It's Not About Me...Ouch!

     I've pondered the Christmas story a million times. I've read the story, heard hundreds of sermons on the story, pondered these things in my heart over and over again, but this year it was all different. I couldn't seem to get into the 'Christmas spirit' like I have in the past. It seemed hard, forced, almost like each day was passing and getting closer to Christmas day, but the joy and anticipation I usually feel; the excitement and hope for this season seemed so foreign. It didn't feel like Christmas at all. Not at all.

     I searched my heart but couldn't find what was 'off'. I prayed but I couldn't seem to find a reason as to why I was feeling so detached. The feeling, or lack thereof, was driving me crazy, and even as we drove to Pennsylvania to spend a short week with family to celebrate, I still wasn't feeling it and I had no idea why. After all, I should be excited, right? This coming year we are planning on so many exciting things. The baby I now carry has brought with it so much happiness, joy, and anticipation for the coming year. I expected to be so full of Christmas spirit just because of this gift I was carrying, but yet it was still lacking. What was wrong with me?!

     As I lay in bed one night, I decided to crack open my Bible and read that familiar story once again in an attempt to 'wake up' or feel something of the excitement I've felt in the past. By dim lamplight, my eyes followed my fingers to Luke 1. I decided to start there to read about the encounter of Mary with Elizabeth. It seemed like a good place to get a dose of excitement...even Elizabeth's baby jumped with joy in that part of the story! How could I read it and not get excited, too? But as I read I found something I wasn't expecting. Slowly, as I read the story, something struck me like a lightening bolt that I had never  noticed before. As I reflected on the following words, I began to understand my lack of Christmas joy this year.

     "Both of them were righteous in the sight of God, observing all the Lord's commands and decrees blamelessly. But they were childless because Elizabeth was not able to conceive, and they were both very old." Luke 1:6-7 I clung onto that verse for a moment, and in the darkness of the night, I realized some of what had been going on in my heart for many months; probably longer. It had nothing to do with Christmas, but it shadowed Christmas like a moonless night deep in the forest.

     I knew I was carrying with me, this season, the anxiety of wondering if this baby we've been given would really be in my arms next spring like we had anticipated. I knew I was so afraid of having to say goodbye to someone so precious to me like I've had to do in the past. Pregnancy loss will do that to you. It can cause so many emotions. It had left me broken down this year, terrified that even though I carried this baby in my womb now, maybe I would still have to walk through the agonizing pain of losing this baby, too. It was too much to take in. I've become too attached to this baby to say goodbye, and I knew it, but I didn't realize how much these emotions were affecting me. I had spent this season covered in worry and anxiety, not focused on Christmas at all.

     I do not have to go into detail about what issues I have experienced in the world of fertility issues and loss (that's a whole other blog!) but what I realized that quiet night in Pennsylvania, was that I had not only allowed my loss(es) to color how I was feeling about this current pregnancy, but I had allowed myself to believe the lie that I could not possibly be 'righteous' in the eyes of God (or made righteous by Him) and still suffer fertility issues. After all, aren't children a blessing from the Lord? Why wasn't I being blessed? Of course, in my mind, it must have been because I was unrighteous, horrible, having done something so wrong that God would not bless me with the gift of a baby that would stick around. How wrong I have been.

     I don't know the circumstances of Elizabeth's life. But I do know that she wasn't a perfect woman. I know that she did wrong just like I do today. She was not 'sinless' and neither am I. Even in the midst of her sinfulness, God still called her 'righteous' and she still suffered with fertility issues. Further, Elizabeth followed God's commands, and notably so, but yet she still suffered in this horrible way. Righteousness did not and does not equate successful pregnancies, just as unrighteousness did not and does not equate infertility or pregnancy loss. What a relief...but ouch.

     As I lay in bed, just a few short days before Christmas, I experienced God in a way I hadn't felt Him in a long time. I was reminded that God was with me and He hadn't forgotten me or hasn't ignored me cries. I was reminded that even if I never hold this baby in my arms or any other baby in the future, God still loves me; He gently reminded me that this was not a way that he was 'punishing' me for my imperfections, but rather something He is using to bring me closer to Himself. I was reminded that horribly painful things still happen to people that God views as righteous and there is always hope. There, in the dark, as my eyes welled with tears, I was reminded that each day is a gift from God and all I have to do is take one day at a time. I don't have to worry about what may or may not happen, but each day I have with this baby is special. Each day that I carry this child is a gift and if I never hold this baby in my arms, God is still good. He is still working. I can bring my brokenness to Him and He will know what to do with it.

     Finally, the weight on my chest began to lift. I could finally experience Christmas and hope for the future. I could finally begin to believe that God is working a miracle in me regardless of the length of this baby's life. I felt so out of control that night, but maybe being out of control was just what God is trying to teach me. Maybe this life isn't about me.

Thoughts from Above the Clouds

     I love to fly. I always have. It is simply breathtaking to me to see the vibrant colors, the clouds that look like cotton candy strewn across the vast blue sky, and the awareness of how small I really am in the grand scheme of things. I've also always found it fascinating to think about how I can sit in a giant metal tube and fly thousands of feet up in the sky at speeds I could never dream of in a car. How can I just be suspended like that? Sure, it's physics, but it's simply amazing to think about. Mind blown.

     Tonight, however, as I boarded the plane and was launched into the open air, many thoughts pushed their way into my mind. The slow and steady incline had me thinking about the hundreds of people sitting all around me. We were all off to Boston, but what was each of their stories? Why was the elderly couple two seats ahead of me on this plane? What was taking them to Boston? Or the young woman with a baby? Why was she traveling alone with a baby? Was she traveling to see family? Was she traveling to see friends? What was her story? What was the story of the young man looking somber just a few seats away? Was he leaving his family? Had he just learned of some difficult news? My mind wandered and I was quickly reminded of our story and why we were off to Boston.


     Recently, our family suffered the loss of my husband's grandfather. He was a kind man, someone who always had a smile on his face, and though I didn't see him often in the few years we've been married, it was sad to hear of his death. This weekend, we will meet with family and friends to hold a memorial service for this dear man. What a life he lived; what a legacy he leaves behind. My mind began to wander even further.

     Flying always makes me feel like I'm closer to Heaven. I know that's an elemental way of thinking about Heaven, and quite honestly, it's likely inaccurate, but I think the beauty of the views I see as I fly makes me wonder what those who have gone before me see. If this isn't Heaven, then Heaven must be so incredibly amazing. The view I had on the plane tonight simply took my breath away and to post a picture doesn't do what I saw justice. But still, I wonder, are there sunsets like this in Heaven? Are there brilliant colors painting the sky like the hues of pink and orange I saw? Do those I've lost, who have gone to Heaven, find themselves utterly breathless at what they see each day?

     Somehow it's comforting to think that those I miss dearly have such a view...probably something more stunning than I could ever experience on this earth or in our atmosphere. When I think of all the grandeur that God created, I cannot help but feel somewhat close to those I've loved and lost as I fly way up in the sky. I cannot help but think that, perhaps, I am getting just a minuscule taste of what those who wait for me in Heaven may be experiencing. The sky has always been a reminder to me of a place where there's no more pain and no more suffering. It's always brought me a sense of peace and comfort and it reminds me each time that God is faithful. Just as the sun rises and falls each day, so He welcomes those who love Him into His arms and I will see those people again one day.

     Oh, how I long for the day in which I am reunited to those I love, sitting in the presence of the God who created such beauty and such magnificence. I find comfort in knowing that the view I had tonight, sitting in an airplane, is only a glimpse of the beauty I will one day see.

