Elisha's Peace

If you are a friend of mine on Facebook, or you read my last blog post, you know that my heart has been heavy for my friend and neighbor, Elisha Skeen.  Metastatic cancer has declared war on her body, and she is literally in a fight for her life.

Until yesterday, the last time I had seen Elisha was when she and her son, Sawyer, came over to check in on me a few weeks after my surgery.  I guess that would have been early to mid-November.  At that time, she was healthy (considering she was recovering from breast cancer), happy and strong.  We tag-teamed Sawyer, not quite 2 years old, who was curiously exploring every bin in our homeschool room.  Our visit was cut short when he made a "special gift" in his diaper that just couldn't be ignored.

It really struck me yesterday as I sat at the foot of her hospital bed at the Cancer Center, how much has changed since that day.  Now, just 8 weeks later, Sawyer is officially 2 years old.  Elisha is no longer healthy.  Her husband, Steven, is spending his days at the hospital instead of on the farm.

What struck me even more, is what had not changed.  Despite the fact that she is battling cancer for the second time in 14 months...  Despite the fact that she had brain surgery just days ago...  Despite the fact that she has a button at her fingertips to dispense enough pain medication to cause cardiac arrest in any other person...  Elisha is still happy.  Elisha is still strong.

She texted me yesterday morning to let me know I could come see her.  I was thrilled to hear she was feeling well enough to welcome visitors, and very eager to chat with her.  But as we got closer to the hospital, I became more and more nervous.  What should I say?  What shouldn't I say?  What will we talk about?  What if she starts crying?  What if I start crying?

My heart rate kept climbing the more I thought about it.  So I stopped thinking about it, and just prayed.  Dear God, please help me to be an encouragement to her.  Please guide my words.  Please guide my actions.  And please help me not to cry.

We met up with her husband, Steven, before going into her hospital room.  I know this was a God-send.  He updated us on her entire medical journey, and he told me exactly what to expect when I walked in the room.

The entire visit lasted 30 minutes.  It was nothing like I expected, and so much better than I prayed for.

Elisha looked great.  She had on a cute hat to cover to her "battle scar" from brain surgery.  She was wearing glasses, which I'd never seen her in before.  And she was smiling.  She was so peaceful.  I sat at her feet, and we talked about the same things we've always talked about.  Our husbands.  Our kids.  Our bodies.  Our hobbies.  Our food.  It was so...  normal.

I've tried to put myself in her shoes and imagine how I would handle the same situation.  I just can't believe I would be so at peace.  Of course, Elisha and Steven have said they wouldn't be either, if it weren't for God.

I don't know exactly where it is in the Bible, but I know it says that God can provide "a peace that passeth understanding".  In the midst of that hospital room, with four different fluid bags pumping all kinds of meds into her body, with bruised arms and IV-scarred hands, with a chemo-dispensing device surgically placed in her brain, there was a peace that passeth understanding.

I walked into the room asking God to help me encourage her, but I left the room feeling encouraged myself.

...

I don't know why all this is happening to Elisha.  But I can say that I am amazed, inspired, encouraged and awed by the way she is handling it.

I can also honestly say, her battle has changed my life.  I am more aware of how quickly life can change, and more thankful for the days I have.

Every Sunday, our pastor leads the congregation in singing I am Blessed.  It goes like this...

I am blessed.
I am blessed.
Everyday that I live I am blessed.
When I wake up in the morning,
til I lay my head to rest,
I am blessed.
I am blessed.

When I sang those words this morning...  Well, I couldn't sing because I couldn't stop crying.  As everyone else sang, I stood there with my head in my hands, and I sobbed.  Because of Elisha, I know just how blessed I am.

I am so thankful to have the honor to continue to pray for her.  I pray God will heal her body, and make her whole again.  I pray she and Steven will grow old together and watch their son become a man.  I pray that she and I will get to walk up and down "the compound" for many years to come.  I'm still asking you do the same.  Thank you.

Elisha

I wrote a lot about friendships last year.  I have never been the type of person to take my friendships lightly.  I cherish the people who call me their friend, and allow me the honor to call them mine.

My favorite post from 2012 is the one I wrote about how God has reunited me with my best best friend from my early childhood years, Michelle.  From the number of pageviews for that particular blog series, I would say it was your favorite as well.  Thank you for that.

I remember a particular conversation I had with Keith about how thankful I am that God brought Michelle back to me.  It struck me at that moment that God had done the exact same thing for Keith...

