Everyday Life: On Healing

I pulled over the car as the anger resounding from the backseat grew so loud that I could no longer concentrate on driving.

I hopped out of the car, and ushered one of my children out of the vehicle to have a face-to-face talk.

I wanted so badly to scold. The behavior was just atrocious and the language had crossed from disappointed to down right rude after I'd said we'd be sticking to a rule my husband and I made despite today being a special holiday.

But when I looked into my little's red eyes, I could see the pain and frustration spilling over into tears.

Said child was upset because this entire day was not going the way he wanted.

"Nothing is going right!" he sobbed.

The Spirit whispered to me to respond with understanding instead of laying down the law; this wasn't just about a rule being held. This was about something much bigger.

"It's true," I said gently. "Life isn't fair. Things don't always go the way you want them to go. And that's difficult."

Traffic whizzed by several yards away, as we continued to talk on the sidewalk of a side street.

"When things don't go my way ... it's just bad ..." he said. "And it makes me angry."

"Me, too," I confided.

"Like what?" he asked inquisitively.

I shared with him that Father's Day has been hard for me since my dad, his grandfather, died four years ago.

We connected in that instance beneath the early-evening sun.

"And that's sad," I said. "I've had to cry a lot of tears and heal ... but now I choose whether or not I am going to be happy regardless of circumstances."

I told him that while I still miss my dad, I am thankful for the fathers God has brought to my life. I have several incredible men in my life who have stepped up to the plate and taken me as though I was actually their own. And I married a man who has shown himself an incredible dad. 

"That's a whole lot to be thankful for ... even when I'm sad and miss my dad."

He agreed. 

"But sometimes I am angry."

I wanted to explain to him how I've been learning to release the anger I've harbored and replace it with love ... from God and from myself and from others God has placed in my life. 

I wanted to tell him about how anger eats away at our insides and how it hurts us so much more than we realize, how God has been so faithful and so good to give me love and how I've learned to receive love.

How I've needed more to heal from my own anger than I've needed to heal from the actual hurts the anger was born from. 

But I knew those words were for a different day. 

Today, I simply said, "Me, too, son.  Sometimes I'm angry, too. But I'm learning to choose happiness after I express my anger and tell God about it. Maybe you might feel better if you do the same? What are you grateful for?"

So we name the blessings one by one aloud together, at first begrudgingly ... and by the time we arrive at our destination, my child who normally can hold a grudge for an entire day, said aloud without prompting how thankful he was to see family we don't get to see often enough. 

And by the time we arrive, I find myself thankful to have shared pieces of the day with each of the men still on Earth who have loved me as a daughter.  

Life After Miscarriage: Every Storm Runs Out of Rain

She gave me this painting back in April when I was drenched from standing in the middle of a torrential down pour that felt like it might never end.

My heart dripping and my flooded, she had prayed peace and healing over the colors and words she so lovingly spread out over the white of canvas and pages of His Word from James 1, a visual prayer layered with truth and hope.

And that painting stood as an encouragement that my suffering wouldn't be in vain

and

that every storm runs out of rain.

I kept it close day in and day out for months, reading the words from James so many times I could almost say them in my sleep. Sometime during the summer, though, I noticed that I didn't need that prayer quite like I needed it before, so I began paying more attention to some other passages of scripture that were meeting me where I'd been living -- abiding {John 15) and living a life of faith {Hebrews 11}.

A few weeks ago, one of my really good friends lost her baby, and as I sat on my bed crying for her, crying over the brokenness of our world, I looked long and hard at that painting that still sits on my nightstand.

That visual prayer  -- it was right.

Every storm does run out of rain.

It's something I can see seven months away from when we unexpectedly said goodbye to our baby and I said hello to a whole new level of anxiety for a period of time. It's something I can understand now. But when that storm was raging, it was hard to imagine any break in rain would ever occur.

And the first chapter of James was, of course, right, too; every ounce of suffering does produce perseverance and character.

Last week, as I standing in the park watching my boys laugh and play with warm October sunshine warming my face, I realized the storm storm clouds have been broken apart and cleared for awhile now.

I can feel the warmth of the sun again, my heart no longer a sopping wet mess of tears and anxiety,

and I can feel my lungs inhale the deepest of breaths without feeling like I'm exhaling the weight of the world through my mouth.

That very night, I shared while at a session with a beautiful soul whose been walking with me through the grief that has accompanied the loss of our babies that I don't feel like I'm the person I was even a year ago.

She nodded and smiled and agreed, saying that my spirit was calmer, my demeanor softer, my heart less guarded. And while I'd never choose to walk that path of hurt again, I could now appreciate what suffering has produced in my character, my spirit, my heart. All of that doesn't make the loss any less stinging, but it does grow hope in a weary heart that is so very tired of hurting.

I left that session feeling stronger, more of the woman I was created to be than I had in months, even years.

And I left that session realizing that what I thought couldn't be true is, indeed, true-- every storm runs out of rain, passes at some point. I think, perhaps that visual prayer that was an umbrella of hope over my head for so long needs to be passed along, too, a small but mighty shield from the storms of life, a traveling reminder that our hearts can hope for healing because He does heal and He is Healer.

And it will be accompanied by a journal with my story of the healing {and hopefully passed along again with another story of healing}, a traveling visual prayer of hope with stories of how the storms have passed and what He did in the midst.

For Michelle, the painter of my visual prayer, fellow hope seeker and heart-companion who keeps pointing me back to Jesus. 

Life After Miscarriage: Dear Selah

My dear Selah,

I certainly thought at the dawn of the new year that I'd either be holding you in my arms this week or anticipating your pending arrival. When you slipped into eternity after 12 weeks nestled in the depths of my womb, I was broken hearted and just plain broken.

I simply couldn't believe we'd lost you; I thought you'd call these arms, this family, this place here on Earth home for longer than your short life here. When I birthed you and held your tiny body, I marveled at your small but perfect form. We named you Selah because in the Psalms, the Psalmists often put a break in their Psalms with the word Selah -- a pregnant pause of sorts, a praise to God. But there really isn't an accurate direct translation ... Your name is fitting.

Because you, beautiful soul, have been just that for me -- a pregnant pause. A long, drawn-out pause amid the hectic nature of life, calling my attention to beauty and miracles and overflow.

For days turned weeks turned months, I longed for you; the empty inside of me screamed and the space where you once fit ached, the heaviest empty I've known in years. 

Truth be told, that empty wasn't yours to fill, and you know that because where you dwell there is no empty. There's only overflow. 

