right now

An after-holiday hush has settled over the house as I look around, contemplating what came before, and what comes next.

Behind me, in my work area, is a rather large unruly pile of unsold pillows and fabric, next to the clothing rack containing three new items I was able to purchase for seventy percent off from a failed department store. Below are bins of fabric scraps, fiberfill for stuffing pillows, and next to the closet is a rather large wicker basket with partial bolts of cloth along with wallpaper and wrapping paper. A small table is covered with the remnants of a put-together shelving unit that I have replaced with a better system, though having no idea yet where to place all of the bits and pieces it contains.

Cut out are the ornaments that never got made; garlands I never stitched the words "merry and bright" on. My ideas always overwhelm my schedule. Time is a strict task master. Once the deadline for a seasonal item has passed, it will not come around again for another year. Well-meaning friends suggest that I begin to work on these items sooner. They are right, though my natural proclivity is to procrastinate.

Possibilities loom. A gift card was spent in the ordering of yet another shelving system for the other wall. Floor to ceiling on every side will the raw materials await a spark of creativity that will render them beautiful. Placed in their baskets and jars will buttons, thread, wire and all miscellaneous materials dwell until they are called forth. My mind spins. So much work ahead. So many hours to disappear in the process of creating. I look forward to falling back down the rabbit hole and losing myself in my own wonderland.

It is here that I pause.

As I warm my hands on a snowman mug of hot coffee, I savor this moment. Right here. Right now.

Looking back is never wise for me unless I am recalling a lesson I learned so I do not repeat it, or to remind myself that I am in fact still loved by God. I will want to account for the choices I have made to decide whether to head in a different direction. I will need to take a good long look at how things went before starting something new.

Anticipating the future often causes me more stress than it is worth as I do not possess a natural optimism. I often do not expect things to turn out well which probably has more to do with looking back than it does in moving forward. We tell ourselves not to have expectations. I still wonder how that works as I expect so many things both great and small on any given day.

The challenge as ever is simply to BE. Be careful. Be creative. Be happy. Be at peace. Be well. Be yourself. Be still.

A look behind. A glance forward. A steady gaze out my window at the albino squirrels chasing each other around a tree. Grateful to be here, I wait for inspiration to awaken.

covenant child

A baby's first birthday party: an effort by tired adults to commemorate their first year of parenthood. An exercise of celebratory futility as the baby will never remember it and only the true friends and family will even care. A reason to take lots of pictures, while the child will be more interested in what the gifts were wrapped in than the gifts themselves.

Given this attitude, the day I was handed an invitation to the first birthday party of one of my infant preschool students, I immediately dismissed it. Too tired, too busy--I didn't need to work hard to come up with persuading arguments as to why it would be a waste of my time.

Intrigued as I was by the line on the invitation that identified this party as a traditional Korean Dol party, I did not take the time to google it. It then occurred to me one day prior to the RSVP deadline that perhaps the families of these parents would not be able to attend as they may live in Korea, so I figured I would make the effort to show up with the plan of a quick departure.

Though I am usually the only redhead in most of the rooms I walk into, it felt different this time, being one of the few non-Asian guests. Not awkward, but special. I was being included into something far more significant than a baby's birthday party.

What I did not know was that the first birthday for a Korean child is a momentous occasion and can be compared to a Jewish bris without the . . . um . . . unfortunate part, or even a baby baptism or dedication.

A pastor from their Korean church led the prayer in Korean, translating it back into English for the benefit of the few. Bible passages from the book of Luke were read--the part about Simeon holding baby Jesus for the first time, saying that his eyes had seen salvation. "A light to bring revelation to the Gentiles, and the glory of Your people Israel," Simeon spoke to God. A covenant child. And this Korean baby boy presented to all those whom had come to bless him was their covenant child. Hope for the future.

Prayers in various languages, perhaps even the tongues of angels, filled the room as we all stood with hands outstretched toward this baby boy. His parents' faces beamed as they stood holding him behind a table decked out with an elaborate fruit arrangement and beautiful cake. The large screen behind them played the recorded first year of his life.

While not intending to impress the people at my table with my chopstick eating skills as we enjoyed an Asian buffet, I knowingly used them at the risk of making a fool of myself in the presence of those who had developed far better skills eating with these sharpened sticks than I would ever have. We would eventually walk back over to the birthday cake table and sing happy birthday. Fortunately the Korean version seemed to match the English syllables, as it did not occur to me that we would be singing even this song differently.