Keith is an only child.  I usually say "spoiled-rotten" only child.  But I'll refrain this time.  Wait...  oops.  I can't find the backspace button...  Heeheehee  :)

Anyway, my dear sweet husband had no siblings while growing up.  So God blessed him with fellow youngsters in his neighborhood with whom he played pretty much all the time.  His best friend lived right next door.  His name was Steven.  They played basketball.  They rode bikes.  They had sleepovers.  They spent a lot of time together during their elementary years.

As they grew up, they too grew apart.  Not for the same reasons and Michelle and me, but it did seem their season of friendship had come to an end.  Until a few years ago...

About the same time Michelle had come back into my life, Steven came back into Keith's.  In fact, he moved right next door, with his new wife - Elisha.

Guys are so much different than girls.  It took a little while before Michelle and I felt the spark of our friendship had truly been rekindled.  Keith and Steven just picked right back up where they had left off.  I mean, they're not racing their bikes up the road and having sleepovers.  But there was no awkwardness at all.  They just shook hands and started talking again.  Guys are so weird.  :)

Keith met Elisha before I did.  I remember him coming home and saying, "You have got to meet her.  You'll like her."  I was like, "How do you know?"  He said, "I just know.  You'll like her."

I finally got to meet her soon after they brought their new baby, Sawyer, home from the hospital.  We took a meal over to them, and Elisha and I sat there talking liked we'd known each other for years.  She showed me all the pictures from Sawyer's birth.  (I remember being shocked at some of those pictures, one imparticular.  Elisha ~ you know which one I'm talking about ;)  And she told me everything she was feeling as a new mother.  Things you don't normally do with someone you just met.  But like I said, it just didn't feel like we'd just met.

We didn't get together often after that.  They both had crazy work schedules that just made it difficult to socialize.  When Elisha changed jobs, we were able to have them over for supper a few times.

Then Elisha found out she had breast cancer.  I will never forget.  We go to church with Steven's parents, and Keith would always ask how Steven and Elisha were doing.  Steven's dad told Keith, then Keith told me.  I have no idea what was being preached at that service.  All I could do was think about Elisha.  I came home and cried for her.

She spent the next six months fighting for her life, completing chemo and radiation.  When Elisha was feeling well, we invited them over for supper.  She and I would retreat to our homeschool room, play with Sawyer and talk nonstop.  One time we hid out in my scrapbook room, just to get away from the husbands and kids (sometimes this is just necessary to maintain our sanity).  Keith and Steven literally had to drag us out of there.  I laugh just thinking about it.  It was funny.

Soon after that, Elisha and I decided we needed to exercise.  So we started walking together, at least 3 times a week.  We walked up and down "the compound", her word for the first mile of the road we live on, which is home mostly to her husband's family and my husband's family.  During this time, we talked about everything.  I mean EVERYTHING.  Our husbands, our kids, our families, our friends, our jobs, our hobbies, our bodies, our food...  EVERYTHING.  It was so nice because we didn't know each other well enough to judge, but just well enough to know it was a safe place to be completely honest.

I was so excited to have a friend that lived right next door.  Even though our walks only lasted an hour a day, three days a week, we became very close during that time.  It was the start of a very special friendship.

Of course, then life got in the way.  Her family went to the beach, then my family went to the beach.  Then I got sick.  Then my boys got sick.  Then Sawyer got sick.  Then I got sick.  Then Sawyer got sick.  Then I had surgery.  Then it was Thanksgiving.  Then my whole family got sick.  Then her whole family got sick.  And now, her cancer has come back, and it is viciously attacking her body.  And right this very minute, she is undergoing surgery to insert a chemo device into her brain.

Last night I couldn't sleep at all because I have pretty much become completely obsessed with her situation.  I am overcome with emotion.  That's why I'm writing.  I don't know what else to do.  She is all I can think about.  Yet I am so incredibly useless to her at this moment.

So I keep praying.  Please God, heal her.  The doctors can't heal her.  Her family can't heal her.  Her friends can't heal her.  Only You can heal her, God.  Please do.  

I'm asking you, please pray for her too.

The Wind Beneath My Wings

Have you ever seen the movie Beaches?  I love that movie.

I remember the first time I watched it with my mom.  I was in middle school.

At that time, I was in the midst of losing my closest childhood friend.  We had grown apart, and I found myself wondering if I would ever have a friend like Bette Midler was to Barbara Hershey.