But your life -- it made me pause, long and slow and steady. It pushed me to the Filler of the Empty, asking, aching to be filled. It pushed me to consider the faith I've long clung to; it pushed me to claim the promise that whenever we seek, we find Him waiting, ready to take that ocean of empty I thought I could fill bucket full at a time, with His very self. Your life showed me that beauty and miracles and overflow are often born of pain and grief and empty. 

You are a praise to God from my lips.

You are not the baby we lost. We know you are; you dwell in very depths of goodness and in my heart. 

And because of your life and because of His goodness, you'll always live in the overflow there inside my chest instead of in the empty. 

I love you, 

Mommy

One Word 365: In Which I Intimately Understand Rejoicing

I thought we had turned the corner on that first brilliantly sunny day of the new year. 

I thought surely God had given me the word rejoice for my yearly word just a day before for wonderfully obvious reasons.

On that New Year's Day, I was feeling remarkably better than I had in years. Just a few weeks prior, I had let go of a really toxic relationship and the guilt that accompanied it was replaced by peace. And on that first day of the new year, we discovered I was carrying our long-desired baby after having had our hearts broken by two miscarriages.

I wasn't naive enough to think the year would be without challenges. I knew adding a baby to the family would bring trials in itself

But I thought I really understood why God had given me that word, rejoice. Because, indeed, there was a lot to rejoice about. And a new baby would naturally have us rejoicing.

When we lost the third baby just shy of 12 weeks into pregnancy I just couldn't understand why God had given me that word.

I honestly thought that the birth of our little one was a central reason for our rejoicing. 

And it has been -- just not in ways I could have ever dreamed.

The day I birthed our tiny baby into my hands, I had to make a decision. 

I could sink under the heavy weight of grief. I could swim against the relentlessly smashing waves of sorrow and anxiety.

Or I could throw my hands up and cry out for rescue.

I threw my hands up, wildly waving them that day, asking Jesus himself to pull me out of the storm. 

And almost every day since, I've thrown my hands into the air in still-surrender.

It's looked nothing like a sweet surrender and everything like a flagging down of the mother ship. 

During the first few months of the storm especially, I  angsted over and lamented the darkness overhead.  As I was pulled through those days, a small boat tethered to the Rescue Ship, I was tempted to sever myself and just sink into the angry waters.

And on those days I felt the rope become increasingly taut ... until I actually found the rope had given way to being in the arms of the Rescuer. 

I asked Him who He was. Really. Who was this Rescuer who came in my distress? And what was His heart for me,  He who could have just as easily quieted the wind and waves. 

He who instead He stilled me. 

Over and over He spoke that verse about being still and knowing he was God to my heart in ways I couldn't understand until I finally began letting go of the busy, the expectations, letting the noise and other voices around me fade.

Have you ever tried to rescue someone who thought they were drowning? I have. My oldest son has been extremely cautious of water his whole life. He once went in over his head and when I got to him his thrashing, his movement made it all the more difficult for him to realize I had him and he was safe.

It wasn't until I began coming before Him in silence that I really began to relax and clearly see I was safe in His arms.

In those long stretched out days of silence and stillness, He began revealing himself to me in more intimate ways than I had ever known. I began entering into times of conversation, where I could hear His heart for me. At first it was harder to distinguish, but the more time I spent listening, the more I recognized it as clearly as I could hear my boys calling me from the opposite end of a busy park.

When I began hearing His voice regularly, and it always lines up with the Word I'll add, I began hearing His heart for me. He called me daughter clearly one evening as I drove home beneath blue skies and puffy pink clouds after a therapy session. 

After I realized the storm I'd been in was a product of sifting from the king of lies, I asked Him to call me by my new name just as he had done for Simon when he renamed him Peter after denying Christ three times.

And he called me His lovely bride. I wrote down the truths that communicated about both me and also Jesus.

In this I realized I am valuable and loved, worthwhile and captivating while He is everything I've ever dreamed the most ideal husband to be: strong and patient, valiant and just, loving and merciful. 

And I realized it beyond the song and dance I've known. 

I realized it intimately and deeply, like I was truly hearing the lyrics to parts of the song I'd always just hummed over but enjoyed before. 

There's more. Because with Him, there is always more but theres only so much time to write today. 

The clouds seem like they are breaking apart now. The sun keeps poking out and streaming through these days. Not only is my body healing from the stress and regaining the physical balance that began faultering after the miscarriage; my heart and my mind and even our marriage has also been getting healthier, stronger.

Healing has been slow but drenching. 

That, indeed, is a reason to rejoice. 

Seven months ago at the start of the year I would have thought that our word for the year was finally holding true.

And it is. 

But for reasons I never expected.

I rejoice today because the Rescuer of the storms is far more complex and personable than what I ever knew or understood

And His heart for me goes far deeper than any depths I could sink.

 

Bigger Picture Moments: Consider this Strength Shared

"Simon, Simon, Satan has asked to sift you like wheat. But I have prayed for you, Simon, that your faith may not fail. And when you have turned back, strengthen your brothers." Luke 22:31-32 

Grief has this way of making everything that was once black and white seem like a million shades of grey.

And grief upon grief upon grief has a way of making you question if colors even exist at all.

After we lost our baby in March, I fell into a deep funk I haven't been able to explain. The kind where I've questioned knowing even the most basic tenants of my own heart -- up versus down, the goodness of God, who I really am

and the most basic principles of the world I've known for the past almost eight years since marrying John -- am I really safe, what is solid ground anyway, on what am I standing?

People have asked me how I'm doing, and I just haven't had an answer other than "better every week."

Which has mostly been true.

Have you ever stood in front of the mirror and found yourself wondering who is staring back? Or into the eyes of those who know you best as they search your face for a even a glimmer of who you once were?

I know these long looks too well, and my family knows them, too.

And none of us, myself included, could put it into words what was happening. I haven't known how to describe it until just a few days ago when I read the verse above in a book a good friend reminded me to read. As I delved into the pages of Sifted by Rick Lawrence and he dove into those two small but mighty verses in Luke, I began to understand that this funk I've been perpetually stuck in since late March hasn't been just a funk.

It's been a sifting.

I've pretty much found myself shaken apart in more ways than I thought I could be shaken.

Lawrence describes sifting like this:

"It's the violent process of separating the useful from the unnecessary -- the crushing and sorting of something whole for the purpose of isolating its nourishing core from the trappings that guard it."

Well, um. yes. It's been scary. I've questioned God's goodness. I've wondered who I am. I've struggled to trust and even speak faithful words let alone live faith out.

During the past few months, I've been having to relearn what it means to hear the voice of Life whispering in my ear versus hearing the voice of lies echo throughout my mind. I've had my thoughts, my beliefs sifted.

