In the Midst of the Ashes: Where Loneliness Meets Its End

The following is a devotional I presented at a tea party for widows yesterday. These ladies are a fun group, full of zest and spunk. They entertained and blessed me with their sharp wits and sweet spirits. I don't presume to have taught them anything. In truth, they have much to teach me. But I pray they were encouraged and that I was a faithful messenger of God's extravagant love for widows and lonely hearts everywhere.

In the Midst of the Ashes: Where Loneliness Meets its End

 

You may wonder what a married 30 year old mother of two knows of loneliness. In short--enough. 

Last year, the doctors at Mayo Clinic diagnosed me with an illness called Mast Cell Activation Disease, an allergic disease which upsets every system in the body. Following the birth of my daughter in 2011, my health spiraled out of control, and has worsened over the years. I became a virtual shut-in before age 30. No church, no parties, no dates, no restaurants, no movies, no Disney vacations, ball games, or dance recitals. A lot of life passes me by, and all I can do is watch. 

In August 2012, under serendipitous circumstances, I met Jenny, who quickly became my best friend. She, too, was a young mom, her kids the same age as mine. She loved the Lord and struggled with an all-consuming disease of her own, which put her in a position to understand me better than anyone else. We spoke on the phone and texted daily, encouraging one another, learning and growing, sharing the joy of the Lord. Like David and Jonathan, our souls were knit together by the hand of God—until the cancer ripped her out of my arms and put her out of reach. Jenny died in March 2014.

I haven’t lost a husband or a parent, and I hope I don't for a long time, but my heart is a graveyard marked by lots of little tombstones. So while I won’t pretend to understand loneliness as you do, I can relate.

Loneliness is a kind of suffering.

Suffering, to me, is any event or circumstance that challenges or destroys the identity—who we are, how we define ourselves. Think of the injured athlete, the CEO who loses his job, the young mom diagnosed with Stage 4 esophageal cancer, the wife who loses her husband.

Suffering strips us down and leaves us naked. And it's in our nakedness, we discover a problem.

The Problem: We are alone.

You aren’t lonely because you’re a widow.

I’m not lonely because I’m a shut-in.

We’re lonely because we’re alone.

This goes for sufferers and non-sufferers alike.

That feeling we get that no one really understands? It’s not just a feeling. It’s reality.

Proverbs 14:10 says, “Each heart knows its own bitterness, and no one else can fully share its joy.” (NLT)

This is true even in the best of times, but suffering makes it truer. Suffering comes with a veil that hems us in and keeps others out. Fellow sufferers can come closer than others, but even in your common sorrow, you are alone. You are individuals shaped by unique circumstances. Not one of us can understand another perfectly.

So what’s the remedy?

First, let’s look at the example of someone who survived extreme loneliness.

The Example: Job

Two men in the Bible understand loneliness better than anyone else. One is Job.

In October of last year, I began studying Job and haven’t really stopped. He’s become my friend, and I love him dearly.

In the first two chapters of Job’s story, he’s called “blameless and upright” three times, twice by God Himself. When God calls Job “blameless,” He doesn’t mean sinless. He means genuine. Job genuinely loved God. And it was his conspicuous godliness that drew the attention of both God and Satan--the catalyst for the destruction of the wisest, richest, most righteous and beneficent man in the East.

Don’t miss the height of the fall. The longer the fall, the more bones you break. 

The longer, the richer, the deeper the marriage, the greater the loss.

Satan predicted Job would curse God when he lost it all. But he didn’t.

Instead, Job tore his clothes.

“Naked I came from my mother’s womb, and naked I shall return” (Job 1:21).

Job was stripped. His true self was showing.

Job grieved.

“…he fell to the ground…” (Job 1:20).

And he worshipped.

“The Lord gave, and the Lord has taken away; Blessed be the name of the Lord” (Job 1:21).

Job’s identity wasn’t rooted in possessions, influence, or even his family. So Satan went after Job’s health. And Job was struck with a painful, repulsive, isolating disease.

In this, Job met his breaking point. But not because he lost his health.

Job broke because he knew that God was ultimately responsible for what happened to him. God let the lion loose. Job knew he hadn’t done anything wrong, yet God had apparently turned His back on him.

Job shattered because he believed he’d lost God’s love.

Immerse yourself in this stunning imagery:

“And the Lord said to Satan, “Behold, he is in your hand, but spare his life. So Satan went out from the presence of the Lord, and struck Job with painful boils from the sole of his foot to the crown of his head. And he took for himself a potsherd with which to scrape himself while he sat in the midst of the ashes” (Job 2:6-8).

Look at Job. Impoverished, bereft, sick, and apparently forsaken by God, he makes his way to the ash heap outside the city where refuse is burned.

The ash heap outside Jerusalem was called Gehenna. Jesus used Gehenna as a metaphor for hell. Hell is “where the fire is not quenched and the worm does not die” because man is separated from God (Mark 9:44).

Alone, dejected, rejected by his wife, and taunted by the people he’d once helped, Job climbs a lonely hill of smoldering garbage and makes his bed in hell (Psalm 139:8).

Scrape, scrape. The potsherd is his only friend. It alone empathizes with his broken state.

After months of isolation, Job’s dearest friends gather to him, but all they can do is weep. They don't recognize him. He's emaciated, bald, scarred, and there's something deeply wrong in his eyes. His suffering terrifies them into a week long silence (Job 2:13; 6:21).

Scrape, scrape. The potsherd and the snap and crackle of flames are the only sounds. Until Job opens his mouth, and sobs into the dark.

Satan had predicted Job would curse God. What Job does instead is curse himself. Then he leans in, and calls out to God from the ash heap.

Job challenges God, doubts Him, praises Him, pleads for Him in some of the nakedest prayers of the Bible. And it’s there—in the midst of the ashes—that God stoops to Job, and Job gets more of God than he bargained for.

Job’s story raises two questions:

1. Why did God allow Job to suffer so much?
2.   How did Job survive?

The answer to both is Jesus Christ, who is also the solution to our loneliness.

The Solution: Jesus Christ

Prior to Job, there was no room in the world’s wisdom or moral canon for innocent suffering. Job’s friends insisted he must've sinned because all they knew of justice was “reap what you sow” with an immediate harvest in mind.

Job’s validation by God in the beginning of the story and his vindication at the end of the story bust that theory wide open, making room for the truly innocent suffering of Jesus Christ.

The stories of Job and Jesus are strikingly similar: A prince plummets from glorious heights to the depths of hell. He’s a good man—innocent, blameless, accepted by God, deserving blessing, honor, glory, and power, and yet, he receives God’s wrath.

Why?

For the glory of God and for the good of the world.

Jesus experienced true loneliness so you would never know it. So the worst Satan could do is make you feel lonely.

He accepted my isolation so I could have a Friend who doesn’t weary of my overwhelming needs.

He absorbed your widowhood so you could marry a Husband that can’t die.

But Jesus isn't enough. We need the Helper, the Advocate. 

Loneliness ends only through the gift of the Holy Spirit.

Job didn’t have the Holy Spirit as we do today, but the Spirit evidences Himself in Job’s worship, his boldness, his faith, in prophecies, in images of the cross, in spiritual fruit such as patience, faithfulness, gentleness, and self-restraint with those insufferable friends of his.

Job didn’t know God was with him the whole time, but He was.

We’re like Job. We’re unaware of the Holy Spirit. We undervalue Him, underutilize Him, and misunderstand Him. We don’t comprehend that the gift of Emmanuel—God with us—is something better than God beside us.

We have God in us.

The Holy Spirit lives in us to give us peace in an uncertain world (John 16:33), to tell us the truth (John 14:17), to help us bear fruit (John 15:5), to give us faith in the dark (John 14:20), to help us see Christ for who He is (John 14:19), and know the depth of God’s love (Romans 5:5) so even if we don’t know why we suffer we know what the reason isn’t.

It isn't because God doesn’t love us (Timothy Keller).

God doesn’t leave us orphans and widows (John 16:18; Isaiah 54:5).

He stooped to us, died for us, and now He's in us.

Listen to the gospel according to Hannah:

“The Lord kills and makes alive;

He brings down to the grave and brings up.

The Lord makes poor and makes rich;

He brings low and lifts up.

He raises the poor from the dust

And lifts the beggar from the ash heap,

To set them among princes

And make them inherit the throne of glory.”

(1 Samuel 2:6-8)

To survive loneliness, we must:

•  Look at Jesus and gaze at the cross.

 “…let us lay aside every weight, and the sin which so easily ensnares us, and let us run with endurance the race that is set before us, looking unto Jesus the author and finisher of our faith, who for the joy that was set before Him—[us]—endured the cross, despising its shame, and has sat down at the right hand of the throne of God.” (Hebrews 12:1-2)

• Attune to the Holy Spirit.

Be filled with the Spirit (Ephesians 5:18).

Walk in step with the Spirit (Galations 5:25).

Listen to the Spirit. Give Him opportunity to speak in His word and through prayer.

May 2013 may have been the loneliest month of my life. I suffered a major reaction to a pesticide, and became so ill I couldn’t eat. My grandfather had terrible complications with his heart surgery. We all thought he would die, so my mom was with him. Jenny was dying. I didn’t expect her to last through June. My husband thought I was dying, and emotionally checked out. (This disease is so big and bad it's too much for Superman sometimes.)

I was alone in an empty bed, in an empty house, on a dirt road, in the middle of nowhere.

But my heart was filled with the love of the Father, my vision enraptured by the beauty of the Lamb. The Spirit sat with me in the midst of the ashes, and my lonely bed became a gateway to glory.

I remember being on the phone with Jenny one day during that time. We were both on what could’ve been our death beds but for the grace of God, and we prayed and praised with frail hands lifted to our Father. For a moment, the clouds parted, the Spirit smiled, and we ascended.

It's a glorious memory. But loneliness is a long suffering. And survival isn’t enough.

Our destiny is to be “more than conquerors through Him who loved us” (Romans 8:37), to take the very thing Satan sends to destroy us and use it against him to the glory of God.

To achieve such a thing, we must answer the gospel call.

The Call: Clothe the Naked People

The world is full of naked people. Really naked people. A few who know they’re naked and many who don’t. These include church people.

          To the lukewarm church, Jesus writes:

“Because you say, ‘I am rich, have become wealthy, and have need of nothing’—and do not know that you are wretched, miserable, poor, blind, and naked—I counsel you to buy from Me gold refined in the fire, that you may be rich; and white garments, that you may be clothed, that the shame of your nakedness may not be revealed; and anoint your eyes with salve, that you may see. As many as I love, I rebuke and chasten. Therefore be zealous and repent. Behold, I stand at the door and knock. If anyone hears My voice and opens the door, I will come in to him and dine with him, and he with Me.” (Revelation 3:17-18)

Suffering separates the sheep from the goats. Once suffering rips off our clothes and our true selves are exposed, we’ll know whether we wear filthy garments or the rich robe of Christ’s righteousness, and so will everyone else (Zech. 3:3-5; Isaiah 61:10).

And sometimes, our temporary nakedness exposes the real nakedness of the happy and oblivious.

When a hungry sister sees us fat and satisfied with the fullness of God, she may be inspired throw the door wide open next time Jesus knocks.

The way we deal with loneliness may help others see they’re the lonely ones.

So put that loneliness to good use. Curb the empty calories of activity, and feed on the Bread of Life (John 6:48).

Be brave. Walk deeper into dark Gethsemane, and get alone with God. Be willing to leave your friends behind for a while.

We often have to travel farther into the desolate wilderness to find our way to the Promised Land.

Holy solitude is the remedy to loneliness.

It's the thorny prison where the Lord is sanctified in our hearts and we learn our defense for the hope that’s in us (Hosea 2:6; 1 Peter 3:15). When we come out on the other side, people will know that we’ve been with God. 

Believe me—when they see the fire in your eyes after everything around you has burned to ash, they’ll ask about your hope. I was never asked about my hope until it defied rational explanation.

Last year, a friend of mine, who’s also a mom suffering chronic illness, asked me how I stay content in isolation. In my letter to her, I recalled the ache I used to carry in my chest, and compared it to a black hole. After brushing up on my quantum physics last week, I understand what an inspired metaphor that was.

Black holes form when stars can no longer support the weight of their own gravity and collapse on themselves. This is suffering.

The star then creates a cosmic vacuum so that anything that crosses the event horizon gets sucked in without any hope of escape. Suffering stimulates the insatiable hunger of our souls. Without realizing it, we consume resources and people ill-equipped to meet our needs until there’s nothing left.

The more a black hole eats, the bigger it grows. Support, attention, entertainment, distraction—instead of satisfying us, they make us crave all the more, which inevitably leads to addiction. Addiction has been a constant battle throughout my illness.

So what’s the end of it?

The black hole needs a taste of something as infinite as its need.

Particle and anti-particle pairs pop into existence all the time throughout the universe. Usually, the opposing energies just cancel each other out. But when they form near the event horizon of a black hole, one can get sucked in before they cancel out.

The other particle escapes, emitting something called Hawking radiation. The black hole which threatened to eat the universe alive is now sending out pieces of itself. Over time, it loses energy and evaporates.

There is no better imagery to describe what happened to me. The black hole of my loneliness ate everything, and grew bigger with every bite. In desperation, I cried out to Jesus and ate Him.

Little, daily bites of infinite, eternal God satisfied me so well I began emitting holy radiation back into the lives I’d sucked dry until the vacuum evaporated.

The gospel of Jesus Christ is the end of black holes everywhere.

We eat Him, and go feed the world.

We’re clothed, and invite people under the robe.

Because there’s no end to Christ, there’s no end our supply. Like the widow’s jar of oil (1 Kings 17:14) and the five loaves and two fish that filled 5,000 men with leftovers to spare (Matthew 14:19), there’s enough Jesus to clothe you and the entire world.

Clothing naked people is the heart of the gospel. It’s what Christ came to do, and He calls us to share in His mission.

Jesus says in Matthew 25:34-40,

“Then the King will say to those on His right hand, ‘Come, you blessed of My Father, inherit the kingdom prepared for you from the foundation of the world: for I was hungry and you gave me food; I was thirsty and you gave Me drink; I was a stranger and you took Me in; I was naked and you clothed Me; I was sick and you visited Me; I was in prison and you came to Me. Then the righteous will answer Him, saying, ‘Lord, when did we see You hungry and feed You, or thirsty and give You drink? When did we see You a stranger and take You in, or naked and clothe You? Or when did we see You sick, or in prison, and come to You? And the King will answer and say to them, “Assuredly, I say to you, inasumuch as you did it to one of the least of these, My brethren, you did it to Me.”

Which leads us to the promise.

The Promise: The End of Loneliness

This is Isaiah 58:6-9:

         “Is this not the fast that I have chosen:

To loose the bonds of wickedness,

To undo the heavy burdens,

To let the oppressed go free,

And that you break every yoke?

Is it not to share your bread with the hungry,

And that you bring to your house the poor who are cast out;

When you see the naked, that you cover him,

And not hide yourself from your own flesh?

Then your light shall break forth like the morning,

Your healing shall spring forth speedily,

And your righteousness shall go before you;

The glory of the Lord shall be your rear guard.

Then you shall call, and the Lord will answer;

You shall cry, and He will say,

‘Here I am.’”

The promise is God with us—the end of loneliness. We aren’t widows anymore. Our Eternal Husband is with us in our grief, in our loneliness, in the midst of the ashes, and He says to us:

“Here I am.”

A Rest

"God does not write the music of our lives without a plan.

Our part is to learn the tune and not be discouraged during the rests....

If we will only look up, God Himself will count the time for us.

With our eyes on Him, our next note will be full and clear.

If we sorrowfully say to ourselves, 'There is no music in a rest,'

let us not forget that the rest is part of the making of the music."

--John Ruskin from Streams in the Desert 

It's time for a rest. Following this post, I will rest from social media. My Facebook account will be deactivated, and my blog will be left fallow for a season.

As a musician, I think of rests as intentional silence. Intentional silence isn't not having things to say. It's choosing not to say them. For a reason.

There are several reasons behind the decision, but before I share those I want to clearly state what my reasons are not:

• I am not angry with social media or with any individual who uses it. 
• I do not believe social media is an inherent evil. In many ways, it is a good.
• I am not unhappy with the pitfalls of Facebook or blogging. I don't care much about page hits or likes, and I don't begrudge anyone their pizza, night on the town, or Disney vacation. 
 

The bottom line of my choice: My life presents many difficulties and challenges, which I have taken to God in prayer. In response, He has offered a season of rest as a solution to all of them.

Choice. That's an important word. For once, I'm the one closing the door. God guided me to the threshold, displayed my options, and while I know full well He is sovereign over my choice, He has also entrusted the verdict to me. His confidence is precious to my soul.

Piece by piece, the Lord has created a mosaic with my questions and His answers. Now the picture sits complete before me, and I can see the thing that needs doing.

Embracing Obscurity

The first piece came to me two years ago when I read the anonymously authored book, Embracing Obscurity. My disease has forced me into obscurity, and I have complied without bitterness. But now I have the opportunity to actively, worshipfully embrace it by laying aside my online presence. That may not seem like a big deal to some, but my online presence is the only presence I have in the world outside of my home. I don't work. I don't have a church. It's me, my family, and a handful of friends brave enough to enter into my madness.

You may ask why anyone would want to embrace obscurity. Here it is--the kingdom of God is an upside down kingdom in which the truths don't always make sense. Sometimes, the truths oppose sense (i.e. the Beatitudes, Matthew 5:3-12). Jesus had a lot to say about condescension preceding exaltation, most of which was spoken with actions, not words. As a believer, I desire to follow in my Savior's footsteps. But more than that, this is me cooperating with what God is already doing in my life. This is my "yes" to His call to become less that He may become more (John 3:30).

Addiction

I'm Melissa, and I'm addicted to Facebook.

I'm not being cute or silly. I'm dead serious. I use Facebook like druggies use heroin.

I'm not happy with my life at the moment. Things have been hard since October of last year. I thought I'd be healed by now, but I'm caught in this crazy cha cha of two steps forward, three steps back. I'm lonely, sad, and discouraged, and too spent to deal with any of it. Escape is easier. I fill empty moments scrolling my newsfeed because I am too terrified of my own darkness to face it.

