For the Sake of Love

    

  

     What if I told you that love wasn't merely an emotion, but an act. It can numb the pain that accompanies memories of rejection. Love is not embossed on a card or even wrapped daintily around the ring finger of a woman. Without the external pressure of an imperfect world, love would not be birthed into the shining gem that it is. Love is that faint twinkle in the darkness; it is the hope that lies under the rubble of failure. It exists simply to change. It changes us and those around us when we reach out beyond our establishments of security--our safety nets. Love reaches into the depths of souls to bring about a forever change.It is endless and knows no boundaries. What if I told you that love, in and of itself, is God?

     For the sake of love, know that you are never alone.

50 Shades of Hope

           I cry as I write this. Tears fall from my eyes because an overwhelming; all consuming joy radiates from me. My mind is sharp and my body is well rested. This is a luxury that I have not known in years--four to be exact. There were moments when I felt like the night would never pass and the sun wouldn't shine. I had times when all I could do was breathe and know that somehow I rested in hands that were bigger than mine. I grew restless in those hands and I often tried to grasp onto my own self sufficiency. Even in those hands, I was broken and for years I felt that I had to repair the pieces on my own.

         I felt hopeless every time a doctor came back empty handed. My medical chart grew longer and my patience grew shorter. My hope dwindled and together, Matt and I fought for answers. We leaned on one another like our lives depended on it. I learned through his faithfulness to me and his undying determination to find answers. Still, my heart broke within me and every time it did, hope leaked through the cracks and never seemed to be restored. I felt that all hope had dried up in me and couldn't be traced even under the same tests I had fallen victim to. Nothing could be found--answers or hope.

        Hope has different shades. Sometimes it shines brightly as if it is competing with the sun. Other times, it is only an ember left burning in a forgotten camp fire. Sometimes hope resides in the darkness like a blackened piece of cool coal. The truth is, though, that in all three states hope can burn into us and warm us and light us from within. Through every broken crack, it shines even when we cannot see. There are different shades of hope, but at its core--hope is a blazing fire that can illuminate the soul.

         I cry now because even when my hope was small, it has carried me to this point. Even when Johns Hopkins found no definitive answers, hope still warmed me. When I had discarded it at the curb, Matt picked it up for me and kept it safe until my hands reached for it again. Through the years of crying, begging and pleading with God to hear me and heal me--he had always given me the gift of hope. When I felt imprisoned by illness and my own body, I still had an ember of hope.

         In this photo, I was looking out over the ocean in Eastbourne, England and quietly asking God when the vastness of him that made the ocean would invade my situation and heal me. I begged him to take hold of my circumstances and turn them around. With everything in me, I longed to be the ocean--to have no limits and to be able to bring beauty to the world. Surely his love and all of the prayers said on my behalf would fill the ocean and for a moment as this photo was taken, I felt that maybe he could hold me in the palm of his hand.

          Now, three months since that moment was frozen in time, I am beginning to see the beauty of hope in all of her forms. Little by little, I am recognizing myself again--seeing my personality shine through new found energy and motivation. I still do not have an answer or a label for what my body was experiencing, but I have something more. I have a hope that outshines healing, though, I do believe that I have been healed. Tears of thankfulness stream down my face for all of you that have prayed, taken time to fly across the country to visit me, sent me cards and given Matt and me so much love over the years.

           Each day, I am becoming stronger and with each day that passes hope grows within me. I will spend the rest of my life reaching out to those that have been through health struggles like I have. Hope--an ember, spark, or blazing fire--is beautiful in every shade and will guide you through the darkness.

Liquid Moonlight

Crimson: A Song of Freedom

A dress of crimson silk she wore

Beneath the open sky

I held her tightly to my chest

And swung her way up high

Her ebony locks of hair draped

Into her soft brown eyes

Her mouth stitched into a smile

Never uttering a cry

Innocence she defined

With her hand in mine tight

We ran along through the hills

Beneath liquid moonlight

We lay on our mat atop the dusty floor

Sharing naan and camel’s milk

I snuggled her to my cheek

Touching the crimson silk

I kept her on mommy’s sari

While I worked the day through

Never knowing of the world

Of fear and how it is true

We shared both home country and name

Nepal—its mountains rolling and free

She was my doll and only two years old

I slightly older—her mother, but only three

We were called Ashima

Meaning “limitless”