The baby, then dressed in traditional ceremonial Korean attire, was placed at one end of a cloth spread on the floor in the middle of the room. On the other end objects including a judge's gavel, stethoscope, a dollar bill, small basketball, a director's wand, and a pencil were placed. It was the baby's job to crawl toward whatever item he was most attracted to, thereby symbolizing what his life may become. Though his hand touched the stethoscope first, as a couple of women standing near me pointed out, the baby reached out for the ball, perhaps the most familiar of the possible choices.

Celebrating the birth of a baby: so seemingly insignificant and yet what brought the shepherds, the wise men, and anyone else who could make it to a nondescript stable out in the middle of nowhere. A baby whose needs to be held, fed and comforted would far outweigh anything he could offer. A tiny life brought into this world by divine intervention to do great things, as the prophecy had proclaimed.

For unto us a Child is born,
Unto us a Son is given;
And the government will be upon His shoulder.
And His name will be called
Wonderful, Counselor,
Mighty God,
Everlasting Father, Prince of Peace.
[Isaiah 9:6]

A miracle. Brand-new. Filled with possibilities. A covenant child.

WWJD

"What would Jesus do?" is a thought-provoking question tossed about in the last decade or so.  WWJD

The story of how Jesus instructed accusers without sin to cast the first stone at the woman caught in adultery, then wrote in the sand and told her to go away and sin no more, is the type of event that comes to mind when I ponder this question. WWJD--he would remind us that we have ALL sinned and fallen short of the glory of God.

While trying to emphasize to children Jesus' sinless nature, a young boy insisted that Jesus did in fact also fall short of God's glory by expressing anger in the temple and turning over the tables. Apparently this child had been taught that to be angry is a sin, even though it is written that we are allowed to be angry as long as we sin not.

In the book of Proverbs, chapter 6, verses 16 through 19, it is not exactly about anger but a listing of what the Lord hates. Hate is a strong word, abomination equally difficult to accept. And yet, there it is. WWJD

Considering all that seems wrong with the world, I find the list of merely seven traits unsettling in their brevity when sin can take so many turns along its ill-fated way.

16 These six things the Lord hates, Yes, seven are an abomination to Him:

17 A proud look,

     A lying tongue,

    Hands that shed innocent blood,

Having a high opinion of oneself, or being prideful, can lead to many problems; of course, low self-esteem leads to many others. Projecting a haughty demeanor is nothing to be proud of. WWJD--he wants us to know we are all his beloved children.

Telling the truth is sometimes not even encouraged, especially among those who were raised to think that if one cannot say anything nice, one had better not say anything at all. WWJD--he knows us and loves us anyway.

Shedding innocent blood is often interpreted as abortion or going to war, situations that may or may not be preventable. If committing murder in one's heart is as evil as its literal alternative, we may all be guilty. WWJD--he creates in us a clean heart and renews a right spirit.

18 A heart that devises wicked plans,

     Feet that are swift in running to evil,

Premeditated acts of hatred or revenge often backfire. Wanting to give back in kind what one has received will sometimes result in the realization that neither one is doing the right thing. WWJD--he directs one to go to the offended before offering a gift at the altar, and ask forgiveness.

It does not take any time at all to get into trouble. Running to evil is not much of a challenge. So many possibilities; so little time. WWJD--he remains a light in the darkness to brighten our path that will lead us back in the direction he would have us to walk.

19 A false witness who speaks lies,

     And one who sows discord among brethren.

Being a false witness can ruin someone's life either by libel or slander, even though these are hardly chargeable offenses any more. Our word is our bond; our reputation precedes us. Once these are taken away by another's behavior or words, our livelihood hangs in the balance. WWJD--he restores the years that the locusts have eaten, locusts with "bless-your-heart" dripping like honey from their lips.

And last but not least, sowing discord among the brethren--the final abominable act. Just because the Lord sees this particular offense as an abomination does not make it any less prevalent on a Sunday morning. Sowing weeds into a garden would be considered foolish as it makes reaping the harvest more difficult than necessary. Doing the work of the church, the work we are commanded as the arms and feet of Jesus to do, is thwarted when so much time must be spent pulling out that which strangles what is good and noble. WWJD--he gives us his peace, not the peace the world gives: conditional at best and unattainable at worst, but the peace that creates calm in the midst of people who are not. He tells us to love one another as he loves, giving as he gave. Apart from him we can do none of this.

Loving each other is our highest duty, the most important commandment. WWJD--he opens his arms wide for those seeking healing for their hearts--broken by what the Lord hates.

the futility of hope

I do not think anyone who really knows me would ever mistake me for a glass-half-full type of girl.