There's a flip side to this addiction. When I'm doing well as I was last summer, I can easily shift from being a Facebook addict to what Paul David Tripp calls a "Glory Junkie." According to his two part article, I exemplify at least 5 of 8 signs of glory addiction.

(You can read Tripp's articles here and here.)

By eliminating Facebook and my blog for a season, I can rehabilitate from both addictions at once. But according to this article, which discusses the probable cause of addiction, I'm going to have to do more than cut myself off. I also need to reconnect with "actual, real-live people."

Elsa is Winning

In my previous post, I elaborated on how I resemble both Elsa and Anna in Disney's Frozen. But let me tell you--I'm in full-blown ice queen mode right now. Emotional detachment is the name of the game because it's easier than feeling the pain.

Facebook enables me to detach. I can scroll my newsfeed, and not have to connect to anyone, not even the souls living in my own house.

My Facebook addiction is a double-edged sword because it's both the enabler and the drug. You want to know what scientists believe may be the cause of addiction? Isolation. Let that soak in for a moment.

Johann Hari writes in his article "The Likely Cause of Addiction Has Been Discovered, and It Is Not What You Think:"

"The rats with good lives didn't like the drugged water. They mostly shunned it, consuming less than a quarter of the drugs the isolated rats used. None of them died. While all the rats who were alone and unhappy became heavy users, none of the rats who had a happy environment did....

After the first phase of Rat Park, Professor Alexander then took this test further. He reran the early experiments, where the rats were left alone, and became compulsive users of the drug. He let them use for fifty-seven days -- if anything can hook you, it's that. Then he took them out of isolation, and placed them in Rat Park. He wanted to know, if you fall into that state of addiction, is your brain hijacked, so you can't recover? Do the drugs take you over? What happened is -- again -- striking. The rats seemed to have a few twitches of withdrawal, but they soon stopped their heavy use, and went back to having a normal life. The good cage saved them....

Here's one example of an experiment that is happening all around you, and may well happen to you one day. If you get run over today and you break your hip, you will probably be given diamorphine, the medical name for heroin....[I]f the old theory of addiction is right -- it's the drugs that cause it; they make your body need them -- then it's obvious what should happen. Loads of people should leave the hospital and try to score smack on the streets to meet their habit. But here's the strange thing: It virtually never happens....

The street-addict is like the rats in the first cage, isolated, alone, with only one source of solace to turn to. The medical patient is like the rats in the second cage. She is going home to a life where she is surrounded by the people she loves. The drug is the same, but the environment is different.

This gives us an insight that goes much deeper than the need to understand addicts. Professor Peter Cohen argues that human beings have a deep need to bond and form connections. It's how we get our satisfaction....

So the opposite of addiction is not sobriety. It is human connection."

My goal is to improve human connection, and thereby kick the habit.

Better Invitations

My connection to my kids needs improvement. The first part of my mornings are spent away from them in sick person self-care. After that, breakfast and email. Then I lose myself in Facebook Land until it's time pick up Micah from school, cook lunch, do laundry, etc.

When the inevitable "Look, Mom!" comes, I greet it with a passive "Mmhmm" at best, with a side of grump at worst. But "Look, Mom!" shouldn't be a burden. "Look, Mom!" is an invitation into their world, and if I don't start accepting the invitation, I will eventually stop being invited.

If I need a drug to ease my pain, Kid Land isn't a bad choice. It's costs very little and gives quite the high. Strong relationships with the kids are a side-effect of regular trips.

Meaningful Communication

The reason I did not simply fade into online oblivion without comment is that I'm not seeking further isolation, but deeper connection. Whether we visit face to face, over the phone, through text, or by email, it's all more meaningful than likes and page hits.

"In The House"

Christian friends: That moment when you are--tra-la-la--reading your Bible and all of a sudden the Holy Spirit lifts the words off the page like a hologram. You know what I'm talking about. It would be super-duper awesome if the words didn't trample all over your toes. Right?

So there I was memorizing the beatitudes and similitudes when I came across Matthew 5:15--

"Nor do they light a lamp and put it under a basket, but on a lamp stand, and it gives light to all who are in the house."

God isn't so interested in me shining for the world right now. He wants me to shine "in the house." I'm not the only one around here flailing dangerously close to the mouth of a pit. My entire family is in a rough spot. Sara is now a threenager. Micah and I were once thick as thieves, but have lost our closeness. And while I do my best to honor Brandon's privacy here, I will tell you his life is far from easy.

The world doesn't really need me but my family does, and I only have a little to give. It's time for my smouldering wick to focus it's light upon those "in the house."

 "Shut The Door"

The hologram effect happened last summer, too, when I read the story of Elisha and the widow's oil in 2 Kings 4. In the story, the widow owes money to creditors who have threatened to enslave her two sons. She seeks the prophet Elisha's help. He tells her, "Go, borrow vessels from everywhere, from all your neighbors--empty vessels; [gather many]. And when you have come in, you shall shut the door behind you and your sons; then pour it into all those vessels, and set aside the full ones." The next verse reads, "So she went from him and shut the door behind her and her sons."She followed every detail of Elisha's orders, filled many vessels, and sold enough oil to pay her debts and cover her expenses. Her sons were saved.

There are no small details when it comes to God's commands. "Shut the door" was an important aspect of the miracle. God wanted to work something in the widow privately before He provided for her publicly.

Just as there are times husbands and wives must shut the door, there are times the believer and her God must do the same. What happens behind the door is private, but it eventually evidences itself.

God and I have a lot of work to do. There is sin to be put down--yes, always--but there's more. God and I are in a grappling match. I know He's going to win, but the work must still be done. Here is a recent excerpt from my Job study notes which will give you a peek into my heart--

"....[Christians] isolate a piece of God's sovereignty--His goodness, might, or wisdom--and reject the piece that doesn't fit with the God they want. In this, the Christian becomes a practical atheist. Here is the the truth: No one is 100% comfortable with I AM. We all like the loving God who paints beautiful sunsets and blesses us with prosperity, but we don't know what to think about the God who feeds young lions with innocent lambs, who allows children to die, and who destroys a good person's health. But God does not exist to be liked. He exists because He exists. He is I AM WHO I AM. The work of an authentic worshiper is to accept the wild and glorious God who has accepted us. To take Him as He is. To say with Job, 'God is wise in heart and mighty in strength. Who has hardened himself against Him and prospered?' (9:4)...Like is too insipid an emotion for a God like this. He leaves us with two options only: to reject Him or worship Him."

Since the day the words "shut the door" leapt off the page, I've had to continually ask, "Is this something I should share or keep to myself?" So many ideas never made it to the blog because the Holy Spirit within gave a great big "NOPE!" as the words began to form. Now I don't have to wonder, decide, or waste my time forming a post only to have it axed later. I'm shutting the door.

But not forever. Eventually, these intimate moments will produce something to be shared with the world. Like the city on a hill, it won't be hidden.

Making Space

If I want intimacy, I must make space for it. Because I fill every empty moment with social media, there is no room for silence. Silence is vital to the believer because it is in silence that God speaks. I need to give God room to work life in this mortal body, to revive this wounded and weary heart.

Speaking of silence, I think it's time for me to shut up for awhile. I need to improve my listening skills. Not only with God, but with people. Sufferers don't need a blog post telling them how to manage their suffering as much as they need a listening ear and a praying friend. I have a lot to learn, which means I have lot of listening to do. It's time to step away from the podium and open my ears and my heart.

And, of course, there's the novel. I completed my rough draft December 20, 2014. And--wow--is it rough. Since then, I've taken the advice of a family friend who is also a published author, and set the work aside for a time in order regain a reader's perspective before diving into rewrites. Meanwhile, I've been researching in order to better define the world I've built around my characters and story. Rewriting is the real work of writing, and it's time-consuming. I'll be in that place soon. By giving the blog a rest, I can focus my mental energies upon my larger project rather than dividing them between the two.

Accomplishing My Goals

Before the pieces were all in place, before social media rest crossed my mind, I journaled this list of goals for 2015:

1. Listen. Listen, listen, listen. Listen carefully, respectfully, humbly, thoughtfully, and compassionately.
2. Wait to speak. Wait 30 chapters before uttering a peep.
3. Speak when it is time to speak. Be brave!
4. Speak truth in love.
5. Love mercy. Show mercy.
6. Be thank-full.
7. Forget myself.
8. Dance! (Learn "Thriller." It's time.)
9. Be "joyful in hope, patient under trial, faithful in prayer."
10. Love creatively, thoughtfully, meaningfully.
11. Look for the plank. It's there. Forgive the speck. It's small.
12. Produce a readable draft of the novel. Let someone read it.
13. Read more. Facebook less.
14. Live. Consider risk and reward. Choose life at every opportunity.
15. Live purposefully. Seek God's will. Do it.

Do you see how many of these goals are met in this one goodbye? Do you see how God had this all figured out, and led me here in His own gentle way in His own good time? Do you see that stepping away is necessary?

Even if you don't, I do. I see it, and I'm certain. And I'm not often certain when it comes to change. 

So this is goodbye. For a time, anyway. If you want to keep up with me while I'm away, I plan to send out periodic newsletters via email. You may send your email address to melkeaster@gmail.com if you would like to receive those.

Now for a poem I recently penned to mark where I am today so I can appreciate where I'll be when I return--

Some diseases are a death sentence.
Some are a life sentence.
Which is easier to bear?
A small cell or the chair?
A cage or a casket?
No one knows
and both are hard
on the sick one and the watchers.
Some of us die in here,
but I believe
there is a key
for me,
an early release.
Or so I've been told
by the Prison Ward
who is kind and good and wise and hard.
The door will open
when the cell has done its work
and the bars have made me free.
Or so I believe.
But all I see
are steel and concrete.
Spare walls and a lonely lock
mock my faith.
I smell sky and pine.
Sun shafts through the window.
Voices chuckle and cluck,
a murmur through stone,
a reminder of what I'm missing,
a promise of what's to come.
But the Warden visits me--
and this place has be-come
Home.
"For a while," He corrects.
So I believe. 

"Let us not forget that the rest is part of the making of the music."

Three

Something happened to my girl child when she turned three. A switch flipped, and I'm not sure I like it.

The last few weeks have been.....intense. Yes, that's the word.

What has happened feels like regression. Three's a biter. Three has forgotten her potty training. Three's testing limits, observing reactions. Like a tiny, mad scientist.

My hands were plenty full before this nice little developmental stage sniffed us out. Now I'm all I have no idea what I'm doing! I was such a great mom last month and now the whole thing is falling apart!! What happened!?!

Y'all, Three is hard. 
Three presents all kinds of problems, problems I have no idea how to solve.
Three scares me. Scares us.

Three keeps me on my toes and on my knees.
Three is good for the soul.
Three reminds me I'm not in control. Of anything.

And Three heralds precious moments like this one from last night:

Three still likes to be rocked. As we tilted back and forth, she tapped her chin with that still-chubby index finger, a contemplative expression in those big, brown eyes.

"How to make Momma feel bettuh?" she wondered aloud.

I smiled, waiting. I knew whatever she came up with would be good.

"Hmmm.....I know! I'll pway for her! And sing her a song!:
God is so goo-ed. God is so goo-ed.
God is so goo-ed. He's so goo-ed to me.

Jesus loves me dis I know
For da Bible tells me so
Little ones to Him belong
Dey are weak but He is stro-eng."

I tucked her in as she prayed, "Dear Jesus, Please help Momma sleep good tonight and help Micah to have a good day at school tomorrow and thank you for this lovely day and for Momma cooking us lunch. Amen."

"Kiss!"
Our lips met.
"Honk!"
I didn't understand this one. Reaching up, she clarified. "Honk! Honk!" She squeezed my nose, and demanded I honk hers in return.
"Honk! Honk!" I said, laughing.
My reward? Giggles. Three giggles.
Three giggles are the best.

A song and a prayer and a couple of nose honks were just what the doctor ordered. Funny--I didn't know I was sick until I was made well.

To my Momma friends who also have no idea what you are doing, I lend this little ruby of wisdom from the mouth of Three:

Little ones to Him belong.

All we can do is love, love, love, pray diligently, and do our best. We'll have victories. We'll have failures. No one gets this Mom thing 100% right, and chances are if you are daily rolling up your sleeves for hard work in the Mommy Trenches, you can't get it 100% wrong either.

[We] are weak but He is strong.

So you don't feel up to the task. Let me tell you a secret: Whether it's because of poor health, a full quiver, a special needs child, an absentee father, or what have you, most moms feel inadequate. We all have days we believe the lie, "I can't do this."

(Which is why it's so important to encourage one another rather than compete and tear each other down.)

Maybe you can't in your own strength, but you can through Christ who strengthens you (Phil. 4:13). With God, nothing is impossible (Luke 1:37).

God isn't looking for Supermoms. He's looking for moms who are dependent upon their Super God (2 Chron. 16:9).

We can't always do the right thing. Some problems don't have three step solutions. And the wisdom of the world can only get us so far. But in Christ, there is grace to cover every mistake, wisdom in abundance for the asking, and everlasting arms to hold the whole she-bang together.

My favorite Momma verse is Isaiah 40:11--

"He will feed His flock like a shepherd;
He will gather the lambs with His arm,
And carry them in His bosom,
And gently lead those who are with young."

Little ones to Him belong.
Three is carried in His bosom, right next to His heart. 
My days are long and hard as a sick, overwhelmed Momma, but the Shepherd leads me gently on, day after day, question after question, problem after problem, through victories and failures, when I get it right and when I lose my mind and get it so wrong I'm sure my kids will be ruined. 

God is so goo-ed.

So I'm out of my depth. Okay. I know the One who made the deeps and we're in this together.
Three will be just fine. And *deep breath* so will Thirteen. 
But we'll cross that bridge in a decade or so.

And for the record, Jesus did help me sleep good last night.

 


 

Closed Doors, a Reluctant Ice Queen, and Frozenness

Confession: Having escaped multiple daily viewings of Disney's Frozen, I still like the movie. In a lot of ways, I live the movie.

Because I'm a human being and not a caricature, I fall in the ambiguous zone between fun-loving Anna and isolated Elsa, and sometimes the two within me are at war. Honestly, it would be sweet release to just let the Elsa in me take over. Fear, false freedom, and emotional distance seem easier somehow. But my inner Anna refuses to stay down.

The last four years have been a series of doors in my face. One after the other--bam! bam!--until I'm all but trapped inside a 16x72 mobile home on a little dirt road in the middle of nowhere.

I suppose the Ice Queen's heart must break before it can melt. 

So cut through the heart, cold and clear.
Strike for love and strike for fear.

The reverberations of the last door slammed still rattle my bones.

On Thursday, I ventured into 20 degree air to pick up Micah from school, and suffered my first reaction to the cold. While driving, no less. With my two preciouses in the back seat.

When my chest tightened, I concentrated on deep, slow breathing as I now do automatically during reactions, a technique which has calmed or delayed serious reactions in the past. This time, however, I was not relieved.

Thank God for Acute Rescue drops. But even they didn't keep my brain from fuzzing or my limbs from turning numb and useless. 

Driving while reacting with my babies in the backseat is pretty much my worst nightmare. I was scared, but I couldn't think clearly enough to be as scared as I should've been. Why didn't I pull over?

Graciously, God heard the desperate "Help!" of a sick mamma who couldn't think beyond that one word, and guided us safely home. Getting the kids inside and dropping into bed like a rag doll is a watery memory. Brandon was home soon after. Provisions all around.

The irony of being an obligatory "Ice Queen" who is bothered by the cold isn't lost on me. (There is always a laugh buried neath the snow even if it does sound hollow.)

The days since have been tired, achy days. January and I were getting along just fine this year, then this happened. And the world turned gray.

While it's okay to grieve, I must hold fast the truth--sometimes love is a closed door.

Sometimes love puts you in prison. All for good reason, of course.

God is not the author of evil or disease. He is good. He is Jehovah Rophe--the God who heals physically, spiritually, and emotionally. Complete health is my ultimate destiny. But that doesn't mean He shields me from every harm along the way. He took upon Himself the Big One, the one that would destroy me. The ones which will work together for glory and good, He lets through.

The arrows loosed from Satan's bow are aimed to kill, but God transforms them into surgical instruments and uses them to remove the cancer in my soul.

The hammer swinging down upon my head is remade into a chiseling tool which shapes me into the image of Christ.

The thorny messengers sent by Satan to prick and poison my heart against my Creator (2 Corinthians 12:7), God shapes into an inside-out hedge of protection, one that keeps the world and all its lover gods out and me in. With Him, my Ishi.

Therefore, behold, 
I will hedge up her way with thorns,
and wall her in....

(Hosea 2:6)

That may sound harsh, but my prison is no stark, lifeless place. He has magicked my "kingdom of isolation" into "a door of hope" (Hosea 2:15), delivering me in my affliction rather than out of it (Job 36:15). And I sing and dance about on high hills in broad places as if there was no restraint (Hab. 3:19; Job 36:16), until I no longer grieve the life I left behind.

I get there on my good days, but haven't figured out how to stay.

I often sing in minor keys.
I dance. I weep. Sometimes I dance while weeping.
I'm happy, sad, restless, and content all at once. It's exhausting.

That's okay, you know. God is honored by honest, trustful suffering. So go on and feel. Don't conceal. Let it hurt.

It's not "blessed are the tough." Nor "blessed are the strong or independent or happy." It's "blessed are those who mourn for they shall be comforted" (Matthew 5:4). Our blessedness is not derived from our emotional state, but from what God does when we live in honest relationship with Him.

Fight that frozen heart. Let them see you cry. You never know who you'll bless with your brokenness.
Soak that handkerchief if you need to. God counts and keeps your tears like treasures (Psalm 56:8).
Let 'em go.
Souls are worth melting for.

We aren't meant be ice queens. It's okay if we are bothered by the cold. Figuratively or literally....as in my case.