She wore the crimson silk

And I, in tattered dress

In our shanty, mommy was there to protect

While father left at sunrise’s kiss—dawn’s embrace

To gamble and to drink

Never hugging us goodbye and refusing to kiss my face

The rice ran low and water dried

Beneath the eastern sun

Mommy’s tears fell down her dirty cheek

She called auntie and my adventure begun

Ashima in my arms

Held tightly to my chest

We traveled along the mountain’s curves

And into what was best

The liquid moonlight was soaked up

By the city lights

I fell asleep when I was given milk

Ashima held me

We both awoke dressed in crimson silk

 Crimson: A Song of Enslavement

Dresses of crimson silk we wore

Beneath the barred out sky

He held me tightly to his chest

And whispered to me lies

My ebony locks of hair draped

Into my soft brown eyes

My mouth wide open

Releasing screams and cries

Innocence she defined

While she watched me that first night

Being paid for with small bills

And unable to fight

We lay on the bed atop a concrete floor

Dreams of naan and camel’s milk

I snuggled her to my cheek

In my torn crimson silk

I keep her on the bed

While I work the day through

Knowing the world’s fear

Being beaten and bruised

We share both prison and name

India—its red lights and locked gate

She is my doll and only two years old

I slightly older—her mother, but only eight

We are called Ashima

Meaning “limitless”

I wear crimson silk

And she, in a tattered dress

In our shanty, mommy sits alone

While father left at sunrise’s kiss—dawn’s embrace

To gamble and to drink

Never hugging her goodbye and refusing to kiss her face

The rice was overflowing and water never dried

Beneath the eastern sun

Mommy’s tears fall down her dirty cheek

She recalls what she had done

I am Ashima in his arms

Held tightly to his chest

He traces along my body’s curves

And takes all that’s left

The liquid moonlight is soaked up

By the city lights

I fall asleep in moral filth

Ashima held me

We woke again enslaved in crimson silk

Colorless

The colors--the vibrancy of them.
It is as if the sun itself has been captured--
in each thread and particle.
A tapestry of divine creativity
interwoven into exotic culture.

Her eyes--
Two empty shells.


The gods are appeased
with luminous shades of sacrifice.
She watches over the table
and only the reflection of external color illuminate her eyes.

What Love Does

I am small, but I am valuable
Like a precious vase, I was also fragile
I had been broken
Again and again
Shattered on the floor of hopeless circumstance

I came to the orphanage in pieces--
Too small to be put together again
I didn't know I was broken--
I only knew that I hurt badly
That my feelings were hurt
And I knew loneliness
As intimately as I knew my own small hands and feet

I was my country's burden that it didn't want to bare

Then, Love found me
Love enveloped me and called me by name
Others like me didn't even know their name when Love found them
Love fed me, clothed me, and gave me assured safety
Piece by piece I was repaired
I know Love now


Love will never let me go.





*If you want to learn more about sponsoring 1 of the millions of orphans in India please visit
 http://www.crosspointofindia.org/   Your $50 monthly donation will feed, clothe, and supply school materials for a child for an entire month!*

Eyes of the Poor

   
              I was in America. I was actually in my own bed nestled into the plump duvet; wrapped in it like a sleeping bag. The fan blew gently on my face and the white noise lulled me into a sweet slumber. Suddenly, a pebble hit my bedroom window. Then, another and another in swift succession. I opened my eyes abruptly and the thin layer of blur went away with a few blinks. My bedroom soon became a street in Delhi and my duvet became the thin sweaty shirt that was clinging to my back. The car, truck, and motor bike horns beeped into the smoggy air--creating a nervousness within me that had vanished in the moments I had drifted to sleep. Again, that stone-on-glass sound pinged in my ears. I looked groggily to my right and saw a small brown hand reaching up to me from the street.

             A little girl slowly stood onto the running board of the taxi and she was then at eye level with me. Her shirt was torn in places--revealing patches of her light brown chest, stomach, and shoulders. There were traces of where a pink floral pattern used to be. The sleeves clung tightly to her arms and the bottom hem of the shirt was undone--exposing a small part of her stomach. The shirt was meant for a two year old; this girl was about five. Her hair was matted down to her head by its oily condition and just under the strands of hair falling into her face, I could see her dark chocolate eyes. She lifted her hand up to her  mouth as if to say, "I need food". I was fixed on her eyes, though. I tried to look away, but couldn't. Her eyes were so unique and so intriguing. They weren't the eyes of a five year old, but the eyes of a an old woman--so tired and weary. For a moment that seemed to outlast any measurement of time, we starred into each others eyes--blue into brown and brown into blue. Then, she was gone.

           I looked behind our taxi as we drove into traffic and more children begged along the road. She stood in place for only a second and then she was at the next car pleading for help. She hadn't been aggressive in the way she begged, but rather gentle. I could tell she had been rejected again and again, but still held out some hope that Westerners would give to her. Soon, we came to the place in the road where I could not see her anymore. I leaned back and closed my eyes once more--this time praying for this girl and dreaming up a good life for her in my mind. In that moment, I named her. She was given a name that I had dreamed about months earlier--a name I had never even heard before, but turned out to be a legitimate name when I researched it.