Moving, Packing, and Stones of Remembrance

     I am obsessed with 'stones of remembrance'. If you aren't familiar with what that is, it's a custom some people still continue today, but it is a practice from thousands of years ago, brought about by the Israelite people. One of my very favorite passages in Scripture talking about stones of remembrance is in Joshua 4. At this point Joshua is instructed to place some stones near the Jordan River as a memorial to what the Lord had done for His people. He had parted the waters, just like He had at the Red Sea, generations before, allowing the ark of the covenant and the people to pass through safely. God tells Joshua to make a memorial so that when future generations see this pile of stones, the story of God's presence and glory can be shared as a reminder of His faithfulness and might. We see this practice repeated throughout Scripture, in other areas, but what a beautiful picture. I wonder if the Israelite people knew how special this was when they were doing it. I love the idea.

     When I think about times when I have seen God move mightily on my behalf; times when He's parted the waters, so to speak, or provided for me in ways I thought were not possible, I am amazed and humbled. I also know myself well enough to know that sometimes I forget about those things, and the next time I am going through something difficult, I can easily wonder where God is or if He is going to come through for me. How short my memory can be. I'm learning to love stones of remembrance.

     As I prepare for this next adventure of moving to another stage of ministry, I am faced with the daunting task of packing every thing we own and leaving this place we've called 'home' for the last two years. It's bittersweet. Bittersweet because of all the normal reasons like missing my friends and people I love but at the same time being excited to see what God is going to do in our lives next. But it's also bittersweet because of all the significant things that have happened in this home; in this place over the last two years. God has met me here in ways I could not have imagined. God has provided for us in ways that only He could do. He has shown up and comforted us through pain and sorrow and we've rejoiced with Him over successes and provisions.

     When I think back on the last two years, I am reminded that so much of our time has consisted of gut-wrenching pain. So much of this time that has passed has been covered in tears and moments of pounding on the Father's chest, wondering how to put the pieces back together again. Illness, loss, exhaustion, brokenness, fear, endurance...those were my companions here, but there was also great joy in what God had been showing us. As I pack my things I am reminded of the last two years. You would think I would be excited to move to the next place; to say goodbye to these difficult times, and to an extent, you would be right. I am happy. I am excited. But a piece of me whispers 'I don't want to leave this place. I don't want to forget how close You've been in my darkest hours.'. You see, even in those darkest hours, I've seen Him and felt Him in a way I never have before.

     These last few years have not been easy, but I have seen God. I have learned things about Him that I could not have learned had I not walked through the valley of suffering we have. I have seen His face. I have known Him in moments when it felt like all I had to cling to was the hem of His garment (and my husband!). When all things seem stripped away, and I'm raw before Him...I've felt Him near. So, part of me wonders 'If I move from this place, this home, will I forget what the soothing balm of His closeness is like?' Will I move on and forget what it's like to cry out and know He's there, weeping over my sufferings as well?

     As I pack my home I take little stones of remembrance with me. I travel with the small compass rose necklace my husband got me last year when I felt like I had no idea which direction God was taking us and I wanted to be reminded that He knows the way. I travel with pages in my journal that remind me of some of the things that have happened in my life these past few years and the brokenness He's brought me through. As I place each item  in a cardboard box, reminders of deep friendship, hope, and peace in Him dance through my mind and I am content. These are my stones of remembrance that I will continue to carry them with me. These are the little things that remind me of who God is and His faithfulness. These are the things that remind me of His breath that gives me life.

     Moving is bittersweet, there's no doubt about that, but as I go, I go with stones of remembrance that continue to bring to my mind how God never leaves us alone - how God is there are all times. I go with hope for the future, peace in the present, and memories of the past.

On the Eve of Something New

     The world of academia is all about graduations and accomplishments. It's about the rat race that sends many of us into a frenzy writing papers, preparing presentations, staying up way later than is healthy to finish those last few pages of a less than exciting book. Day in and day out, we study, we read, we write, and we down another cup of coffee to keep ourselves alive - really, it does keep us alive. But it would be wrong for me to color the last two years of my life in such a drab painting. No, these years of sweat, tears, exhaustion, and pain have also been some of the most valuable years of my life. On the eve of my graduation, I find myself both uncontrollably happy and terribly sad as if I am losing a dear friend.

     It's difficult to capture the emotions that now pulse through my heart. You see, I've spent the last two years learning a lot. I've studied the DSM and learned the diagnostic techniques related to my discipline. I've learned how to diagnose, treat, and comfort those who walk into my counseling office. But going to graduate school has been so much more to me than an academic experience.  I've learned how to try and facilitate healing and I've learned that much of that healing comes from the dedication of my clients. I've heard stories of real people that send shivers up and down my spine and I've sat in a sea of sadness with grieving and broken individuals. The years of truly walking beside broken people has softened my heart and has taught me deep truths. More than anything, graduate school has changed me tremendously.

     When I reflect on the last two years, I have changed incalculably. I've walked through pain of my own and wrestled with who God is in the midst of my own suffering. The very things that I have watched my clients wrestle with are some of the things I have needed to wrestle with on my own. As I have urged my clients to show grace and kindness to themselves where they fall short of their own expectations, I too, have had to show myself the same grace and kindness in areas I would rather be hard on myself. I have found strength in places I didn't know it existed.

     Most of all, I have met the most spectacular people. Becoming a counselor seems to be more about developing yourself than techniques and diagnostics. It's about becoming the healthiest you possible so you can come alongside others who are broken just like you and help them to the path of healing. It's been as much about the work as it has been really walking with fellow human beings in this journey called life. I'm sure most people who enter graduate school do not have this experience of deep friendship, but I have been lucky enough to know and care for some extraordinary souls. We've rejoiced together and cried together. We've walked in exhaustion together and anticipated the glorious end together. We've studied together and stressed out about school together, but most of all, we've carried each other and have loved each other. We've become like a family.

     It's hard to express how I feel tonight, on the eve of tomorrow's graduation because while I am ecstatic to be able to read books for fun again and have the honor of earning a Master's degree, I am incredibly sad to say goodbye to so many amazing people. I'm saddened to leave a place that has brought me so much growth, healing, and support of my own. The professors who have all been like mentors and the students who have all been dear friends will be what I miss most about graduate school and as I turn my face to the future, a part of me grieves leaving Biblical Seminary and another part of me cannot wait to be finished. The two emotions bifurcate my heart and I'm learning to be okay with that.

     So to my fellow Biblical Seminary, Graduate School of Counseling graduates, I say 'Thank you'. Thank you for walking this journey with me and holding me up in moments when I have felt most weak. Thank you for being amazing people who truly care for each other and most assuredly care for your clients. Thank you for being people of honor and pursuing excellence. Thank you for being people who truly grasp the love of Christ and show it to those all around you. Thank you. I am absolutely honored to have spent the last two years with each one of you and I am proud to call you fellow clinicians. I am truly humbled to call you each 'friend'.

     As I anticipate commencement tomorrow I feel a little nauseous along with excitement. Our futures are bright and I know that God will use us each to do amazing things, but I cannot help being a little nervous as well. I don't want to say goodbye, but I know this next phase of life will be more than we've ever imagined. So dream big, my friends, dream big. Never stop dreaming and asking God for the honor of living those dreams and at the end of the day, may you love all who you encounter with the purest love here on this earth. May you be agents of healing that change this world the way you've changed my life in our time together.