I always saw myself as the Barbara Hershey character.  Smart and serious, yet caring and motherly.

I hadn't thought about that movie in a long time.  But my mom and dad watched it last weekend, and they both mentioned it to me on different occasions.  So it's been on my mind.

As I looked at the calendar yesterday, remembering it was my best friend's birthday, I was suddenly struck by how blessed I am to have been given the gift of a "Beaches" friendship...

...

Wendy and I became friends in middle school.  We had gone to separate elementary schools that fed into the same middle school.  So our story doesn't start until seventh grade.

We were in the same math class, and we had a crush on the same boys, who just happened to sit across from us in math class.  We spent a lot of time talking and giggling about those boys.  Those boys never gave us the time of day.  So we bonded over young love and disappointing rejection.

We ate lunch together everyday, along with 5 other friends.  While we were all close, it was clearly evident that Wendy and I were special.  Our other friends joked that Wendy and I shared a brain.  We would finish each other's sentences, and laugh at jokes that only we understood.  

Even then, I didn't realize what a huge part of my life she would become.

...

Wendy and I only grew closer over time.  It wasn't just the normal things that friends do in high school. We did go to football games together.  We had sleepovers.  But, it was also the little things that made us close.  She would come visit me when I worked at the grocery store, and I would let her scan her own items.  When I wanted to break up with my boyfriend, but I just couldn't face him, she broke up with him for me.

We weren't afraid to tell each other anything.  How we felt about boys.  How we felt about college.  How we felt about our moms.  How we felt about our hair.

Nothing could come between us in high school.  Not work.  Not clothes.  Not mean girls.  Not boys.

Nothing came between us in college.  Not school.  Not miles.  Not dorm life.  Not new friends.  Not boys.

Nothing has come between us in the real world.  Not husbands.  Not work.  Not motherhood.  Not distance.

...

When I got married at a very young age, Wendy was more supportive of my decision than anyone else in my life.  She knew everything about me, and everything about my husband-to-be (because I told her, of course).  She knew he wasn't perfect, but she also knew how happy he made me.  And she supported me at a time when very few others did.

When I gave birth to my second child, Wendy lived 17 hours away.  She called me every day after he was born.  She was the one to recognize I was in the midst of a deep postpartum depression.  She was the one to pull me out of it.

When I made the decision to homeschool, many people were telling me it wasn't a good idea.  But Wendy was my biggest cheerleader.  She was just as excited about me homeschooling as I was.

Last month, when I had surgery, Wendy drove 8 hours to come take care of me.  She cared for my kids.  She cleaned my house.  She did my laundry.  She brought me a biscuit and Dr. Pepper every morning.  She even washed out my refrigerator.

...

When Wendy and I are together now, we retreat to our own little world.  We talk, and we talk, and we talk.  We laugh a lot, and sometimes we cry.  We get each other.  We understand each other.  No matter how long we are together, we never run out of things to say to each other.

My husband jokes that while he's the one I'm married to, Wendy is truly my soulmate.

I laugh.  But there is some truth to that statement.

...

The most memorable part of the Beaches movie is the song at the end, The Wind Beneath My Wings.

Wendy is my Bette Midler.  She truly is the wind beneath  my wings.  I couldn't fly without her.

...

Wendy ~  Thank you.  Thank you.  Thank God for you.

So worth it!

I'm not one to wander through life searching for signs of God.  I know He's with me, and most of the time, that knowledge is enough to carry me through.  But then there are other times, when things just fall into the right place at the right time, and you just can't help but see that He's trying to tell you something.

This is a long one, but I promise the ending makes it so worth reading!

...

Three months ago, my doctor told me to go to the outpatient center for an internal ultrasound.  I'd been having some serious pain in the left side of my lower abdomen, and the normal causes for such pain had all been ruled out.  This ultrasound would shed some light as to what might be happening.

Being the daughter of a cancer survivor, I must admit, I was feeling quite anxious as we were driving "across the river" to Albemarle.  Trying to focus on anything but my pessimistic thoughts, I glanced down at the speedometer and saw the last three digits read "666".

Now, you don't have to be a religious person to know that this number combination is symbolic of bad things.  Nor do you have to be a religious person to be a little spooked by this number.  I am a religious person, and despite my "not looking for signs" personality, my stomach dropped at the sight of those three digits.