I've cried out to God so often for Him to deliver me, to bring me back to my old self. 

And I've wondered why. Why, God, could I feel you here with me, whispering Life and Grace and Love into my ears but still not feel restored back to my normal self? Why did I still feel like a playing piece in a chess game who had been strategically moved into intense battle?

A few nights ago the answer I'd been searching for all but dropped into my lap when I read these words, a love letter to my heart.

"The point of our lives is not the pain -- we are not the pawns of a capricious deity or the collateral damage of an ancient metaphysical feud. We are prisoners -- freedom is our only hope and sifting is its currency."

I have been living life in various captivities -- entangled in fear and worry, enslaved to health and body and bound to what ifs and should haves.

The reason why I could feel God walking beside me through violence of this sifting and hear Him whispering truths to my heart all while feeling like I was being sifted to my very core has more to do with His heart for me to live in freedom than it has to do with the restoration of life as I once knew it.

God doesn't want to restore me to the person I was before the sifting began because then I would still be living entangled and enslaved.

And if the currency for freedom is sifting, then my heart has had to be sifted because God's heart for us is always freedom. And it's always truth. And it's always love. 

And

"God wants nothing to do with cheap imitations of love, and He recognizes {as we most often do not} that there are far worse things that can happen to us than the pain we fear so deeply."

Through this sifting, I've discovered more of God's heart for me. I've asked Him to call me by name, and explain to me who I really have been created to be.

Repeatedly, He's called me by name. First Hyacynth. Then Daughter. Then Lovely Bride, each displaying a deeper and deeper intimacy that I wouldn't have otherwise sought and known.

The seasons of hard suck. The pain hurts like hell. The colors have been dulled and faded. The grief has been heavy and pressing and almost crushing feeling.

And there's no 'but' that will follow that.

There's only an 'and'

an 'and' that says Jesus is there in it with us, calling us by name, showing us that we are more than who we once were, praying for us to persevere in our faith and making us into something new after some of the old scrap has been sifted away.

He's there painting over the gray, reviving the colors and reviving our hearts.

Motherhood: Paris

I wake up to a small face inches away from my own, big blue eyes searching me, a long whine escaping his mouth, pulling me out of peaceful sleep and into the reality of Thursday morning:

He's not the only one who woke up on the wrong side of bed.

Maybe it's stemming from being jarred out of sleep so early.

Or maybe it's from feeling like I'm walking a never-ending road of healing.

But most likely, it's all about Paris.

John is leaving for Paris soon on a work-related trip ... and I am not.

So, currently, I detest Paris. Or maybe I just detest what Paris is doing to me.

I'm staying home with the boys and likely waking up to mornings like this every morning, which would be sweet if we could forgo the whine {and I'm embarrassed to admit that most of the whining comes from my own lips} but

I'm tired.

I'm still climbing my way out of the post-miscarriage anxiety and depression haze

I'm still trying to heal from this balance issue.

And I'm not ready.

Here's the thing about motherhood in this season of life:

I desperately want to mother, but I suck at doing it alone.

And here's the thing about Paris:

I want to go to Paris, but I am in a season so drenched in mothering that I cannot see past its thickness.

I told myself a few months ago when John first asked if I wanted to come along riding on his coat tails of frequent flyer miles that Paris could wait but the kids couldn't; they wouldn't be 3 and 5 forever.

A few months ago, fresh from the loss of a third baby during pregnancy, I thought that was a travesty. I wanted to soak up every ever-loving minute that these boys were small and mine to keep safely in the nest. Savor every moment, you know.

Today, with Paris looming in the near distance, I think it's a darn good thing 3 and 5 don't last forever, because my patience with 3 and 5 lately has been slim ... and I can only imagine what it will look like when I'm alone with 3 and 5.

We weren't meant to mother alone, and I know this keenly during times John is home and I am feeling well.

But when he's away and I'm still sporting tender wounds, the magnifying glass sharply focuses on my intolerance and my impatience and my limits.

Enjoyment and savoring? Those come harder when I'm simply in survival mode.

My writing off of Paris was a little short sighted. Because here's the thing about Paris and motherhood and this season of life and the intersection of all three I didn't know to put together:

there's only so much tolerance, so much patience and so much enjoyment a mother can experience when she hasn't set her own limits well.

So I'm taking a lesson from Paris, setting aside my grievances and setting my limits; I'm giving myself permission to receive the help I'll need and abide within these margins I've set.

I'm coming to understand that what I need to be a good mother isn't really a trip to Paris.

And what I need to be a good mother isn't simply to survive mothering in Paris' wake.

Rather, what I need is to recognize my own limitations, accept them and gracefully allow the gift of help from those who also know the importance of me staying within the lines right now so that there's enjoyment and savoring in the surviving.

Healing: Undressed

He met with me graciously in a quaint bedroom-turned-office, a moment where I could feel the warmth of God's breath on my neck.

I sat on the couch across from Michelle, a woman who's graciously been walking with me through the grief and healing of losing another baby during pregnancy, as she thanked God for being healer and restorer, almighty and good and then petitioned God to remind me of a time when I felt loved, cared for, safe.

Because after losing another baby, I've needed constant reminders of those feelings to heal. After losing a baby and knowing week by week how far along in the pregnancy I would have been had the baby lived, I've needed pictures of tender care to remind me that God isn't the pain I've been feeling but rather He's the comfort in the pain.

Through deep breaths and hands open wide, God brought to mind a time when I was small and sick. Small and uncomfortable and sitting in an oatmeal bath at my grandparents' house.

The itching was relentless, and my had grandmother pulled me out of the tub and proceeded to gather a cotton ball and calamine lotion to dab each and every sore on my skin.

And as I remembered her care, her love poured out in the act of trying to ease my pain, God whispered to my heart that He wanted to do the same with all of the sores coating my heartskin, all of the wounds that are still open and gaping.

But I'd have to stop running from the pain. I'd have to stop shooing away the hurt when it surfaced while deleting another "Your Pregnancy This Week" email. Or while looking at the calendar for September, wide open and clear. Or while remembering the other two babies who never snuggled into my arms.

I'd have to stop hiding myself away beneath the clothing of coping, and I'd have to shed those clothes and sit in the healing waters He offers and bring to Him my sores and allow Him to dab the lotion on with cotton balls.

I'd have to remember what it's like to come before a loving caregiver as a child in need, to shed the clothes of cover I've been hiding beneath and find freedom and comfort in sitting before Him in my own skin, wounded as it is.

And could I?

Could I do that?