The Art of Healing

   

   
     When I was a little girl, I could never quite understand why doctors couldn't just repair broken bodies. I would hear stories of people whose bodies were injured in car accidents or by illness and I would wonder, 'Why can't they just sew up that heart or lung? Why can't they just put that broken piece back into place and things should work just fine?' I was always questioning in my immature mind and wondering things that most adult people understand fully. I had no medical training and no way of understanding things that were just too big for me to try to understand. I wanted things fixed and healed. I couldn't understand why doctors couldn't just return broken bodies to their original state with all the medical technology known to man. In some instances we were able to do miraculous things like put men on the moon or take photographs of things that were completely out of this world. We could clone animals and skydive and put planes in the air and submarines in the water...how complicated could it really be to sew up a body? I was so naive. The art of healing was something much bigger and complex than I could have imagined in the smallness of my frame and the childlike mindset I worked from. The art of healing would take time for me to understand and it would take growth, experience, and life to teach me of these complexities. And even now, as I type, there is a plethora of things I do not understand. Rest assured, though, I do understand a great deal more than I did as an eight year old. Perhaps life really has taught me a thing or two about the art of healing in more ways than one. It truly is an art, I think.

     As I sit, soaking up the sun, I am reminded of so many ways that our bodies just cannot be healed. For me, it's Lyme disease, for others it's cancer or paralysis. Others experience blindness or developmental delays. These things cannot always be healed. Still, others, experience broken bones like arms or legs or ribs. They will heal, but it will take some time. Healing, if possible will take months of casts, medication, physical therapy, and sometimes even surgery, but in these instances where healing is possible, we hold onto the hope that a broken arm will function well again or a broken leg will be able to sustain the weight of walking once more and probably will function close to its optimal functioning before the injury occurred. Close enough, right? It's easy for me to ponder how resilient the human body is. We can fix things. Most physical issues will take time to heal, but they will heal. I wonder, though, can we learn something from this physical process of healing? Is there something more here that teaches us about life and healing?

     If I close my eyes and think about the last year, I am reminded that my last several years of life have consisted of many difficult circumstances. Things that have shaped me, molded me...changed me. I've been injured in more ways than one. My physical body has gone through hell and back again as it attempts to fight disease. I've had my fair share of doctor's visits and have understood that not all physical things can be healed and return back to normal functioning. My body has experienced new ways of needing to compensate each time I find myself dealing with the effects of Lyme, again, and each 'remission' looks totally different from the last. I have needed to understand that my body will never be the same, and that's okay. However, when I look back on even the last year, I recognize that I have gone through a lot of very difficult things. I don't need to spell it all out in a blog, but my bet is that some of you reading have experienced some pain as well. Many of us find ourselves in the midst of painful chaos, not knowing how to move on or how to find healing. I know I have and most days I find myself still crawling out of the rubble of the last year or even several years. It's as if we've been emotionally or spiritually crippled and it seems as though it takes as long as the physical trauma we've suffered, if not longer, to find 'normal' again.

     The art of healing, both physically and emotionally, is a long road sometimes. Things happen to us and in us that make our invisible suffering as painful or more painful than that of a broken limb and somehow, when people go through deep emotional suffering, those of us on the outside forget how difficult it can be to put one foot in front of the other. We see people all around us, hurting, suffering, limping along so to speak, and we give them a few weeks to snap back to normal functioning, forgetting that suffering takes time. Suffering, just like a broken limb or a diseased body, is an inconvenience but a broken limb is easy to see and understand. I don't think this is always so with internal suffering. As I ponder my suffering over the last year, I am reminded that just as my diseased body needs more rest than when I am in remission, so does my bruised heart. Just as I need to do physical therapy to rehabilitate after surgery, I may need to do some heart therapy to rehabilitate a broken or bruised heart. Just as I need to be patient with the healing process of my broken body, I also need to be patient with the healing process of my soul.

     I wonder, can a broken bone ever completely return to its original state? I'm not sure it can. It's those rainy days that cause a broken and now healed bone to ache or the overuse of a bone that has healed but is not quite as strong as it used to be. I wonder if this is true of a broken heart or a bruised soul. In times that I have walked through the darkest of valleys, it has taken time to heal, but it is a continuous process, I think. Even years later, when a once wounded part of my heart is pushed on too much or exposed to the things that have once wounded it deeply, my heart can easily begin to ache again. Things that I will carry with me for life...moments of pain, loss, loneliness...suffering; these things are always with me long after healing has happened. There are some things that linger on for a lifetime; things that cause us to make a daily decision to face and find more healing. Like a broken bone, a broken heart will heal, but the scar tissue is always present.

     As I reflect on this last year of life, I am continually changing and finding a new normal. Who I was yesterday is not who I am today. As I grow and heal, I am different. next month I will be different from last month because over and over again, I am being healed. The art of healing is recognizing that each day of healing looks different. The art of healing is understanding that as I heal I must find a new 'normal' and I can never return to the person I had been before the breaking of my heart or the bruising of this life. Suffering changes us, whether physical or internal. The process of healing will take place, but sometimes the art of healing is a lifetime of changing and a life time of discovering all over again who we are in the midst of trauma and pain.

Making the Dead Alive

I'm not a fan of death. I know that probably sounds obvious. No one really likes death, right? So many of us find ourselves nervous about the reality of our own mortality and the process of dying. But, I'm not talking about my own life here.
    
     Though I'm not a fan of losing my own life, what I really hate is the feeling of loss. The kind of loss that forces me to say 'Goodbye' or the kind of loss that forces me to realize that life isn't quite what I thought it would be and life isn't really going to turn out the way I had hoped. Have you ever been there? It's moments when you think to yourself 'I'd give anything to have _______back again'. It's moments where you realize that your dreams are slipping through your fingers or that person you loved so deeply is gone forever. It's that moment when you realize you will never get to see that person again or live that life you thought you had ahead of you or hold that child in your arms or walk down that sidewalk again...it's then we find we are at the end of ourselves. Life is no longer what we thought and we feel that punch to the stomach and the lump in our throats. I think we've all been there and each of us, if given just a moment, could bring that sick feeling to our gut again. Have you been there? Are you there right now?

Loss. Life suddenly Shattered.

                The loss of a life. The loss of a dream. The loss of a friend. The loss of a future.

Loss.

     Let me shift gears for a moment. I have always loved the idea of dead things coming alive. No, not in the creepy zombie kind of way that seems to fascinate so many around me. Rather, people, dead in their hearts, finding life again. One of my favorite Bible stories is one in Ezekiel when God creates an army out of a valley of dry bones. If you haven't read it, check it out. It will blow your mind (Ezekiel 37:1-10). It's dead stuff coming alive. Crazy. Can you see it? The gritty picture of tendons being reconnected, flesh being put on like clothing. Can you imagine?!

     How about the story of Lazarus (John 11)? A dead man, called forth from a tomb. In fact, Martha, one of the women in the story, tries to tell Jesus not to roll back the stone that was in front of the tomb because she knows by that point - four days after Lazarus' death - that he is going to wreak! Death stinks...literally. Loss of any kind is not for the faint of heart. The experience itself is offensive, painful, smelly, surreal. It has such an impact, at least on me, that most times I don't even want to roll back the stone to look at it. It's ugly. It's incredibly painful.

     I don't know what loss you've experienced. Maybe you just lost a spouse and you're staring at a future without the one person who really knew who you are. Maybe you're arms are literally aching for that child you once had but never had the chance to hold - your heart feeling like it may never recover. Maybe you witnessed the painful decline of a mother or father who no longer recognized you or knew your name. Perhaps you've lost the one person in your life who always believed in you - who always knew just what to say. What have you lost? Who have you lost?