My heart started racing.  I started sweating.  And I knew at that moment, I would not receive good news at the hospital.  I glanced back down at the speedometer.  And though I had gone from zero to panic in less than 2 seconds at the sight of "666", I was just as quickly relaxed and relieved at the sight of "667".

In Biblical numerics, the number seven signifies good things.  Even before I knew this, seven was always my favorite number.  So to look down and see it right after I'd experienced that moment of pure panic, it somehow gave me comfort.  (I know it may sound crazy, but it was all very clear to me.)

I felt like God was telling me - "Yes, 666 is bad.  You are getting ready to go through something bad.  But the number seven always comes after six.  So after the bad, there will be good."

I learned just an hour later that I had a cyst the size of a racquetball on my left ovary.  In light of the possibilities running through my mind, this was not bad news.  Of course, as I researched and heard horror stories of the pain yet to come with an ovarian cyst, I knew I'd not yet seen the worst of it.  Three weeks later, when the cyst ruptured, I saw the worst of it.  Or so I thought...

So after I experienced the almost-unbearable pain of a ruptured cyst, I figured that was the "bad part", and I was very much looking forward to the "good part".  Unfortunately, that cyst yielded more bad things to come.  I experienced by far the worst menstrual cycle of my life.  (Men: go ahead and skip to the next paragraph.)  Five days of bleeding, so heavy I couldn't stand up without getting dizzy and light-headed.  This was followed by six more days of somewhat lighter bleeding.  I honestly thought I was bleeding to death.  When that period FINALLY stopped, I thought the bad part was over.

But then I developed another cyst.  And the whole saga started again...

Together with the doctor, we determined my best option was to undergo surgery for a uterine ablation.  This is a surgical procedure in which the doctor burns and removes the lining of the uterus to decrease or possibly cease the flow of future menstrual cycles.

I don't take surgery likely, but you might see why I literally jumped at this opportunity.  When I told people I was having surgery, I referred to it as "a good surgery".  And I actually found myself looking forward to it.

Why wouldn't I?  The doctor reassured me it would be a routine operation, and I would be back on my feet within a day or two.

Riiiiiight.

I had that surgery last Tuesday.  Just before I fell asleep on the operating table, I heard the nurses say I was having an allergic reaction to the antibiotic.  When I woke up, I was in so much pain, but I was too sedated to tell anyone.  The oxygen thing was itching my nose, and no matter how hard I tried to pee, I just couldn't.  The nurses discussed my "complications" and were trying to keep me overnight.  But in the end, they sent me home, doped up on painkillers and anti-nausea medication.  They reassured me I would "sleep it off" and feel much better in the morning.

I didn't sleep much at all over the next few days.  I sneezed a lot, because apparently that oxygen thing irritated my nose quite a bit.  The sneezing led to more abdominal pain.  And I just couldn't seem to find relief.

On Thursday, I sat on the kitchen floor with my best friend, who was literally a Godsend to me throughout this ordeal.  She offered me words of encouragement, telling me something she'd heard about how sometimes we have to go through things in order to be a witness to someone else.

Her words gave me chills, as they reminded me of the message I'd heard at our church's revival service on the Sunday night before my surgery, just four nights ago.  The preacher read about the three Hebrew children who were thrown into the fire.  He shared with us that this event did not happen for the benefit of those children, but for the the benefit of King Nebuchadnezzar, who would see God in the fiery furnace with those children.  He said, sometimes we go through things, not for our own benefit, but for the benefit of someone else.

I wondered in that moment, for whose benefit am I going through this?

I ended up calling the doctor on Friday, because the pain had gone from bad to worse, and I was pretty much miserable.  The doctor said I probably had an infection and prescribed two very aggressive antibiotics which "should do the trick", plus some hydrocodone to kill the pain.  Note:  It didn't actually kill the pain, it just made me not care about the pain.  It also made me very nauseous.  

On Sunday, I'd reached the end of my rope.  I'd somehow held it together that long, but I couldn't hold it together for another second.  My husband, Keith, wrapped me in his arms as I weeped tears full of self-pity and exhaustion, while my two boys sat on either side of me looking concerned and feeling helpless.  Keith prayed with me, and reminded me how blessed I am.  He reminded me that God was carrying me through this.

He then decided that since we were unable to make it to church, it would be best to have a service at home.  He played a few songs, including Please Forgive Me by the Crabb Family.  This is a beautiful song.  While listening to the words I found myself asking God a lot of questions.