When Elsa stormed out of Arendelle, she thought she was free because she could finally open and close doors at will and do whatever she wanted. But options aren't always helpful. They weren't for Adam and Eve. They lived in a "garden of yeses," and chose the single wrong option. Left to myself, I do, too.

Do you know why God hedged Israel in?

So that she cannot find her paths.
She will chase her lovers,
but not overtake them;
Yes, she will seek them, but not find them.
Then she will say, 
"I will go and return to my first husband,
for then it was better for me than now."
For she did not know 
that I gave her grain, new wine, and oil,
and multiplied her silver and gold--
which they prepared for Baal....
"And it shall be, in that day,"
says the Lord,
"that you will call me 'My Husband'
and no longer call Me, 'My Master.'"
(Hosea 2:6-8,16)

God hedged Israel in to limit her options. They had given their dowry from the Lord to Baal, and thought of God as a slave driver cracking a whip when He just wanted a marriage, one in which He would do the brunt of the work. But Israel preferred to whore around with the real task master.

As Timothy Keller says, "We are all in bed with something." For one person, it may be money. For another, family. Sex, status, substances, whatever. You're spiritually sleeping with something, and that something doesn't have to be a bad thing to be dangerous to you.

Before I was sick, I was in bed with admiration. I was willing to do almost anything to get it, which is why my personality changed depending on who I was with at the time. But there was no way for me to know that until it was taken away.

How do you spot the alcoholic? When the rum's gone.

How can you tell if someone needs their wealth? When the stock market crashes.
How can you tell if someone's identity is rooted in being the good girl they always have to be? When they fail big (i.e. throwing Arendelle into an eternal winter, shooting ice into a beloved sister's heart, etc.).

A baal will never forgive failure and cannot satisfy a heart. It takes and takes and takes and never gives anything back.

Jesus Christ, our Ishi, will always forgive failure and never ceases to satisfy. He gives and gives and gives and only asks for our hearts in return.

"He who believes in Me, as the Scripture has said, out of his heart will flow rivers of living water” (John 7:38), meaning there is always more of what we need in Christ. It never runs out because He never runs out.

My illness is not punishment for sin. Jesus paid my debt in full. I owe nothing. Rather, God has taken the thorns of Mast Cell Activation Disease and FQ poisoning and shaped them into a hedge.

Sing it with me! All my life has been a series of doors in my face. Then suddenly I bump into Yoooouuu.....

Notwithstanding nobody wants to be hemmed in with this guy.
Important life lesson: Beware [the overly compatible stranger with] the frozen heart.

My options are painfully, mercifully limited. And yet I'm free. God has hemmed me in with Himself so I can forget those Hans-like lovers of the past and we can go about the business of becoming one.

He has overcome my people-pleasing addiction by cutting me off and filling the infinite void with His infinite self as only He can.

That's what God does. He fills the voids.


True freedom is when you don't have to run from anything to be liberated and you don't have to succumb to emotional iciness to survive. It's not needing transient things to give you purpose. It happens when Christ is enough and you're free to feel and let Him fill you up. You're free to live. Closed doors and all.

One day when the bars of my little cell have served their full purpose, I'll rise like the break of dawn. This chronically ill, people-pleaser will be gone. I'll stand in the light of day for the first time in forever. With "actual real live people. It'll be totally strange."


Until then, I'm looking forward to summeeeeeeerrrrrrrr!!!!!!

Graveside Thoughts

Every December after Christmas, I review the year in journal entries. Progress seems almost negligible from day to day, but when you take stock of what God does with 52 weeks, it knocks you breathless.

I've always liked that winded feeling.

This year's review has been hard. My grief over losing Jenny is poured out over the pages, some marked by literal tear stains. Grief is messy.

Yesterday, I came across my entry for 9/4/14--two days before Jenny's birthday and the day I visited her grave. The words resonate with me more now than they did four months ago when I wrote them.

Though deeply personal, my thoughts want to be shared. It's like they know they're for someone. I hope my honest and hopefully hopeful grief strengthens you somehow. One soul nourished is a worthy cause.

So here goes:

9/4/14 

Brandon and I went to Jenny's grave this evening. My mind went back and forth all week deciding whether or not to go. On one hand, it felt silly--visiting the grave, bringing flowers, and paying homage to one who is now too happy to care--and it seemed foolish to spend so much time--precious time--doing something silly. On the other, I acknowledge Jenny's resting place as important. Her body is important enough to Jesus to raise up and restore it to everlasting perfection.

Either way, I needed to honor her memory.

Her birthday is in two days. I am ever so glad she was born. This time of year is full of her memory. I met her on 8/19/12. My first visit in her home was on 9/30/12. My last special visit with her was almost (exactly?) a year ago today.

We went. A bouquet of spray roses sat in a vase of cold water anchored between my feet, the flowers beating themselves senseless against the vase edge as Brandon drove the unfamiliar, winding roads a little too quickly. We left late in the afternoon, and drove into the sun all the way there.

Everything looked different after six months' time. Green grew thick and close on either side of the highway. Instead of frisking about in cool, spring air, the cows flicked their tails and shook their heads to shoo pestering flies.

All the change reminded me of the trip to church two Sundays ago, my first trip back in almost a year. It was very near the second anniversary of mine and Jenny's meeting. On the drive that day, I realized I had worn the exact outfit I wore the Sunday I met her. I almost crumpled.

Then I walked into the church and realized something else--my skin was the same, my clothes were the same, but the world was different. The foyer looked nothing like the foyer in which we met. The old-fashioned floral upholstery and bulky, out-dated coffee table had been replaced with monochromatic furniture featuring sharp edges and smooth lines. Modern and sleek.

The way I understood church and life and people and suffering and God were all different, too.

My world had changed. Jenny had a lot to do with that. Probably more than anyone else, she taught me about courage. The real kind that looks like weakness but packs a punch so powerful it reverberates through the cosmos.

We arrived at St. Rest Cemetery without issue, solely relying on Brandon's memory of a single trip, and parked beneath the shade of an oak. We passed through the gate, and walked up the hill to a spot where the red dirt was packed tight, no grass. No headstone either. But someone had lovingly marked the spot with one of those gaudy funeral wreaths made of silk flowers in various shades of pink, a potted plant now dead, and a sun-faded, plastic bouquet of something that looked like weeds.

Death is sad. And every attempt we make to preserve our memories is sad. Like the flowers, they fade.

I think I'm scared of this most of all. I don't want to forget the one who showed me what it is to be brave, what it is to forget myself. I don't want to forget her face or her voice, her best qualities or darkest secrets. I don't want to forget what she meant to me.

I didn't weep. A few tears had leaked out of my eyes on the drive as I listened to the playlist I'd made about her and our friendship, but out there standing right above her decaying body, feeling a connection so strong it's almost physical even in death, the closest I came to crying was when I stared too long into the setting sun. Its brilliance burned my darkness.

Fire ants were busy in the dirt. Brandon brushed several off my shoes before admonishing me to be careful and walking away so I could figure out what one is supposed to do at the graveside of a beloved.

I didn't talk. There was no point. No one could hear my words but God, and He knows my every thought. So I thought at Him and to my soul.

I thought about Jesus weeping at Lazarus' tomb. He wept knowing what He was about to do--at His friend's graveside and on the hill outside of Jerusalem not long after.

Why?

Because death is an enemy. Because death is sad. Because decay wasn't the intention. Forever was.

Because death tears souls apart, souls once knitted together, and the tearing leaves at least one soul mortally wounded, so much so she's afraid to stay the bleeding because it doesn't feel right to heal. And if she does heal, she hopes to get a scar because the idea of everything going back into place just as it was feels like a lie--a heinous, blasphemous lie.

Jesus wept at death because He had created everything for life unto life. A broken world, a broken order deserves our grief. Even if it will be made right one day.

I looked to the eastern sky, a welcome respite for my aching eyes. Her grave points east. When she is collected by her Savior on that last day, she will be facing the right direction. I wondered if all Christian bone yards are designed this way so up we'll come, bursting through earth from caskets rusted shut to face the One our souls have known but eyes have not seen. Will we rise as bones, ashes, and dust and be restored in the air or will we rise perfect and beautiful? Will the soil cling or fall away?

Regardless, there is a giant oak in her way, Lord, and unless You return in winter, she'll have to wait until she reaches the treeline to see You. That seems frustrating. Maybe the people who decide graves should face East can cut it down or lop off the top.

A stinging pain upon my shin pulled me out of my reverie.

This is why graveside visits seem silly--fretting over overgrown oaks and fire ants staking claim on Jenny's piece of earth.

I brushed it off quickly, and stayed a couple more minutes. I didn't have long before the swelling set in, but as always with Jenny, I wasn't quite ready to leave.

I placed my bouquet of spray roses and goldenrod where I imagined her hands to be clasped over her chest.

I never had the opportunity to see her body or place flowers on her casket. These will be as dead as she is by tomorrow morning.

A prayer for Jenny's people: May they feel the consolation of your sweet Spirit, Lord. And may you fill them with Christ--the hope of glory--which promises death is not the end of us and this grave is not goodbye. Hope that whispers hints of a happy ending to all this heartache.

Sweating and swelling, my body urged my soul to leave. Funny how I had almost convinced myself not to go, and now my feet didn't want to move. The tightness in my chest made me move.

My legs returned me to my husband who was perched lazily on top of the car. The words, "I got stung," brought him to life. Scolding me for standing still too long, he took my shoes and began the treatment with that look he gets when I get sick, the one full of irritation and blame I've learned to ignore.

The look isn't for me.

It's like Jesus' tears. Brandon knows every little thing will be alright, but disease and death are still enemies worthy of tears and anger.

I sighed. "It wouldn't be a trip to see Jenny without something interesting happening."

He didn't reply. A one hour drive through the middle of nowhere with me mid-reaction was on his mind, and he was not ready to joke. He's never as ready to joke about it as I am. Of course, you'll never see me laughing at cancer.

Thankfully, I did not go into shock, and we were able to drive away from the sun this time.

The song, "I Love It" by Stephanie Treo, came on. I turned up the volume joining Jenny's old defiance of disease, missing her sassy side and all her sides.

We crossed D'arbonne Lake at that royal moment when the sun sinks behind the trees, casting rays of pink and gold above its head like a crown which reflect upon the water like a train.

Smiling, I noted I could still see the light of the sun. An old oak tree is nothing to worry about, and because of Jesus, death is just a fire ant sting.

My 2014 Thanksgiving Menu (AIP, GAPS, Paleo-friendly)

For those new to my blog: I began my real food journey after becoming very ill in May 2012 with what I now know to be Mast Cell Activation Disease (MCAD). Even before I understood the scope of the problem, my intention was to heal through nutrition. From the outset, it was very important to me to eat well in spite of the changes. I love food. 

I’ve tried a lot of nutritional programs over the past couple of years. GAPS didn’t work out for me. Not enough variation. Not enough starches. Too much histamine. (Histamine is a major nemesis for those with MCAD.) Paleo wasn’t quite right. Low sulfur didn’t do it for me. Vegetarianism was a short lived experiment. Everything I tried seemed to backfire.

To further complicate matters, my trigger foods continually change. I’ve had to stay on my toes.

Until March of this year, I was kind of at a loss. Enter Jennifer Nervo of 20 Something Allergies and her fabulous nutritional therapy program.  

With her help, I learned how to manage and maintain a low-histamine, autoimmune paleo diet on a four day rotation. Eating this way has vastly improved my health. Thankful doesn’t begin to describe my feelings for this woman. Thanks to all she taught me, this year’s Thanksgiving menu was scrumptious without the unpleasant side-effect of making me ill. 

Thanksgiving is my favorite holiday. I love the gathering and gratitude and food without the pressures which accompany the Christmas season.

This year, I had much to be grateful for.  Just one year ago, I did not know the name of my disease or how to properly manage it.

I’m not certain I would have obtained any level of stability health-wise without Jennifer’s help, and here I am actually better though I have been diagnosed with a progressive disease. I was even able to attend a family gathering after eating a quick bite at home! Praise the Lord! 

So what did I eat that was free of grains, dairy, nuts, legumes, eggs, nightshades, seeds, squashes, dried herbs and spices, high histamine foods, and latex cross-reactive foods?

The Menu

I began by considering my protein. I chose pork because I rarely eat it. It’s a treat, which keeps it from becoming a threat. (Except for bacon. Bacon makes me pay every. single. time.) If I’m going to roast pork, I might as well add some vegetables to the pan because YUM! So I came up with this recipe for Cider Glazed Ham Steaks with Roasted Vegetables. 

 

Cider Glazed Ham Steaks with Roasted Vegetables:
Serves 4-6

Ingredients:

2 pastured ham steaks, 1-2 lbs. each
1 T. coconut oil (ghee, lard or tallow would work well, too)
1 leek, sliced into 2-3 inch strips
2 medium-sized parsnips, sliced into 2-3 inch spears
1 large carrot, sliced into 2-3 inch spears
Sea salt to taste

Glaze:
¼ cup apple cider vinegar
2 T. honey
sea salt to taste

Place ham steaks in salt water for 1 to 24 hours. I brined mine for a little over an hour. I wish now I had let them sit overnight. If you go the overnight route, be sure to keep them in the fridge and take them out an hour before cooking so they won’t be cold going into the pan.  Preheat oven to 350 degrees. Warm coconut oil in an oven-safe pan over medium high heat. Remove ham steaks from brine and pat dry. Salt the steaks generously. When the pan is hot, place the steaks in, and sear on both sides (5-10 minutes per side). While the steaks are searing, whisk together the apple cider vinegar, honey, and sea salt in a small bowl. Remove the steaks from the pan, and turn down the heat to medium-low.  Add sliced veggies, scraping the bottom of the pan with a wooden spatula until the vegetables are lightly browned and covered with the juices. The salt left in the pan should be enough to season the veggies. Add the steaks back into the pan, brushing the entire surface of the steaks with the cider glaze. Cover pan and place in oven for about an hour or until the steaks reach an internal temp of 165 degrees. 

Like I said, I wish I would have brined my ham steaks for much longer, but those vegetables were amazing. 

Cranberry Sauce:
Serves 4-6

For me, cranberry sauce is a must on Thanksgiving. I went with this recipe by Nourished and Nurtured, subbing 2 drops of Young Living's orange essential oil for orange extract.

Sweet Potato Casserole:
Serves 4-6

I’m a Louisiana girl. Casseroles are our thing. Sweet potato casserole has been a favorite of my people for years. Most traditional recipes call for milk, eggs, wheat flour, and nuts, none of which are safe for me. So I came up with my own version. 

Ingredients:

3 cups yams, boiled and mashed (5-6 medium sized yams)
¼ cup honey
1 t. sea salt
1 t. vanilla extract
½ c. coconut oil (ghee or butter would work well if not on AIP)

Topping:
½ c. shredded coconut, unsweetened
¼ c. coconut flour
¼ c. arrowroot flour
2/3 c. coconut sugar
1/4-1/2 t. sea salt
¼ coconut oil (ghee or butter)
2 t. vanilla extract

Preheat oven to 350 degrees. Peel, cube and boil potatoes until fork tender in a 2-3 quart saucepan. Drain. Add honey, coconut oil, salt, and vanilla to pot. Puree with an immersion blender. (A food processor would work just as well, but you will need it for the topping.) Place potato puree in a greased casserole dish. In a food processor, blend shredded coconut, coconut flour, arrowroot flour, coconut sugar, and salt until well combined. Add coconut oil and vanilla extract. Blend until you have a moist, crumbly consistency. Crumble evenly over the top of the potato puree. Bake for 20-25 minutes until the crust is golden brown.

This recipe did not disappoint. It would have served perfectly as dessert, but in the south, sweet potato casserole is just a side. 

Ginger Apple Crisp:
Serves 6-8

Because pumpkin, pecans, chocolate, cinnamon, cloves, nutmeg, and allspice are all triggers for me, finding a satisfying fall dessert was not easy. In the end, I decided to go with a cinnamon-less apple dessert because apples were already in the cranberry sauce, and I needed to save a few foods for the next three days of the rotation.

I’m not usually a big fan of apple desserts, particularly because cinnamon isn’t involved, but Brandon likes them. I almost did not eat any, but the chef has to taste her own food, right? I was not expecting it to be so delicious! My review? Delighted giggles. That’s right—giggles. My apple-dessert loving husband was impressed, too. He didn’t even add cinnamon!

Ingredients:
2 large apples of choice, cored and sliced thin (about 1 quart)
½ lemon, juiced
zest of ½ lemon
½ inch grated ginger root
¼ c. coconut sugar
1 T. arrowroot flour
2 T. coconut oil, solid

Topping (same as the Sweet Potato Casserole topping):
½ c. shredded coconut, unsweetened
¼ c. coconut flour
¼ c. arrowroot flour
2/3 c. coconut sugar
1/2 t. sea salt
¼ coconut oil (ghee or butter)
2 t. vanilla extract

Preheat oven to 350 degrees. In a medium-sized bowl, combine apples, lemon juice, lemon zest, grated ginger root, coconut sugar, and arrowroot flour. Stir until the apples are well coated. Pour apples into a greased baking dish, and evenly distribute the slices. Disperse small pieces of the solid coconut oil over the apples. In a food processor, blend shredded coconut, coconut flour, arrowroot flour, coconut sugar, and salt until well combined. Add coconut oil and vanilla extract. Blend until you have a moist, crumbly consistency. Crumble evening over the top of the apples with your fingers. Bake 30-35 minutes. Be careful not to overcook the topping.  Serve warm.

Now that was a thanks-worthy meal!

For those on restricted diets this holiday season, I hope you won’t lament over stuffing, rolls, and pies (which, in many cases, be modified into a safe version). If I can enjoy a holiday meal without having to choose between feeling deprived and getting sick, you probably can, too. I hope my menu offers you some ideas. If not, I would be happy to help you meal plan! I enjoy a good challenge!

Accepted

No miracle yet.

Beloved autumn hasn't been too kind to me. Something in my body shifted with the weather, causing the past couple of months to be more eventful than I would like. Particular triggers have increased in intensity, and I have lost four foods in four weeks.

My old friends arthritis, fibromyalgia, and fatigue have come back around. I keep dropping hints they aren't welcome. They aren't getting it.