     I will not tell you that things will make sense here on this earth. I will not tell you in simple platitudes that God has a plan and that God will make your suffering into something glorious. I believe those things are true, but I refuse to put them on such deep wounds like a simple bandaid. Rather, I wish to sit across from you in a coffee shop, hold your hands across the table and tell you as the tears role down my cheeks and yours, 'Dear friend, I know you can't see it now, but God is here and He can handle all of your questions, your pain, your anger, and your brokenness. Take it to Him.' I do not wish to sweep your pain under a rug to avoid the hard questions. I cannot pretend to understand fully why God has allowed the losses I've experienced in my own life or the losses you've experienced in yours, to happen. I could come up with some great theological ideals to make pain seem more palatable, but to do so without first sitting with you in your pain and truly experiencing your suffering with you would be wrong and dismissive. To do so without wrapping my arms around you and crying with you would miss a major part of the Gospel.

     I've always loved the idea of things that are dead coming to life. Like a tree that looks completely dead but one day begins to sprout and the tiniest bit of green begins to peek out of the dead stuff. A dead tree can sometimes look like a complete loss; something irredeemable, rotten, or beyond hope. But then, after some rain to moisten its roots, sunshine to nourish its cells, and time to heal and grow, suddenly there's life again. Suddenly death turns into life and hope begins to grow. I love 'Lazarus' stories where all hope seems lost, but then there's life. I love stories about broken down, dry bones coming to life again and finding meaning and purpose again. I wonder if that's the miracle of life. We once were dead, but made alive. We experience loss and somehow that makes us more alive, more able to feel, more able to have compassion on those around us experiencing the same thing. The pain is so real, but when we let hope in, we move from death to life once more.

     Friend, I don't know what you've experienced. What have you experienced that has brought you to the end of yourself? What have you gone through that has been so incredibly painful that you're terrified to roll back the stone and experience because you're afraid to know what it's really like on the other side?

In the midst of great loss, whatever it is, may you find comfort in the One who is capable of bringing hope in death. May you find strength in the One who is always making the dead alive

I'm Out of Control!

     I guess it's time for a bit of an update. September brought the end of my first six week IV treatment regimen and I dreaded its ending. Though the doctor agreed that I needed a bit more antibiotics, knowing that I don't have the several thousand dollars it would take to make me well again, we decided that the next best course of action would be to stop treatment and capitulate to the insurance company...for now. If we are doing it the insurance way, I was allowed twenty eight infusions (spread over six weeks), followed by a four to six week break, and then more blood tests to measure what was going on inside my body. On September 30, anxious about what I was going to soon hear, I walked into the doctor's office, ready to discover what my blood work from the week before had shown. It's a long story, and perhaps sometime I will break down the ins and outs of Lyme and insurance, but to make it short, the doc and I were not optimistic that they would be paying for another round. It was a waiting game. But, with the four week break, it was possible that they would treat me as if this was a new case. That was the hope.

     Not to my surprise, my levels of Lyme went down slightly. When I say slightly, I mean very slightly. At the beginning of this current Lyme battle, levels were at +1.64 (you only need +.90 to be positive!), at the end of September they were at +1.61. Not much of a difference, but I'll take any improvement over this wretched disease as a victory; no matter how small. In that moment, I was elated, but as the doc continued to speak, I found myself feeling woozy and on the edge of tears. I was stressed about this appointment already, but as the doctor relayed the rest of the test results my anxiety spun out of control and I felt as though any more information would send me over the edge into sheer panic. His voice began to drown out and all I could hear for a moment was "Here's the problem...I...you...they probably won't pay. Insurance doesn't have to pay even though you're still very sick" What?! But they have to!! I'm sick! I can't live like this the rest of my life!! Thoughts flew through my mind like a crazed bird flying from a predator.

     As I composed myself, essentially, what the doctor was saying is because I was getting better the insurance may not think I was sick enough to allow me to have the rest of the treatment needed to get me completely healthy again. If you don't know anything about Lyme testing, I assure you, it is hardly ever accurate through normal blood labs. Side note: Igenix and MDL labs are the only labs in the country that have nearly 100% accurate testing. Anyway, one of the tests run to determine positive Lyme was equivocal this time around. I won't go into the details in this blog because it would be too long, but this did not mean I wasn't sick any longer, only that I was making some progress, though still very sick. Another long story short, insurance did not have to pay for my second round of treatment because of these new results. How crazy! I left the office that day, stressed, anxious, angry, confused, worried, and concerned. My thoughts rolled around in my exploding mind like tumbleweed on the plains of a flat and barren Midwestern state. What was I going to do? Surely I did not have the $15,000 or so that it would cost to get another six weeks of treatment. I was completely overwhelmed.

     The next two weeks went by, slow as molasses as I waited to hear whether insurance would pay for my treatment or not. The doctor and I assumed that this would be an uphill battle, and we were already preparing for what to do if they wouldn't pay. I was scared. Finally, on the Thursday before my scheduled PICC insertion, I called the doctor's office to see what was happening. To my surprise, the secretary on the other end said words that totally lifted my burdens. She said "Oh, yes, honey, I called them last week and they said there was no authorization required." I quickly retorted "So that means they will pay?" "Yep! That's what they said last time they paid!" My heart immediately calmed and I took a deep breath. "Thank you! See you Monday!"

     Instantly my mind wandered. Oh, how little faith I had these past several days. Did I not trust that God could handle the stubborn insurance company? What would have happened if they didn't agree to pay? I concluded three things that afternoon; three options that could have happened. One, the insurance would agree to pay and I would find healing through the gift of medicine. Two, insurance would not agree to pay and God would heal me somehow either in this life or the next. And three, the insurance wouldn't pay but God would be prepared to supply the money I would need to pay all of those bills off. All options afford my healing in the end. This spoke volumes to me. I don't know if I will ever be well in this lifetime. I don't know if my healing will come through medications or through miraculous healing. I don't know if my healing will only come after this life. But I do know that even when my life is out of control, I can trust that God is fully in control. I don't need to worry about the little details because He already has taken care of them. What is my life if I live or die? It is worth more than the little details of each day, in and out.

     As I sit and write, I have just finished my first week of six weeks of infusions. I am reminded of this little PICC line in my arm, reaching to my heart because of the little twinge of pain it is giving me. But that little twinge of pain also reminds me that God has answered some huge prayers. My insurance company will pay for most of the medical bills for the next six weeks. I don't know what happens from there, but I need to remember that I don't need to worry about that. God knows. God is in control and I can trust Him with my very life.

     What are you struggling to trust God for these days, friends? May your heart be filled with peace, and know that even when you are out of control (or in control) God is in complete control and has your best in mind. Peace, friends.

A New Normal

     
       Have you ever felt that feeling in your heart? The one that no one likes to feel? The one that feels as though your whole heart has gone through a French press? It's the feeling that has you lie awake at night in agony over whatever is happening in your life; those moments when things get shattered or destroyed. I'm sure you know what I'm talking about. I think we all experience that kind of real heart pain at some point in our lives, and it can be absolute agony. As I sit in the counseling office, across from those who are in the midst of their own personal world falling apart, I easily empathize with them, and I pray earnestly that the pain they feel would pass soon. I quickly assess the situation, try to stabilize the 'patient', and then try to help them through their pain. It is both painful and a blessing for me to be a part of such difficult times in a person's life. I am honored to sit in the pit with them. Sometimes I don't say a word. Sometimes I try to bring hope, but the events that happen in the lives of my clients will leave them nothing like they were before that life changing event that brought them into my office.

