Miracles in Small Doses

      If I had one last thing to write and share with the world it would be that miracles come in small doses. Today has been one of those days where I have been caught up in nostalgia and contemplation.  I have spent some time looking back over my life and seeing how things have added up and how I am standing where I am today.  I suppose we all have that part of us that desires instant relief when we are facing a trial.  We want things dealt with or at least swept under the rug.  I have come to realize that miracles come in small doses.  It's that one small thing that happens that leads us to a place where we are able to carry on.  Sometimes the huge breakthroughs come and it is great when they do, but more times than not it is the small things that add up over time and bring us to a place of freedom.

      I have always said that God allows us to unpack our own suitcases from the tiring journey.  He doesn't dump all of our issues out and expect us to sort through them.  We unpack one item at a time and those small miracles move in to the vacant spot.  Imagine if we had to deal with all of our pain at once! I am glad that not even God himself expects that of me even though I often hold myself to those expectations.  One event, one person, one choice, one mistake can be the small miracle that will shape our future in a way that we couldn't have known to ask for.  Just because the miracle is small doesn't change the fact that it is a miracle.  I have thought of the small miracles that have made a huge difference in my life. I am filled with thankfulness.

The Need To Be

     We all do it. We get caught up on what we are going to be, what we are going to do and who we are going to become.  We're asked from an early age "What do you want to be when you grow up?" As kids we play in costumes and our parents' clothes until we get big enough to fill in the shoes we've been playing make-believe in for so long.  Life ends up looking differently than we anticipated, doesn't it?  We realize that there are responsibilities that come along with being anything. To be successful at our job, we can't sleep in late. To be a good wife, we can't be distant from our husband or run away from conflict. To be a good student, we can't let our school books collect dust. So, what does it take to be ourselves? The things we often say we are aren't who we are at all- they are titles. "I'm a lawyer." Yes, you may be, but who are you?  It's a question that runs deep and we don't get a good chance to examine it for what it is. "I'm a mom." Yeah, but who are you?

     This question has really hit me this week.  I had to resign from my job today because it was just too much on my body. My health has suffered as I've worked over the last month and it came to a point where I had to choose my health or the extra cash I was bringing home. It was more than that, though. I had to choose my pride or sacrifice. The choice to stop working wasn't easy and it has really been like re-living the NH scenario out all over again.  I had to quit my job due to my health then, too and although it was for the best it was still really hard to do.  I had to throw my hands up and surrender. The extent of "being me" over the past few months has been "I am a nanny." and "I am a student." But who am I really? At the end of the day am I me? Because that is really all that matters.  Am I bold enough to stand up for what I believe in? Do I still love daisies more than I love roses? Do I offer the world what I want I'm meant to offer? Do I smile from a place of true happiness? Am I content or am I searching?

    At the end of the day, I just have the need to be. To be. Nothing else- no shoes to fill, no titles to define me or people's praises to lift me.

   God put me and all of us here for a reason. To be. To do everything we can as ourselves to bring glory to himself. I have had a deep-rooted desire to please people for so long and it has washed over me and consumed me like a tidal wave.  Now, I've been washed to shore and I'm on my knees with a new found desire to be me- whatever the cost.

I will choose pink over green every day because it is my favorite color- it's part of being me.
I will still love handwritten letters more than any form of communication.
I will choose to encourage those around me at the cost of sounding too cheesy.
I will eat breakfast for dinner because it's just that awesome.
I will wear my favorite brown boots even if they look like pirate boots.
I will laugh embarrassingly loud in public.
I won't let my illness define me.
I won't let me get in the way of being me.

I am a wife.
I am a sister.
I am a friend.
I am a daughter.
And...I am me.

Life looks different today than it did yesterday, but I'm going to press on to tomorrow.

And the grieving process begins

    For the past three years I have been filled with a type of determination and strong will that I had never experienced before. For three years I have prayed, cried and bargained with God.  I told Matt on many occasions with clenched fists and tear stained cheeks, "If I only knew what was going on with my body then I would be happy." I just wanted an answer.

    I finally got my diagnosis about a week ago and with it came an overwhelming sense of joy.  I walked confidently out to my car and cried happy tears. It had been a long three years and with them had come many worrying visits to the ER and an indescribable depression.  As I sat in my car and the realization of a diagnosis set in I felt completed in a sense.

     Last night, I bought a book on Sjogren's so that I could educate myself more on the disease and learn how to better care for myself. I went through the first chapter in a flash and felt like I had the upper hand on my body for once. Tonight, I reached for the same book and along with it I picked up the beginning of the grieving process. I had said all of those times that I would be content if I just had an answer. Now, I realize that I am going to be living with this for the rest of my life. My body will always be unpredictable and working against me. Of course I always have the reaction of saying, "Well, other people have it so much worse than I do." Yeah, that is true and always will be true no matter what I am facing at the time. I minimize what I go through and put other people's situations up on a pedestal of 'desperate need'. I can't help but think that even God himself doesn't compare our situations from lesser to greater importance. I have often told people in need of compassion "Well, there are people out there that have it worse than you do." The first person to say that probably meant it for good, but how inconsiderate is that?!