Fresh waves of grief roll over me, taking me by surprise. One moment, I'm washing dishes, and the next I can't breathe. I'm deeply grateful for my "little infinity" with Jenny, but it's unlikely I'll get over my loss on this side of heaven or even the losses of her husband and kids because loss like that is immeasurable. It's not so much about the things that were as it is about the things that will never be.

And then there have been family struggles, difficult decisions, emergencies, emotionally draining events, and woes of dear friends.

This illness has no respect for church attendance, long-planned weekend visits from deeply missed souls, or my daughter's birthday party. Actually, it seems to take delight in raining on my parade. But with the rain, falls grace.

Even still, an air of sadness hangs about my shoulders because--well--I can't help it. Like most of you, I was hoping my prophesied miracle was on my heels, just inches from taking me over.

It seems God would have me wait a little longer. So I wait.

As I wait, I trust I'm not just twiddling my thumbs here. I trust God is doing something with the waiting. My aim is to cooperate in His doing--to take hold of life and joy today, to engage and pay attention. To learn what He would teach. To hear what He is saying.

Such as--
It's okay to have exhausted all means to help myself.
It's okay to be messy. It's okay if others see the mess.
God works glory in messes.
I'm not my own savior.
I'm not my friends' savior either.
Their welfare is not correlative to the intensity of my prayers.
God's plan does not hinge on my performance. 
I am accepted.
I am accepted as I am.
Not because of what I am or what I do, but because of who Jesus is and what He has done.

Let's allow that word to wash over us for just a moment--

"Accepted."

You, me, all who place their faith in Christ--we are accepted by God (Ephesians 1:6 NKJV).

God gave me this word out of Job a couple of weeks ago--

"⁷ And so it was, after the Lord had spoken these words to Job, that the Lord said to Eliphaz the Temanite, “My wrath is aroused against you and your two friends, for you have not spoken of Me what is right, as My servant Job has. ⁸ Now therefore, take for yourselves seven bulls and seven rams, go to My servant Job, and offer up for yourselves a burnt offering; and My servant Job shall pray for you. For I will accept him, lest I deal with you according to your folly; because you have not spoken of Me what is right, as My servant Job has.” ⁹ So Eliphaz the Temanite and Bildad the Shuhite and Zophar the Naamathite went and did as the Lord commanded them; for the Lord had accepted Job." (Chapter 42)

Acceptance is arguably our most basic emotional need. Think of how desperately we seek it. We are willing to compromise our integrity for it. I was willing to lie for it.

The very day God put the word "accepted" in my mouth to chew upon was the day He sought to teach me something about it. I was out and about buying Sara's birthday party supplies with my grandmother when I had a reaction to some chemicals in one of the stores. Attempting to describe the way I felt, I told her I was drunk, "or at least how I imagine being drunk feels."

Every time I have described this type of reaction to my grandmother, I've always tagged it with "or at least how I imagine being drunk feels" because I didn't want her to guess the truth--I know exactly how being drunk feels. Even if it has been a few years.


I didn't want my grandmother to know my drinking history because I didn't want her to think less of me. You see, before my Papaw was a believer, he was a drunk. Nona, my mom, my aunt, and my uncle experienced the devastation of alcoholism firsthand, which made drinking kind of taboo in our family. So I kept my love for red wine and margaritas to myself. And few beyond Brandon knew I sometimes drank too much.

The funny thing is when you offer unnecessary information over and over again, intuitive people notice.

"Melissa, have you ever been drunk?" Nona asked.

Because I was drunk at that very moment, I answered, "Yeah! I've been drunk!" Almost like I was proud of it.

And so we have this long, uncomfortable conversation about drinking and alcohol that I don't entirely recollect (thank God) due to the fact I was inebriated on airborne chemicals at the time, but even I didn't miss the important things which took place that day.

My sin was confronted. In confession, I was freed from the lie. And I was met with acceptance. Not because Nona was thrilled that I know what it is to be drunk or that I had misled her, but because I am her granddaughter. My position as her grandchild--not my moral performance--makes me acceptable to her.

Nona took excellent care of me that day. She drove me home, learned the "woo-woo" acupressure technique we use to treat my reactions, performed said "woo woo" technique without comment, washed my dishes, made sure I was alright, and left me with an "I love you," which loudly translated into "I accept you--even if you have been drunk, have lied to me about it, and do weird stuff I don't understand."

I was relieved to be freed from the lie and still find myself accepted.

So acceptance is important. It was the most important thing to Job--before, during, and after his suffering. He wanted more than anything to be right with God. (Job may not have known as much about God as we do today, but he definitely loved God more than we do today.) 

Before his suffering, Job believed he was in good standing before God because he was blessed with health, wealth, and prosperity. We see him acting as a kind of intercessor for his kids (1:5) and a savior of sorts to the poor and needy who lived near him (25:7-25).

But then the suffering comes and strips it all away, and suddenly he sees he is not enough to save anyone, not even himself (19:9; 40:14). He sees he has nothing to offer the God he loves, and there is nothing he can do to improve his standing with Him.

Job needs a Mediator (Chapter 9). He needs an Advocate (16:20; 17:3). In desperation, he cries out for both and for a meeting with God that he might be absolved. And God answers. But not as Job expects.

God manifests Himself in a whirlwind, an uncontrollable power and the very thing which uprooted his hope in the beginning of the book (Job 1:18-19; 19:10). Instead of questioning God, Job himself is questioned, and he is found wanting. Job finally sees he has no case to make (Job 40:3-5).

But God looks centuries into the future. He sees the Mediator, the Advocate, the Redeemer in whom Job has placed the last of his hope (19:25-27). He sees Him hanging on a cross, experiencing all that Job suffered and infinitely more. God sees His precious Son paying the debt and it is enough.

God says to Job, "I accept you." 

When he had nothing, when he was nothing, and when everyone else had rejected him, Job was accepted in the Beloved. 

It wasn't the loss of all he once had which tormented Job so in the days of suffering; it was lack of assurance he was beloved by God. It wasn't the restoration of his health, wealth, or family Job most prized at the end of it all; it was divine acceptance.                  

Today, we stand on the other side of the cross. We don't have to wonder if God really loves us. He has proven it! Divine acceptance is available to all who place their faith in Christ's work and acknowledge the deficiency of their own, and it is divine acceptance that will get you through any loss. Just look at Job.

The antidote for my sadness isn't happy thoughts. It's gospel. I require, at minimum, a daily dose.

There may be sadness on my shoulders, but there is joy in my heart. There is an anchor for my soul.

Our greatest need has been met. Life's biggest question--how can I be right with God?--has been answered (Job 9:2; 25:4). In Jesus.

Gaze upon the cross with me. Let's bathe in our acceptance.

The acceptance He earned for us is all the health, wealth, and prosperity we will ever need or could ever desire.

Sarah's Disaster

Sara is three years old today.

Three.

How is she already three? The days, weeks, and months scurry by in a white blur without a proper greeting, and they never stay for tea. Tomorrow is always the most important date. No time to say hello, goodbye. And before I know it, a season's gone.

How is she only three? So much life has been lived. So much new has come into our lives. Surely she is halfway through childhood by now.

But no. She's three--already three, only three.

I tell the kids Micah is the boy I always wanted and Sara is the girl I never knew I needed. But God knew. When I was still a child myself, He whispered her existence into my imagination.

During my homeschool years, I wrote prolifically--for my age, anyway. I followed some kind of curriculum which offered lots of creative writing prompts, and loved every minute. I wrote short stories, sketches, journal entries, plays, and poems. I discovered a few of these assignments when I went through my old keepsake box Dad left for me to go through or toss. Most of the art projects were trashed. I am no artist. But I kept almost everything I wrote. I didn't read it all or even most of it, but one single-paged sketch caught my eye:

It reads:

Sarah, a cute, sweet child of three, loved to help her mother cook. Most of the time she just stirred cake batter and maybe every now and then, her mother would let her crack eggs and drop them in.

Well, one day, when her mother was taking a nap and her father was at work, she decided to make her parents a big [surprise] cake all by herself.

Her mother had always told her to wash her hands before she cooked, so she did. Then, she got out a bowl and the cake mix.

She knew that milk must be put in cake so she dumped 1/4 gallon in the bowl. Then she got out some eggs, cracked them on the side of the bowl, dumped them in, and threw the shells across the room. Last, she put in the chocolate cake batter and then she leaned over and started to stir. Some of her soft, blonde curls got into the chocolate concoction.

She decided the spoon wasn't working [too] well, so she started using her hands and she knocked the bowl over! She put her chocolaty hands to her face and started to cry.

Her mother was awakened, and she got up to see what was wrong. She walked into the kitchen [which] was now covered in chocolate. She looked down at Sarah who was also covered in chocolate. All she could see was Sarah's big brown eyes brimmed with tears. 

She knew this time she would not punish Sarah. 

There is no date on the paper, but judging by the handwriting and style, I wrote it around 1997. I was probably thirteen.

Fourteen years before she was born, I wrote about my daughter.

Guys, it's her! The name is spelled differently, but it's her! Both Saras like to help their mom in the kitchen. Both girls like chocolate, cake, and chocolate cake. Sara is just independent enough to try something like this, and if I wasn't standing over her every moment, real life Sara's baking style would closely resemble shadow Sarah's.

Big brown eyes. Soft, blond curls. I saw her before she was a thought in my mind. She was God's dream before she was mine.

 

I wanted three boys. Thank God He gave me this extroverted, delightful, hilarious girl!

I'm almost certain the day my immune system shifted was the day I gave birth to her. The labor and delivery was considered to be perfect--no complications--but something went wrong in my body three years ago. I felt it.

 (You can probably see it.)

So it was the day the darkness sniffed me out that God wrote Sara into my story with all the light and laughter she would bring.

God knew I needed her. Our family needed her.

So today, we celebrate our little luminary. We thank God for seeing our need, and sending her to us.

We make chocolate cake! Per her request, of course.

And I ponder the last three years. How full and brief they have been with the little girl I unknowingly penned seventeen years ago.

The Court of Future Crimes: Melissa Keaster vs. The Healer

Note: The following is a short work of fiction, which describes actual events and conversations of real people. If you ask, "Why fiction?," Eleanor Roosevelt aptly explains--

 THE COURT OF FUTURE CRIMES: MELISSA KEASTER VS. THE HEALER

I wipe clammy palms on my navy dress slacks, and will the moisture to return to my mouth. It's no use.

Nerves are abusive little tyrants. They scatter well-studied, organized thoughts. They steal breath from the lungs and imprison the voice. At least I don't have to sing. Breathe. Just breathe.

Black fuzzballs reel across my vision. Am I crazy for doing this? I feel crazy.

The jury walks in and sits. I sense scrutinizing eyes at my back. Yes, I'm crazy. And they'll know it soon enough. 

The Judge walks in, shrouded in black robes, features all obscured. A shiver trickles from my scalp to my knees. I can't see his eyes. His manner is entirely ambivalent.

"All rise! The Court of Future Crimes is now in session. His Imminence is presiding. Be seated."

In a non-committal tone, The Judge says, "Good morning, ladies and gentlemen. Calling the case of Melissa Keaster versus The Healer. Are both sides ready?"

"Ready, Your Honor." My words come out paper thin as I look into his eyes, wide-open voids of impenetrable darkness.

"Most assuredly, I say to you, 'I AM.'" The Healer's words steady me. I cast my eyes in His direction, and catch His reassuring smile.

I can do this. Even if they think I'm nuts, I can do this.

The jurors are sworn in. I look at whoever will look back steady in the eyes, praying they stand by their word to fairly try the case, to return a true verdict based on the evidence. So help them, God.

It's time for the opening statements. Oh God, help me remember everything. Help me to say it well. 

The Healer mouths from across the too-wide gap between us--"Be brave."

I clear my throat, take a deep breath, and face them. "Your Honor and ladies and gentlemen of the jury: the defendant has been charged with the future crime of divine physical healing of the plaintiff, Melissa Keaster, which is to say--me."

A murmur rustles through the jurors, punctuated by skeptical grunts.

"The evidence will show this healing is foretold by several witnesses through prophetic words and dreams, and is affirmed in the defendant's own written testimony. The evidence will also show no other source can be responsible for this healing."

The Healer stands, and I see Him smile out of the corner of my eye. Pleasure rushes into my chest, washing away the fear. I long to be closer to Him, close enough to touch those love-scarred hands.

"Your Honor and ladies and gentlemen of the jury: the skeptics in this room will presume Me innocent until proven guilty. During this trial, they will doubt the evidence provided against Me. I desire you all to know the truth for the truth will set you free: I AM WHO I AM; I WILL HAVE MERCY ON WHOM I WILL HAVE MERCY AND I WILL HAVE COMPASSION ON WHOM I WILL HAVE COMPASSION. I require neither permission nor understanding to do what I will, not even from the plaintiff."

He turns fully to me now and grins wide. I return His smile, adoration radiating from my face.

"She's got a thing for him from the looks of it," says an old man juror from behind me. I turn and wink. He raises his bushy salt and pepper eyebrows, and purses his lips. I suppress a chuckle.

"The prosecution may call its first witness." The Judge's hollow voice pounds at me like a blunt force instrument.

"I call upon myself."

"Yourself," he repeats incredulously.

"Yes," I say with more assurance than I feel, and climb the stand.

I swear in, state my name, and lick my lips to no avail. My mouth is still too dry.

The jury appears curious. That's good.

"The following is a journal entry in which I explain my feelings regarding a then undiagnosed illness. On October 8, 2012, I wrote: 'I have every reason to believe that I may not make it out of this illness alive, yet the Lord keeps speaking to my soul--'I am willing to make you well.' I believe with all my heart that He will do it. I don't know when or how far down the rabbit hole I must travel, but I believe, Lord! Help my unbelief!'"

Tears leap into my eyes, unbidden. "Your Honor, I would like to have this journal marked as exhibit number one, and ask it be admitted into evidence."

"Does the defense have any objection?" The Judge peers down his nose at The Healer.

He shakes His head. "None at all, Your Honor."

"The journal entry will be admitted as exhibit number one."

Exhibit #1: Journal Entry from 10/8/2012

I continue. "And on October 28, 2012, referencing Mark 1 from The Holy Bible, I wrote: "....A leper came to Jesus, asking Him to heal him, and said, 'If you are willing, you can make me well.' And Jesus replied with a touch, 'I am willing; be cleansed.' When I read those words....I felt the Lord saying, 'I am willing,' words to which I have held fiercely close to my heart as I have worsened and face[d] many dangerous crises in the past few weeks. However, I also felt the Lord impress upon my heart that my healing was not to be a simple touch, but a long, difficult process. 'Hard work' was the phrase He whispered. I am living in this long season of hard work, already exhausted, already depleted, depending moment by moment upon my Savior for the grace and power required for the task at hand. Only because of Christ can I do this. Without Him, this is beyond me. And I am so happy to have His promise that I will live...even on days that I don't want to. As I re-read Mark 1, the Lord gave me a new word from verses 29-31. When Jesus healed Peter's mother-in-law, He took her by the hand, lifted her up, and she was well--'and she served them.' When the Lord heals me, I am not going to be allowed long to catch my breath. The Spirit use[d] those words to impress upon me that my season of illness will not be followed by a welcome and hoped for season of rest, but a season of service which will likely simultaneously try and fill my soul. I tremble with nervous excitement at this word...."

The second journal entry is made exhibit number two.

 Exhibit #2: Journal Entry from 10/28/12

"On the nights of October 8th and 9th, 2013, two different people who do not know one another had dreams about me, dreams in which I was apparently healed. We will hear from them in a moment. Sometime between October 10, 2013 and September 24, 2014, I forgot both the dreams and my own belief I would be healed.

The reason for this, I believe, is two-fold: On May 27, 2014, I was diagnosed with Mast Cell Activation Disease at Mayo Clinic in Rochester, Minnesota. There is no cure for Mast Cell Activation Disease, and it can be progressive. The disease also causes other incurable, autoimmune conditions such as fibromyalgia, IBS, and hypothyroidism, all from which I suffer. Moreover, the high risk of anaphylaxsis poses a formidable threat to average life expectancy.

Such a diagnosis is able to erase all hope of healing, but diagnosis isn't the only reason the impressions and dreams were forgotten. During the summer of 2014, in spending copious amounts of time with the defendant, I--the plaintiff--became so happy I no longer cared whether or not I would be physically healed. I rejoiced in the healings of others with only brief twinges of wist when I considered the absence of my own.

For months, I've managed my disease very well with a combination of excellent diet, detox routines, acupressure treatments, rest, stress management, medication, essential oils, and positive thoughts. Things are going well though symptoms are still prevalent and sometimes severe. Even if I continue in my efforts faithfully for years, I don't believe they can achieve full healing for me.

On Sunday, September 21, 2014, I told two people I didn't think the defendant would heal me. I believed He had other plans.

On Wednesday, September 24, 2014, Melissa Rogers, a friend of uncanny similarities to myself, who I met through very unlikely circumstances and who had just experienced a miracle of her own, shared with me a prophetic word: '[The Healer] loves you; He has healed you.'

I prayed sincerely over these words in order to discern their meaning and veracity. I was met with assurance from multiple sources outside of myself that I'd indeed be physically healed in addition to the spiritual and emotional healing which has already taken place. Only then did I remember the former impressions, words, and dreams, and I fully believe the defendant is guilty of the future healing of my body!"

By the end of this speech, I am standing. A fire smolders in my bones. Whispers swirl all about the room.

The Judge's gavel slams into the block. "Order in the courtroom!"

I stare at The Healer, breathless. His eyes are fiercely proud.

"Does the defense have any questions?"

The Healer stands. "Do you trust me, Melissa?"

"Yes," I say.

"Why?" His voice is so gentle, I could fluff it like a pillow and rest my head there.

"Because you loved me when I was unlovable. When I hated you, you died to save my life."

"And is it not I who holds your very breath in my hands and owns all your ways?"

"Only you."

"Do I not have a right to allow pain in your life?"

"You do."

"Do I not have a right to send healing now? Even if you can no longer imagine a life without disease?"

"Yes." The word chokes on a muted sob.