       A few nights ago, while I sat in class, we began to talk about the topic of grief. The professor facilitating my particular preceptor group began talking about her counseling career and how sometimes it is extremely difficult to listen to a person grieving. We want to fix the problem, but what that person really needs is to come in week after week, sometimes for a very long time, and express their pain. They are not ready to move on, they cannot move on just yet, and usually the counseling room is the only place they really have someone to listen to them, week after week, retelling their heart wrenching story. She spoke about how difficult that can be as a person listening because we often want to help them begin healing, but the truth is, talking about their pain over and over again is a huge part of the healing process. Unless they get it out, they cannot even think about moving on. As I began to think about grief, I thought about the times in my life when I have been stricken with grief. I thought about the times when I felt like I couldn't move on, maybe even months later after the moment of loss took place. Those moments change us, don't they? We aren't quite ever the same, are we? And then I wondered: why are we all in such a rush? Most of us know the feeling of grief well, but why do we always seem to expect those grieving around us to 'get over' their grief so quickly? Why do we all forget within a few weeks of a death that affects a friend, that that friend will be grieving for a very long time? Do we ever really get over a profound loss?

       Recently, I came across this quote from C.S. Lewis, an author I profoundly respect. In his book Grief Observed, he writes,

“Getting over it so soon? But the words are ambiguous.

To say the patient is getting over it after an operation for

appendicitis is one thing; after he’s had his leg off is quite

another. After that operation either the wounded stump heals

or the man dies. If it heals, the fierce, continuous pain will

stop. Presently he’ll get back his strength and be able to stump

 about on his wooden leg. He has ...‘got over it.’ But he will

probably have recurrent pains in the stump all his life, and

perhaps pretty bad ones; and he will always be a one-legged

man. There will be hardly any moment when he forgets it.

Bathing, dressing, sitting down and getting up again, even lying

 in bed, will all be different. His whole way of life will be

changed. All sorts of pleasures and activities that he once took

for granted will have to be simply written off. Duties too. At

present I am learning to get about on crutches. Perhaps I shall

presently be given a wooden leg. But I shall never be a biped again.”

 

       When I came across these words, they resonated deep in my heart. This man knew what it was like to face immense loss. Whether it is an actual amputation, the loss of a child, a spouse, or any other family member, we are changed forever. Whether it is the loss of the dreams we thought we had for our lives, or the loss of physical health, we will never be the same. Perhaps it is the loss of a home or a battle with cancer or the loss of vision or the loss of a friend or whatever 'loss' we experience, life will be different from that very moment of the loss until the day we part from this earth. Our lives will forever be transformed by the things we once had that we no longer have and that's okay.

 

        After pondering this quote for some time, I came to the conclusion that perhaps my job is not to help the person sitting before me return to some sort of 'normal' that they've always been accustomed to, but rather my job is to help them find a new normal. No matter how long it takes, I need to be someone who is willing to walk through the pain with those God puts in front of me and I must not rush the process of healing that needs to take place. We each have experienced things in our lives that have changed us forever, maybe even things that feel as though they have taken our arm or leg with them, but there is hope. No, we will never be the same again. Perhaps it is okay to begin to find healing and closure, even if we are substantially different than we were yesterday.

 

       Reflect for a moment, with me. What have you lost, friend, and how has it changed you? How have you been changed by the things you've experienced in your life? Can you relate to the words of C.S. Lewis? I pray that you will find peace, friends, as you journey through this life, continually changed.

 

 

A 'Broken Social' and Still, Peace

       The other day, my husband and I were talking about how Lyme has affected me. Many of you know me as a completely extraverted chick who is completely in love with life and people. I usually get filled by being around people...constantly. I'm a social butterfly who can't stand being stuck at home for several days in a row. I'm a 'go getter' who is always up for a challenge; always up for learning and intellectual development. I absolutely love caring for those around me and I enjoy making people happy, comfortable, and feeling special. However, to my dismay, my extraverted self seems to have taken a hit! As Mark and I discussed several things, Mark said to me "I think your social is broken"! I couldn't agree more.

       These last several weeks, probably months, have been difficult for me. Going out with friends is still very fun, but I find myself completely exhausted by the end of a short outing. Taking part in activities that cause me to have to use my already exhausted brain leave me embarrassed when I can't keep up in board games or in situations where I am supposed to be concentrating or remembering multiple rules. Being physically active kills my already pained and fatigued body. I seem to have become boring. I'm boring to hang out with these days and I am exhausted when I do it. Don't get me wrong, I still have a ton of fun with friends, but most times I seem to relate more to the ninety year old grandma than my peers. I could handle you coming over for tea and chatting, but don't make me work too hard! :) So, please, forgive me when I turn down your invitations to do exciting things over the weekend. Forgive me, friends, when I seem like I am no longer interested in hanging out on a regular basis. I am, I just sometimes can't.

       To explain the fatigue I often feel is nearly impossible. It's something I am beyond frustrated about. I just can't seem to be myself, no matter how hard I try. All I want to do is sleep and I do sleep...a lot. Some, in fact, may think I am just being lazy, but a nap has become necessary for my functioning. Good thing I get to nap when the baby I nanny naps if need be! This is a far cry from the Kaitlyn I have always been. I get stressed out these days over the silliest things, and my mind can easily go a little crazy with all the thoughts I have rumbling around in there. I find myself stressed about finances for covering the bills that my health insurance doesn't cover. I stress about what others think about me and if they are perceiving me as lazy. I stress about being a good friend in a time when I seem to need friends to help me more than I can help in return. Each day is a fight to remember that this too will pass and one day, hopefully soon, I will be completely well again. this journey is exhausting!

       Even in the midst of this craziness...in the midst of my worry and concerns for the future or my crazy thoughts that can easily take over if I let them, I have found peace. For several days, I have been listening to this beautiful song written by a dear friend, Becky Smith. The song is one that is much like a prayer. The chorus goes something like this:

 

Let Your rain of tenderness fall fresh on me

Jesus, let Your unfailing love completely surround me

And I will stand in hope as I wait for You, Lord

Let Your peace, come over me

Let Your peace, come over me

 

 

        Ah, how beautiful, isn't it? This has become my daily prayer. Even in the middle of this trial and even as I cannot function like I know I can when I am healthy, His peace can still cover me. I don't know what this disease means for me. I don't know if I will come through this relapse and never deal with a relapse again. I don't know if I will be sick for the next year and every five years after that, until I leave this earth. I have no idea if my insurance company will continue to cover my illness. I cannot be sure how this will affect my family in the future. I don't know anything for certain, but I do know that when I ask for His peace, He will not leave me void. I don't know when I will be feeling 'normal' again, or when my 'social' will no longer seem 'broken' or when I will have my energy and extraversion back, but I do know that I can still have peace in the midst of difficult times. Join me, friends, in letting His peace come over you. Let His unfailing love completely surround you. Wait for Him, and I promise, He will not leave you without His presence and tenderness all around you. He can give you peace.

There, Here, and in Between

     

 

 

       It's been a few weeks since I last posted. I know I promised to keep my blog updated, but it seems as though when I am not working or interning or sitting in classes, I'm sleeping! I cannot even describe the amount of exhaustion I have experienced. I go to bed exhausted and wake up in the morning feeling as though I have hardly slept. I've become pretty accustomed to this routine and though it's difficult, I count each day as a gift. I can still get out of bed; something many Lyme-ies can't do. I am thankful.