          I named her Ashima, the Hindi name for "limitless" and "no boundaries", because one day I believe she will be rescued off of the streets and meet the God that has hope and a future for her that even the sky cannot limit.

           

One Page at a Time

The Bible College girls worshiping before I shared my testimony.

         A book can only be read one page at a time. Everyone reads at a different pace--some skim the pages quickly while others read with intense focus and patience. I fall into the second category. I read and notice how each word is interconnected in the big picture of what is going on. Whatever your reading style, there is no way to know how the story unfolds without reading one page at a time.

        The grieving process, like a book, can only be worked through one stage at a time and like readers, everyone approaches grief differently. When my father died in 2009, I was obviously devastated by his death, but as time proceeded and seasons dissolved into the next, I began to grieve over the life my father lived more than anything. At the time of his death my father did not have even one friend. He had no possessions--only his music and a few filled notebooks. He did not have a job, a car, or even a driver's license. He was severely ill and completely reliant upon his mother with whom he lived with. His life itself has caused me more sadness than his death itself. Perhaps that is because I found peace in the fact that he wasn't ill and feeble anymore.

         I have worked through the grieving process one page at a time, but at the beginning of a new chapter I only found that the previous chapter hadn't completely resolved. I was still grieving his life because I thought of all the potential that could have been and the friends that could have at least been there for his funeral if he had had any. How could a life so empty be full of purpose?

        While in India, I had the honor of sharing my story with the Bible college ladies. I felt inadequate. How could I share something with them when I knew most of them had faced far more than I ever would? I set my fears aside, though, and breathed in deeply. "God, I'm open to what you have for my time with these girls." I shared about the difficulties my mom and I had when she was a single parent doing her best to provide for us. I explained that my father and I didn't reconcile until he was very ill and then, we only had a few short years of getting to know each other before he passed away. I spoke about how he came to peace with God before he died and that I will always be grateful for that.

         In the depth of my heart I felt a peace as I shared; for the first time I realized the true value of a life. God showed me that my father's life surely did have purpose despite lack of material goods and human relationships. It was because of God that I was half way around the world sharing not only my story, but also my father's story. A story that had to be read one page at a time to appreciate the ending. It was through every sentence, every word, and new page that God orchestrated peace and redemption for my father's life. My father did have a life worth living because the very air in his lungs was put there by God. He lived with divine purpose that he couldn't see at the time--a purpose that I couldn't see without turning the page. His life was valuable and he fulfilled a purpose long after his life ended. The students heard of God's faithfulness and deliverance in my life--a story that didn't unfold without the reconciliation with my father. My father helped shape more good things in my life than bad.

Some of the Titus Women and Bible College students from the meeting.

         Later in the week, I shared my story again with about 70 Hindu women (Titus Women aspect of the ministry). My father's life and death was a testimony to women that don't even know God yet. I looked into the faces of the Hindu women--all of them were there that day to make and sell handmade items so that their families may be provided for. As I looked out at each of them I believed in faith that one day all of them in God's perfect timing will turn the page to a new chapter--one of God's salvation, freedom, and peace. 

       The story we all begin with is one that we try to write on our own. Circumstances beyond our control tear out pages here and there--causing people to tell us our story isn't worth reading. God sees the divine purpose he has created in us and he replaces what has been torn.

       In many ways, India was the beginning of a new chapter for me. My heart was filled with a love for the people that can't be easily described. Their faces were ingrained in my mind and the immense need for God was etched on my heart. A new chapter is being written and just like any book worth reading, it will be written one page at a time.

     

Paradox

    There was no way that I could have been prepared for India. We landed in New Delhi and the airport welcomed us like any other we had traveled to around the world. The terminals were lined with seats filled with people of different nationalities. The signs to baggage claim looked just like the ones in Washington D.C. and London. We passed easily through immigration and retrieved our bags from the luggage carosel.

    When we went outside and our host met us, the Delhi air invaded my senses. The air smelled like sulfur--like a match that had been lit and then blown out. With the line of taxis waiting, the outskirts of the airport created somewhat of a comfort zone. Set aside from the smell, the surroundings were similar to the taxi queue at Heathrow airport. Cars bumper to bumper and drivers eager to take you for a spin and empty your pockets with each turn. We soon boarded the taxi and it transported us further into Delhi and into the unfamiliar.