     What I am saying is that I need to go through a grieving process for this. Yeah, it isn't going to limit me to a wheelchair or make me lose my eyesight. It is just as debilitating to me, though, in the sense that I will live with this forever. I don't expect people to understand what I am going through and I don't need to validate with anyone how serious this disease is to me. I just need to give myself permission to loosen the control I have so desperately tried to maintain. 

     If any of you have stayed with Matt and me over the past three years you have seen me in my "Happy Hostess" hat.  I smile and stay awake hours past my body's resignation time and I keep busy doing everything I can to look like I am healthy.  Only recently did I gain enough courage to say to an out-of-town guest, "I'm tired and I nee to lie down." The truth is a hard thing to hide- even with busyness and good intentions. Lately, work has been really hard for me and I've contemplated several times just throwing in the towel. It has been hard for me to get out of bed and concentrate once I get there. I don't know how much longer I will be able to work and that causes bitterness to rise up in me like nothing else! I suppose I bought the book as my "Handbook to Faking It." I thought if I could read the right things to eat, the exercises to do and the routine to sync myself to that I would somehow manage to win at this or win people over.  As I read I realized that there aren't many things for me to do that I don't already do in caring for myself.

     I am giving myself time to grieve for this because I need to.

     Maybe there is something in your life that you need to grieve over. You just need to have a good nasty gut-wrenching cry.  You need to lift up your hands and say, "Ok! I am hurting!" There is a God saying, "I am here."

Freedom

     The moonlight illuminated her hands- making them an ashy gray beneath the shadow of the overhanging willow trees and pines. She dipped her hands into the icy cool creek and her blood flowed down stream away from her.  Her hands ached and tears fell down her wind burnt cheeks, stinging as they made trails down her jaw line and eventually onto her collarbone. The blood began to pool in her palms as soon as they left the water's rapid cleansing.  She intertwined her fingers and held her breath as if doing so would alleviate the pain. It was a clear winter night and the moon shown on her like a translucent beacon from heaven.

    Heaven was no more real to her than the freedom awaiting her on the other side of the creek. She would have to experience the latter to believe in the former. The blood on her hands moved down her bare arms as she pulled her hair back away from her face.  An owl beckoned her from its tree. She couldn't see it, but she imagined the owl to have bright yellow eyes and feathers the same deep dark brown as her skin. She tightened her stomach as she held her breath and waited for the owl to stop sounding like an alarm and echoing off of the mountains. She imagined the owl trying to draw attention to her so that she would be found. They would find her and drag her by the hair back to where she came from. The owl resigned from being vocal for just a moment and the winter air was filled with only her breathing and the soft bubbling of the creek. 

    Her body shook violently both from the pain of her hands and the cold night.  She didn't know where her next meal would come from or how badly she was hurt. Every muscle in her body ached. She could still see them standing over her with their closed fists and belt straps. By the time she had realized what was about to happen it had been too late. They surrounded her and one by one had their way with her.  It wasn't until after the last man had walked away that she was able to curl into a ball like a little baby.

    She had been a baby once. She had a mama once that held her when she cried and caught her tears with her long skinny finger tips.  It seemed like it was so long ago-the normal life.  She dreamt of Africa often although she couldn't remember much about it. She had been five-years-old the first time that a white man exchanged money with another to take her home with him. He had fist measured how tall she was, looked at her teeth and looked closely at her hands before he paid the cash for her and lead her to his horse with a makeshift twine leash around her neck. She had been purchased like an animal and taken to his home to be treated as one. 

    Those same hands that had been inspected so closely twenty years before were now broken- she was sure of it. She was but a few steps from freedom; from leaving brokenness behind. The fear within her rose to her throat as she hugged herself tightly and she shook. Her coffin was being closed one nail at a time with every second that she waited to cross over the creek. She heard them searching for her as their voices pierced clearly through the crisp air. The dogs barked out for her- even the white man's dogs liked the sight of her blood. One second. One nail. Two nails. Three. Four.

   She would never get a proper burial or even the luxury of death itself. The white man would keep her alive just to own her.  He would sit over his weekly poker games and brag about his prized possession- a human life to control and own. She would bring in the scotch and set it on the poker table for the white man and his friends. On her way back to the kitchen, she would hold her breath as she walked through the cigar smoke and silently pray for her heart to stop. If her life ended by the hand of God it was better than having it taken at the will of the white man. The dogs grew closer. Five nails in the coffin she would never have the luxury of resting in. Six.

    The sun had now begun to peak above the willow and the pines. She stood there frozen-the winter air itself had wrapped around her and pleaded with her to go back to the white man's warm house. Her dirty wool blanket waited for her and although it wasn't much, it was guaranteed to be there. What was on the other side of the creek? Freedom was there for her to take, but what did it look like? Would it always protect her and hide her from the white man? Was she guaranteed a life worth living? The soft pink of sun rays touched her dark skin and she looked up to see the willow draped in sunlight.

   The owl had hushed his song long ago and the blood on her hands had dried- like Jesus' on the crucifix that had been rubbed smooth from years of dwelling in her apron pocket. The water rushed over her bare feet as she walked quickly over the piercing creek bed. With the willow and pines to her back and the echo of the dogs hushing over the sound of the rushing creek- she ran into freedom. She belonged to no man.