I'm excused. The Healer extends a handkerchief to me as I pass Him on the way back to my seat.

I call Lyndsey Floyd Mouk to the stand. Lyndsey is a friend from college, a friend I haven't seen much of since college. She shares her dream from October 8, 2013--"[Melissa] was somewhere with a bunch of people and [was] holding and smelling a wildflower."

Mary Fran Stark, a friend several years my senior who I haven't seen since childhood, shares the dream she had the night of October 9, 2013: "I don't remember what [the dream] was about, but there were several people at your house and lots of kids."

I take the stand again.

"It should be noted," I say to the jury, "I strictly avoid crowds to prevent acute episodes in my illness, and I would never purposefully smell any flower due to the risk of mast cell degranulation. Thus, images of me standing in the midst of crowds and sniffing flowers indicates wellness. It should also be noted Lyndsey and Mary Fran do not know one another, and neither knew of the other's dream. Lyndsey shared her dream first through private message on Facebook. Mary Fran shared her dream the following day via status 'comment' on Facebook."

The Healer listens quietly through it all. His eyes twinkle as Melissa Rogers takes the stand.

Melissa shares pieces of our conversation, which took place on Wednesday, September 24, 2014, between the hours of 10:53a.m. and 12:22p.m. There are many details, but one central message: "He has healed you."

The Healer touches Melissa as she passes Him on her way out of the courtroom. Joy wells in my heart as I consider the vastness of His love. He loves each of us as if we're the only one in the universe, and He loves us both. She and I are both 'His Melissa.'

With a contented sigh, I call an expert witness.

I ask him, "How do you explain the present perfect tense of the declaration, 'He has healed you?' I currently suffer from symptoms."

Even now, there's a migraine lodged behind my right eye.

The man adjusts his horn-rimmed glasses excitedly, and explains, "Present and present perfect tenses are both commonly used in biblical prophecy. We find an example of present perfect tense in Isaiah 9:2--'The people who walked in darkness have seen a great light.' Scholars agree this prophecy refers to the birth of Jesus Christ, which occurred 700 years after the prophecy was written. We find explanation for this phenomenon in Psalm 119:89--'Forever, O Lord, Your word is settled in heaven,' meaning when God makes a promise, it's as good as done. Yahweh operates outside of time and space. He can do this because He created time and space. He is God. He sees the end from the beginning, and has ordered all things from the outset."

The Judge pulls and tucks his robes as if worried his skin is showing. I bow my head to hide my smirk, and sense The Healer's full-out grin.

Finally, the stand holds The Healer himself. He gives a brief testimony before I question Him. "All things work together for good to those who love Me, to those who are called according to My purpose."

My cells respond to the truth of His word.

I approach the stand and wonder--how many times have we reasoned together like this, staring into the face of the other, reveling in soul secrets and silent communication?

"Will you please tell the court who you are?"

"I AM."

My knees tend to buckle at this answer no matter how many times I hear it. One of the jurors experiences a similar effect, and falls out of her seat.

"What is your occupation?"

That smile again. The light of it shines so brilliantly the intimidation of The Judge is utterly forgotten. "Love. Life. Freedom. Peace. Abundance. Joy. Glory."

"Where do you reside?"

"Everywhere. I dwell between galaxies, and know motivations hidden from your own consciousness."

"What do you know of the human body?"

"Everything," He laughs. "I designed it."

"Will you please share with the court some of your well-known experiences with healing?"

He shrugs. "Sure--the leper in Galilee--the one you mentioned in your journal entry, actually. The centurion's servant. The blind man in Jerusalem. Jairus' daughter. The woman with the bleeding issue--the one you relate to so well."

"Are you experienced in healing incurable diseases?"

"I heal everything from terminal cancer to explosive tempers, from lost causes to wandering souls."

I bring an open Bible to the stand. "Is this your written testimony?"

Exhibit #3: Isaiah 58:6-9

"It is."

"Would you say my illness has been 'a fast of your choosing?'"

"Have you been hungry and shared your bread? Have you shown castaways hospitality of soul? Have you clothed the naked, prayed the bound go free and the wicked be saved?"

The Judge checks The Healer. "The witness will not question the prosecution." But the reprimand is lost on our ears.

I swallow hard. We look into one another so intensely we forget where we are and what we're doing. We forget the world.

I answer Him with the look. The answer is for Him only. The jury need not know.

The Judge suspiciously forgets the original question, and doesn't bring it up again. Neither do I.

"No further questions, Your Honor."

An unknown voice sounds at the back of the room. "Are you sure?"

When The Judge does nothing to resume order, I turn. A man dressed in a perfectly tailored suit with shiny Berluti shoes and slicked-back hair slinks near the door. I don't recognize his face, but there's a familiar quality to his movement.

"Yes. Why?" I ask him

"Exactly," he replies, eyes gleaming.

I turn again to The Judge with an unspoken plea. He stares back insipidly, waiting for the scene to unfold.

The stranger sidles closer, and the scent of overly-sweet cologne wafts in my direction, cloying my senses. I choke and gasp and know--I have smelled his foul odor before.

"You won't ask for a sign? You won't ask the age-old question?" His lips curl up in a Cheshire cat grin. The effect is unnerving. I hold back a shudder and narrow my eyes in defiance.

"Come on--you know you want to ask," he hisses, inspecting his perfectly manicured hands.

My stomach turns, and I bristle. "If you are referring to The Question, I've already asked. Many times over. As for a sign, it would be ungenerous to ask for more than He's already given."

Sinister eyes swing sharp to meet mine. The man speaks slowly. "The jury might appreciate the answer, Melissa. Don't you hear it in their sighs? Why? Why? Why?"

Silence falls. The Judge and jury lean forward, chairs creaking, pressing me to ask.

There's no problem with The Question when honestly presented, but it isn't relevant to the case. I bite my lip. Accusation and curiosity burns in the jury's eyes, I see it. The Healer does, too.

The well-dressed man grips my arm. I attempt to pull away without success, and cry out. The atmosphere shifts at once. The Healer's eyes flash fire, and I'm suddenly released.

I know what comes. I brace myself.

The Healer stands to full height and thunders, "Who is this who darkens counsel with words without knowledge? Where were you when I laid the foundations of the earth? Tell Me, if you have understanding--who determined its measurements? Surely you know! Have you commanded the morning since your days began? The dawn knows its place. Do you?"


Everyone cowers in their chairs, hiding from the whirlwind. At once, I long to kiss the floor with my brow and stand so close to the rush I feel my stomach drop.

I've heard His answer before, of course. One isn't desperately ill for more than two years without asking The Question.

And this is the way He always answers--with questions of His own. Questions which plumb the depths of the soul and expose all its secrets. They wrecked me, His questions. I'll never forget how they bashed me to pieces, repaired me, and set me to sail again on the feral ocean of divine sovereignty.

The once bitter waters are now impossibly sweet. I've learned to love His scary side.

The well-dressed man retreats. Even The Judge shows signs of life--or rather, surrender--as he squirms in his seat. The hall is silent again.

The Healer still stands, chest heaving and nostrils flared. His zeal is beautiful to me.

Eager to move the case along, The Judge clears his throat and addresses the jury. "Ladies and gentlemen, the prosecution must convince you of three things in order to find the defendant guilty of the future crime of divine physical healing: First, that the defendant has confirmed through His own testimony and the witness of others He will indeed heal Melissa Keaster of Mast Cell Activation Disease. Second, that the disease cannot be healed by any means short of a divine miracle. Third, that He indeed has the power to heal incurable disease."

The jury nods their understanding, but few are convinced. Caution emanates from their furrowed brows.

"Are you ready with final arguments?" The Judge asks.

No, I think.

But The Healer stands next to me now, holding my hand. Sensing my fear, He kisses my ear and whispers, "Those who wait for Me are never ashamed."

My words are tremulous and thick with tears. "Yes, Your Honor."

I face the jury once more. Believe with me.

I exhale hard. "Your Honor and ladies and gentlemen of the jury: The Judge has told you I must convince you of three points. The truth is...I can't."

Their dubious faces almost make me lose my nerve. I spur myself on--for them! For Him!

"We're dealing with the supernatural here, which means we're dealing with faith. Faith is the evidence of things hoped for, but these are things not yet seen. I lack rock hard evidence. I have nothing to offer you beyond the testimonies you heard today," I tell them, extending my empty hands and earnest eyes.

"My sincerest desire is for you to believe--not only in a miracle that hasn't yet taken place, but a Person--a Person wise enough to send a debilitating illness into my life, a Person powerful enough to take it away, and a Person good enough to stand with me through it all."

Pointing to The Judge, I continue, "Only he can verify or falsify prophetic claims, and he cares little how these proceedings turn out. I pray you care--not only for me but for yourselves! Have we become so jaded we no longer believe in miracles? I tell you--they happen every day for anyone with seeing eyes."

My gaze drifts over each face, and I know--they definitely think I'm crazy. And so I am.

"Please don't miss this." Tears cascade down my face, and for a moment, I cannot speak. The room waits on bated breath in order to hear what the crazy lady will say next.

Suddenly, the fire reignites my bones. The tears fall still, but my energies crescendo. "Go on, find Him guilty. Find Him guilty, and sentence Him to the exaltation and glory He deserves. Sentence Him to your own belief--to your own salvation. In sickness and in health, in death and in life, He is worthy to receive blessing and honor and glory and power forever!"

"She definitely has a thing for him," comes the loud observation from the old man juror who spoke before. "And you know what? I think the feeling's mutual."

The Healer says nothing in closing. He just kisses my forehead, and lets me dry my tears on His chest.

I wait trembling in His arms for The Judge to prove or disprove His crime. I'm afraid I look like a fool before them all. I'm afraid my soul will doubt if The Judge tarries. He sits so serene, so enigmatic without any concern at all for me.

He thinks he holds the power now, but I know better. I know the One whom I have believed--The Beginning and The End. The arms that hold me are everlasting. Right or wrong, they'll never let me go.

I plant a kiss upon His shoulder as I wonder--what will the jury decide?

Another Kind of Miracle

In my previous post, I shared how I have experienced a better miracle than physical healing. It seemed to encourage those of you who have prayed me through the ups and downs of my struggle over the past couple of years, but I began to feel concerned for those just tuning in. I can see how someone new to my blog may be left with questions, confusion, or discouragement due to thoughts not quite complete. I can't have that.

God forbid I preach a false gospel or make the sufferer's road more treacherous than it already is. I do not want to perpetuate hurtful falsehoods spoken by well-meaning non-sufferers, and I do not want to add new doubts you have not previously considered. Please allow me to clarify my thinking.

First, your suffering is not necessarily a direct consequence of some moral failure.

I become very impatient when people suggest all suffering comes from lack of faith or a particular sin or whatever. Such statements are neither true nor helpful. While it's true some suffering is the consequence of sin, our suffering is never in proportion to our sin.

The best of us may suffer much.
The worst of us may suffer little.
And none of us suffer as we deserve.


The God of the Bible is not a tit-for-tat God. No. He's a God who, through infinite condescension, entered into our suffering and brokenness, and carried it all to the cross. Where it stayed.

Neither is God naive. He knows we are spiritual whores who run after other lovers time and again, yet He says, "I have seen [her] ways, and will heal [her]" (Isaiah 57:18).

Through His pain and suffering, we are healed (Isaiah 53:5). For those who receive Him, there is no debt left to be paid. God is satisfied (Isaiah 53:11).

Your suffering is not the price for your sin. You could never pay it anyway. God requires nothing from the guilty sinner when "Jesus" is the plea of her heart.

The cross was enough.
I will say it again: The cross was enough.

If suffering isn't cosmic payback, what is it?

Most suffering is an opportunity to walk in His steps (1 Peter 2:21), an invitation into the "high and holy place" where God dwells (Isaiah 57:15), and the thing which entitles us to all Christ will inherit--"if indeed we suffer with Him" (Romans 8:17).

Thus, suffering is a gift.

If your suffering is hard, if it doesn't feel like a gift, if it is breaking your heart, you are not "less than" spiritually.

The sufferer's road to joy is long, hard, and fraught with bumps, stumbles, and pits of self-pity, and don't let anyone tell you differently.

When a sufferer pastes on a smile and tells you they are fine, their words are lies and make-up covering an ugly truth: they are still trying to save themselves. 

They are trying desperately to stay strong because denial is easier than facing the darkness and walking through it. This is a great sadness because the darkness isn't such a terrible place. Not really.

"Who walks in darkness and has no light?
Let him trust in the name of the Lord and rely upon his God.
Look, all you who kindle a fire,
who encircle yourselves with sparks:
Walk in the light of your fire and in the sparks you have kindled--
This you shall have from My hand:
you shall lie down in torment."
-Isaiah 50:10-11

The night of suffering reveals the truth of our spiritual poverty. It serves to show us there is no way to save ourselves. Not even with our little religious fires like Bible study, prayer, church going, and service. We can't strong arm God into rewarding our feeble attempts at morality.

The fires we build to keep ourselves warm are only tiny sparks in the cold, dark world of suffering, and they lead us to torment, which is just another way of saying "a place without God."

 

There are no steps A, B, and C to joy.  

Those who claim otherwise are selling something--probably a book based on a false gospel that will make them rich and leave you bankrupt. 

There is nothing you can do for yourself other than seek the face of God. No one ever obtained real joy by seeking joy. The only way to obtain joy is through seeking God. Bible study and prayer are essential, but don't confuse holy pursuits with tasks on a checklist.

Just go on--give into it. Give into your need. Rely upon your God. He came "to give light to those who sit in darkness and the shadow of death, to guide our feet into the way of peace" (Luke 1:79).

Take His hand, and walk the way of the cross. It will beat you bloody, but it leads Home. 

Honesty is key.

 

If you read my posts from the last couple of years, they are full of lament. I did not win my fight for joy overnight.

It has taken more than two years of carrying my pain to the feet of Jesus over and over and over again. Two years of prayer, weeping, and waiting and things getting much, much worse before they got better. Two years of trustful determination to experience the sweet promises of God.

As in the parable of the widow and judge, I "pray[ed] and did not lose heart" (Luke 18:1). I kept asking for joy--a promise, a command of the Bible--until He gave it.

Believe those promises, Sister. God is faithful and able to fulfill them.
Ask for them, Brother. They were written for you. 

James tells us to "count it all joy when [we] fall into various trials" (James 1:2). We are to "rejoice always....and in everything give thanks" (1 Thessalonians 5:16-18). 

These are commands. Commands we cannot obey on our own. Like faith, joy is a gift of God (Ephesians 2:8), a gift He delights to give. Ask for it.

Ask, and be prepared to wait. But don't be afraid to wait. "For they shall not be ashamed who wait for Me" (Isaiah 49:23).

 --Mike Pilavachi

Remember: "He who promised is faithful" (Hebrews 10:23), and His faithfulness is not contingent upon our own: "If we are faithless, He remains faithful; He cannot deny Himself" (2 Timothy 2:13).

 

In the waiting, God works another kind of miracle.

This other kind of miracle is meek in appearance but holds a quiet power. It's a miracle that can only be measured over time--

Growth.

Growth in faith. Growth in trust. Growth in grace. Growth in valor.


It's in the valley of the shadow of death we learn to conquer our fear, not on the mountain top.
It's in the pit we learn to reach for the only Hand strong enough to pull us out. 
It's in the ocean of grief we learn who commands the tempest without and within, who keeps our souls from drowning.
It's in the dead of night we hear our Savior's song.
It's in the wilderness we taste the sweetness of manna.
It's in the fire we find we are more than the sum of our successes, failures, lesser loves, and short-sighted dreams, all which burn away like dross.

It's at the gates of hell we learn God really is with us wherever we go.

Out of the whirlwind, He speaks (Job 38-41).
Unkindly, He kindly shows us God (Piper, "Job"). 
And when we see Him, all we can do is cry, "Woe is me! I am unclean!," and repent in dust and ashes.

So, if you are suffering and wondering what is wrong with you that you are empty and wounded and just not strong enough to smile--hold on, dear one.

Hold on. 

Hold onto Jesus.
Ask for joy.
Feast upon His promises.
Wait for His timing.
Believe in His infinite goodness, wisdom, and power.
Rest in His sovereignty.


Don't give up.


Thank Him for everything, even your pain. Not because pain is good, but because He is good, and He is allowing this pain for good and glory your brain is too weak and fractured to comprehend. 

There is purpose in it all. Some He may let you see, some you will never know this side of eternity. 

Seek Him. Trust Him.

One day, in the midst of your pain, there it will be--joy!

The Better Miracle

I am doing very well.

There, I said it.

I've been afraid to, you see, because every time I share how well I'm doing, something unpleasant this way comes. Inevitably, there will be a freak trigger exposure or a virus that lays me low for a week.

But I will not be bullied by circumstances! I will not be a slave to fear! I'm going to say it loud and proud and expect the best, trusting the Rock beneath my feet to steady me in the face of the worst--God has granted me an increased measure of health, and I am doing very well. 

Bless the Lord, O trembling soul.
Bravely bless His name.

My energy is up, I've gained weight, my pain is more manageable, I'm sleeping better, and I recently returned from a five day anniversary trip to San Antonio where upon I actually left the resort to do things, and had not one episode of anaphylaxsis.

Believe me when I say this is a miracle. 

Dr. Yakaboski checked my adrenal and thyroid function last week. For the first time since I began seeing her, my adrenals are functioning properly, and my thyroid isn't looking too shabby, either. Dr. Frieden reports I no longer harbor an overabundance of candida albicans in my belly. So that's good. Detox reactions are not the problem they once were.

I am doing very well.

Last week, I masked up and went to two appointments, Micah's school orientation, and church on Sunday morning. Not one emergency.

Micah began kindergarten this week. My days are longer, fuller, and more demanding. I'm feeding people all day long. (School apparently requires an additional meal per day. For both children. That's five meals per day for them. Help me.) I see Micah off every morning and pick him up every afternoon (so far). I assist him with homework. Though exhausted, I made it to the end of the school week, and am still functioning. A blog post is happening. Miraculous!

 

I am doing very well.