Could I just trust the God who sent me the grandmother who'd poured love over me in a vulnerable season to also pour love over me in another vulnerable season?

On a couch, in small quaint bedroom-turned-office, on a cool Early- June day, I decided I could.

And I undressed from the clothes of coping and stood still as He dabbed the first of the sores, relief cooling the first of many.

Relief in losing the clothes that I've been outgrowing and that no longer fit.

Relief in remembering what it's like to be safe despite feeling underdressed.

Are you walking through a season of grief and need someone to walk alongside you? Michelle Lenz at Cherry Hill Counseling in Lake Zurich has been walking beside me, and I'd be happy to connect you with her. This isn't a sponsored post; just a helping hand extended because, you know, sometimes we can't walk through pain alone. 

Bigger Picture Moments: I See You

Yesterday, in a fit of frustration, I called out to God, asked Him where the heck He's been lately.

I've been feeling a little invisible. A little forgotten. A little frustrated lately.

With not being pregnant anymore.
With hearing repeatedly to be still.
With trying to be patient.
With feeling like I'm literally standing on a boat in gentle waters most of the day and some days rendered unable to walk without holding onto the wall or a hand for support because I feel so off balance. 

It's all things I don't often wear out on my sleeve.

All things I can keep circulating in my brain, quiet prayers constantly being uttered in a persistent, humble bringing to God and asking Him if He could just

Heal me of the grief from losing the babies.
Give me a direction in which to move.
Give me patience if I can't have that direction yet.
Restore the life balance and with it my physical balance. 

Please God. Please.

Maybe I'm greedy. Maybe I'm needy. Maybe I'm feeling a little like desperation looks.

I know I have much for which to be thankful. I know He's answered many prayers these past few months.

But still I plead for restoration and direction

and to just know that He hasn't left me here alone in this place of frustration.

Sometimes I forget and I mistake God's silence for stillness. 

Sometimes He has to remind me clearly that the two are not the same. And in that sometimes He breaks His silence.

Like yesterday.

Our senior pastor and I record a weekly video called Joe on the Go. And in it he spoke about how that morning he was reminded of the story of Hagar when she's out in the wilderness and she called God "the God who sees me."



I didn't give it a second thought.

Until I came across that very same story of Hagar again on Facebook.

And then

again in a book I was reading.

I closed the book, taken aback, and heard a whisper in my heart that said, "I see you."

As I journaled the day, I realized, too, that on a day when I had an explosion of frustration from feeling so invisible from what I was truly wearing on my heart, God sent others to really see me, too.

My husband saw I needed more sleep yesterday and wanted to make sure the kids slept until a decent hour before leaving for work.

My almost six year old noticed that morning that I was rushed and encouraged me to relax and slow down. {He's not even six! He rarely notices more than light sabers and play forts let alone the way I'm feeling!}

A friend messaged me during the day to say that she knew how I was feeling and could she come over tomorrow?

Another friend shared that she felt like our friendship made worthwhile the hardship of having moved to the suburbs.

Simple conversations that seemed to sing, "You know, I see you. I really, really see you."

And on a day when I had an explosion of frustration from feeling so invisible from what I was truly wearing on my heart, God broke silence to say, "I see you. I really, really see you, too."

And in being seen, I feel like today my eyes are open to what's really going on these days -- I'm not wandering alone, off map in unchartered territory.

I'm under the careful watch of the Shepherd who knows where we're going ... even when I don't.

One Word 365: Off Balance {On Rejoicing}

There's this off-balance feeling that's been floating around inside my body since a few weeks after the miscarriage.

The irony is thick.

Life has been off balance in general and this physical manifestation of the feeling seems to be a reminder to continually reorder my mind's priorities and our life priorities, too. As badly as I want my life ordered right, I want my physical body in balance, too.

I want to be able to stand tall and walk straight without feeling like I'm on a slightly wavy sea boat; this desire for normalcy in all the facets of life keeps my mind spinning with thoughts -- how do I make it all normal?

Frustration mounts tenfold when despite numerous doctors' visits, everyone says everything looks normal despite my not feeling normal. You know, I'm glad it's all normal, but ... that leaves me feeling like a detective who's been constantly searching for clues and trying to put all of the pieces together. It's been taking up a good bulk of my thought life and even conversation with John and, of course, time spent at the doctors.

A few weekends ago when I visited Michelle, I'd been mulling over taking on a fast but hadn't thought of anything that seemed appropriate. We found my much-needed fast through conversations about our meager attempts at controlling our lives ...  for me, I knew I needed to abstain from reading health-related articles, books, posts, papers, etc for 30 days. For the past 20 days, I've been avoiding overloading my brain with all of this information ... and I simply cannot believe how much health information I've been consuming daily.

When something other than Christ's way of life becomes the focus, it's no wonder everything feels off balance.

After that clicked I realized I'd been clenching my fists trying to grasp control of the wrong things -- I cannot control how quickly my body rebalances no matter how much I read about the workings of the body, but I can through His strength control the thoughts that come through my mind.

Because while God gives our bodies the awesome ability to heal and we can do our parts in treating them the way {I think} He intended -- rooted in the rhythms of creation {more on this later} -- He has given me the ability to take all thoughts captive to Christ.

He has given me the choice to think on all things pure, right, noble, lovely, true, excellent, praiseworthy {Philippians 4:4-6}.

He has given me a choice to rejoice even when life seems anything but joyful.

I've sat in these thoughts for weeks now asking myself why He would command us to take captive our thoughts, think on what is true and right and lovely and rejoice always. Why is there so much more in the Bible about caring for our minds and hearts?

And what I've come back to is the thought that so often our bodies go the way of our minds.

So often our thoughts are what really lead us to the fullness of life.

Slowly, daily

I surrender at least some of my thoughts to Christ's way.

Slowly, daily

I try to make the choice to rejoice

at least some of hours I spend awake.

And slowly, daily,

balance, beyond the physical, restores. 

Bigger Picture Moments: The Small Storms

It's not the biggest storm we've ever had, but he's completely overtaken by it.

We've been trying to go to sleep for about 20 minutes, snuggled together in his bed, but he can't relax enough to take his eyes off of the storm.  He's wholly intent on watching the lightening flashes jet across the sky just outside his window, and he nervously asks about each loud rumble of thunder that meanders in through the open window of his darkened room.

I open my arms for him, but he's too preoccupied with the storm ... until he grows tired and cannot keep his eyes open.

Finally, he tucks himself into the crook of my arm. The thunder roars a bit louder ... and he sandwiches me into a headlock between his 3-year-old arms, drapes his legs over my body as while the tree branches dance wildly in the wind just outside his window.