But every so often I reserve that little bit of hope for something good; a fairy tale ending even though I have told myself a million times not to trust in such foolishness. In spite of what my logical mind tells me, I really do want to click together the heels of some imaginary ruby slippers and be transported to a happier place, knowing all the while I may very well remain in the clutches of wickedness.

I am not a stranger to the duality of God. The idea that Jesus had to die so that I may live forever is not lost on me. Losing one's life to save it. Giving in order to receive. It sometimes leaves me gasping for air as I try to figure out how to live without ever completely falling apart. How I am to have hope knowing that around the next bend absolute tragedy is not only waiting for me, but allowed to happen, becomes an unanswered question I carry around with me. A well-meaning person will then tell me that it all works together for my good. And that I am supposed to be grateful for the valuable lessons this hardship is going out of its way to teach me. With a forced smile, I will pretend to agree, all the while knowing that life is unfair. Everyone knows this.

Sometimes having hope at all seems to be a wasted effort.

It always begins the same way--these situations I find myself in that require me to have hope. I wonder if I am headed in the right direction or am pursuing a worthwhile goal. I make attempts to progress toward this new something and even though I should know better, I try to ignore the potential pitfalls. Maybe THIS time, I tell myself.

Maybe this time the next person whom I call friend will not abandon me. Maybe this next group of people are the ones we will grow old with. Maybe we will learn to trust each other within a faith community, working alongside each other to accomplish something worthwhile. Maybe an apology will be forthcoming and hearts that were once cold and hard will soften enough to make room for reconciliation. Maybe my own heart will not be completely shattered this time.

But I never know what will happen. I am not the one writing the script for an ever-changing cast of characters. I have to choose whether to engage in the life before me or to withdraw from it.

There was a time several years ago when I wondered why I should continue to go to church when I could worship God just fine on my own while walking through the woods or sitting in quiet reflection alone. I could, in fact, often worship better this way. I risked losing a sense of peace every time I walked into a house of worship and was met at the door with an endless list of needs existing in the hearts of all those in the seats. Expectations to participate would overwhelm me as I tried to navigate my way to the altar where I longed to be the kind of person who would sit at the feet of Jesus and learn of him without having all of the busyness cloud my vision.

I did not think I could go through it again: becoming a member of some new family of believers and trying to figure out what role I would play this time; deciding which parts of my story I was willing to tell. Maybe this time . . . .

A sermon about why one needs to go to church is inevitable and as I braced myself for the not-forsaking-the-fellowship part, I received a different message. Instead of something that sounded like a required directive, what I heard felt more like an invitation to a party; a celebration of life. I wasn't being handed a list of do's and don'ts, but was walking through an open door into a more spacious place in which I could find refuge and put down my guard for a few minutes. I could get back in touch with my early spiritual development and find healing. I would look at the stained glass depiction of the life of Jesus with new eyes. And light a candle for those in need, including myself.

Once a need is established, there is an opportunity for hope. If I say I have no need, I lie. But to admit to having a need is to risk not ever having that need met. I had been told that by focusing on the needs of others, my own needs would be satisfied. I wish it worked that way. I would, however, have to do the hard work that is required in seeking healing--not so I could then lead an isolated life, but so I would have something more to offer this community in which I had found myself. Little by little I would be offered new doors to walk through and more hands to hold. Restoration is a beautiful thing.

This time it will be different, I tell myself. This time. But people are still people; unrepentant and unyielding. Promises get broken along with fellowship that once seemed so long-lasting. Some of those previously open doors start to close while others are slammed shut. I see the smugness on the faces of those in my direct line of vision while sitting in a choir loft, another place I never thought I would be. I look to the pews where people I thought I knew used to sit. I consider how to go on from here.

Life happens. We move on for different reasons, but we all have to keep moving. There is no real stillness, at least not in the way I long for it. I am told that comes later, in the eternity that awaits us after this life of failed hope has ended. We will then join hands around an unimaginably large table and prepare to partake of the feast that will be offered to us. Once it begins, there will be no lack of sustenance and all will be fed. And no one will have to rush off to anything else or ever say good-bye. We will all be together. We will no longer need to hope for love, for Love will have found us.

art versus craft

Art: the expression or application of human creative skill and imagination, typically in a visual form such as painting or sculpture, producing works to be appreciated primarily for their beauty or emotional power.

Craft: an activity involving skill in making things by hand.

Even the definition could persuade one to believe that art is superior to craft. Art is perhaps for those who have developed a taste for the finer things in life. Art is for the sophisticated. Art requires great training to produce it and to interpret its nuanced meanings. It is not common or meant to be accessible to all.