I would keep it to myself for the sake of my safety, but some things are more important than safety--like you knowing that God hears your prayers. He is listening to you, and He is acting because you ask Him to. Take heart: you are heard and loved.

So let the sky fall. Let it fall because there is a better miracle pulsing beneath the obvious one, the visible one telling the invisible story. There is a better miracle working health in my soul as my cells dump poison into my blood and my body pushes back against a supposedly degenerative disease.

The physical healing taking place is only a parable of the real, unshakeable healing which cannot be maimed by degranulating mast cells.

The parable whispers a secret--feasting works the healing.

Nutritional therapy for the sick person is essentially eating lots and lots of nutrient-dense calories to encourage the mitochondria of the cells to wake up and work life and healing in the body. Junk food just doesn't have that kind of power.

Nutritional therapy for the soul isn't all that different.

"And you who seek God, your souls shall live."--Psalm 69:32

I may follow Autoimmune Paleo protocol, but I daily feast upon the Bread of Life and drink deep of Living Water, thereby awakening the mitochondria of my inner being, the little powerhouses which produce joy and delight on a plane more real than flesh and bone.

My daily coffee enema and detox bath require a total of two hours per day. Until this summer, I squandered away that time with the distractions of Netflix and Facebook--junk food for the soul. A few months ago, I finally heard God's invitation to something better. There is nothing wrong with a little junk food, but why choose a processed snack cake while a perfectly cooked steak sits before you? One leaves you empty and sugar-crashed after a very short while. The other satisfies.

Now that I've thrown out the junk food, I have two entire hours built into my day for Jesus alone! What a blessing!

While nutritional therapy for the body is taking in calories targeted for biological healing and support, nutritional therapy for the soul is taking time to feast at my Savior's table and rest my sin-diseased and broken spirit in the Healer's arms. I couldn't have dreamed more poignant imagery to illustrate "mortality [being] swallowed up by life" than spending my sick-person-to-do-list with the Source of Life Himself (2 Corinthians 5:4).

Before I felt better, I was able to say, "I am the happiest I've ever been." Singing, dancing, smiling-like-a-love-struck-school-girl happy.

Before I felt better, I confessed, "Sometimes, I forget I'm sick," which really means this--"Sometimes I forget myself."

Self-forgetfulness is healing. It's life to the dead, rest to the weary, and freedom to the shut-in.

When we are continually looking at Jesus, we forget to check the mirror. When we forget to check the mirror, we begin to see the pain of others. Thus self-forgetfulness often means more tears because you aren't just shedding them for yourself anymore. Yet all the while, God magically, mysteriously invites us into the miracles He's working in their lives through prayer and service, rendering smiles through the tears and joy in the mourning. 

Miracles for everyone!

Self-forgetfulness is an awesome place to live. I just wish I knew how to stay. 

"Prone to wander, Lord, I feel it,
prone to leave the God I love;
Here's my heart, Lord, take and seal it,
seal it for thy courts above."

Though I have learned to live above my disease, I still want complete physical healing. I'll want it until I get it. In the meantime, there is a better miracle beneath it all.

There is a happiness to be had when the sky falls and health fails and dreams die and people wound us. There is a strong current of peace flowing beneath the tumultuous waves of our stormy seas. When life spontaneously combusts, there is One like the Son of God who stands with us in the fire.

You can do better than survive your suffering. You can thrive there. I've seen it. I've lived it. But there is only one Way, one Truth, one Life.

You'll find Him at the cross--arms open wide, bearing your sin and pain, forgiving your unbelief, loving you and wanting you in spite of your filth, foolishness, and propensity toward the junk food of the world.

I hope you'll seek Him because if you do, you'll find Him. And your soul will live. 


(If this post leaves you with unanswered questions about finding joy in suffering, please read my amendment post here.)

Ten Years

I think about it often: A lesser man would have left me by now. You stay. You, with those big brown eyes, open arms, soft lips, and serving hands.

Like a phoenix, I'm born, I breathe, I burn. I'm remade from the ashes time and again. I have been no less than five different people in the decade we've been married, and you have loved them all.

"You're so weird," you say with a chuckle. God bless that chuckle because that chuckle means you think my weird is cute.

I think your weird is cute, too.

How do you always know when I need a laugh? A hug? A strong hand to hold mine? Your presence, your voice as my innards swell and lungs labor are a comfort and a tether keeping my feet tied to the world.

How do you do it all, Atlas? How do you manage the weight of the world on those broad, sexy shoulders?

How do you work long days, bathe children, grocery shop, manage the property, pay the bills, help others, and save me every day? How do you live always dying, always denying yourself?  You swear to your own hurt, and you do not change (Psalm 15:4).

There must be Jesus in you.

As long as you channel Living Water, I'll never stop drinking you in. When you run dry, my well is yours. Always.

You've won my heart a million times over. Just like this Savior I know. I don't deserve either of you.

 World, you may keep your fallible currencies. I'll draw and spend from an eternal bank of love.

Happy anniversary, My Beloved. I could not have made a better investment over the last ten years than I have in you. Thank you for being a parable of Christ's love for me and His Church. Here is to many more years in this life and an eternity of them in the next, my Brother, my Friend, my Lover.....

MY SUPERMAN

 

And now 10 years in photos and song:

Just Say "No" to Self-Pity

With over a decade of experience under my belt, I know about diet restriction--both the good kind and the harmful kind. (Note: I do not advocate calorie restrictive diets.)

I understand the feelings of deprivation and the fear of change. I know what it's like to starve in a land of plenty. I've been so sick I could only tolerate a handful of foods. There have been times I could not eat at all. Thanks to God and an amazing health team, I am no longer in that place. Through lots of grace and support, I have survived and learned a few things along the way.

Check out a snippet of my journey at 20 Something Allergies, the blog of nutritional therapist, research enthusiast, friend and witch doctor extraordinaire, Jennifer Nervo.

Mixed Bag--An Update

I've been home from my mountain-top experience at Mayo for a little over a month. Things have not gone exactly as I had hoped. The last few weeks have been hard and good, beautiful and heartrending.

• I turned 30.

I had always imagined turning thirty would be a difficult thing. To my surprise, it was no big deal. It was pleasant even. I had both a good birthday and a lovely birthday party. On June 3, I posted this story to Facebook:

When I opened my eyes this morning, I asked the Lord to be present in every moment of the day. That would be gift enough. I did not expect a literal gift from Him--

I went outside to hang Sara's diapers to dry in the sun. Brandon's trailer seemed like a good spot. Out flew an angry wasp feeling threatened by my close proximity to his home hidden below the wheel. My peripheral vision caught him coming in for the sting, but suddenly he deflected away from me, as if he had bounced off a surface I couldn't see. I think it was my "blue shield" I dreamed about almost 3 years ago. "Happy birthday to me, from God," I thought.

I shared the story with Mom who reminded me of Psalm 91. I have lived the truth of these verses for years, but it was the promise God makes to the psalmist at the end which brought me to tears--

“Because he has set his love upon Me, therefore I will deliver him;
I will set him on high, because he has known My name.
He shall call upon Me, and I will answer him;
I will be with him in trouble;
I will deliver him and honor him.
With long life I will satisfy him,
And show him My salvation.”

And almost a whisper in my ear, "Happy birthday to you, from Me."

See? Good.

A week later, I hosted an (herbal) tea party in my own honor. You get to do that when you turn thirty, are too sick to go out, and are kind of eccentric.

 Kids' table

 The menu included three herbal teas-- Rhubarb and Strawberry Hibiscus Iced Tea,

Peppermint and Raspberry Leaf, and Nettle and Rosehip--

gluten free zucchini cake, and Melissa-friendly Paleo treats.

 Most of the guests.

 Morgan and I reunited after our respective adventures, which the Lord saw us through. It was a kind of celebration of His generosity to us. Please continue to pray for Morgan. 

She is still suffering from surgery complications.

 My beautiful Mom.

 The smallest guests. Love them!

• I have settled back into my routine.

The Mayo experience was more of a spiritual retreat than a medical trip for my mom and me. It was glorious to be home, but it took a few days and lots of grace to find my legs again.

•  I have finally begun the first draft of my novel.

Until a couple of weeks ago, it had been a long time since I had accomplished any serious work with my novel. I lost my drive in the midst of health struggles, grief, and preparations for Mayo. I also lost interest in writing back story. I was yearning to write the real story, and that is just what I have been doing. I am writing it longhand, which I find to be extremely satisfying. Something about it summons the muse, and it definitely reduces distractions. When I am writing longhand, that is all I'm doing. No peeks at Facebook or Pinterest. Just writing. And it feels like a real craft.

• I began my prescribed medications. Kind of. 

Upon returning home, Brandon and I discovered pretty quickly that I could not take the Zantac, Zyrtec, and Singulair in their marketed forms. They contain too many fillers. That's right. I'm allergic to antihistamines. But honestly, this is not uncommon for people with MCAD. Brandon checked into using a compounding pharmacy to obtain pure forms of the drugs, but this route proved to be cost prohibitive. In the end, we asked Dr. Carolyne Yakaboski to create a homeopathic form of the drugs. These are not as potent as the actual drugs, but I have found that a little goes a long way with just about anything. I do notice some relief when I remember all of my doses, which is good.

I began Gastrocrom two weeks ago. This drug only contains cromolyn sodium and water. I have had no adverse reactions thus far. Praise God! If it works for me, my GI pain and swelling will begin to resolve in about a week or so.

• I am failing my dietary protocol. Which I still need to blog about.

I cannot stay out of the tomatoes. I try. I really try. Yet I fail. They make me sick. They make me hurt. They cause me misery. And still I am lured in by their beauty and promise of palatable rapture. Le sigh.

• I'm getting "grounded." Explanation here.

An earthing kit has been on my wish list for quite some time. Brandon bought me one for my birthday. We began using the sheet right after I returned home, and it immediately improved my quality of sleep.

• I have added castor oil packs to my health routine. Explanation here. 

These. are. awesome. I began about two weeks ago. They bring on the sleepies, and reduce the ill effects of my tomato lust. I feel a certain amount of histamine relief after doing them, which calms the flushing and "tired and wired" feeling enough to induce sleep. I put it on every night for about an hour and a half--just long enough for Brandon and I to watch two episodes of BBC Robin Hood on Netflix. Then I go to sleep. Like it's no big deal. Like falling asleep wasn't the hardest thing ever just a couple of months ago. Praise God for earthing sheets and castor oil and heating pads! Praise God for sleep!

•  I've been using my unique skill set to serve my sister.

Since becoming pregnant, my sister has experienced serious health problems similar to my own. We think the shift in hormones has upset her system, and she has been having allergic reactions to foods, animals, and bug bites. I have been able to direct her to safe, nutritious foods, treat her reactions with TBM and BioSet, and offer her gentle, pregnancy-safe home remedies like poultices, herbs, and essential oils. I am loathed to see my sister suffer, but thankful I can help.

• Grief continues to rock my boat.

In many ways, I feel Jenny's loss more profoundly today than I did when it was fresh. There is so much I want to tell her. I want to hear her laugh. I want her unique perspective and the artful way she crafts her sentences. I want the light in her blue eyes and her hearty "hallelujahs" in response to every good God has sent. A memory sparked by a conversation or activity will initiate a tiny, seismic shift, sending an unexpected tidal wave to my shore. In these moments, I am thankful for the "hope we have as an anchor of the soul" (Hebrews 6:19). Without it, I would be reduced to rubble every time.

• There have been two episodes of anaphylaxsis, one of which resulted in shock.

Until about three weeks ago, I had not had an anaphylactic reaction in a record length of time. Since then, there have been two episodes. The first occurred following my tea party, after which I felt uncommonly unwell. I thought my body was rebuking me for the almond flour treats I had eaten. But I really hadn't eaten that much, so I was confused. The next night, my mother-in-law and I shared a warmed cup of left over peppermint and raspberry leaf tea.

BAM! I was struggling for air. I knew it wasn't the raspberry leaf, which exposed the peppermint as the culprit. I had drunk so. much. of this particular blend the day before it is no wonder I was so ill after the party. Bummer. It was a good blend.

And then there was the freak peanut exposure this past Sunday night. Brandon and the kids wanted an Eskimoe's treat after completing a little errand in town. We went through the drive-thru. The window was on Brandon's side of the car. I detected a shift in my body during the transaction, but I had to do the whole self denial routine.

"You're not sick," I told myself. "That would be crazy. You are fine. You are fine. The swelling will subside. You are fine." I continued like this for the 15 minute ride home. I eventually believed myself, so I didn't understand when my blood pressure went on the fritz upon getting out of the car.

When things got bad, Brandon was outside talking to my parents. I was inside with the kids. I was able to take my rescue homeopathics and get a text to him before I was useless. By the time he began performing our tried and true rescue treatment, I was exiting reality--a cold place where it was painful and difficult to breathe, think, move, and obey--and entering the floaty space where it's warm and pleasant and everything is peaceful.

Shock is a siren song. Unless someone tethers you to the ship, you will bail. You cannot help yourself. B wasn't having it though. He says he yelled at me. I was vaguely aware of it, but it came to my consciousness rather muffled, as if I was hearing him from underwater. He demanded I come back, so I did. I am thankful the Lord spared me once again. I must have more to do! Praise God!

• I have learned to better appreciate the miracle of last summer because this year is no repeat.

Brandon and I have agreed--
In some ways, I am better than I was last summer.
In some ways, I am sicker than I was last summer.

Last summer was nothing short of miraculous. I was knocking on death's door, and then God just turned it around. I went from eating nothing to eating baby food to eating anything I wanted. Eggs? Every day. Tomatoes? No problem. Watermelon? For the first time in years. I could eat any food, any time as long as it came from our garden.

And the garden itself was a miracle. Dad and Brandon were first time gardeners. They only kinda sorta knew what they were doing. Everything planted thrived. Rain came at just the right times. June and July were just mild enough. The bugs were a minor nuisance, and were well-controlled without the use of any substance, organic or otherwise.

This year? Squash bugs destroyed our crop. Tomato worms are having a hey day. We even have bugs in our kale, which is weird. Dad is using an organic, essential oil-based spray to repel them, but it doesn't seem to be working. And with the exception of kale and the now gone broccoli, cauliflower, zucchini, and yellow squash, I am not tolerating anything very well.

I do not understand why the foods God used to bring me back to life last summer are now my enemies. I do not understand the complexities of why one crop is blessed and another is not blessed in the same way. I am not wise enough to guess the purpose of all this waiting, circling, cycling, and disappointment.

Why have I not been healed? I am doing everything right. With the exception of my tomato addiction, I eat perfectly. Well, except when I eat a bit of dark chocolate or have an almond flour treat for my birthday, but still! I detox, rest, sleep, exercise, get sunshine, manage my stress, and avoid triggers. I seek the Lord with all my heart. I pray, meditate, memorize scripture, and make my mind to dwell on things above. I want to be healed. I expect to be healed.

I am doing everything right, and I am still not well. Not even close.

Dear friend, this is life. We can do all the right things, and still not achieve the desired outcome. That is why we must desire a Person more than a circumstance. Someone who cannot change. An anchor for the soul.

Because here's the truth--
You can parent perfectly and your adult child may self-destruct.
You can make good health choices and your body may malfunction.
You can study hard and fail the class.
You can work hard and not land the job.
You can pray hard and not receive the desired answer.
You can do aaaaaaaall the things and miss the Whole Thing.

Now this doesn't mean we throw up our hands and refuse to invest. All things of worth require faithfulness. Laziness is not allowed. We have many seeds to sow. Marriage, motherhood, friendships, nourishment, health, career, craft, and our walks with the Lord all demand that we show up, game on, every day.

This week, Micah and I sat on the back porch and watched an afternoon storm roll in while Sara napped late.

"God brings the rain and makes it stop and makes the garden grow," he observed sagely as we listened to heavy drops pound the tin roof like a drum.

"That's right," I affirmed. "He brings rain and sunshine and gives growth to the seeds we plant. He makes all gardens grow, even the ones hidden inside of us." I touched the center of his chest.

"What kind of garden is inside of me?" he asked, eyes wide. "Will I grow vegetables?"

"No," I laughed. "You will grow fruit. Mommy plants the seed of the gospel of Jesus and the cross in your heart. Then God sends rain and sunshine and gives increase just like our garden out there." I pointed. "And after time, you will bear fruit--love, joy, peace, goodness, and faithfulness to name a few."

But it does not always work this way.

We are not as in control as we would like to think we are. We do not command life or death or cancer or disintegrating mast cells or squash bugs or people or rogue peanut particles. This is okay. Because the One who is in control is eternally, irreversibly good. He has our good at heart. He even takes the evil things of this world, and alchemizes them into good. It's a mystery, but it's true. 

We must stop serving the god we want, and start loving the God Who Is. We must surrender our idea of  good to His definition of good--the Church "conformed to the image of His [suffering] Son" (Romans 8:29).

For me, this means I show up. I do all the things God has tasked me with. I invest my heart, knowing that--yes--it may be broken. It is broken.

A friend told me this week she is hesitant to try gardening while she is already so busy and tired with little ones because she is afraid she would put in a ton of work only for the crop to fail. Oh, goodness--how her trepidation hits close to home. The threat is very real.

Disappointment is a bitter fruit. It's the risk we all take any time we do or love or work for anything. Christian or not, no one is exempt from the risk, but if you are a Christian, you can take comfort in knowing Christ drinks the wine of disappointment right along with you. If you are a Christian, you can rest your head on the pillow of promise--God is weaving your disappointment into an epic tapestry which will at its finish be a glorious work of art. You will one day gaze upon it in wonder, and you will agree--your suffering was not worthy to be compared to the joy you now know.

Life is a mixed bag of happinesses and disappointments, successes and failures, patterns and adjustments. It's devastating and magnificent and ridiculous and wonderful. I could never survive it without Jesus. And having tasted the exquisite joy of His presence especially in the midst of sorrow, I can tell you--I don't want to.

He is our Living Hope. He is our assurance that one day the disappointments will be no more, that all sad things will come untrue. Praise God this mixed bag is not all there is!