I try to slowly slide myself from his grip after I think he's drifted to sleep, but he whimpers about loud booms and holds on for dear life.

There's surrender tonight, heaping high in the midst of the storm.

Him, drifting to sleep.

Me, sinking into the bed until deep slumber takes over his body. And while I'm lying next to him, I know I've had trouble averting my eyes from the storm.

It's not the biggest storm I've ever known, but my eyes are glued to the window, worried about what's coming next ... when exhaustion sets in

and I, too, have to choose

to fight

or throw my weary arms around my Father's neck

and surrender to the Rest that only surrender brings

when there's storm thundering outside.

Hope and Healing: Putting My Hand Up

Last Sunday night, I plummeted hard and fast into a deep, dark hole after weeks of trying to outrun the overwhelming anxiety and grief that's been building.

The shear force of the anxiety about my physical health coupled with the grieving of the three precious babies we lost during pregnancy during the last 18 months has had me running as fast as my mind could spin, feet could move.

Last weekend, I stumbled a few times and then Sunday night I fell hard.

A mess of tears, shaking on the couch, I surrendered the race because I had to.

I couldn't muscle my way out of that hole with sheer determination because fatigue has taken over and reality had been blurring from black and white to about a dozen shades of gray.

I made the move that seemed all along harder than trying to pull myself up and out: I raised my hand in surrender from the bottom of the hole; I asked people to help pull me out.

I welcomed my mom to come up and help without feeling guilt. I submitted to John's request to call my doctors. I explained repeatedly that I couldn't do this alone anymore. I told them I needed more help.

I met with a therapist we've been seeing and really love. I laid my fears and anxiety and grief out before me, and I gave to God what He's been asking for for a really long time: the control of my health I've been white-knuckle clenching since my dad died three years ago.

One week, lots of prayer, tangible help, art therapy and a few anti-anxiety pills later and I'm hearing clearly the truth in a good friend's words:

"We all fall in holes. But you have to put your hand up so we can pull you up."

So this week I've been practicing raising my hand

to grab others' hands

to give thanks

to surrender

all of that which I can't bear

and was never actually meant to.

Life After Miscarriage: Seeking and Stuffing

No matter what it seems beforehand, there are no answers to be found half way through a container of ice cream, no matter how far the digging.

It didn't stop me from trying, though, last night after my heart felt like it dropped from its rightful place in my chest and onto the floor, a weeping mess of angry tears following closely.

This week I had to schedule an ultrasound for next week  -- part of post-operation check up -- and that was pretty much the last clipping of the final string from which my weeping heart had been hanging.

This week, I should have have been nearing 20 weeks of pregnancy.

This week, we should have been taking a longer glimpse during an ultrasound to find out whether the baby was a boy or girl ... not staring into the empty open space of my baby's former home.

I've never said "should" before because I've been busy clinging tightly to the thought that only what should happen happens.

It's not true.

Mothers aren't supposed to lose their babies to death before their babies are born.

Babies aren't supposed to die.

Bodies aren't supposed to go wonky after giving birth or ever.

Mothers shouldn't have post-partum depression ever let alone after miscarriages.

Bombs aren't supposed to go off at marathon finish lines and claim little lives and sever limbs and leave people fighting for their lives.

Earthquakes aren't supposed to shake the ground on which we're standing until we fall to our knees wondering if solid ground is a myth we've taken as truth our whole lives.

This world, these people, this very heart -- it's not supposed to be broken; it wasn't meant to be that way.

And I'm angry.

I'm angry that deception ever had the opportunity to slither into our hearts.

I'm angry that we ever bit off more than we could chew of the most tempting and destructive of fruits.

I'm angry that my heart falls off its strings when I feel like I'm being battered from every direction, an unlucky piñata at the hands of a most strategic and skilled batter and that I pick up a box of ice cream and go digging for answers there

when my heart knows that where I'm digging just melts and gives way.

I cried and yelled and swore Friday night, my husband sitting next to me in bed, listening to me list my grievances; he listened carefully, looked me in the eye, anger blazing bright and told me what I need to hear:

"You're right. It's not supposed to be this way."

He didn't tell me to pray harder.

Or read more of my Bible.

Or seek Jesus better.

Or stop crying and just have more faith

So I raged on until the storm inside quieted for the night.

But I woke with it raging again yesterday and a little today, and it started to dawn on me that I think I skipped this part of the grieving process -- the letting myself feel and express and say and voice my outrage before I accepted the calm that seemed to come so quickly and easily in just recognizing that God is God {and I am not}.

So by the time I had pizza and wine and conversation with my brain twin Saturday afternoon, I was ready for the words I didn't know she'd share.

"It's OK to be angry. It's OK to be pissed off. What happened sucks."

I like peace. I crave calm. I mean, I felt like the word "rejoice" was my word for this year. I want for joy and gratitude and I long to live in those spaces and places, and I think I longed for those so much during the turmoil of finding out about our baby having died and giving birth and then having an emergency d and c that I began seeking that calm and peace and joy and gratitude before I ever expressed the other emotions that come

when something happens to that heart that the heart was never intended to bear.

In seeking, I stuffed down deep inside me the grief that needed to escape so I could move forward.

So I'm letting it all unravel, slowly and trusting that in the meantime

His grace is and will be sufficient to carry me through the day-by-days that seem so daunting right now.

Just Write: The Light Bearers

Bombs explode and with them, lives, too.

I hug the small and tall people in my house a little tighter and wonder how I can send them out day by day into a world where such darkness stretches over the sky and spills out for miles across the horizon,

a storm of hurt and pain and terror brewing in the hearts of the hurting and bubbling over into explosion

after explosion

after explosion

born from the sheer force of pain.

Here's the thing about explosions  --

it's the force that takes us by surprise, leaves us stunned and battered and wounded.

But it's the aftermath of smoke that leaves us in despair, masks the light and sends us to our knees, groping around in the dark for something to hold onto, praying for clearing.

The first time I saw an explosion, eight years old and eyes wide, glued to the screen, my heart unleashed a fury of fear coated in tears.

The tender daughter of a firefighter watching a movie about fire-starters and exploders and the rescuers that rushed to the scenes of burning darkness was too much for my heart to bear, and I sobbed and sobbed, begged by dad to quit the business of extinguishing flames and storming burning buildings.

My father wrapped me in his thick arms and shushed my tears:

"If all the firefighters quit fighting fires because it was dangerous, think of how much more dangerous life would be."

At eight, I cared little for his few words, his waxing of logic to a weeping heart, but at 30 I hold them closer; at 30, I hold them as truth.