     The streets were crowded--a sea of taxis, rickshaws, and motorcycles intertwined like fibers of a rope--so close that one began where the other ended. People and stray dogs freely walked between the cars and into oncoming traffic. Liter blanketed the sidewalks and runoff areas where the sidewalks met the road. Many homeless people slept on the ground and on top of a low standing wall. They laid beneath a piece of plastic, cloth, or nothing at all. Poverty and wealth were illuminated beneath the golden orange hue of the street lamps. On one side of our taxi there were people making a small fire outside of their home built of old tires and torn plastic. On the other side of our taxi, a white Mercedes cut into traffic. Both the white makeshift plastic "roof" and Mercedes seemed to glow in unison for just a moment beneath the light. In a moment, both were gone and the taxi drove us into a new paradox.

    Poverty and wealth seemed to move together fluidly in the same culture. We arrived at a hotel and again, I eagerly yearned for something familiar. We found that our room, set aside from a few differences, was a lot like one in the states. I found comfort in that as we went to bed. I laid there trying to process all that I had seen. Taxi horns and barking dogs echoed outside. The air conditioned room and sound of traffic made me feel that I could be anywhere in the world.

    Morning came and we left the hotel at 6:00 a.m. with our host and taxi driver. The drive to Agra to tour the Taj Mahal took hours and the journey threw us both into culture shock. I was in shock more than Matt since he has had previous exposure to a culture other than one in the Western world. Daylight revealed much more than the night before.

    The most beautiful colors I have seen adorned women in saris,traditional Indian tops and scarves. Mosques and temples appeared often with gods for sale at roadside. My heart sank as I saw a woman praying to a god set on a makeshift altar just at the corner of the street. She had such an expression of desperation on her face. Although I only saw her for a moment in passing, the look on her face will always stay with me. I though of how her god could not hear her and suddenly I became aware that India was not spiritually impoverished, but rather robbed of the Truth.

    In that moment I had no idea how often that woman's face would appear to me again and again.

Your Funeral

    I remember the day that my mamaw passed away. I was eight and when I was told that she had taken her last breath and that she was in Heaven I did the only thing that I knew to do--I ran away. I ran through the flower garden I had helped her plant. I ran past the pond that I had helped her dig with my pink plastic shovel. I cried and I ran until someone caught me and wiped my tears away. 

   Her funeral was simple. I don't remember who gave the eulogy or if anyone did, but I do remember the smell of pink carnations and the feeling of deep sadness I had in my stomach. I couldn't understand how life could end so quickly.

   Fourteen years later, my father passed away. I did the only thing that I knew to do--I ran away. This time I didn't run through beautiful flowers and I wasn't caught by anyone. I ran hard and fast; as I did I lost pieces of who I was. There were no projects like gardens and ponds to remind me of him. We hadn't really "known" each other that long so there were only letters he had meant to give to me that I found in his room. When I found them, I held them to my chest as if they were gold--they were heavy and weighted my heart down.

   As we get older, we learn to do something very well--hide. We hide behind denial, careers, family, social circles, religion, and good intentions. I hid behind the hurt that had been placed on me. Hiding behind hurt is in a category all in its own--it takes effort of our very soul to keep up the facade. 

   I gave the eulogy at his funeral. It was only about six sentences written on crumbled lined paper. As a writer and as a daughter I felt ashamed--there had been no words to express how I felt. My eulogy expressed my forgiveness and a promise--the promise that I would always remember him fondly and try to love others as he had loved me.

  Mamaw didn't have a huge social life and wasn't part of a community outside of her family. She didn't have many friends, but she was a best friend to her six sisters. She didn't have a career, but was a stay-at-home mom. Mamaw wasn't a perfect mother and had demons in her past, but she found redemption. 

  My father was ill for the last several years of his life. He literally didn't have any friends because most were addicts and had passed away from years of abusing their bodies. My father never had a career or even a job and wasn't always there of me, but he reconciled his past and God gave him a future--even if it was one in Heaven and not a healed body and fresh start here on earth. 

   I chose to write about these two people because by earthly standards they didn't really accomplish much during their time on earth. Neither held a career, had a 401K, traveled, were involved in their community, or even left inheritances behind. What was to be said about them when they crossed from this world and into the next? They both found peace with God--neither in a dramatic conversion and traditional setting. Nevertheless, they found God and they found peace.

  When all was said and done--when breath left their lungs and their hearts failed to beat--what remained valuable about their lives? The flower garden was filled with more memories than lilies and roses. It was there that I felt my Mamaw's love and felt special enough to help her. Helping her dig the pond made my small hands feel capable of change and empowered me to give all of my effort. My father's letters are something that I will always have to remind me of what true love is--an ongoing effort and commitment despite all odds. My last photo with him at my wedding reminds me of the beauty of forgiveness and the promise of healing--whether on this earth or in Heaven.

 This life isn't about the things we leave behind nor is it about the reputation that is etched on our headstone--it is about the hope we have etched on people's hearts. We are meant to leave so much more than material things--lessons learned and instilled in our children and those we love, the genuine love that we held for family and strangers alike, thankfulness and joy that make us live beyond ourselves. 

