"Sometimes it is a kindness to let someone be wrong."

So said I to my niece one sunny afternoon when she was yelling at her friend Zach because he insisted that 14 immediately follows 7.

He was on the point of tears and insisted he was right.
He was wrong.
But he was 4.

He hadn't yet grown up enough to realize, indeed, 14 does not immediately follow 7.  Yelling at him wouldn't do any good, and it would be kinder to let him sit in his fallacy until he was ready to hear the truth.

Thus I tried explaining to my niece.  And as soon as the words were out of my mouth, I realized I needed to hear them far more than she.

How Grandma Lois Married an Abusive Man and Saved the Lives of His 3 Children; also entitled, "That one time I saw Grandma cry"

Four generations: Mom, Sister, niece, Grandma Lois

My grandpa died when my mom was 3 years old.  This was always a great tragedy to me, as I am incredibly nostalgic and fiercely in love with my family.  (Let's ignore that I wouldn't have been born if he'd lived...that's a moot point and a long story.)  Yet in keeping with "all things working together for good", my grandma remarried when Mom was 8.  His name was George.  Georgie Pordgie. A living nightmare.

He'd killed his first wife and her father, though he never got caught for it.  We know he did because he tried to kill my grandmother in the same way they'd died.  He tried multiple times.  Thankfully my grandma had a crazy mother and knew how to deal with insanity - she simply refused to die.

But she would leave.  After 4 years of terror and tantrums (the tantrums, of course, on George's part) Grandma left.  But she couldn't just escape into the night, no. You see, George the sadist had 3 daughters by his first wife.  Grandma Lois couldn't leave them to be beaten and berated til death or majority did them part.  She determined to get them out too.  The problem was, things didn't work in the 60s the way they work today - no matter how many times George's abuse was reported, the children were not taken away and the man was not imprisoned. There was only one thing left to do: buy him off.

The house was  in Grandma's name. When George denied her custody of his children, she offered him half the proceeds of the sale of the house.  By some great miracle (there IS a God), he agreed, on the stipulation that they go to a girls' home rather than be given to her.  She said yes, found them a good home in Iowa, and put them on a plane.  To this day she'll say letting them go was one of the hardest things she ever did, but she had to do it to get them away from George.  The girls were raised in Iowa and ended up staying there.  Though I heard the stories my whole life, I never met them.

Two weeks ago my cousin Desiree got married.  Desiree is the daughter of my mother's half sister Dawna - the only child Grandma Lois and George had together.  The oldest of George's daughters came out for the wedding, since Desiree is technically her blood niece.  Meeting her was kind of like meeting my dead grandfather: a legendary creature from my mother's past come alive again.  All the old stories were dredged up, but this time I got to hear them from Sandy's perspective too.  Apparently he'd tried to kill her the same way he'd killed her mother.  To an abused 9-year-old in the 1960s, Grandma's second marriage is the best thing that could have happened. She calls Grandma "Mama" - strange and childlike and affectionate to my ears since my mom and aunties and uncle just call her "Mom".

I went with Grandma and Aunt Brenda and Aunt Carol the day Sandy was dropped off to the airport cause, like I said, I'm terribly nostalgic.  These family interactions mean something to me; the stories are buried in the vaults of my heart. I waited in the running car as I watched the four of them disappear around a corner to see Sandy safely off.  When my aunties and grandma came back they were crying - all three.  As Sandy said goodbye she had clutched them tightly, crying, and saying, "You saved my life."

It was the only time I've ever seen my grandmother cry.

R.I.P. Bonnie Jean

You are missed,
and
I will see you again.

Giving and Taking

I just read the most magnificent blog post about how one church does the offering: http://www.wadeburleson.org/2012/11/thankful-for-giving-this-thanksgiving.html.  I really really really wish my church did this.  I wish all churches did this.

Sometimes

(though not all times)
I struggle to hold on
to all the good things
I believe about God.
It is rare I doubt the existence of God.
But,
the goodness of God,
the love,
joy,
peace,
patience,
kindness,
goodness,
faithfulness,
gentleness,
and self-control of God...
somehow that's just harder to believe at times.

So I throw my body around it,
and cling to it,
like a child around her Daddy's leg.

"Yes, I will believe You."

Freedom:

it's just around the corner, friend.
A fear-less life.
Just step into it.
It's there.

The way we are with God

"I have decided," he said slowly, his head rolled back as he sat on the couch strung out on heroine, "to give your friend R.A. a chance."  This, to my friend, his older sister, who told him she would, "Never do that to R.A."

He's good looking.
He's intelligent.
He's a raging drug addict who sleeps with a loaded gun under his pillow.
If he didn't love heroine more than food or family or life itself I might be willing to go on a date with him, but as is he doesn't have a snowball's chance in Phoenix. I'm no prize and I'm willing to overlook other people's issues, but I am not taking on a drug addict.  I watched my sister go through that; not happening.