• Why is this happening?
• Who is this benefiting? 
• When is the bad part going to be over?

When the song was over, God answered all my questions...

My oldest son, Bryson, said, "Can I be saved?  I feel like God wants me to be saved."  And then my youngest son, Camden, said, "I want to be saved for real."

In that moment, I knew in my heart that somehow, all this had led to that.

I don't think it was the pain that I felt that led them to God.  I think it was what happened to our family because of my pain.  It was the outpouring of love that has been shown to us.  It was the prayers that were going up on our behalf.  It was the cards, the meals, the phone calls, the house calls.  It was the help from our family, our friends, and even some people we don't really know.  It was the words of a loving husband trying to comfort his hurting wife.

I don't know when the pain will stop, when the nausea will go away, or when I'll feel back to 100%.

What I do know is my sons are saved, and someday we will be in Heaven together.

That makes it all so worth it.

bittersweet

I've had this blog post in my heart for days, but I haven't wanted to write it.  I'll just go ahead and tell you...  it's very sad.  But it has a bitter-sweet happy ending.  So grab your box of kleenex, and read on.

...

I'll start with the good news.  My brother's wife gave birth to a beautiful baby girl last Monday evening.  She came into this world weighing 7 pounds, 7 ounces, and measuring 18.5 inches long.  Her head is perfectly round.  Her cheeks are perfectly rosy.  She has 10 little fingers and 10 little toes.  She's perfect.

I am so happy for my brother and his wife.  But the birth of this baby has not come without much sadness in my heart.

Not for the reason you are probably thinking.

I am no longer craving baby #3.  It turns out a 14-hour road trip with a two-year-old, soon followed by a few sleepless nights in a hotel room with a five-month-old will cure you of that desire.  It's funny how quickly we forget how tiring those early years can be.  At 35 years old, I've finally found myself satisfied with my family of four.

So why am I sad?

I have a couple friends.  I call them my friends; but the truth is I haven't seen them in years.

We were in MOPS (Mothers of Preschoolers) together.  But then our MOPS group disassembled, and so what brought us together in the first place was no longer there.

Still, they remain very close friends with each other, living just seconds apart, sharing occasional playdates and coffee dates.  I keep up with them and their goings-on via Facebook and via their blogs.

They each have four children.  And they both announced earlier this year that each of their families would be welcoming a fifth child.

That is why I am sad.

Their fifth children are no longer.

One friend gave birth in May, much too early, to a precious, tiny little boy.  She said hello and good-bye to him in the same moment.  His name was Joel.

My other friend was told in July that her baby carried some type of rare chromosomal disorder.  She spent the last three months growing a daughter that she knew would most likely not live long after birth.  That baby girl took her first breath 10 days ago.  She also took her last breath 10 days ago.  Her name was Elliana.

"Sad" just doesn't begin to describe the circumstances.  It's gut-wrenching.

I'm ashamed to say that I haven't sent my condolences to either mom yet.

I've read each of their blog posts, documenting every hope, every sadness, every smile, and every tear.  Their pain is so real, so raw and so...  I don't know how to else describe it.

What do you say to someone whose heart is so broken?

I've sat down many times to write each of them a note, only to find myself without words.  There are no words.

Even now, I don't know what to say.

...

Don't get me wrong.  I was filled with joy the moment my mom sent me the first picture announcing the arrival of my newest niece.  It's the words that were under the picture that reminded me of the sorrow-filled heart of my friend, who had lost her baby girl just two days before...

"Welcome Eliana".

Doesn't it give you chills?

What are the chances my brother and his wife would choose the same name for their baby girl?

This is the reason I've not been bragging about my newest niece on Facebook.   

I am so thankful to be welcoming this precious baby girl into my life.  But to flaunt my joy over a baby that isn't really mine while my friends are mourning the loss of children they were never able to bring home alive... 

I just can't do it.

...

I feel more comfortable posting pics here.  My blog has fewer followers than my Facebook page.  So I am hoping this announcement will not seem disrespectful or insensitive in any way.

It is with bittersweet tears of joy that I say,

Welcome to the World, Eliana Grace Boyd!

I am weak, but I am strong!

My cousin, Brandon, has created a nickname for me...  "Freak of Nature".  It might not seem like a very nice nickname, but coming from him, I know it is a term of endearment.

He's right, you know.  I am a freak of nature.