  

  I eventually stopped hiding. I ran again, but into a place of solace and peace. The pain remains at times, but I dropped my disguise and exchanged it for something new--life--my one chance I have been given on this earth. 

    The flower garden has overgrown, the pond is dried up, and the letters remain in a box. Everything that matters is etched on my heart and will one day be passed to my children.

  I've been given another chance to truly live today. You have been, too. May we live as if living requires effort and that we have everything in the world that matters to leave behind. 

 

               

                                                                                                               

                                                                                                            

Elevator

        It's days like today that I feel hopeful. Days when nothing particularly amazing happens, but yet I'm caught in a whirlwind of gratitude. It's days like today when life is enough to hold at the end of the day. Circumstances haven't changed for better or for worse, but there is an unchanging and unshakable foundation of hope that I find myself standing on. Most days, hope looks like a thin sheet of glass that I am standing on high above the earth below me--like the see through floor of an elevator in a posh London highrise. The foundation has tested strong, but I look down and am filled with momentary fear. Today, despite looking down, I realize that hope isn't as fragile as I often think it is.

       Hope- expectation - expectancy - expectant - trust - promise

    
       In the definition itself, hope has nothing to do with emotion. It's an attitude. Hope is a truth buried within us--one that sustains despite circumstance. I often think that hope relies solely on how I feel in a given moment. I either feel hopeful or I don't. I hope for something or I doubt. Hope is often discussed like it is some fragile state of being--like it could shatter like the glass floor of an elevator. Hope isn't weak; it is tough. It's audacious and unapologetic. It doesn't crumble at the sight of fear or shrink back at defeat. Hope carries us even when we are broken.

       Hope found in God is the most beautiful of all. Set aside from him is there any hope at all? It partners with faith and they cling intimately like fingerprints on glass. I have held hope tightly recently--both for myself and those in my life that are facing heartache. Hope coupled with faith runs through my veins not because I am strong, but because at times of despair it's all that we have. God supplies us with hope and faith because he knows that we will need them more than the ground needs water to sustain growth. Today, I am hopeful and faithful.

       I stand on the seemingly fragile foundation that appears that it may shatter beneath my feet. The truth is, hope is stronger than I will ever know and it's going to lift me up one floor; one trial at a time.

Three

One day I met you
You were wearing a white jacket
Rolled up sleeves
And too much hair product

One coffee date
With two other girls we knew
Soy and Caramel latte
And too much to tell in one hour

One second of starring
Before you caught me
Flushed cheeks so pink
And I looked the other way

One year of friendship
Me in polka dots and you in gray
English rain and puddles
And a kinship like glue

Two suitcases packed
Moving back home
America and family
And too much time apart

Two calls a day
Me missing you; you missing me
900 miles by car or two flights
And too far away

Two vows of "I do"
Me in white and you in black
Family and friends to celebrate
And a new chapter began

Two toothbrushes and opinions
To crowd a tiny bathroom
Just you and me--one last name
And our apartment was home

Two years in New Hampshire
Me crying because of the cold
One hug to keep me warm
And two winters of snow

Three--makes a small family
You, me, and the pup
Cleaning up pee and poo
And a new little life to love

Three years of appointments
Specialists and tests galore
You next to me
And no one else would do

Three years of happiness
Despite what has come
Hand in hand is what matters
And God guiding us

Three years of coffee
Three years of snow
Three years of hugging
Three years of knowing
Three years of "I do"
Three years of tears
Three years of truth
Three years of loving

One.
Two.
Three years of us.
No one else would do.



Happy Anniversary, my Matthew. I love you. x

somewhere

somewhere beyond the fluorescent lights.
beyond the sunrise.
past the showcase lighting.
is a glimmer of light in the darkness--outshining all three combined.

somewhere beyond the facade.
beyond the masks.
past the fake personas.
is a glimpse of self in the mirror--outlasting all three combined.

somewhere beyond the clash.
beyond the crash.
past the echoed cries.
is a voice of peace in a whisper--outlasting all three combined.

somewhere beyond the busyness.
beyond the job.
past the temporary fix.
is a life of purpose in the soul--outlasting all three combined.

Health Update--Putting the Pieces Together

        I write these updates for those of you that have been a huge support network for Matt and I. If anything, I have learned that asking for help and support isn't a sign of weakness. I realize that the people in our lives want to be there for us and God has given you to us so we can be lifted up in times like these. We pray to God that we have also been a support to you in your times of need. I also write these updates for myself. My spirit repairs little by little when I write even if my body doesn't.