Anyway it's a bit funny to think of a man lost in addiction giving a non-addict "a chance".  
I have to smile.

And then I stop and think, 
"This is how we are with God."

We are beautiful, no doubt.  How couldn't we be?  We're the Imago Dei, and as long as we bear His image we are beautiful, if broken, creatures. But God is too good for us.  Yet we sit there in our self-addiction saying to God, "I have decided to give you a chance."

How God must smile. 

Time and Money

I was supposed to work this entire week but Dad doesn't need me so I am at home instead. The extra time to prepare for surgery is nice as I get my room in order (I moved all the furniture around and have made it as recovery-friendly as I can), but the fundraiser made around $2,000 less than my anticipated need and my own financial situation isn't strong because of being sick for so long, so missing my last week of work is a stretch.

However, on top of not working this week I also had to pay Dr. Cook the full amount for his cut of the surgery (paying the hospital et al comes post-surgery). The total amount? Two thousand dollars less than the paperwork said I'd be paying. Two thousand less than I expected to pay when Bekah and I came up with the fundraiser amount.

Is surgery the right decision? Well I would say Someone keeps opening doors in this direction...

What pain does to you

"For he has, in the last resort, nothing to give us but himself." - C.S. Lewis

"God is all I want.  Jesus is truly all I have.  I have nothing but Him.  I have nothing but Him.  And I want nothing but Him.  He is everything.  He is all I have.  He is all I want.  In the end, there is only Him.  In the beginning, there is only Him.  In the present, there is only Him.  God is my marvelous Everything." - Excerpt from my journal, November 2010, on one of the most physically painful days I have ever lived through. 

"Therefore, since Christ suffered in his body, arm yourselves also with the same attitude, because whoever suffers in the body is done with sin. As a result, they do not live the rest of their earthly lives for evil human desires, but rather for the will of God." - 1 Peter 4:1-2

“Because almost everything—all external expectations, all pride, all fear of embarrassment or failure—these things just fall away in the face of death, leaving only what is truly important. … You are already naked.” - Steve Jobs

-------

Pain gives you clarity.
I don't want to have pain anymore, and even this past month, knowing full well it might have been my last month of pain, I still tried a new painkiller to avoid the inevitable (didn't work). 
But pain is so cleansing.
I don't want pain.
But it's so sight-giving.

I want to live a life free of pain because pain is a hindrance.  It's a hindrance to ministry.  It's a hindrance to socializing. Sometimes it's even a hindrance to staying awake (even in the pain-free moments you suffer a lot of fatigue from having been in pain).  

Yet I would never trade the insights God has brought to me through the pain.  That excerpt from my journal...what a defining moment that was!  I'll never forget it for as long or as short as I live: the moment I truly, wholly understood that Jesus gives me Himself and nothing less.  Nothing is lacking in my life, because I have nothing.  The Lord took everything from me: health, financial stability, independence (that one hurt), my photographic memory (gone! that one hurt too).  He stripped me of all I thought I owned, all I thought was mine, so that I could understand that He is the only thing that really belongs to me.  I am my Beloved's and He is mine.  I will die.  Not even this body that I think so much and so little of is mine.  I don't own it, don't possess it - it will be taken away from me someday. 

But I have everything because I have Jesus.  And Jesus is all I have. 

So I look forward to being pain-free.  But, ah, Lord, let me keep the clarity!

Definition of Worship

"Giving your heart to something for the promise of life." - Ransomed Heart Ministries

Words with Friends

Think of the immense love of God,
that
He used the wickedness
of Joseph's brothers
to save their lives.

John 6:68

"Lord, to whom shall we go? You have the words of eternal life."

A few weeks ago I got this verse.   Like really got it, heart, soul, spirit. And this morning I realized, how blessed am I that at such a young age God let me get it? There is no where to go but God; seriously, everything else is empty.  I mean, seriously.

 

 

I look back

on the naive sincerity of my early adulthood
and pray
and hope
that though I've lost the naiveté
I will never lose the sincerity.

The Season of the Rage Monster

For all the negative words I could use to describe myself, anger is not one of them.  I get moody, yeah, and can seriously grump out when things aren't going my way (working on that!) but anger...that's a relatively unfamiliar emotion to me, especially when it shows up in the form of rage.

I mean, Rage.  Like the Hulk.  Like Mark Ruffalo terryfing the shiz out of Scarlett Johannson at 30,000 feet then falling to the ground and surviving.  Like blood and fear and anger and hate speeding through your veins and enlarging your heart and brain til you think your body will burst with the pressure.

Rage.