Mayo Clinic Trip: Vignettes Edition

"Clouds"

As our little plane reached the canopy of clouds, I thought of Deuteronomy 33:26--

"Who is like the God of Jeshurun, who rides the heavens to help you,

 and in His excellency on the clouds?"

 and of Psalm 36:5--

"Your mercy, O Lord, is in the heavens. Your faithfulness reaches to the clouds."

For a long moment, we were engulfed in mist. We could not see before us, behind us, or beside us. And yet we were moving. Sight was unnecessary. Our little plane soldiered on, brave and true, in the direction the pilots ordained.

Here is faith--going where God sends when we cannot see, without knowing where we fit into His scheme. What a portrait of this adventure! Trusting a design I cannot envision is easy because of the Artist who loves His medium.

I will fly through the clouds until You see fit to bring me out into blue. When from Your view I gaze upon the world, I will agree with You. I know I will. For now, I trust--in oceans deep and clouds obscuring, where feet and flight may fail--because Your judgments are a great deep and Your faithfulness reaches to the clouds and because You are with me no matter my elevation (Psalm 36:5-6). Neither height nor depth can sever me from Your love (Romans 8:39).

"Shadow"

Along the way I've noticed small clouds drifting below us like cotton balls suspended in the air. They are but a puff compared to the mounting cumuli which swallow our plane in a single bite, yet they cast a significant shadow upon the earth--acres wide and quite dark. So many lives fall under its cast though it is nothing at all as I ride above it. 

"Hold on!" I want to admonish all within the shadow. "It will pass in just a moment."

Perspective alters the size of the trial. When we see through the lens of the gospel and eternity, we rest assured "the sufferings of this present time are not worthy to be compared to the glory which shall be revealed" (Romans 8:18). 

"Bumpy"

"Unless we climb above these clouds, things may get a little bumpy," the pilot yelled over the noise of the engine. "Everyone got their seat belts on?"

Mom and I gave a thumbs up. And we climbed.

Our strawberry-blonde pilot wove his way between pillowy, cotton-bright banks telling lies about their density and ability to upset our craft. We bumped, but not much. We feel the chill of flying so high above the earth. Despite our discomfort, we are safe. 

And dude--it's been bumpy and kind of cold for two years now. The craft hasn't been upset yet.

"Iron"

In my study of Colossians and Jeremiah 17, my mind connects these verses--

"The sin of Judah is written with a pen of iron;

With a point of a diamond it is engraved

on the tablet of their heart

and on the horns of your altars." 

Jeremiah 17:1

"And you, being dead in your trespasses

and the uncircumcision of your flesh,

He has made you alive together with Him,

having forgiven you all trespasses, having

wiped out the handwriting of requirements

that was against us, which is contrary to us.
 And He has taken it out of the way,

having nailed it to the cross."

Colossians 2:13-14

The only thing which could overrule a sentence penned in iron is a nail of iron piercing fragile, divine flesh. The only thing strong enough to overcome the guilt inscribed with unyielding diamond upon our souls is blood spilled from unyielding love. This is the power in us when we are raised by Christ--the only hero strong enough to save us, the only judge willing to take our guilt upon Himself. 

"Feelings"

On May 4th I wrote, "I feel this trip to Mayo is a dark cloud looming on the horizon." Just before I left, I told Brandon, "In case something goes wrong, know that it hasn't." I did not know what to expect, so I considered every possibility--diagnosis, bad diagnosis, no diagnosis, an unforeseen treatment option, crisis, even death--and made peace with each one. So I was surprised by every good that came to me. Oh, me of little faith.

When I sat in Dr. Park's office on May 27th, I didn't know where the consult was going at first. All tests had returned normal. I was relieved not to have a progressive, malignant disease, but it felt for a moment as if I wasn't going to get an answer at all, which would have been devastating after my desperate pleas from the bathtub two days prior. 

But I felt held. No fear. Those Everlasting Arms had me completely.

And then it came--"Mast Cell Activation Disease," which I had suspected for six months.

Relief. Joy. Gratitude. Praise. All came bursting from my stretch-marked heart. I didn't care at all I had been right. I was just thankful to have a name. Oh, how I needed that name!

Never have I prayed a "do or die" prayer quite like that before. Never have I been so confident I would be answered. Never have I felt so brave. "Perfect love casts out fear," Mom has been reminding me. And it's true. Only God's love is perfect. Only His love makes us bold as lions.

Wings of Hope, Arthur the taxi driver, Dr. Park, Mom, a diagnosis, an unexpected outpouring of anointed writing, everyone "helping together in prayer...that thanks may be given by many persons on [my] behalf" (2 Corinthians 1:11)--much good has come of this trip. A gentle, quiet, obvious kind of good. No fireworks. No drama. Just good. Sweet, humble good.

I love it!

Sometimes we have to apply time and prayer to strong feelings to determine whether or not they come from God for some unpleasant premonitions truly do come from Him. Twice on my difficult Friday, they did. They came with a message--"You will be discouraged, but do not despair." The feelings telling me I was likely to be harmed on this trip were obviously from The Enemy. Oh, how he would have liked to rob me of these joys! But God would not have it. 

"But God"--my favorite pair of words to ever stand side by side!

He supplied the faith I needed to "follow the thread" all the way through (George MacDonald, The Princess and The Goblin).

Truly, my Beloved has put a new song in my mouth--praise to my God! I pray many will hear it and be glad and trust in the Lord (Psalm 40:3)!

"Enough"

Over the course of my Mayo adventure, there has been an outpouring of love and support from others. It has been precious to me. Such a gift. But I find it ironic that the attentions and affections I craved so much last autumn,* when I felt so forgotten I might as well have been dead, matter little to me now.
 

God has done a healing work.

I am so satisfied by His smile, the approval and acceptance of others makes only a small difference to me. The love I have received is sweet and good, but my soul does not need it as it did not so long ago.

I read The Freedom of Self-Forgetfulness by Timothy Keller while in Minnesota, which made me aware of the secret of my healing. Now I can say with Paul--

 "I care very little if I am judged by you or by any human court; indeed, I do not even judge myself. My conscience is clear, but that does not make me innocent. It is the Lord who judges me. Therefore judge nothing before the appointed time; wait until the Lord comes. He will bring to light what is hidden in darkness and will expose the motives of men's hearts. At that time each will receive his praise from God." (1 Corinthians 4:3-5)

The assurance of God's praise is enough. Jesus earned the praise for me through His death on the cross, and has bequeathed to me the priceless inheritance of God's applause. I am a performer. I have always loved applause. I cannot begin to imagine receiving applause from my Maker! And somehow, it is written and sure.

The thoughts, support, and well-wishes of others are nice, but not ultimate.

I am free! Jubilee has come! Jenny, these sick rags have finally fallen off! Praise God! Yes, yes--"God has been too good to me to play the victim anymore."

He is so, so good. And He is enough.

*I would like to share a very special "thank you" to my friend and GP, Stacy Conville, who last fall helped me remember the Lord had not forgotten me and neither had she. Her thoughtful, Spirit-inspired care package of favorite scripture passages, worship music, and an encouraging letter was just the handhold I needed to climb out of my pit of self-pity and back into the arms of the Savior. It was a small event which sparked a major shift in my trajectory. Without that package, this chapter may have turned out differently. Thank you, Sister, and know I am taking great delight in paying it forward. Love you.

Mayo Clinic Trip: Diagnosis Edition

I went out on a limb. I prayed for answers. And God delivered.

After years of bewildering symptoms, I was given a name.

A name is such a gift. Your insides never feel quite settled when you don't know how to identify a thing. A name says, "You're not crazy. You are not alone." These are comforting truths when the disease is isolating and causes you to question your own sanity.

I once had an allergist who was as perplexed by my symptoms as I was. Though I began to react to the allergy shots with increasing violence, he continued administering them along with steroids and epinephrine because he didn't know what else to do. After becoming tired of weekly anaphylaxsis, I ended the treatment. Recently, I encountered another allergist who refused to believe me, concluding I must be crazy because my symptoms did not fit with what he knew. Never have I had a doctor who both believed me and knew what was happening to me until Dr. Park of Mayo Clinic.

God bless this man.

After almost ten years of suffering and an earnest, two-year-long quest for diagnosis, Dr. Park told me on May 27, 2014, I have Mast Cell Activation Disease (MCAD).

Within a few minutes of my initial consultation, he suspected a disease involving the mast cells as opposed to a true allergic disease. Mast cells are found in the body's tissues, and promote immunity in a healthy person's immune system. Modern medicine tells us mast cells are disrupted by IgE antibodies. These antibodies are what allergists are looking for when they perform routine skin and blood tests. When the antibodies attach to a specific antigen such as ragweed pollen, they sensitize the mast cells and crosslink. The mast cells then break apart and dump certain chemicals like histamine, leukotrienes, and other nasties. The difference between true allergies and mast cell disease is the catalyst which angers the cells. With IgE allergies, the trigger is specific. With mast cell disease, the triggers are diverse and numerous.

In my experience, triggers are either debilitating or dangerous. Though the differentiation between debilitating and dangerous triggers varies from patient to patient, there are some commonalities. Common life-threatening triggers are fire ant, wasp, and bee stings. Typical debilitating triggers include high histamine or histamine releasing foods (fermented foods, alcohol, cheese, processed or left-over meats, yeast, many fruits, coffee, chocolate, tomatoes, fish, shellfish, wheat, nuts, soy, dairy, etc.), latex, chemicals, pesticides, fragrances, heat, cold, friction, injury, NSAIDS (Advil, naproxen), pollen, acute illness, and emotional stress. (Insect stings, peanuts/tree nuts, and latex are my most dangerous triggers.)

As you can probably guess, a person has difficulty avoiding this many triggers over the course of even one day, so the mast cells are continually releasing their contents, causing inflammation in all systems of the body. The chronic, widespread inflammation leads to quite a range of seemingly unrelated symptoms. The most common symptoms are flushing, itching, hives, chronic constipation and/or diarrhea, nausea, intestinal cramping, chronic fatigue, headache, wheezing, cough, dizziness, low blood pressure, fainting, fibromyalgia, arthritis, neuropathy, and shock. I have experienced all of these, most on a daily basis.

Because Dr. Park is knowledgeable and well-read, he immediately thought of mast cell disease of which there are several subtypes. Some types are worse than others. There are also a couple of altogether different diseases with similar symptoms. Dr. Park ordered specific blood and urine tests to exclude the possibility of systemic mastocytosis, mast cell leukemia, pheochromocytoma, and carcinoid syndrome. All labs came back normal which indicate MCAD.

According to The Journal of Allergy and Clinical Immunology, the criteria for a diagnosis of MCAD are:

1) Symptoms consistent with mast cell mediator release affecting two or more organ systems.

Check!

2) Other diseases with crossover symptoms ruled out.

Check!

3) A positive response to antihistamines and mast cell stabilizers.

Expected. Dr. Park is confident my symptoms will improve with the help of these drugs.

Basically, MCAD is diagnosed based upon clinical evidence and the exclusion of all other explanations. There is no cure for mast cell disease at this time. Not much is known about the disease other than it is real and it can be managed with a strict diet, lifestyle modifications, and relatively tame medications.

My life is unlikely to ever be "normal," but I'm okay with that. I'm not normal, so why should my life be? I have high hopes that the medications along with the continuation of nutritional therapy with Jennifer, regular treatments with Dr. Yakaboski, and regular chiropractic work with Dr. Frieden will eventually lead to a better quality of life. Insect stings will always be dangerous, I will likely continue to make my own deodorant and toothpaste, and I will usually use essential oils before medication. I have no reason to return to the Standard American Diet (SAD). But maybe I will be able to attend church again. Maybe I will be able to go to a movie with my husband. Maybe I can leave my home without a mask. Maybe I won't feel miserable every time I eat or end up in bed flat on my back with every virus which crosses the threshold.

I have no reason not to hope. God's love has made me bold. My recent encounter with His faithfulness has freed me from fear. I am resting in His Word--

"And whatever you ask in My name, that I will do,

 that the Father may be glorified in the Son.

 If you ask anything in My name, I will do it."

--Jesus, John 14:13-14

Obviously, this verse isn't a blanket promise. God doesn't always do what we ask. But when we abide in Christ, we know better what to ask for. And if we knew everything He knows, we would do things in the exact manner He does things.

I never asked Him for a diagnosis before last Sunday because I never felt compelled by the Spirit until then. I asked with a kind of desperation I had not previously experienced. It was a "do or die" kind of prayer. On Tuesday, God answered my request. While studying Jeremiah 17, I came across this verse:

"Heal me, O Lord, and I shall be healed;

Save me, and I shall be saved,

for You are my praise."

--Jeremiah 17:14

It has become my new prayer. I don't know when God will heal me, but I believe healing is coming. I don't know to what extent I will be healed, but I am comfortable leaving that decision in the ever capable hands of my wise and loving Father. For now, I will enjoy His goodness I have experienced here in Minnesota, and focus on getting back home to my Superman and red-headed loves. 

May God bless you all for praying me through this experience. I am so humbled and thankful to be a vessel of God's love and power. I am glad you were able to witness it! If you don't know Him, oh how I wish you would! There is no one more worth knowing! If you want to talk, I always have time and energy for conversations about the Savior.

Grace and peace. 

Thoughts Under A Minnesota Sky

Note: This is a stream of consciousness post--a kind of self-sermon. It was my intention to write about my diagnosis. This is what happened instead.

God's faithfulness is best measured by time.

I have been saying it and believing it for almost two years now. We like to think God works instantly like wifi and 4G. We want to believe we can short order our desires and have them placed before us steaming hot and just how we like them in ten minutes' time.

But look at Abraham.
Look at Joseph.
Look at Moses.
Look at Job.
Look at David.
Look at Paul.
Look at Jesus Himself.

God is no short order cook. He's an artist. And He works best over time. Lots and lots of time.

Under an endless, bright blue sky all things infinite come to mind--God, His love, His wisdom, His goodness, His faithfulness, His grace, His mercy, His power. Time. Me--though I am as finite as I am infinite and as lowly as I am glorious.

A marvel--"I am poor and needy; yet the Lord thinks upon me" (Psalm 40:17).
His thoughts cannot be numbered. Infinite thoughts.
He feeds me and rests me and works me over. And over and over and over.
And even when I don't feel Him, hear Him, or see Him, He hasn't forgotten me because even if He could, there I am--my name, my essence inscribed on the palms of His hands (Isaiah 49:16).

Oh, infinite love!

I am canvas. He is Artist. And all we have is time. Lots and lots of time.

Waiting isn't the wonder. The wonder is that He is able to paint something so complete and beautiful, something resembling His Son, upon a damaged canvas with limited hues over a single lifetime. Or less.

Here under infinite sky shouting out to me the glory of God, I step back and admire His handiwork. I see order. I see beauty. I see design and attention to detail. I see faithfulness.

The Artist comes to work every day.

I don't know where the work is going, but after years I can look back and see the progress. I catch a glimpse of the destination even if I remain uncertain of the plan. The strokes could transform the portrait any number of ways, but in them I see foreshadows of glory. Healing. Wholeness. Christ-likeness. Christ-withness.

The time has passed slowly for me. But two years, ten years, a lifetime--these are just drops in an infinite bucket.

Things may go faster without anxious twitching, but that isn't a promise.

And don't be satisfied with thumb twiddling in the meanwhile because proper waiting shouldn't be idle. Watch. Expect. Cooperate!

Cooperation in forms of gratitude, joy, and loving service yield the best work, but The Artist has a way of redeeming strokes we throw askew. I should know.

Cooperation is learned by fully facing The Artist. Observe Him. Learn Him. Admire Him. Experience His wildness and find it beautiful. Allow Him to see all the damage, all the flaws, all the shortcomings, and present them to Him. To know Him and be known by Him are the keys to deep-soul smiles, ceaseless thank yous, calloused hands, and a tender heart.

The waiting isn't over, and won't be until the Artist is done. Until the naked canvas is fully clothed. Until I am moved to The Gallery where all His perfect and finished work resides.

Basking in the glow of divine faithfulness and childlike obedience under a Minnesota sky with an Infinite Companion is the sweetest euphoria. Even if the waiting isn't over.

 Because the truth has been lived--the Prize can be had in the waiting.

 And His faithfulness is best measured by time.

Mayo Clinic Trip: Naked Edition

"Blessed is the man who trusts in the Lord,

and whose hope is the Lord.

For he shall be like a tree planted by the waters, 

which spreads out its roots by the river,

and will not fear when heat comes;

but its leaf will be green,

and will not be anxious in the year of drought,

nor will cease from yielding fruit.

The heart is deceitful above all things,

and desperately wicked;

who can know it?

I, the Lord, search the heart,

I test the mind,

even to give every man according to his ways,

according to the fruit of His doings."

-Jeremiah 17:7-10

"If I was a tree," I told Mom as I looked up at its crown, "I would want to be this one."

Our bench sat in its shade. The roots sank thick and sturdy into soft, lakeside soil. Its trunk stood fat and strong at the bottom, and reaching skyward, one became two, became three, became four. Supple boughs hung from brave limbs growing away from Mother, and came to life as the wind rushing off the water proposed a dance. We were mesmerized by the waltz. Sway, two, three. Sway, two, three. How many long seasons of nakedness, of bone-crushing winters she must have endured by the water waiting, waiting to achieve such poise and grace. 

Why must she be naked in winter? I want to know for it seems the Lord requires the same vulnerability from me, and the winter has been long. Ten years I have been sick, frightfully so for two. We began planning this trip six months ago, and here we are waiting, waiting over a long, holiday weekend for test results, for the next step. 

But I am like a tree in Louisiana, shedding its clothes in stages, hanging onto my last layers well into winter. I've been fearful to expose too much, afraid of being hurt. I did not know this about myself until last night when God showed me in the quiet and vulnerability of a bath. It has taken all this waiting to really see myself.

When friends asked why I was going to Minnesota, I would say, "Out of obedience to God," which was true. God made it plain I was to take this trip though I could not see the benefit. In my mind, diagnosis was unlikely and the odds of tolerable treatment options were dismal. I planned and prepared out of duty and love for God, but I dared not hope. Hope leads to disappointment, and disappointment after disappointment wears on a soul.