      I wrote this yesterday:

                 Now? Now is one of those moments when the facade crumbles and the curtain falls. My fear is revealed and I feel naked. I am sick and my body is rebelling against me. I don't know why and answers won't be here when I wake up. I have to wait. Wait for doctors to read, analyze, and announce the test findings when they have set 15 minutes aside. I have to pay for their time and use my extra change to buy some energy in a Styrofoam cup as I wait. It's the waiting that kills me and the guilt. Guilt for not feeling faithful enough, strong enough, thankful enough. I buy doctors' time but I cannot buy peace. I trust God, but doing so doesn't help me do the dishes or put normal feeling back into my legs. I trust. I believe. I strive. Still, I am tired, weary, and hopeless most days. Afraid of what will be there and also afraid that nothing will. Friends and family pray and it carries me, but I still find myself on hands and knees begging for God to reveal what is wrong. Today I am weak. I feel less than human...like some desperate flower trying to flourish on rocky terrain beneath harsh winds and snow. Do I believe he will rescue me? Yes, but is it enough to only believe? Today I am raw. Real. I only want to be new.
 
         Over the past three years of being ill, I have accepted the fact that I will have daily fatigue and cognitive problems (lack of concentration and difficulty remembering things). In fact, I came to a place where I was learning to "live around" those things. In June, I began to experience new symptoms that were really concerning. Since June my body has quickly attained new symptoms and seemed to begin a decline. There have been several occasions when I have lost the ability to move my legs properly. For 2-5 minutes, I can only wiggle my toes rather than extend my legs out straight or kick them. My speech has suffered at times--whether it's not being able to form words or slurring when I speak. The cognitive problems have become worse. There are days where I cannot remember things that happened earlier in the morning or I cannot focus well enough to read or hold a conversation.

        Matt begged me to go to the neurologist so I made my first appointment on August 7th. The neuro listened to me patiently and made an immediate plan of action. She ordered an EMG test which I was able to take the next day on the 8th. If you don't know what an EMG is then searching on Google is your best bet. I can't describe all that it does in detail and I wouldn't want to bore you. In short, it checks the health of your muscles as well as the brain to muscle connection. The EMG revealed that I have muscle damage in both legs and I tested on the "low end of normal" in my reactions. It's currently unexplained since I have not had any past trauma to my legs. On August 15th, I went for my second test--an EEG. Again, Google is your best bet for finding a full explanation. Yesterday, August 16th, I went for an MRI of my spine to check the health of my spine and for the existence of any tumors or abnormalities. These results will be available to me when I have my follow-up appointment with the neuro on August 28th.

        The neuro did blood work which showed that I have Lyme Disease. That is, Lyme on top of the auto-immune disease I have. I am on an anti-biotic for 14 days and I have to see an Infectious Disease doctor on the 21st of August. He should be able to tell me how long I have had Lyme. It's possible that Lyme could be causing the neurological problems I have been experiencing. I would have had to have it for more than a year, though. Depending on how the EEG and MRI results come back will determine if Lyme has caused this or if I have an underlying neurological problem.

       At the end of the day, my hope is in God. That doesn't mean I don't get scared, though. Thank you for reading this and keeping Matt and I in your prayers. Please do pray for my health, but also keep my sweet husband in your prayers, too. He has been such an amazing support and I know he is tired and carries his own fears. Thanks to him for encouraging me to make an appointment with the Neurologist!

      Your prayers are priceless to me. The thing that I love about your prayers and support is that I never know when you're sending them my way. They're an invisible offering of hope to us and it's often the unseen and unheard that lift us up the most.

       Pressing on until the 28th.

With love,
Nikki xx

Holding Faith

      

       Last month we took my parents and the kids to D.C. for the day. My little sister Olivia has always been my shadow. She insisted on holding my hand the whole day and clinging to me non-stop. She is eight-years-old and at that age when life still seems so bright and full of fun to be had. Her tiny hand wrapped around mine every chance she got and Matt captured it for me. It's those small moments that make the biggest impact on me. I walked around with Olivia thinking I was offering her safety from the cars on the street and tourists that she was bound to run into. The day wasn't anything spectacular other than the simple fact of spending it with family. Olivia was at my side all day--small and enthusiastically willing to be with me. Her cheesy kid jokes and unceasing giggles made me smile. The day began, photos were taken, and then it was over.

      Here I sit about a month after their visit and I am overwhelmed by a new insight. A simple black and white photo is illuminated by the dull light of the laptop screen and I am...surprised. I'm surprised that I didn't understand sooner. I'm surprised that a kid can teach me a lesson. I'm surprised that we often overlook the smallest things and just excuse them away as "the norm". We do, though. The sun rises, we get dressed, we breathe through another day, and we cover up at night in the same bed without feeling as if anything has changed.

