate by eating, drinking, laughing, and sharing. We celebrate by giving and receiving gifts, by sending Christmas cards, by calling those we love, and by worshipping with our church families.

But there are many among us who just can’t celebrate. And they probably aren’t telling you about it. They may decline invitations, bow out early, or just refuse to answer your calls. It’s not that they don’t want to be there. They really do want to be there. They just can’t. 

It would be easy if they had a contagious disease, were recovering from surgery, or had a compromised immune system that prohibited them from joining in the festivities. Then you would understand. “Oh, too bad Bobby can’t be here, you know he just had that surgery, and he’s recovering in the hospital.” Everybody gets that. In fact, many of us would load up our gifts and drive over to the hospital to bring the celebration to Bobby because we love him and don’t want him to be left out.

But some people can’t celebrate and it’s because of something that you can’t see — something you may not understand.

Kay Warren, wife of well-known pastor, Rick Warren, who lost a son to suicide in 2013, recently posted on Facebook and then wrote in Christianity Today about the pain she has endured over the last two Christmases as well-meaning friends and acquaintances have sent Christmas cards filled with photos of smiling families and newsletters proclaiming all the good stuff that has happened for them over the year. She received these celebratory cards and letters and got angry. She couldn’t possibly celebrate. How could she, knowing that her son had taken his own life? Even if she believed that Jesus was born in a manger to save the world from their sins, even if she trusted Him and believed that He held her in the palm of His hand, she couldn’t possibly smile, or laugh, or rejoice.

She’s not alone, guys. While we deck the halls and kiss under the mistletoe, many around us can’t fathom the “oh what fun it is”. Not today. Not yesterday. Not Christmas Day.

They’ve lost a child. They are in the middle of a divorce. A loved one has cancer. They just lost their job and can’t pay the mortgage. Their father is on life-support. They have experienced pain that they can’t even talk about. And the idea of joining you or me in our merriment, knowing the pain that they know, is unconscionable. It just can’t be. 

So they stay home, miserably wishing they could be there, wishing they could celebrate, wishing they could be part of the joy. Angry that you can be. 

Moving forward, I’m going to spend less time and money getting ready for the holidays. I’m going to try to shift my focus to the here and now — to little moments that I can be with those I love —  in their tears,  in their laughter,  in their anger. And if we get glimpses of celebration, we will seize them — we won’t wait for Christmas.

And, if they happen to come at Christmas, well then, we’ll be all the merrier.

Blessed are those who mourn, for they will be comforted.”

Matthew 5:4

The simple things, A Re-Visit

~ Kristin ~ 1 Comment

In July of 2014, I joined my husband in this little house by the river; I wrote this post that very week. Just shy of seven years later, we are going to move our things and ourselves to a different little house nearby. I’ll write more about that in the coming days, but before I do, I’m going to indulge in a little reminiscing; join me if you like.

Yes, we are living on campus.  Don’t worry; I think I am going to love it.  

When my husband moved to Ann Arbor one year ahead of me, in the fall of 2013, and I was still living in St. Louis, the university offered him a house on campus so that he wouldn’t have to purchase a home or rent an apartment before I joined him. It’s a simple little place — three bedrooms, one bath, kitchen/dining on one end, living room on the other. They put fresh paint and carpet throughout and temporarily furnished it for him. 

On our first visit, as my daughter and I walked through the place, I thought to myself, “this could work.” Moments later, she said out loud, “this is horrible.” It could be perspective.  

In St. Louis we owned a large two-story home with a finished basement — three lovely levels of living space that were perfect for a busy family with three teenagers. We loved it at the time that we purchased it, fresh off four years in seminary housing. Our kids each found their own space, and we spread out a bit. It was a lot to maintain, but I was healthy at that point, and we had a crew that could be enlisted to help.

However, over the last two years, as two have moved out and I have begun to deal with the pain and fatigue of autoimmune disease, it has become a challenge to maintain the house and the yard around it. In fact, before my husband was offered this position and we decided to move across the country, we were actually looking for a small place that was all on one level. That’s right  — we were looking for a place just like this!

Even better, the university does all the maintenance, so my husband can focus on his job. They do the yard work. They clear the snow. We get to choose what we spend our energy on. When I arrived on Sunday, I found that my husband had planted a small garden, so we can pick fresh tomatoes! When the movers brought our things yesterday, we discovered that our Adirondack chairs sit perfectly under the overhanging roof on the patio, so I can have my morning coffee outside with a view of this gorgeous campus.  

We were worried that everything wouldn’t fit, or that the things we brought might not work in this new place., but we’ve had surprise after surprise. Our bedroom furniture fits perfectly, even my grandma’s little chair. The guest bedroom houses all our daughters’ things while they are in transition. Our son’s futon fit in the office to provide a spot for overnight guests. I’ve got a reading corner complete with picture books for any children that may visit. And, best of all, my puzzle table found a home just outside the office.

My heavenly Father knew exactly what I needed, before I even asked him (Matthew 6).  This simple home is going to be very easy for me to maintain, so I will have energy to spend on the things that matter — meeting new friends, hanging out with my husband, and being still. 