In 29 years of life I never felt Rage, but at 30 it's my new worst enemy.  I don't think it's biological, I think it's because when I hit 30 my world was falling apart - I was half-raising my sister's kid while bringing in less money than my bills were taking out and my pelvic pain was getting steadily worse even while I was doing more and trying more and spending more than ever to try and make it better.  I felt trapped in a cyclone of worse, and then the cyclone became me, and now, I am the cyclone.

I am not enraged about having to have surgery.
I am not enraged that my sister returned and is being a mom again without acknowledging what she did to the family.
I am not enraged that I don't make much money.
I am not enraged that I felt, and feel, stuck.

I am enraged that that dbag cut me off in traffic.
I am enraged that we're out of dish soap.
I am enraged that the new guy at work won't put the lid down - even when asked.

Like, that's the thing about Rage - it doesn't make sense.  You think you're working on all the hard emotions that arise with hard circumstances, but all of a sudden you're having a screaming fit in your car because the grocery store was out of your shampoo.

Really?  Shampoo?

No, not shampoo.  This is really about the fact that I never got a thank you from my sister.  This is about the fact that I am scared shitless about surgery - so, so, so, so scared.  This is about the fact that surgery is really expensive and I've already poured approximately $15,000 and 10 years into trying to get better and the weight of all that money is making me tired. This is about thinking I'm taking my worry and stress and sorrow to God when really I'm just holding it behind my back while smiling and saying, "Here you go, Jesus.  It's all yours."

I need your prayers.  And please - if this has happened to you, please please leave a comment on how you dealt (still deal?) with it.

******
And for fun:

Calling it Out: Shame, Part I

It's been exactly a week since my sister started my surgery fundraiser.  That small action has called up a perfect Pandora's box of stuff for me to deal with.  I want to talk about it here for two reasons: 1) Naming an issue helps you move past it. 2) I said I wanted to help raise awareness about this disease.  I meant it, and chronicling my experiences might help bring awareness not just of the disease itself, but of the emotional side to it.

I have a lot of shame over this illness.  I don't think I realized how much until everyone I knew suddenly knew that I had it.  I've been thinking a lot about the sources of that shame and I think it stems from:

1. Not being believed for the longest time ("You're just being dramatic" "Everyone has pain sometimes." "Just drink more water." "Is something else going on in your life?  Should I prescribe Zanax?")
2. Not being healed yet, despite many efforts, many doctors, many dollars spent, and way too many medications and supplements.
3. The intimate nature of the disease.  This has been a huge source of embarrassment for me ever since I started having symptoms.  Do I want you to know I missed that church event because I was in pain?  No, because now you know that I was on my period during said church event, cause my period is the source of my pain.
4. Missing out.  A friend of mine once described me as an IOU.  Ouch. I should just muscle through this, right?  Make myself go to things even though I'm in pain?  I also look flaky because, besides missing events I say I'll attend, I now have a hard time committing to anything just in case that day is one of the days.
5. Being weak. I have five sisters.  I'm the only one with this condition.  I'm also the only one who's ever needed surgery for an illness rather than an accident. I.don't.like.this.

Those are the main sources of my shame, and here are the truths I've been trying to tell myself to combat that shame (you could be praying these things for me too - and speak them over other women in your life who have similar diseases!):

1. On not being believed: I don't need other people's approval.  I know this pain is real.  And I know that many other women have had similar experiences to mine in not being believed at all, and not even being diagnosed until they were 10 or 12 years into the disease. I am not alone in this.  One story I remind myself of is my friend's mother-in-law, Sara.  She's from an older generation where this disease really wasn't understood or tolerated.  Doctor's not only disbelieved her, they put her on anti-psychotics.  She became an alcoholic to deal with it all (the physical pain of endo and emotional pain of being thought of as insane). Finally in her 40s, a doctor knew what was going on, told her about it, and performed surgery for her.  After the surgery he gave her photos of her diseased organs and wrote in Sharpie all across the top, "Sara's NOT crazy!"  (And if that story doesn't make you cry, I don't know what will.)
2. On not being healed yet: God has a plan.  The outpouring of love I've had from friends, family, and perfect strangers since deciding to have surgery has been so healing to my heart.  It's a long story, but the love of others is healing me from several years of heart-breaking events.  If I didn't need surgery, I would never have experienced this outpouring.  God is good.
3. On the intimate nature of the disease: Women have periods and everybody poops.  GET OVER IT.
4. On missing out: I may have looked flaky all these years, but I'm not a flaky person. I am incredibly committed to everything I do.  In fact, I had to quit college on two separate occasions because of health and finances (which go hand-in-hand) and both times went back to finish, completing my B.A. in linguistics in 2010 at the age of 28.  
5. On being weak: We are all weak, we're all just pretending not to be.  We are all mortal.  We are all needy.  It is good to have a physical reminder that turns me to the Lord.  Not everyone has that blessing!