As long as there is pain, pockets of it will continue to explode, drench the day with darkness and coat the sky with ash, smoke that threaten to blind our eyes.

And that's when the Light bearers come in, blazing through the smoke and the darkness and setting it bright with hope.

We are the Light bearers carrying on the Light that was first born into the darkness of a black-ink sky stretched out over creation.

We are the Light bearers who don't fear the darkness because we know that the Sun always overcomes.

That's how we mothers, wives, sisters, friends find the courage and strength to send our loved ones back out into a world of explosions day in and day out --

we cling to the Sun, we embed the Light in their thoughts until it soaks deep into their bones, their hearts and then we send them out as light bearers who offer bright glows of Light when the darkness seems overwhelmingly dark.

{And we pray. And oh my ... this is so hard.}

Everyday Poetry: Stuck

Mud and cold slur together like April's had too much drink 

and has forgotten her own name. 

My little boys ignore the obvious rush of arctic air and sloshy mud

and forge through the elements to bask in the clearing that broke

this afternoon after days upon days of rain and whipping wind. 

I stand behind the sliding glass doors looking on as they salvage

what's left of the day

enjoy what's good

bask in what's been given

and I am super glued to the floor. 

My oldest comes to the door for a drink

nose red

cheeks pink

smile wide

I ask him if it's just too cold to play outside. 

"Not if you keep moving, mom," he says in between gulps.

"If you keep moving it gets warmer and warmer."

He shuts the door, cuts off the cold of a stuck-in-winter spring and runs off into the yard. 

I watch him closely as he 

laughs

talks

jumps

runs

and I know what I have to do. 

We're sharing Everyday Poetry over at Bigger Picture Blogs every Monday in April. Join us. 

Five-Minute Friday: After

After the body heals

and the space once filled with baby smooths.

After grief comes hard

and the nights once again give way to sleep.

After the sympathy cards taper

and the flowers wither

and the help slows

and life as we once knew it resumes.

After the winter melts

and spring slowly dawns

from the darkness.

After all of this -- I breathe.

Chest rises and falls

steadily for the first time in months

a rhythm of new normal emerging.

And the fog begins to burn off

in the steadiness of the Son.

Scenes from a Weekend: Repair

The thing about life is this -- even in the midst of grieving our baby, the human heart can still swim deep into joy.

This weekend there have been tears. Oh, yes. Enough tears to soak several tissue boxes and make you think that maybe I might have fallen into a rabbit hole of despair.

But instead this weekend, I fell face first into repair, despite, well, myself.



These days have heard lots of laughter, starting first thing in the morning with a 3-year-old boy bounding into my bedroom bellowing "Goo morning, mommy. How you sleep las nigh?" while I was still, um, sleeping.



And ending in fits of giggles after John and the boys were Irish jigging and a certain long-legged husband accidentally kicked a certain oldest son in the head ... knocking him off of his feet and sending him into a hysterical laughter at daddy's attempt at traditional Irish dance.

There's been a slow-coming surrender in remembering to turn my shaking palms back up and open the closed-knuckle grasp with which I keep trying to squeeze everything I've deemed as mine ...

and in mustering the courage and trust to actually begin such a movement to let go. Again.



This weekend afforded John and I three hours alone with each other to talk and process and sort and cry and question ... and then finally acknowledge that our ways are not God's ways and our thoughts are not God's thoughts

while giving Him thanks for that hard bit of dessert manna to swallow.



And this weekend was sprinkled with warm, sweet coffee, sipped slowly and steadily while taking in the moments that unfolded and seemed to promise renewal that, too, would come slowly and steadily.

Join us at Bigger Picture Blogs as we capture Scenes from our Weekend

Just Write: Desperate

He was six weeks old, a tiny little thing with huge demands, and I was tired.

No -- exhausted.

So when he began to wail five minutes after I put him in his cradle, I crumpled to the floor and sobbed on my mother's living floor.

A desperate pile of body heaving and cracked, feeling broken beyond repair.

Tonight I remembered that scene as I drenched my own shirt with tears, driving home from my first acupuncture session.

Desperate, I told John when I arrived home, face scrunched and head in hands and his arms around my shoulders.

That's what you have to be to let someone you can barely understand poke tiny needles into your skin in the hope of relief.

Desperate.

I am thankful to carry a new life inside of me. But in the midst of thankful I am sick, too, with exhaustion and nausea like I never knew and more food and smell aversions than one would think could exist.

I live on prayer and petition, turkey and lemon aid, kindness and snuggles and gratitude.

But in the desperate moments, I wonder if I'm really living or merely surviving.

I ugly cry onto my husband's shoulder soaking his arm with salt-water tears, too, until I'm exhausted and broken before God

and finally

that's where I find the Potter

at the spinning wheel

piecing me back together

and making me something new.

Living Healthfully: The Best Medicine When You're Down and Out

This is about the time of year when the great majority begin dropping like flies to the many and various colds, flus and viruses that infiltrate our homes and make their way through all the bodies inside.

And let's face it -- sometimes no matter how well we care for these bodies, they still fall to some sort of illness because life is busy and fast and it doesn't always lend itself to taking good care of ourselves by sleeping well and preparing food well and the like. {If you haven't my tips at staying well, you might want to read about preventing illness through healthy lifestyle choices!}

Because I've learned so much thus far on our extensive health journey through personal experience as well as research, I thought a short guide to restoring health when you're under the weather was in order.

{Note: We're not talking serious bacterial infections or illnesses that are life threatening here, just to be clear.}

While sick, here's where you should spend your time:

The Bedroom

We often grumble because most of us just don't have time to be sick.

But I think we have to reframe our mindset: when we fall sick we must tell ourselves that we can't afford to NOT take the time to be sick -- to rest, to heal.

Really.

Illness is the body's way of alerting us that we are run down, worn out!

Getting sick is a signal that something needs extra care and attention -- our bodies! And when we become ill repeatedly, I think we need stop and revaluate how we're operating on a day-to-day basis, which is what I had to do a little more than a year ago when repeated illnesses took a turn toward chronic conditions as that eventually happens when the body becomes worn down enough.

Those who routinely focus on deep nutrition, stress relief, adequate rest and exercise aren't off the hook, though, when they are down and out! Just because we're not repeatedly getting sick doesn't mean we don't need to stop and accept these times of illness, too, letting ourselves have sick days where only the truly important is tended -- children and rest.

Skip the Pharmacy, Visit the Garden and Kitchen

We've been programmed to turn to medicine when we're under the weather because we live in a society that has it at its fingertips.