     I looked at this photo today and I realized something. Olivia wasn't holding my hand to be protected; she wanted to be with me. This may seem like the most mundane thing to write about. Hang with me a few more minutes, though. Now I didn't hold Olivia's hand because I simply wanted to be with her, but I did it out of instinct to protect her. So, what's the big deal? We held hands the entire day for two totally different reasons. In the Smithsonian, I didn't want her running into the crowd so I held onto her. At the same time, she wanted to show me something so she held onto me and guided me through the crowd to each exibit.  Two different perspectives. Two motives. One day. One act.

      I see now what I didn't see that day--faith. It's something that on my best days I don't have much of. I used to feel guilty for that--not having enough faith because that's a core need in Christianity. Cliche' sayings follow us--"keeping the faith" "living the Christian faith". Then, life happened and God showed me something that no Christian had ever bothered showing me before--that faith isn't some polished and perfect state of being. It's raw, it's sometimes tattered and torn; almost always minimal. But small faith is enough for God to work with. It's enough to carry me from day to day.

     In every one of my five doctor's appointments this month I have walked in holding onto faith. I have held on to faith as my faith has grown smaller and medical records have grown thicker. This is no noble thing. My faith often rests within me as some wilting flower--it's not pretty, but it is deeply rooted in something other than myself. At the end of the day, I have to open my hands in faith, no matter how small, to God's provision. He knows. He holds me to love me and I often hold onto him because I am fearful and uncertain just as I was with Olivia. Two different perspectives. Two motives. One day. One act. He holds me.

     Small kids often teach big lessons to those of us that have grown too old to open our eyes to possibility. We've become jaded and often times have lost faith. When I see this photo of Olivia holding my hand--I see faith holding on to me because Olivia's middle name is Faith. Just like Olivia, God clings to me simply because he wants to and I hold on tightly because I know I need to.

Different perspectives and motives? Maybe, but Olivia would say that what mattered to her most that day was being together hand-in-hand and facing the unknown together.

Stability of Never

          "Do you think anyone is going to be able to drive a wedge between us and Christ's love for us? There is no way! Not trouble, not hard times, not hatred, not hunger, not homelessness, not bullying threats, not backstabbing.None of this fazes us because Jesus loves us. I'm absolutely convinced that nothing—nothing living or dead, angelic or demonic, today or tomorrow, high or low, thinkable or unthinkable—absolutely nothing can get between us and God's love because of the way that Jesus our Master has embraced us." Romans 8:35-39 (MSG)

Tossing. Turning.
On familiar sheets
Beneath the weight of a warm duvet
and common thoughts.

How can I rest?
Belong?
How can I rise and protest
beneath the weight of complacency and weariness?

Hiding. Seeking.
On common ground.
Beneath the weight of frailty
and unanswered prayer.

When will you help?
Uplift?
How can I live
beneath the weight of weakness and pain? 

Searching. Crying.
On neglected pages.
Beneath the weight of hoplessness
and escalated fear.

Never will you leave me.

Your love will always:
seek me
find me
sustain me
remind me
keep me
heal me
fill me

I am never alone


  

Health Update- Appointment Set!

   Let me begin by saying that God loves you radically. I say that because I have been to the bottom and back again and he has never left me. Some of you reading this may not believe in God and that's okay. I know that at some point in time you will experience an answered prayer, a change of circumstance, or a miracle that will plant hope in your heart. He will reveal himself in some way. Maybe just for now you can see him revealed in my answered prayer, the change of my circumstance, and the miracle that has unfolded in my life.

   You all know that I've been praying for three years straight to be well again. I would love to say that I woke up this morning renewed and am feeling 100% as I write this. That isn't the case, but hope has taken root in my heart and I realize that healing may not be God's plan with my illness. For the first year of my illness I blamed God. The second year I ignored God. This year I have sought God with all of my heart. Through the realization that God didn't cause this illness I now have my head above water and am breathing with purpose again. Depression has knocked me down a few times and so has the sense of hopelessness that sometimes snuggles up to me at night.

   Upon moving here I did get a diagnosis which relieved a lot of stress. However, the thankfulness wore off quickly once I started experiencing the onset of newer and scarier symptoms. The emotional course that an illness can take you on can be really treacherous. I've been filled with hope, faith, and a will to live. Equally as much I have been filled with fear, self-hate, and complacency.  The past three months have been a fight between darkness and light. One minute I have felt hopeful that I will get more answers and the right treatment. The next minute I have been in tears that my health may never be fully understood, diagnosed, or treated.   

    God does place compasses on every corner of our lives, though. People aid as a compass to point us back to him--back to hope and a future. Family acts as a compass to point us back to our very roots--who we are and a judgement-free safe haven. Community acts as a compass to bring us to a destination of stability and purpose. I have been off course and redirected so many times through this process that it's a wonder I am still in one piece.