Alright, lunch is over and I have to get back to work.  Later this week I'll post again about shame in asking for help.

This week I

• decided to have surgery, which I've been trying to avoid for more than half a decade
• made a video talking about my chronic pain and posted it publicly on YouTube for the entire world to watch if they wanted
• asked everyone I know for money for myself, and
• sat back and watched this unbelievable response of love and support from them

I'm a processor who journals or blogs her brains out about everything.  Just one of those bullet points listed above would require a month, at least, of processing.  And all 4 have happened within the span of a few days.  I'm a bit on overload right now, like that little colored spinning wheel that pops up when your Mac just can't handle all you're asking of it.  Can't journal.  But it's been great for working out. ;)

Previous experience and a blog that I had to kill before its time have taught me that blogging late at night when I'm emotional and tired isn't a good idea.

But what the heck...I'm gonna be stupid for a bit.

Twenty-four days ago I posted on the goodness of God.  Yesterday I was yelling at Him about how I feel unloved and don't feel I can trust Him.  The change came because Monday I decided to get surgery.  Surgery has been my dying option - I will try every road, every method imaginable in order to avoid going under.  But 13 years of pain and it only worsens.  I have little glimpses of getting better, like Lewis talks about his wife having several "miraculous" remissions.  I've had those too.  In fact, my entire year in Kentucky when I was 22 was characterized by zero symptoms.  And last month was brilliant - half the pain of usual (which is saying a lot when your pain is at a 9 out of 10), making me think that maybe my dietary changes were making a difference after all.  But this month was unbearable; I almost asked Mom to take me to the E.R.  The only reason I didn't was that I finally stopped throwing up...and I believe the only reason I finally stopped throwing up was because I sent out a mass text to everyone I know who takes prayer seriously and asked them to pray for me.

Then I praised God for keeping me out of the E.R.
Then I yelled at Him the next day for not making me better.

Have I written this here before? My income has been consistently below the poverty line for the last 5 years because of missed days at work from the endometriosis.  Have I written this here before?  I don't have insurance because of the endometriosis.  I know I haven't written this here before: those two stated realities mean that I'll have to take out a personal loan to in order to get surgery.

And the surgery is only effective 40% of the time.  So I'll be taking out, say, a $20,000 personal loan so that I can stop missing days of work in order to get a surgery that might not work.  In essence, I may be screwing myself.

I've never wrestled with God's love for me before, and it seems childish that I should start now, over an illness.  But I'm worn down, my friends.  Endometriosis pain is more severe than the pain of a woman in labor.  And I have four days of it. Every.month. And I've had 13 years of it. And I've tried every non-surgical remedy in existence, and I've considered getting knocked up like that one doctor told me I should.  Yeah,

"Hey baby,
I brought you into this world just to make my body feel better,
but I didn't really want you
and I didn't like your daddy very much either."

Yeah.
No.

I know other people suffer worse than I do.  I know I have it pretty good, considering I have a dad who's self-employed and is letting me live in his house rent-free and work for him while I try to sort out my shit. I know I am blessed to live in the U.S. with running water and flushing toilets...imagine the women who live in the bush and have endo...poor things.  I have a soft bed and a heating pad and filtered water and a cell phone with which to text my mom downstairs when I run out of said water and need more but am in too much pain to walk.  Really...in the land of disease and suffering, I don't have it so very bad.

But I'm tired.  And I don't understand.  And I feel like I have no future. And I feel like even my present is being stolen away from me.  And I wonder why God hasn't healed me or allowed one of these other methods to work.  There's so much I want to do, so much life to live, and my dreams aren't selfish. I know other people who have been miraculously healed from the worst of diagnoses.  Yet here am I, constantly moving in the direction of worse.  And I question God about it. And I know the right answers.

But
to know
is not always
to feel.

So...surgery.

God is good!

Of His goodness there is no end.
Of His blessings there is no end.
God is so very very good.

Whatever your hand finds to do, do it with all your might...

This verse has been ringing in my head these past two very busy weeks.  My hands are finding new things to do around every corner - things I never thought I would pursue. Quickbooks, as I take over the finances at work.  Mazatrol, as I learn to become a real machinist, and not just a button pusher.  Engaging with the unexpected blessing of adolescent step-nieces and nephew as they try to find their way in a new state.  All of these things cause a little bit of fear and trembling as they don't swing in the direction of my natural gifting.  But God has put these tasks into my hand; in His strength, I can do it.

From the Wikipedia article on Susanna Wesley:

Wesley practised daily devotions throughout her life, but, shortly before her death, she wrote to her son Charles, admitting that she had struggled with doubt throughout her life and only now had finally found peace in her faith.

For one who struggles and doubts, this is comforting.