       While I am feeling slightly better these days, I am still pretty sick. I finally feel human, so I guess that's a step in the right direction, but I still have a ways to go. Yesterday brought on a bit of anxiety for me as I went to the doctor and had my PICC line removed. To many reading this, you probably think I should be excited and jumping for joy, but I'm on the fence between relief and fear all at the same time. The PICC line was removed because my insurance company will only pay for twenty eight days of treatment for Lyme (chronic Lyme apparently doesn't exist?!). Because of this, we need to do a bit of a dance to get the insurance to cooperate. That being said, I anticipate another PICC line in four weeks or so, but in the meantime, will have absolutely no treatment. According to the doctor, if we remove the PICC line, stop all treatment and resubmit our treatment request in four weeks, the insurance will likely pay for another twenty eight days of infusions and view my case as a 'new' case. It's the only hope for their cooperation, and the only way I can afford to pay for this monster bacteria to go into remission again.

       The relief of my situation comes because I can now begin consuming coffee again and I can take a shower like a normal person without having to wear a sleeve on my arm! I won't have to rearrange my life for the next month to accommodate time to infuse my IV meds. I won't have to remember to flush my PICC line twice a day and I won't have to worry about a heart infection or blood clots in my line. These are all wonderful things and I am elated to have such things off my plate. But there is still fear. Will I take a backslide in the interim of treatment? Will I lose the miniscule bit of ground I have made in these upcoming weeks? What if the insurance company still declines my request in a few weeks for more medication, even after we've done their dance and followed their rules? How will I ever pay for this if there is no insurance coverage? My mind can easily become overwhelmed, and sometimes it does. How will I ever keep this anxiety under control in these next few weeks?

       The truth is, the only thing that keeps me moving forward and not getting lost in a sea of depression and anxiety is that I truly believe there is a purpose for my life here on this planet and that God has a plan for me. Regardless of the struggles I face, I know that whatever happens, my life will take the exact course planned for me and that's comforting. I can't say that I don't have moments where I am anxious or feeling depressed. I do. I am not superwoman. I am human just like the rest of you, so I still struggle. I struggle to understand why I have to walk this road again or what the future holds for me. Lyme has stolen so much from me over these years. As I blog in the future, I will share these things I have lost, but I undoubtedly want everyone who reads my stories and keeps track of my blog to know that while Lyme has stolen much from me, it has also blessed me in ways I could have never imagined.

       Those who know me, know that I can't stand 'pat answers.' Life is gritty, hard and often painful and I don't mind expressing that and hearing others talk about their struggles in a very authentic way. But when I say Lyme has blessed me, I mean it. It has changed me, molded me, and challenged me to be who I was created to be. It's challenged me to understand true compassion and acceptance for those around me. It's shown me that this life is not about looking good on the outside, but rather about knowing each other and experiencing life together on a real, vulnerable level (I'm still working on that one!). So let me be vulnerable. Let me be raw. Lyme is a horrible disease. I wouldn't wish it on anyone. To be honest, I am afraid of what could happen in these coming weeks while I am left untreated. But let me also say, I am clinging to the hope of a God who knows my struggles and weaknesses and I am clinging to a God who has never left my side through this all. Even while I shake in fear some days, He is still there. Even when I lament over the things Lyme has taken from me, He is there. Even when I find joyful moments filled with hope for an extravagant future, He is there. If I've learned nothing else, I've learned those things about my God. He is always here with me, He is always in my future before I am, and He is present in all the moments between the here and there.

A Little Bit of Rain

       I know, I know, it's been several months since I last posted anything on this simple little blog. It seems life and graduate school eat up most of my days. Between classes and interning, paperwork and everything in between, my life is pretty busy. On top of all that, nearly full time work on the days I am not interning keeps me even busier! Who knew a toddler could have so much energy?!
 
       As if life isn't crazy enough, I haven't been feeling well for several months. Last year, in the spring, I found myself battling a case of pneumonia which left me feeling not quite myself ever since. As anyone with a chronic illness could have the tendency to do, I wrote off my symptoms as nothing to worry about. That extra sleep I seemed to need? Maybe it was just the heat as we didn't have air conditioning over the summer. Those pesky headaches? Maybe I wasn't drinking enough or maybe it was the stress of so many life changes at once. Random joint pain and swelling? Surely that was just from the heat. So many little things that were bearable at the time were easily ignored with some effort. It's so hard to know if I'm being paranoid or really sick sometimes.

       Summer soon gave way to fall, and another move took place (the second in a year) and I began grad school. My symptoms soon began to take their toll. They were still manageable, but I knew that their presence was something of a red flag. By Christmas my hair began to fall out more rapidly than it usually did and I noticed swollen glands and a whole host of new symptoms. Getting out of bed in the morning seemed nearly impossible and I just didn't feel right. A trip to a new family doctor to get some blood work completed, barely into the new year,  proved pointless as all the tests came back 'normal.' By spring I became highly suspicious of this wretched Lyme Disease's return. Somehow I lingered in denial, partly because I didn't know what doctor to see and partly because I didn't want to be sick again. If you are unfamiliar with my story and my journey through Lyme disease, feel free to check out my earlier post, Untamed Blessings, for a very brief glimpse into my teenage years when I suffered from this disease. Perhaps sometime I will go back and give more explicit details, but that's a post for another day. At any rate, I didn't want to be sick and perhaps I believed for a moment that if I ignored the symptoms altogether, and trusted the blood tests of the family doctor, then I wouldn't have to be sick. Faulty, I know, but bear with my insufficient logic.

       Spring came and I knew I was sick. All the sleep in the world could not energize me and along with various other symptoms, the pain in my body had reached a new high. I couldn't return to my old Lyme doctor because she doesn't take health insurance - something that is not possible for me to financially handle. After some searching, I was finally informed of a doctor in my area who treated Lyme disease. All I wanted was a blood test to confirm some sort of diagnosis. I had been down this road before, but I was nervous. Finally, in June, nerves and all, I took myself to the doctor. Thankfully he was located ten minutes from my home. The initial consult convinced the doctor of a lyme disease relapse and I think I finally crawled out of denial. That was a hard day. The next two weeks crept by slower than molasses as I waited for the blood work to confirm or deny my suspicions. I already knew what the results would indicate, but I couldn't seem to believe it until I had hard evidence. I knew that if the tests were negative (which can happen with Lyme if the blood work is not sent to the proper lab) my insurance would not pay for treatment. If positive, I could possibly get some help. Let's just say I experienced a bit of anxiety in that time. I knew I was sick again, but the hard evidence would force me to face my fears.

       On July 11, I got the news I knew I would. Blood work indicated that I, once again, was sick with Lyme disease. Hearing the doctor say I was 'positive' was both a comfort and difficult. I was sick again. Hearing him say I needed a PICC line (for IV antibiotics) was even more devastating. I knew I was sick; very sick. I knew that this was the likely course of action, but in that moment when the hard facts met the thoughts that had been rustling around my mind, I suddenly felt weak. I was sick again. After six years of being symptom free, I was about to start my journey through Lyme disease all over again and I didn't want to. I didn't want to deal with everything all over again, but I didn't have a choice. I didn't want to tell people I was sick. I didn't want to admit that I couldn't continue with the load of responsibilities and involvement I currently had. I didn't want to face the reality that I was going to have to rest. I didn't want to be reminded that in the last several weeks my husband became somewhat of a caretaker and assumed nearly all household responsibilities after work when I simply could not function without several hours of sleep to recuperate. I didn't want others to see me as weak and I didn't want to be weak. In the midst of all these fears and unwanted things, I had no choice. The truth was, I was sick and would be for a while. I am sick.