Freak is defined as "a very unusual and unexpected event or situation".  I have a very unusual and unexpected body.  And I do not mean that in a good way.

My ex-sister-in-law once accused me of always having to be the center of attention.  I never liked her.  I'm glad she's no longer part of the family.  However, she was sorta right about this.  Although it's more like my body craves the spotlight, doing everything it can from the inside to get noticed on the outside.

Don't get me wrong.  I'm not one of those girls who "shakes what my Mama gave me" just so people will look at me.  I'm the girl who is always getting sick, thereby requiring attention from a LOT of people, including my husband, my children, my family, my friends and many times doctors, nurses, specialists and more.

It's frustrating.  Very frustrating.

Let me just give you a glimpse of the unusual and unexpected events that have taken place in my body.  I'll start in my adult life, although I'm sure my mother could add many items to list from my childhood.

• 3 months of seemingly incurable ear infections
• annual bouts of dizzy spells that leave me incapable of operating a vehicle, thereby requiring a chauffeur (my husband, my parents, my sister)
• recurrent severe urinary tract infections that are never cured by the usual medications, but always require a stronger antibiotic
• adverse reaction to the usual UTI-treating drugs
• spontaneous anxiety attacks that seem to strike at the most inconvenient times
• almost every pregnancy symptom a woman could dread - morning sickness which lasted all day for the first 17 weeks, POPS - a very uncomfortable rash all over my very pregnant belly, water retention in my feet, preterm labor, yada, yada, yada
• wound infection following my first c-section - the doctor had to reopen my wound without anesthetic, and I suffered daily wound packing by my husband who is NOT a nurse.  ouch!
• pregnancy-induced thyroid problems resulting in radioactive iodine therapy to destroy my thyroid
• H1N1 flu

I get drowsy from non-drowsy medication.  

Less than 3% of people who receive the tetanus vaccine suffer rare side effects such as fever, body aches and chills.  I am in that 3%.

Let's suffice to say, in my case, "possible side effects" equal probable side effects.

I could go on and on.  But the truth is, so far, writing this particular blog post is really bringing me down.  So let me move on to the good news.

Yes, in the midst of all this physical weakness, there is good news.

I recently came across the following scripture in my Bible, spoken by Paul to the Corinthians.  It has stuck with me.

2 Corinthians 12:10
Therefore I take pleasure in infirmities, in reproaches, in necessities, in persecutions, in distresses for Christ's sake: for when I am weak, then am I strong.

Upon reading this the first time, I was quite confused.  How can it be that when I am weak, then am I strong?  If this is the case, I am always weak.  Which means I am always strong.  Wait.  What? 

So I decided to go back a few verses, and this is what I found...

2 Corinthians 12:7-8

And lest I should be exalted above measure through the abundance of the revelations, there was given to me a thorn in the flesh, the messenger of Satan to buffet me, lest I should be exalted above measure.

For this thing I besought the Lord thrice, that it might depart from me.

And he said unto me, My grace is sufficient for thee: for my strength is made perfect in weakness. 

So Paul had a "thorn in the flesh", a weakness, which he asked God to take from him three times.  But God said no.  

Why did God say no?  

Because God's strength is made perfect in weakness.  When Paul was weak, his strength came from God.  He was no longer dependent upon himself, but fully dependent on God.  God is strong.  Therefore, Paul was strong.

Okay.  I have a very weak, easily-sickened, unusual body, which I have asked God to make immune on more than three occasions.  But God has said no.  

Why?  

Because God's strength is made perfect in weakness.  When I am weak, which it would seem is pretty much all the time, my strength comes from God. When I can no longer depend upon myself, or my body, then am I fully dependent on God.  God is always strong.  Therefore, I am strong.

2 Corinthians 12:9-10

Most gladly therefore will I rather glory in my infirmities, that the power of Christ may rest upon me.

Therefore I take pleasure in infirmities, in reproaches, in necessities, in persecutions, in distresses for Christ's sake: for when I am weak, then am I strong.

This is the hard part.

Apparently I should be happy when I am weak.  Again.  Wait.  What?

My first reaction to yet another infirmity is always one of discouragement.  Here we go again.  

My next reaction is denial.  That's okay.  I can handle it.

This is followed by anger.  I hate my body.  Why am I always sick?!

Right after this comes self-pity.  Poor me.  Pitiful me.  Woe is me.