But medications are sometimes more detrimental than helpful when it comes to viruses and general flus and colds because they often stop the body from doing the job it's supposed to do when we are sick: usher out the foreign invaders causing the illness!

While decongestants, antihistamines, fever reducers and other over-the-counter medications may help in extreme situations where very high fever or histamine reactions become dangerous, most of the time they end up hindering the body in its mission to rid itself of illness. Remember, mucus carries things out of the body as does diarrhea and vomiting and low-grade fever. So let your body do its job unhindered!

Again, I'm NOT advising against OTC medications when truly needed to help bring a body out of a dangerous situation. But for the general uncomfortable ones, letting the body do its job and aiding it through the use of herbs and food will be more helpful to healing rather than band aiding the symptoms.

Here are two places to visit instead of the pharmacy:

The Kitchen:

"Let food by thy medicine and medicine be thy food." Hippocrates

Best Chicken Soup Ever Recipe

Instead of getting out of bed when sick to vacuum the floor, put your energy to better use: walk into the kitchen, toss a whole chicken into a big pot with water and simmer all day morning or afternoon. Grandma's chicken soup may be some of the best medicine available, chalked full of important minerals and nutrients that are deeply healing to an ailing body.

Also healing are cultured food and drink like water kefir. Those aren't as easy to whip up in a short time period, but if you have a Whole Foods or health food store nearby, I highly recommend sending someone out to grab you a jar or few of Bubbie's Sauerkraut, some fermented kimchi or kvass. Remember, there's a HUGE link to gut health and immune health -- 80 percent of the immune system begins in the gut! So at the very least, double or triple up on a seven-strain probiotic and take it right before bedtime.

Fresh vegetables and fruits {low sugar is best}, healthy fats like avocado, pastured butter and eggs and coconut oil also have a large place in your diet, as they are richly nourishing, providing the body not only with antioxidants but also minerals and nutrients.

Water Kefir Recipe

What to avoid in the kitchen, especially while sick: sugar, including that of high-sugar fruits, grains {most of them} that rapidly turn into sugar when digested and pasteurized dairy as it can promote even more mucus production when you're already on overload. Processed and packaged foods should be out, too, especially while ill.

The Garden or Herbalist:

Herbs are powerful, so they must be carefully {especially if pregnant or nursing} used but in general, I opt for herbs before heading to the pharmacy. Whole-food-based supplements are powerful, too, and can be used to help nurture the body while sick.

Here are a few of both I keep on hand for my specific body; I recommend working with a naturopath or practitioner to find out how to best help your specific body, but in general, the following should be beneficial for many:


Green Pasture Blue Ice Fermented Cod Liver Oil
Cod liver oil gives those of us in the sun-deprived northern hemisphere during winter a natural but powerful dose of vitamin D, which is actually a hormone regulator and crucial component to T-cell regulation.

Oil of Oregano
Oil of Oregano is a powerful anti-viral, anti-fungal and anti-inflamatory. When sick, I place two drops of high quality oil of oregano into a small glass of water two-three times per day and drink. For babies or children, you can drop one drop into olive oil, rub it onto the soles of their feet and cover with socks once or twice per day.

Mullein Leaf Tea
Mullein leaf tea, when left to steep for 15 minutes or more, helps naturally bring relief to the respiratory system. Research has shown that mullein has antiviral properties effective against the flu virus. It calms and eases sinus irritation and coughs, as well as acting as a natural probiotic for the nasal passages.

Congaplex by Standard Process
Congaplex is a blend of whole-food derived minerals and vitamins that naturally support immune system function; it's only available through health practitioners so you'll have to visit the Standard Process site to find someone near you, but this specific blend is extremely helpful in helping the body naturally strengthen and fend off illness.

Garlic Oil
Perfect for relieving intensely painful earaches, we rely on garlic oil mixed with some sweet oil. You can read about how to make your own here.

Lavender Essential Oil
Lavender essential oil is great for relieving pain and inflammation. We've kept a good-sized bottle -- about as big as my thumb -- for the past year, and we've found it to be highly effective in reducing head-ache pain and bringing relief to minor burns.

Thinking, that's All: In Which I Write My Heart Out

All week {um fall long?}, I feel like I've been writing for everyone else.

And that's left me here in these quiet moments too exhausted to write much of what's been on my heart and mind despite there being a flood of thoughts and emotions.

Writing here in this space has been a lot like taking a bucket to an overflowing river, trying to reduce the flooding one bucketful at a time; by the time I get back from emptying one bucket, the river has again spilled beyond its flooded banks and I'm just dipping into a tiny bit of it, carrying it away.

This week, especially, has been one of these overflowing weeks.

I said goodbye to my grandpa just days before he slipped from this side of eternity into the next ... and days before my late father {his son's} birthday, which is always hard because I think of how old he would be and what he's missed with the boys and what my boys have missed of him.

This weekend, we'll say a proper farewell, but I'm positive it won't hold a candle to spending an hour with him Sunday, talking to him, holding his warm hand, praying with him and voicing my appreciation for him while he was still conscious enough to hear and understand and respond.

I grieve for the loss of such a great patriarch; but I find joy in the hope that he's with his Creator ... and my dad and my grandma {his wife} experiencing fullness in the reunions. I give thanks for having had 29 years with him and for having the chance to say so and say goodbye.

I woke up this morning to my eyes washed with streaks of red across the white, and I wished that I didn't wear my heart so visibly on the outside.

It's hard to explain a week like this to the people who read the heart in your eyes, a week so wrapped up and bound in not only my own sticky grief and gratitude but that of others who are hurting or weighed down by the heaviness of life.

Selah.

No one knows exactly what that translates to but its splashed across the pages of the Psalms. Some say it means to give pregnant pause and reflect; others ponder that it means that with an infusion of praise. 

I feel like my life is a Psalm this week.

I've cried out to my God through tears of sadness, praise:

"I love you, O Lord, my strength.
The Lord is my rock, my fortress and my deliverer; my God is my rock, in whom I take refuge.
He is my shield and the horn of my salvation, my stronghold.
I call to the Lord, who is worthy of praise, and I am saved from my enemies." 

Psalm 18: 1-3 

And joy.

"You are a hiding place for me; you preserve me from trouble; you surround me with glad cries of deliverance. Selah." 

Psalm 32

Strange thing is how one can cry tears of grief and yet sing songs of praise all within almost the same breath.

Today was my 90-day check up with my crazy-smart holistic doctor and E's eight-week check up.

Though I knew the report would likely be good because I've been feeling so.much.better these past few weeks especially, I couldn't help but let tears spill onto my cheeks when she told us both my and E's candida infections were cleared up.