    Today, my impatience (I like to sugarcoat it by calling it "determination") got the best of me. After three weeks of waiting I couldn't stand it any longer. I picked up the phone and called Johns Hopkins to inquire about the status of my application. The lady on the other end of the phone couldn't have been any nicer or patient with me. While I was on hold I prayed with everything in me. The woman came back on the phone and said that the doctors have consulted over my medical records and would like to see me in October! I took the appointments right away and was so filled with joy when she explained each appointment to me. I will be meeting with a total of four specialists and each appointment will last two hours! The appointments span over two days (October 23rd and 24th). The thought of having a two hour appointment makes me so happy. Doctors will take the time to listen, test, diagnose, and come up with treatment plans.

    For every difficult day behind me and for each one ahead-- because they will come-- I have to say that I am thankful despite them. Along the way I am growing in faith and learning more about God's love. I would like to grow in a different way--a way that doesn't leave me in bed and exhausted, but the lessons learned are worth it despite the circumstances. I may not be this optimistic tomorrow, but that's to be expected. I'm finding that hope isn't always packaged beautifully like we would want. Sometimes hope is bare, raw, and ridiculously hard to hold onto. I'm thankful that I have a God that holds onto me even when I let go of him.

   

Broken bleeds into whole

Yellow sinks into orange
and hushes over the horizon.

A mute peace beckons
darkness to come.

I lie down again
to drift into restful sleep
I dream of waking in a body
that is healthy
Filled with fresh breath and
untouched lush tissue

Restored.
Whole.
New.

I awake with the sun
and roll over like yesterday.

I breathe like yesterday.

I ache like yesterday.

Creation has changed
from moonlight to orange glow
but I remain the same
Aches and pains envelop me
and thoughts remind me
That I am broken

Am I not his creation?
How can the sun be so perfect?
Oranges bleed into reds
reds illuminate and run into shades of yellow

And yet I remain the same shade of gray
Recycled air and limbs that rebel
He cares for even the sparrow
That sits on my window sill
and beckons me with its song

I am smaller than the sparrow
My heart darker than his feathers
and yet my needs are met
My clothes embrace me
The air enters my lungs then leaves again
my stomach is full
my heart beats to the rhythm of divine provision

This body is a shell to what lies inside
A spirit full of life
Talents of worth
But even the sun must rest like me
 its vibrant colors are snuffed out at night
but return beautifully the next morning

I rest on my bed
And stare at the sparrow
He reminds me that I am never alone 

Juicing Day Two- The End

      We were supposed to do a three day fast. Shortly after writing the blog last night I fell off the wagon. No, I jumped off. My body began to "shut down". Although I had had MANY nutrients through the juicing, I began to get dizzy and shaky on top of already feeling those symptoms on a regular basis when I do eat. I ate a chicken breast to get some protein and called it quits on the fast. I felt really bad about quitting, but I felt much better once I ate.

      Matt juiced yesterday morning through this afternoon and then had to eat because he has to work tonight. He really was a champ through the whole thing and had a lot of discipline as I ate my chicken right in front of him. Trust me, I don't like sharing my "failure" with you. I had great expectations for the fast and even bigger ones in sharing it with all of you. I just couldn't do it physically.

 Here are the recipes that Matt continued with last night through this afternoon:

1 Green Apple
2 cups Spinach (~3 handfuls)
2 cups Kale leaves (~6-8 leaves)
1/2 Cucumber
1/2 Lemon

Freshly squeezed grapefruit juice (I had it, too! Yummy!)

         Matt plans to do a full 3 day fast later this month and I may give it another try after consulting my doctor and getting my health in a more manageable state.

        We're continuing to make fresh juices daily, but we will be enjoying them alongside meals. I can't tell how how fresh the juices taste and how vibrant the colors are! It really is refreshing and makes me feel that I'm treating my body with kindness. Juicers are pricey, but you just have to look at it as an investment. If you have health issues I would highly recommend getting one and giving it a try.

         I am choosing to go gluten-free in addition to juicing because I have heard that it helps combat fatigue and cognitive problems. Matt is also going gluten-free in hopes that it will help with his digestive issues. He has also going dairy free to see if he possibly has a lactose intolerance. I will not be joining him on that side of the diet because I love my Greek yogurt and cheese!

        If you have a juicer, but haven't used it in a while--go dig it out and dust it off--it wants to give you some nutritious lovin'. If you have thought of buying one before, but haven't, it's worth setting aside $10 here and there to save up for one.

       So, there you have it. I won't be dedicating much more of my blog to our dietary changes, but I will post an update this time next month to share any progress we have made.