       So here I am...having already begun treatment. Only one week in and it's been such an experience already. I am learning so much about who I am, where my value lies, and where God is in the midst of my suffering once more. This will surely be another journey to recovery, but I feel like I should share it with you all. I've decided, in the next several weeks, while I go through treatment, I will share the raw journey with whoever reads. It won't always be pretty and it won't always be great, but I will share the details of my journey nonetheless. It will be a real telling of suffering, but a even more telling of blessings as they show their faces. I know we will find some blessings along the way, even in the midst of a little bit of rain. 'Til we meet again...

      

The Seconds Between

       I am known for having wacky dreams. Many of my dreams are complete insanity and nothing short of strange. Often I wake up in the morning asking myself what I ate the night before to make me dream such crazy adventures. Ever since I was a little girl, I've had an imagination that takes imagination to even begin to imagine. I won't humor you with the strange dreams I have; you probably would start to question the soundness of my mind. Never the less, I assure you, these strange story lines only stay in my unconscious hours and these dreams of grandeur never cross into reality...thank goodness!

       Last night was no different at first. Silly dreams of being chased by vegetables or swimming in lakes of sweet, decadent ice cream started off the night. I would be lying if I told you that I don't ever think my dreams have meaning. Just not those kinds of dreams. However, ever once in a while, I have one of those dreams that shake me to the core. You probably know what I mean. Maybe not. It's the type of dream that resembles reality so much that it cannot be put out of my mind. It's almost creepy, actually. I mean, what if these things started to come true! I think we might be in trouble. But sometimes they do. A little hint of De ja vu always hits me when something similar to my previous dreams really does happen in real life. It's kind of strange. Regardless, let me give you a bit of back story before I tell you the impacting dream I had last night.

       Many of you know that I am super passionate about human trafficking and bringing healing to those caught in such a vicious and horrid cycle. If you did not know this about me, take a minute to read my blog from several months back Standing in the Space of Injustice. If you are aware of this fact, then you would understand my frustration with people who only talk about the problem and do not seek out ways to make a difference. Perhaps you are not as passionate about trafficking as I am, but my frustration is with those who claim to be passionate about something, but never take a step to change the injustice in which he or she is passionate about seeing change. I believe change starts with us. Each of us can make a huge difference if we take the risk to see change happen.

       My frustration runs deep. Not only am I frustrated with secular circles that seem to blow smoke and allow their fire to fizzle out almost as quickly as it began, I am also frustrated with the Church. As a part of the Church I am most frustrated with the fact that many churches leave themselves open to the criticism of those around them who are looking for help and the church forgets to do something. Many people wonder "Where was God when 'X' happened?"...I think a better question is "Where were God's people when 'X' happened?" So in an attempt to wake the church up, I bring awareness to the problems around us, try to light the fire of passion in the people of God, and attempt to find my own way into the world of action and not just apathy. This brings me to my dream.

       I will not waste your time and tell you the entire dream in detail, but rather, I'll give a quick snapshot of what was going on in my mind last night. The dream was one that started off with some burglars trying to break into the church I attend. For some reason, my parents were there with me and we were trying to protect the objects inside. I don't know what those objects were, or why they were so important, but during several frantic moments we ran to every window and door and locked them as quickly as we could. It was the middle of the day, so the burglars could see what we were doing as they ran along the outside of the building trying to climb in. At one point, they discovered that two of the large windows we locked actually had broken locks. They appeared to be secured, but were actually broken. In a moment of panic my parents tried to continually push them back out of the windows and I ran to the basement to make a 911 call. I needed to rally up some help.

       As I spilled the story to the operator on the phone, I was told that help was on the way and that a team would be there soon. Somehow, next thing I knew, I ended up outside the building, running through the town in reckless anticipation of the help that was on the way. I ran from person to person begging for help. No one responded. Not one single person. As time ticked on, hours and hours passed. I knew that my parents were fighting hard to protect whatever was inside that church, but I knew that I needed to continue searching for help. I wondered if the help I had secured with the 911 operator got lost, so I searched the city for any emergency personnel. In a moment of desperation, I burst into a huge warehouse, hoping to find a vigilante that would come with me. What I found was appalling to me.

       As the doors flew open, I found hundreds of police officers standing around, socializing. Had they forgotten that there was an emergency happening? What was going on. I began to scream and beg for their help. My efforts went unnoticed by all but a handful. I thought I had found help. Quickly, the officers followed me out and began running down the sidewalk with me towards the church where my parents were likely losing their battle. Out of nowhere, they all just stopped. To my left was a small coffee shop. One of the officers said "Hey, let's grab some coffee on our way!"

        I was furious. Didn't they know how important this fight was? Were they not aware that it was their job to stop burglaries? Did it not sink in that my family's lives were at stake? Stop for coffee? STOP FOR COFFEE?!?! I screamed at them and continued to beg them to come. Grabbing their arms and pulling them, I tried to make them budge, but instead they sat down at the barista table outside and ordered their beverages. Without pause, I stood staring at the only female officer. "Please...you have to come". She gently retorted "We'll get there in time. Sit down and relax. We have a few minutes. They burglars will be there when we arrive and then we will apprehend them. There is time." Furious I stared at her for a moment and then closed my eyes, unable to look at her any longer. Slowly began to count silently, using my fingers to keep track of the numbers. 1...2...3...4...5.....

       The female officer sounded caught off guard. "What are you doing?" "Counting the seconds between the time you learned about the injustice and the moment you decide not to do anything about it" At that my mind gave me an image of me turning and running down the sidewalk, stopping at nothing. I pushed people out of the way and ran as fast as I could. I would not have a pause. And then I woke.

       I wonder if that's what it is like in real life? How many times do we hear about an injustice and then take time to think about it and finally decide we will do nothing? In the meantime, a battle is being fought. A battle for life. A battle to protect. A battle that needs more warriors on the side of good. How many seconds, minutes, days, months, years, does it take for us to pretend to have passion and then finally decide not to do anything about it? How long do we sit and sip our coffee while the battle rages on? Where is the band of rescuers?

       There is no excuse. What is wrong with humanity that makes us believe that while we sip on coffee, the babies in our generations are being raped, trafficked, lured into drugs, forced to work on rice farms or sew clothing in sweat shops...broken...and that's okay. Where is the urgency? Where is the concern? Where are the actions? I beg you...do something. Heed the lesson of this dream. Please, do not sit and count the seconds between finding out about injustice and deciding you will do nothing. No, no single comfort in this world is worth allowing the innocence of people around us to be taken away. No single comfort, to me, is worth letting a ten year old be forced to have sex with countless men who do not value her worth. No comfort is worth the pain she will face. None.

Please, people, wake up from your slumber...don't just sit there and count the seconds.

Looking Back While Moving Forward

       As I sit in my cozy little apartment in the city, I can hear the noise of engines revving at the light outside our home and sirens wailing off in the distance. These are not uncommon sounds these days and most times I hardly notice them. My Christmas tree still twinkles in our living room and the tiny lights captivate my attention. The Christmas balls dance with color and sparkle in a way that only Christmas balls on a tree can do. It is a bit gray outside and this makes me feel retrospective for some reason. The lights, the colors, the weather; not to mention the mug of hot tea I am sipping. I can't help but reflect on my year and what it has carried.

       What a journey this year has been. There are no other words to describe this year than adventurous. Crazy adventure, to be exact! The year started in a whirlwind for us. Newly married, finishing school for me, and so many other every day things taking place. Somewhere in the first few months we felt a change for our short life together was making way for an awesome appearance. It took nearly all year to emerge, but after much praying, tears, studying the Word deeper, and getting on the same page with God, we knew He was calling us to a new homeland, a new place where He had called us to go. Our year quickly turned from months of seeking His face and searching for his plan, to a call of obedience. The story is way too long to share, but by spring we knew that God was asking us to trust Him no matter what and to obey the call He had placed on our hearts. God was moving us to the greater Philadelphia area.