After more than a year and a half of both E and I battling that infection and all of the imbalances produced during other less effective treatments and the infection itself, our bodies have been cleared of it.

Cleared. Healed.

All I could say was thank you to her for her help

thank you to God for giving her such insight into the body

and allowing our paths to cross and linger

and

Selah.

Tonight, I'm done carrying buckets of overflow.

I'm just going to wade and cry and sing and praise.

Selah.

Thinking, that's All: Healed

I remember now what it's like to feel mostly normal but the novelty of such a feeling has yet to wear thin.

Because more than remembering what it's like to feel normal, I remember vividly what it's like to feel so very sick.

The kind of sick that doesn't necessarily loudly broadcast itself in exact diagnosis with exact prescription or reveal itself on the face, though those closest to me have breathed sighs of relief at the return of a healthy glow spread across the bridge of my face and cheeks and at the return of curves to my body.

Three short months ago, in addition to digestive distress, candida overgrowth and imbalanced hormones, I was on the fast track to kidney failure and the brink of developing an autoimmune disease, different systems in my body having their communications efforts jumbled and skewed, making it impossible to walk a straight line or break down proteins or convert B vitamins.

See, in my laborious attempts to heal my gut and restore the delicate gut-flora balance, I accidentally threw other delicate parts of my body out of whack; I'd failed to understand that my body is more complex than what I understood -- that it's fine tuned and created to function in the fullness of deep nutrition. That its biochemistry is detailed and specific and that years of treating my body like a simple machine had led to malfunction.

That years of making health be determined by scale number and eating with only calories and taste in mind rather than nutrition and micronutrients couldn't be fixed by a restrictive diet aimed at only bringing one of the obvious imbalances -- the candida in my digestive system -- back into a stasis.

You see, one can't just starve out an invasive opportunist like candida without, too, starving herself, her own body. That's what I didn't know when I began cleansing with The Body Ecology diet. But that's another story for another day.

Today's story is about healing. And how I can claim the miracle of being healed because honestly that's all it can be determined as.

I'd been to quite a few doctors, quite a few specialists and only one had a real grasp on the magnitude of the situation and even then there was more going on than what was easily recognized without getting into the genetics and biochemistry of my specific body.

And that's where grace comes in.

I met Ann at G's preschool; we quickly came to realize we both faced many of the same healthy eating challenges and so it wasn't a surprise when we learned we both saw the same chiropractor. Brief after-school conversations led to snippets of hearing each other's health struggles, but it wasn't until an early summer pool party that we actually had a chance to talk beyond chasing kids out the door.

By then, I knew I'd hit a plateau in healing. My body had detoxed to an extreme, my weight kept plummeting and my period was beginning to be more or a stranger than a monthly guest: it was like I could see the promised land but just couldn't cross over. I was just stuck.

In my crying out to God, I prayed, I pleaded for a miracle -- for Him to send me someone who could see the whole picture, the entirety of His creation or for miraculous healing.

He gave me both.

Ann's friend, who was in bad shape health wise took Ann with her to see a doctor -- a biochemist and trauma surgeon by training who bases her practice on caring for patients who have exhausted every other medical route and treats through integrative nutritional medicine, everything grounded in biochemistry and genetics. Ann then made an appointment for herself and encouraged me to do the same.

It took months to get in, and honestly, I didn't know what to think when I met Kerry -- I mean, she'd basically told me more about my body than any doctor ever had. And the scary thing was she was so spot on about what I was feeling and what my body was and wasn't doing that when she told me my next steps were kidney failure and developing the same auto-immune disease my mother has, I knew she as part of the answer to my prayer for healing.

I'm about to round out 90 days of treatment with Kerry, and the progress my body has made in healing from a deep cellular and biochemical standpoint is quite beautifully amazing.

****

Every week, I have the privilege of sitting down with my senior pastor to hear what's on his mind so I can transfer his thoughts onto our church's blog or our church's facebook page.

It's one of the highlights of my social media job at Immanuel.

Last week, he shared with me his excitement for our annual Thanksgiving service, where our church family members are welcomed and encouraged to take the microphone during the service and voice what they are thankful to God for.

Before we conclude our meeting he asked me if I remembered the story where Jesus healed ten lepers in Luke 17:11-19.

I nod.

"Only one came back to thank Jesus," he'd said. "Only one. Ten were healed, but only one thanked Him ... I once heard that gratitude is only as sincere as the effort we make to express it. The Bible teaches that it's not enough to be grateful in our hearts, that we should be going out of our way to express it."

I scramble to write what he's said, soaking it into my heart.

"It may have been that all ten lepers had gratitude, but Jesus talks about the one who was sincere in his effort to express it -- the one who went out of his way to express it."

The one who came back to say thank you.

****

She's checking me out, reading my body to make sure everything is firing well despite some persistent tenderness just beneath my breastbone.

After she's done, she announces that I have some inflammation in that joint beneath it that's causing the intense soreness.

But that's not the big story -- the big story is that so many of the parts of my body that were struggling to be anywhere close to balance have become either awesomely balanced are at the verge of being in a beautiful homeostasis.

Only small components of my immune system and digestive tract need to come into order along with a reduction in inflammation.

We are worlds away, she says, from where we started.

I sigh audible praise to God and express thanks to Kerry for taking the time to help figure out this amazingly complex body He gave me.

But in my heart, I know my quiet gratitude is not enough.

****
It's early Sunday morning, and we trek into church to both work and celebrate God during the Thanksgiving service.

I'm not planning to go near a microphone during the service.

But we sing loudly, passionately about the 10,000 reasons for our hearts to praise Him, and I'm pretty much jumping out of my chair moments later because a verse has been following me and I can feel it pressing up from my heart and into words and out my lips.

"Rejoice in the Lord always. I will say it again: Rejoice! Let your gentleness be evident to all. The Lord is near. Do not be anxious about anything, but in every situation, by prayer and petition, with thanksgiving, present your requests to God. And the peace of God, which transcends all understanding, will guard your hearts and your minds in Christ Jesus." Philippians 4:4-7

I give thanks.

For His word. For His mercy. For His grace. For His healing. For feeling so very close to normal again. For remembering what sickness feels like and the promise of hope that always accompanied it.

And when I come home, I can't help but pour my words of gratitude into black on white, a permanent testament to the His healing hand.

I can't help but come back to Him, go out of my way, to take the gratitude in my heart and let is spill out of my lips in a song of praise. 

My song of thanksgiving, indeed.

Linking with Ann and living a covenant of gratitude.