After I've ridden this highly erratic roller coaster, I find myself physically, mentally and emotionally exhausted.  That's when I finally take it to the Lord.  

Dear Lord, here I am again, lying on the couch, completely useless to my husband and children.  I'm not able to do what I need to do, what I want to do.  Please help me Lord.  Help me to get well and stay well.

I am never ever ever happy when I am weak.  Like ever.

I think what God is trying to tell me from these verses in 2 Corinthians is from the moment I realize my physical weakness, however it may manifest itself, I should skip all those previous steps and take it directly to Him.  In the midst of my weakness, I will be fully dependent on Him.  He will make me strong. 

I get it now, God.

Now I realize how much time I've wasted feeling sorry myself, when I could have been praying, worshipping, studying and praising.  Yes, it's been unproductive time in terms of my home, but it could have been productive time in terms of my relationship with God.  I should take advantage of this time with Him now, because when else will I spend this amount of time with Him.  That will not only make me happy; it will also give me peace.

So, I may be a weak-bodied Freak of Nature.  But from now on, I will take glory in my weak-bodied freak-of-nature-ness.  I will be happy when I am weak.  ...for when I am weak, then am I strong.

And praise be to God, for with His strength, I am a strong, weak-bodied Freak of Nature. 

Hallelujah!  :)

bad, bad, bad

It's 9:18a.m.  And I can already say, "I'm having a bad day."

I'm having a bad week actually.

Since I'm really feeling sorry for myself, I could say, "I'm having a bad few weeks."

Three weeks ago, I started having abdominal pain, which my doctor first diagnosed as a possible bladder infection, but probably just menstrual cramps.  I am the queen of menstrual cramps, so I knew something more was going on.  As the week went on, the pain persisted and eventually became worse.  I called my doctor to confirm the results of the test for bladder infection, certain they must have come back positive.  But no.  The tests showed no sign of infection.

So she sent me to the Outpatient Center at the hospital to have an internal ultrasound.  Yes ladies, cringe with me.  That most unpleasant experience revealed a cyst the size of a tennis ball sitting on my left ovary.  At that point, I was so relieved the pain was not in my head, I didn't really hear anything else my doctor told me.

I went to a friend's house that night, and she warned me of the elevated pain to come, as the cyst would eventually rupture.

Despite the pain I was already experiencing, I spent the following week in a constant state of dread.  When will it rupture?  How bad will it hurt?  Can I handle the pain? 

While the cyst made it's presence known in my lower abdomen, every day the pain manifested itself in a different way.  I had sharp pains shooting down my left leg.  My lower back hurt.   I felt lots of pressure in my side.

The worst of it came on Sunday evening, when the cyst did in fact rupture, creating a burning pain that I can only describe as "almost unbearable".  I tried to be strong as I saw the concern on the faces of my husband and children, but I could not hold back the tears.  This pain was intense, and it didn't just go away.  It lingered...  for hours...

I was up at 4:00a.m., unable to stand without passing out, clinging to the toilet, praying for relief.  I finally fell asleep, and spent most of the next day in bed.  In and out of reality, but constantly in pain.

Yesterday was better, physically.  The pain had dwindled to a feeling of soreness.  And that soreness continues today.

If this was all that I had been through in the last three weeks, I think I'd have a more positive attitude this morning.  But it's not...

In the midst of my own physical stress, my children came down with a virus that causes diarrhea.  Great.  First Bryson, for two days.  Then Camden, for two days.  But wait, that's not all.  Then Bryson again, for two days.  Then Camden again, for two days.

And as you know, when Mommy is sick, most of what Mommy does on a daily basis, does not get done.  My husband did make sure we had all our meals.  Thank you Keith, I love you!  And he started a load of laundry every now and then.  But let's face it, he's a man for whom housekeeping is not instinctual.  And he does have a job outside of the home.

Anyway...

When I woke up this morning, one thought was on my mind, "I've been cooped up in this house for days. I have GOT TO GET OUT!!!  I took a LONG hot shower, mentally planning out my day.  Breakfast at Rick's, story time at the library, pick up a few groceries, lunch with Michelle maybe, back home, homeschooling, housekeeping, housekeeping, housekeeping.  

So I get dressed, actually taking time to fix my hair.  I brush my teeth.  I walk out of the bedroom feeling so much better than I have in weeks...   to be greeted by a pale-faced little boy who tells me he has diarrhea again.

I want to cry.