After the encounter with Arthur on Wednesday, I felt hopeful for the first time. The first time. I met with Dr. Park the next day, and left him feeling that maybe my new found hope was justified. He would check for systemic mastocytosis while doing some gentle "fishing."

And then Friday came along, and pressed the hope right out of me. 

The day was long. I woke before 5 with a twinge in my stomach telling me the day ahead would not be like the day before. I prayed, tried to push it aside, and left the hotel at 6 am. Six in the morning, y'all. The day began with blood work, a necessary photo, and "checking" in the dermatology department. An appointment could not be scheduled until June 23, so I was encouraged to wait to be fit in. I was seen quickly--probably because it was Friday.

Though the doctor was very kind and professional, the appointment was kind of degrading. The hospital gown--if one could call it that--was a joke. I was entirely unclothed and entirely unprepared for such a thorough exam which concluded with no clinical findings of cutaneous mastocytosis, a skin biopsy nonetheless, and a psych referral for anxiety. Apparently, my mask had raised a red flag.

After dropping off my 24 hour urine sample, Mom and I made our way to the psychology department. I had been warned by a friend ahead of time to not resist this appointment. It wasn't too bad. A nice lady asked me many, many questions, which led to the sharing of my story for the next hour. 

 

The "container of shame"

She peered at me keenly from behind her glasses. "This illness has left you disabled, hasn't it?"

I hadn't thought about it that way. "I suppose it has."

"Do you feel sad, depressed, or hopeless?"

I thought how to answer, and smiled when the words came. "You know, I used to, and I probably still would if it weren't for Jesus. But because of Him, I take joy in my life, and even though my life is small, I feel like it's valuable."

At the end of the appointment, the psychologist and a psychiatrist sat down with me. Were they concerned about anxiety? No. Depression? Nope. They wanted me to see a specialist of behavior modification for my migraines. Migraines. I was baffled. Yes, I have migraines. Yes, they persist, but they don't make the top 10 list of my most pressing complaints. Weird appointment. But they recommended Silver Lake Park to us, so it wasn't a completely wasted visit. 

Afterward, I was starving and on the brink of collapse. We ate lunch in "our" little courtyard, and made our way to The Quiet Room. The Quiet Room is this magical, sound-proofed space filled with hospital grade recliners and darkness. Mom and I both took an overdue nap. A half hour later, I woke with a start feeling strongly my next appointment would be the most discouraging of the day. I prayed and braced myself.

"Our" courtyard. So peaceful and empty. Mask not required.

We waited a long time to see the gastroenterologist, and when we were finally called back I was underwhelmed to say the least. The doctor did not listen to me. I don't think he read my chart. He recommended a gastric emptying test, an endoscopy and a colonoscopy. I asked if he would do a stain for mast cells. He gave me a blank look, and assured me he would biopsy anything which looked abnormal. He had no clue what I was talking about, and had already made up his mind I had Celiac sprue. He asked me for my departure date. I told him Friday the 30th. I left his office with test schedules and instructions for the gastric emptying test, which required me to eat bread, milk, and eggs and drink radioactive water. The scopes were scheduled for the 30th, which would require me to stay another weekend. 

I was so tired at this point, all I could do was let the information crush me. 

The doctor ordered immediate blood work to test for Celiac disease. As I trudged back to the Hilton Building, I was so defeated I knew the only solution was a song. Not really caring if anyone overheard, I sang softly:

Jesus, Jesus, how I trust Him,

how I've proved Him o'er and o'er.

Jesus, Jesus, precious Jesus,

O, for grace to trust Him more.

After labs, we were finally free to leave. While Mom and I waited for the shuttle back to the hotel, she put her remaining brain cells to good use. I could only nod in agreement. No gastric emptying test. Duh. And the scopes--if necessary--could be done at home. Genius! I high-fived Mom for still being able to think. By the time we returned to our room, it had been an 11 hour day at Mayo. I have no idea how I managed it. 

Grace, grace, God's grace. 

Over the weekend, test results trickled in, all coming back normal. I can see all results on Mayo's Portal application, which allows patients to see consult notes, test results, appointments, etc. online. I've trembled inwardly each time I've pulled up my information, feeling a mixture of relief and frustration with each normal lab. I couldn't help but wonder what those trembles meant. 

On Sunday, we went to Silver Lake. Our thoughts and hearts were still as we watched feathered mothers teach their tiny flocks self-sufficiency. 

I read Psalm 1 and Jeremiah 17 aloud to Mom as we gazed at the tree by the water. My tree. Softly, so softly, God began to speak. Through creation and His word, He whispered subtle truths and made connections in my mind. It wasn't until I was naked and alone that He grabbed me by the shoulders. 

I opened my records again on my iPod in the bath, heart beating fast. And suddenly, I knew. I had been lying to myself. The heart is deceitful above all things. We don't even know our own selves. Until God shows us. 

I have been telling everyone I don't know what I want to come of this trip and diagnosis doesn't matter. But if that were true, my heart wouldn't pound so every time I access my records. All along I've been saying, "I don't know what I hope for, so I will hope in God." But what does that mean, really? Here's the truth--I have not allowed myself to want anything too much because I'm afraid of disappointment. Disappointment hurts.

Stoicism may look like faith, but it's a fake. Faith requires risk. Stuffing desires is not risk; it's self protection. It's the very opposite of faith. 

Can I truly claim with Job, "Though You slay me, yet I will trust You" if I don't give God the opportunity to make me bleed, if I don't put my desires on the altar (Job 13:15)?

Here is my honest desire--I want answers, and I want them desperately. 

Suddenly, I was pouring out my heart to the Savior as I sat in the bath, physically and spiritually naked and vulnerable before Him. And it felt good. Nakedness felt wrong in the dermatologist's office where I was being meticulously examined for flaws by indifferent, clinical eyes. In that hotel bathroom, I was being looked upon with the greatest love of the universe by eyes which see me as perfect and radiant. The love made me bold.

For the first time in two years, I begged God for an answer. I pleaded that I would not return home empty-handed. I sobbed with the psalmist in desperation, "Let me not be ashamed!" (Psalm 25:20) For I would be ashamed if I have come up here for nothing, risking my small measure of health and abandoning my family for ten days on a fool's errand. I reminded Him I had prayed for Him to be glorified. "How can you be glorified unless I am given an answer?" I cried through tears. I know my sight is limited and my wisdom is small, but I just can't see it. 

I. am. terrified. It is so scary to make these admissions to myself, more so to make them public. I am standing stark before you, feeling all the cold of uncertainty in my own Winter of Wait. But here is what I know--God brought me up here. God has led me to this terrifying place of risk, trust, and honest faith, and God wants you to see it. There must be a purpose. There just has to be! I don't know what that purpose is exactly, but I know the purpose is good. I know it will showcase His Son.

God gave me these desires. I didn't go looking for them, so I believe He will answer me. I am so, so afraid. But I believe.

Lord, I believe! Help my unbelief! (Mark 9:24)

"Blessed is the man who trusts in the Lord, and whose hope is the Lord" (Jeremiah 17:7).

Maybe one day I'll attain to the strength and grace of that tree. For now, I'm going out on a limb. 

In Jesus' name, I believe.

Now let's see what He will do. 

Mayo Clinic Trip: Taxi Cab Edition

Aslan is on the move.

Shimmering ripples in the fabric of space and time dazzle our vision here in Minnesota. We stand in awe of the evidences of God's sovereignty. We arrived safely yesterday evening, and though I have been exposed to several triggers which have made me ill, I have not missed a breath or a step. Those Everlasting Arms are flexing (Deuteronomy 33:27). Mercy is holdng me up (Psalm 94:18).

Because this trip was not my idea but God's, I have felt since its inception I should leave the details up to Him. I bathed every decision in prayer. I felt His direction at every turn. But there was one question left unanswered until two weeks before the trip, and we needed to decide--taxi or car rental?

I immediately thought rental. Mom immediately thought taxi. We debated all the practical points. Which would be safest? Which would be the most economical? Which would save us the most stress? We did not know.

I was reading 1 Kings and the book of Acts at the time. In both books, there are examples of God's people casting lots to determine His will. In modern American culture, lot casting is considered to be a game of chance, but the book of Proverbs tells us differently--"The lot is cast into the lap, but its every decision is from the Lord" (Proverbs 16:33). Upon the belief God was leading me to determine His will in a new way, I asked Brandon to flip a coin. Tails. Taxi. Okay.

Our first taxi ride was uneventful. The driver was polite and friendly. He wore cologne, but left the windows rolled down. No big.

Today, we needed a ride to the grocery store in downtown Rochester. Once again, the driver was polite and friendly. And interesting. We small talked on the way to The People's Food Co-op without an inkling of how special this ride would be. We were mostly looking forward to the grocery store. Which. was. fabulous.

It was a mecca of organic, Melissa-friendly food and stuffs. Local farmers sell and trade their produce and meats at the store, which makes them available to the public. Most of the produce is organic. All of it is gorgeous. The meat is local and in some cases grassfed. There is also a large selection of specialty items and natural body care products. Mom and I were in grocery shopping heaven. Seriously, this store made the trip feel like a vacation. I could almost ignore the debilitating pain in my stomach, legs, and arms growing, growing, growing as we passed through the aisles. Almost. Until it began taking my breath away.

On the ride back to the hotel, I felt a nudge from the Holy Spirit as if to say, "Things are about to get interesting." It took a couple of minutes. We were almost at our destination when our driver began telling us about some of his experiences as a driver.

"I've laughed. I've cried. I've prayed with sick people," he said.

"Cool!" Mom replied. "Do you believe in Jesus?"

"Oh, yes. I used to be a pastor of an Assembly of God church."

He proceeded to tell us how after he had prayed for this one man with cancer, the cancer disappeared to the bewilderment of his doctors. He once led a girl to Christ in the front seat. And then he asked if he could pray for me.

"I would love that," I told him.

He took Mom and I by the hand, and began praying. The Holy Spirit fell in that vehicle. There was power in the prayer. I felt a warmth in my chest and torso I cannot explain. And suddenly, the pain all but vanished. I could breathe evenly again. No longer did I feel the need to hunch or clutch my rib cage. Never have I experienced immediate physical relief during or after prayer, but I did in that moment. I was stunned.

We asked his name. Arthur.

Arthur shared with us he was going through his own time of difficulty. No details. I asked if I could pray for him. He said yes. There were tears. I pulled out a handkerchief.

"This is for you," I said.

I told him my pain was better. He let me out of the car, and I couldn't help but embrace him. I loved him. He is my brother. Forever.

When we walked back upstairs, the cleaning chemicals and intense floral perfume did not overpower me. I have enjoyed pain relief all through the evening. Most of all, I have tremendous assurance we are right where we need to be. God has made trust incredibly easy.

He gave me three signs when I asked for one. He worked out every detail. He ordained we take a taxi. He put Arthur in my path as a result. God is here, and He is up to something good.

Thank you for praying for divine appointments! God has already begun answering your prayers! Glory to His name!

Update on Morgan: Surgery went incredibly well. It was not exploratory after all. Her doctor was able to assess and correct the problem immediately. She was discharged today with her pain under control. Praise God! Thank you for praying!

Mayo Clinic Trip: Prayer Request Edition

After six months of thinking about it, praying about it, and planning for it, it seems kind of surreal the Mayo trip is upon us. We leave Tuesday. As in less than two days from now. 38 hours. We are down to hours, people.

A few of you have asked me how I feel about the trip. Truth be told, I am not thinking about it much. I am focusing on the task directly in front of me. At the moment, that means this blog post. For the past week, I've kept a manageable to-do list each day. There is grace to complete what must be completed, wisdom to know what is unnecessary. My days have been full, rewarding, and exhausting--mostly because the kids and I have cooked something up in the kitchen every day this week. Jesus has walked with me step by step, strengthening my soul, making me brave, and multiplying my efforts. (Can you believe I have prepared and frozen enough meals to sustain my family the entire time I am gone? I didn't think it could be done!) The moment my mind wanders from the task at hand to the upcoming trip--so full of danger and unknowns--I abandon the realm of grace.

Venturing outside of grace is like tiptoeing to the edge of a bottomless chasm. I look down into the darkness, feeling all my smallness and fragility. I attempt to imagine what's hidden in the shadows. It could be good. It could be bad. I don't really know. My stomach somersaults uncomfortably. My legs lose their bones. And that is all I can take before I run back to where grace is applied. When it's time to go spelunking, there will be grace for that. Everything I will need--physically, emotionally, and spiritually--is already supplied. But it's not yet ap-plied so I don't look there often. Or for long. And my stomach and legs thank me for it.

SO--I'm taking everything as it comes. I'm neither excited nor anxious about the trip. I am looking forward to walking with Jesus through it all, and experiencing His faithfulness in new ways. I'm curious about His purposes. Will He give me a glimpse of a few? Only the next two weeks will tell.

In the meantime, this is what you can ask of the Lord on my behalf:

1) God's glory. Whatever happens--whether good or seemingly bad--I want Jesus to be honored. His glory is more important to me than answers, my safety, or anything. When you pray for me, ask for God to be glorified first.

2) Mercy/safety. I want this trip to go as safely and smoothly as possible. Transportation is a significant concern. I am so thankful for Wings of Hope. Who could have imagined such a provision? But the plane will be small. I anticipate a fair amount of anxiety on my part. But who knows? Maybe I will like it! Either way, God does not abandon us after providing for us. He will help me out of His goodness and through your prayers. Also, taxi and shuttle services are potentially dangerous even with my mask.

3) Dr. Miguel Parks. I am asking the Lord to give Dr. Parks wisdom and compassion concerning me. I want him to want to help me. I want him to know what he should look for. I don't want a ton of unnecessary tests. Ask God to grant him discernment.

4) Mom. My mother will be my travel companion. This is no easy job. It will be up to her to perform rescue work if I have a severe reaction. She has to help me decide which tests to undergo and which ones to refuse. She is my advocate, and the only person I can really trust on this trip. Please pray for sufficient grace, wisdom, strength, joy, and peace for her.

5) My Superman. I have never been so glad to be married to a superhero, but even superheroes need prayer! Ask the Lord to give my man peace, strength, and patience as he becomes a working single parent for 10 days. His mind will often be in Minnesota. Pray the peace of God will stand guard over his thoughts. Ask that he would keep his eyes on the cross. 

6) Micah and Sara. My main concern is they would feel secure while I am gone. They are sensitive kids, and are used to having their momma readily available. Ask the Lord to manifest Himself to them in ways they understand. The childcare schedule is pictured below. You can pray for their caretakers each day if you wish. Dad is Arden, Nona is Sue, and Honey is Sue.

7) Divine appointments. I see this trip as a mission trip before I see it as a medical one. Ask the Lord to give Mom and me seeing eyes and open hearts. Ask Him to work powerfully in and through us to accomplish whatever He has prepared beforehand (Ephesians 2:10).

8) Helpful answers. I would love to leave Minnesota with a little more clarity and a firm plan in place.

9) Finally, I will ask you to pray for my cousin Morgan. She is more than my cousin--she has been my friend for 15 years. I love her like a sister. She is undergoing a high-risk, exploratory brain surgery on Tuesday, the day we leave for Minnesota. Morgan's neurosurgeon has admitted she is nervous about the surgery. "Nervous" is not a word you want to hear from your surgeon, especially your brain surgeon!

Mom and her mom (Suzonne) are sisters. Our family is close. We find it extremely difficult to leave at such a time, and we just can't understand why God would ordain both events to happen at once. However, we know God is GOD to both of us. We know He is God whether we are together or apart. He is God in Louisiana and Minnesota. We know He is equally present and active in both situations. We have nothing to fear.

Rather than explain the particulars of Morgan's situation in my own words, I have copied her Facebook status below:

"I have now been completely down since the beginning of March and lying flat almost a month. But I have been declining far longer than that. On Friday after getting much worse my doctor called me before leaving town for the weekend and scheduled brain surgery for Tuesday. She will be replacing my shunt for sure but doesn't know yet if she will have to replace the catheter that leads into my brain. Please pray for her as she makes this big decision. This will be the risky part of the surgery for me because my ventricles are slit (small) which puts me at high risk for a brain bleed or for not being able to get the catheter back in or back in a good place which would lead to more surgeries. If at all possible we would like to not have to have this part replaced. Also pray for peace for me and my family. And a speedy recovery. I am by no means looking forward to this. It is my 5th brain surgery on top of 4 other shunt related surgeries in 10 years. I am no stranger to the hospital yet I still have my fears. But my God has brought me through many trials and many hard roads. I know he isn't through with me yet. I maybe very tired a weary of these battles I face but Gods word says that He isn't tired of giving me power and strength. "Hast thou not known? hast thou not heard, that the everlasting God, the Lord, the Creator of the ends of the earth, fainteth not, neither is weary? there is no searching of his understanding. He giveth power to the faint; and to them that have no might he increaseth strength" (Isaiah 40:28, 29) SO I WILL "hope continually, and will yet praise thee more and more." (Psalms 71:14)."

Note: Morgan is wife to Nathan and mother to Shelby, age 4. Shelby and Micah are best friends.


One final thought--If something goes wrong, know that it hasn't.

I wrote these words in my journal the other day. I spoke them to Brandon today on our date.

 Let's decide now we will abide in this mindset. My trip and Morgan's surgery were planned before the beginning of time--small events woven into a fabric of glorious, grand proportions. God is weaving our threads into beautiful purposes. He sees the big picture. He knows what He is doing. His heart is kind, and His purposes are good. We can trust Him. I speak this over me, my family, over Morgan, and over you, Dear Reader--"If something goes wrong, know that it hasn't." Not really and not forever.

Mom and I will post updates to Facebook. For those of you who are not on Facebook, we will also send out texts. We only need your cell number. You can email your number to melkeaster@gmail.com. If you are on Facebook, but would also like to receive texts, please let me know.

Thank you for taking an interest in my life and my family. Thank you for reading my thoughts and praying for me for the past two years. Thank you for praying now. God bless you.

A perfect way to wake up on Sunday morning. I'm gonna miss these monkeys while I'm gone. 

All three of them.