Epilogue: I don’t think we imagined in 2014 that we would live in our little house by the river for seven years, but it turns out that God knew then what we did not, that He had provided a place of simplicity where we could focus on some deep work that He was preparing to do in us. This little house by the river has been a place of healing — more reminiscing on that later this week.

Invisibly Ill, and being still, a re-visit

~ Kristin ~ 1 Comment
Click above if you’d like to hear my creaky morning voice read this post; otherwise, read on!

On Monday, I wrote about autoimmunity (full post here) and how I function daily in January 2020. Many of you wrote to thank me for sharing my journey. In light of that, I thought it might be useful for this week’s re-visit to be my very first post on autoimmune disease from way back in July 2014 — my second blog post ever. A lot has changed since then — my diagnosis, my symptoms, and my reality. Everyone’s struggle with illness is different, and many of those struggles we cannot see. Many more than I are invisibly ill.

In my first entry on this blog, I mentioned that my doctors had advised me to take some time off to rest. Some of you who know me might be thinking, “Well, shoot, you look fine to me.”  Let’s talk about that for a moment. 

People who have autoimmune diseases have a unique experience: although they may look fine, they are sometimes debilitatingly ill. In addition to feeling horrible, they have the added burden of people questioning the validity of their illness, or worse, accusing them of hypochondria. I have been extremely blessed to have very supportive people in my life, but many do not have this experience. [There are other invisible illnesses. However, since this blog is my experience, I will write about how my disease, psoriatic arthritis, affects me. I am learning that everyone’s experience is unique.]

If you didn’t know me prior to 2012, you might see me on the street and think I am an average middle-aged woman, and in most ways I am. In fact, even if you did know me before 2012, you might not notice that much has changed — I’ve gotten a little older, a little grayer, a little rounder, but overall, I look the same. However, my life has changed dramatically.  

Some things you may notice.  

  • I wear glasses more than not now. When I was 15 I replaced my Coke-bottle bottom glasses with contacts, and I never went back. However, many autoimmune diseases, including mine, come with chronic dry eyes which make contact lens wearing difficult. Additionally, I am on immunosuppressant drugs. These drugs, along with a round of steroids, created a perfect environment for ocular herpes. Ocular herpes can recur, especially in people who wear contacts. So, glasses.  
  • I walk more slowly, and sometimes with an altered gait. I am especially slow when I first stand up. Stairs are a challenge. I used to run 5-6 days a week. In fact, I completed two half-marathons after the age of 40, the second one in under two hours! Chronic pain in my hips and back along with chronic fatigue have halted my running career. I now aim to walk 2-3 miles a day, 4 or more days a week. I can do this if I am careful about the other things that fill my day. 
  • I look wiped out, like I haven’t slept or like I’ve been sick. I am wiped out. My body is constantly fighting inflammation. I sometimes crawl into bed before 6 pm. This can add to my joint pain, but I sometimes physically don’t have the steam to do much more than lie down. 

What you probably won’t notice. 

  • I sometimes can’t remember your name, or the four-digit code for our house alarm that we’ve had for six years, or my social security number that I memorized in high school. Chronic fatigue causes the brain to forget things. 
  • Joints throughout my body — fingers, hands, feet, hips, knees, elbows, shoulders — not only hurt, but also seem to be radiating heat. It feels like I am constantly bathing in IcyHot. 
  • I sometimes just feel like crying — not necessarily from pain, or sadness, or fatigue, but maybe from all of those.  
  • I do have psoriasis, mostly in places you can’t see.  

All of this is exacerbated by stress, weather, environment, and fatigue. Things that help include an altered diet (gluten- and dairy-free, lots of veggies, fruit, nuts, seeds, etc.),  Pilates, walking, medication, supplements, acupuncture, massage, and rest, plenty of rest.

It is 1:45 a.m., technically morning, so I went ahead and read my Bible reading for today. Matthew 8 recounts the stories of Jesus healing a man with leprosy, the Centurion’s servant, and many others. I have thought about this extensively. Jesus healed many. Will he heal me? Should I, like many Christians suggest, pray for that healing and ‘claim it’? The prophet Isaiah says, “Surely he took up our infirmities and bore our diseases.”  

You know, I am not sure I should pray for that. You might think I am crazy. You might look at my bulleted lists above and say, “why wouldn’t you want to be healed of that?”  

Not all illnesses are physical. I am pretty convinced that my emotional/spiritual health is improving as my physical health has become limiting. But wouldn’t Jesus want to restore all of me? He will one day, for sure, but perhaps he is using this illness, in this season, to cause me to be still so that I can know he is God in a way that I haven’t known before. 

Some blessings I have noticed in my illness:

  • I have an amazing husband who has never once doubted my symptoms, even when I have. 
  • I have friends, family, and coworkers who are supportive and who have helped and encouraged me.
  • Slowing down and being still makes me more accessible to the people in my life.  I hear more of what they have to say, even if I do sometimes forget it!
  • I am learning to be more sensitive to the needs of others and not to make assumptions. I was feeling sorry for myself one day at a school function when a parent reached out to me and asked how I was doing. Only after I had whined and complained did she share that she had terminal cancer. I never would have guessed — she was always engaging and positive!

So, for now, I am content, even in this circumstance.  I know that “in all things God works for the good of those who love Him” (Romans 8:28). I do love Him, so I am going to continue to be still.