       It would take a few months to get to where we knew God wanted us to be, but we would eventually make it. Those days were very difficult. We needed to hand over our finances to God, continually ask Him for direction at every step, and  attempt to walk in the palm of His hand through it all. The summer brought many lessons, some of which were: 1. Learning that God provides for our every need physically, financially, mentally, spiritually; every need when we trust Him and get in the center of His hand. Even when life is challenging, He provides and we find joy 2. God wants us to have an intense love and care for the 'least of these' and taking action to care for such people is beyond fulfilling. 3. I am beyond thrilled to have a husband who wants what God wants more than what he or I want and a fearless leader who is willing to chase a crazy adventure with me. I am blessed beyond measure. 4. When we are ready and willing to be used by God, He doesn't delay in using us! 5. Prayer really, truly works. 6. The list goes on! 7...8...9...etc.

       Through the generosity of some friends, we spent the summer living in a small apartment near the city as we pursued support as missionaries to the greater Philadelphia area. We went through a lengthy process of partnering up with a great church called The Journey and Mark began an internship with the church where he will spend the next three or so years training and learning how to plant a church. We will work side by side with our current church family, serving in all the ways we can and experiencing the community that God has called His people to be. We love our church and have enjoyed learning more about them, getting involved with them, and jumping completely into the water with these truly awesome people.

       The fall brought the official move into a neighboring city to Philadelphia to this cute little, cozy apartment from which I now write. It was amazing how this place was provided for us and how perfect the location is for our ministry. The very day the 'For Rent' sign was placed outside, we happened to be walking around the city, looking for housing. We were the first to call about the place, and the ones to rent it! This is no small task in the city as housing disappears almost as instantly as it is discovered. But by the grace of God...

       Fall also afforded me the opportunity to go back to school and pursue my graduate degree. This is a dream come true. I have always wanted to be a licensed counselor, and I am a step closer to that God-ordained dream. With one semester down and another about to begin, I enter with confidence that I am right where God intends for me to be. I couldn't be any happier in a grad school program than I am in this one. Biblical Theological Seminary is simply phenomenal. Counseling comes easy for me...well, as easy as counseling can be. I have a true heart for the broken and weary and absolutely want to be used to change the trajectory of the lives of those I will counsel. My deepest desire is that I would be used by God to bring healing to the places that need healing in my future clients and that through them, I too would grow closer to God, daily relying on Him to provide wisdom and insight into the needs of my future clients.

       So, as I reflect on 2012, I am well aware that we have come through a lot, but not without the hand of God guiding us throughout our days. I have grown so much this year in many ways. I have experienced quite an adventure and wouldn't trade it for anything. When Mark and I first got married over a year ago, I said to him on several occasions "Mark, let's do something crazy for God. Let's go on an adventure!" Little did I know, that just a few months later, in the beginning of 2012, God was orchestrating just that.

       May 2013 be the continuation of a grand thing and even better at teaching me even more about God - the one my life is dedicated to. May I serve feverishly and bring Him all the honor and glory He deserves. May the burden for the poor, orphaned, widowed, broken, victimized - the least among us be so heavy on my heart. Yes, may I decrease and He increase.

Happy New Year!

Savings: Homemade Yogurt

       If you're anything like my husband and I, we eat yogurt like it is completely going out of style! We love it! After going to the grocery store and realizing that, between the two of us, we devour four large containers of Stoneyfield yogurt a week and taking a moment to add up the cost of that, I decided to look into making my own yogurt. French Vanilla is our favorite, but I was willing to make plain yogurt and flavor it on my own if it meant that it would save us a pretty penny. It was either that or stop eating it, and considering how nutritious yogurt is, and how much we love it, I knew that my only options were to continue spending the $15-$20 a week on yogurt of make it. I chose the latter.

       I'll admit, I was a little skeptical at first. I was worried about executing the recipe incorrectly and spoiling an entire batch, then, unknowingly ingesting nasty, spoiled yogurt. The thought was enough to gross me out, but I suppose not enough to scare me away from this wonderful creation. After doing a little bit of research and realizing that there are a ton of ways to make yogurt and every website tells you to do something different, I settled on my own sort of recipe. I suppose having a yogurt maker would make this process a million times easier, but I don't have one, so I will share with you all what I do to successfully accomplish making yogurt. If you're curious about the cost effectiveness, allow me to save you the time it takes to read this recipe and just add this tidbit in now. Brace yourselves, it's epic savings. For four quart containers (yes, I make one whole gallon at a time!) the only cost is one gallon of milk and one small cup of organic yogurt (only needed the first time you make your yogurt. After the first time, you will use your own culture). I believe that comes out to less than four dollars. Yes people, less than four dollars for one gallon of yogurt. Now that you all are completely amazed and will be jumping up to make yogurt (one can dream, right?), let me wow you even more and let you in on how easy it is to make!

First, take one gallon of milk (I use 2%) and heat it to 180 degrees. I use my crockpot. It takes several hours to heat if using the crockpot on high, but I find I don't have to worry about scorching and can easily do other things while I wait for it to hit the proper temperature.
After the milk has reached 180 degrees (this breaks down the milk proteins), turn off the heat and cool to a nice temperature between 115-120. Any hotter than 120 degrees will kill the live culture bacteria in the yogurt you will add and any cooler than 115 degrees will not be warm enough to grow the culture.

 

 

Once the desired temperature  is reached, then take a few spoonfuls of your yogurt culture (preferably organic yogurt) and drop them into the milk. Whisk the mixture so it is nice and smooth. This won't take much effort.

 

Finally, the fun part begins. The mixture must stay warm for approximately 6-8 hours. I do this by turning the crockpot on warm for only about 30 seconds (just enough to take the chill out of the crockpot outer piece). Then, place the crockpot lid on and cover the whole thing with a ton of think, warm blankets to insulate the concoction. Be sure you have turned the crockpot off or you will ruin the entire batch. My favorite part comes next: Go to bed for 6-8 hours!!! Yep, go to bed and let the yogurt do its thing. In the morning, you will find you have a huge batch of yogurt! voila!

 

Before you do anything with the yogurt you've created, place the entire container in the fridge. DO NOT scoop it out of the container you made the yogurt in or it will not set correctly. Only after the yogurt has completely cooled for a few hours, can you scoop it out and put it in smaller, easier stored containers. I like to use glass Ball jars so I can properly sanitize them and reuse them.

 

Finally, feel free to mix in some vanilla extract (to taste) or a small amount of honey or sugar. I don't add sugar as I want this to be a super healthy treat, but I do add vanilla and honey. You can also add fresh fruit in individual servings when you are ready to eat it or granola. All are healthy and yummy options! Enjoy!

 



        Just a few more things. After you have made the yogurt and cooled it, you may notice and clear or slightly yellow liquid on the top of the yogurt. This is called whey. It is actually very nutritious and can be mixed into the yogurt. However, if you prefer thicker yogurt, you can strain the whey off with a cheese cloth.

        I have learned that the longer you continue to use your own yogurt culture to make more batches of yogurt, the thinker the yogurt becomes. After using the same culture a few times, you will see a difference. Each batch of yogurt lasts at least two weeks, but you can still safely use the culture for your next batch at that two week mark. I recommend this!

       Feel free to ask any questions! I've been doing this for several months and find it to be simple, money-saving, and delicious. Enjoy!