Craft, on the other hand, is for everyone apparently and can be produced by everyone as well. It is usually a three-dimensional object possibly having a useful quality that far outweighs its beauty. It is not one of a kind. It is not special. It is not of great value or worth. And lately I have felt very much a part of this lesser category.

Flash back to a summer day in the year 2006 where I am out walking and having one of my conversations with God. I had just quit my job, having spent the previous five years teaching 5-year-olds at a preschool, wondering what in the world I was doing teaching preschool. Or teaching anything. I was supposed to be a writer. What in the world had happened to me?

So as I'm nearing the street to my house this overwhelming thought forces its way into my mind: make garlands. This was worse than trying to be a teacher because as much as I struggled trying to figure out how to be a teacher, or more specifically, how to be around teachers and work with them, I had no idea what it meant for me to make garlands. And how was making anything going to help me be a writer?  

But then I remembered the story I had written about an old woman making stars with hearts in the middle of them and I decided to follow the instructions of my own writing and made a star just like I had written it into that woman's life. I then made the stars smaller and made hearts with stars in the middle of them and after figuring out the details, produced a garland. I then made another with tiny trees, and cut up an old blanket to make angels. After my application was accepted at the local farmers' market, I set up shop and sold garlands.

I sold boxes and boxes of garlands! I attached the story I had written and soon it had become a gift for many to give and a way for people who were looking for something unique to decorate their homes with handmade art. Or was it a craft? I had not used someone else's idea or pattern but had created my own. I had not copied anyone's design. I was the author of the story that described the ornaments from which these garlands were made. I was the sole creator, the artist.

For years I would be referred to as a crafter and because of the farmer, baker, or crafter designation at the market; I was fine with that. I never compared myself with those who had studied fine arts or had degrees in art. I had been sewing since I was ten years old and learned from my mother. She also taught me to do embroidery and we spent many cold Michigan winters doing crafts inside our warm home. But crafts were usually kits in which we followed instructions and made something like the picture on the box, sort of a paint-by-number type of activity.

But that never satisfied me. I wanted to turn shoe boxes into doll house rooms furnished with empty spools from thread for chairs, cardboard tables, matchbox beds with tiny cloth blankets, and curtains for the windows. I would take scraps of paper and cloth to make whatever I wanted. I would also design clothing for the paper dolls since I would get immediately bored with the small selection available with their perforated edges. I would draw more, make more, create something new and different. I would then write stories so that these paper dolls could do more than just stand around on their tiny cardboard stands. They could live their lives according to my scripts!

Somehow I reasoned that journalism was the course of study I should take since majoring in English meant I would have to be a teacher and that was the one career I never wanted to have. Settling to tell someone else's story seemed to be a good plan though it never really materialized in the way I thought it should. And I was left with the dream of writing stories, while collecting meager paychecks from dead-end jobs.

Still, I did not call myself a writer or an artist for a very long time. When one says she is a writer, the very first question one is asked is: what do you write? When there is no good answer, it is best not to say it. At least by calling myself an artist I could leave it up to the person looking at what I made to decide whether or not it could be called art.  

And so it has gone, for the past eight years.

Recently I found out about an arts and crafts cooperative calling itself a gallery and looking for guest artists to rent shelf space. When my application was accepted I felt like I had become successful as an artist. Being in a gallery would give what I made more value and worth than it would otherwise have. I could tell my friends that my ART was in a GALLERY. No more would I have to say that I was a crafter.

But business has been slow and whether I am an artist or a crafter, I will not likely break even for the first time since I started selling my wares. Life at the farmers' market is not much better. Neither place has gone out of their way to photograph or advertise my work and there remains that nagging voice inside my head repeating the same thing it has said to me ever since I was a child: you are a writer. Write.

I do write. I am writing now. I write prayers for my church. I think about self-publishing quite often. I wonder how I could incorporate my art with my writing. And how I can accomplish all of this in the midst of my part-time job back at the preschool where I now feel that each day spent with a baby is more like an immeasurable gift from God, than a waste of my life.  

I have reached that certain age when I no longer need to prove myself, even though I still sometimes fall into that ditch of approval-seeking behavior. Whether or not I have been slighted by those around me in reference to my work need not worry me. I know who I am.

I am a writer.

thank you Christian Wiman

In the midst of struggle, I often turn to books. Talking to friends and family can be somewhat helpful but sometimes I need to enter into the life of another as page after page allows me to tag along for the journey. I like to read the unvarnished truth--the words the author may or may not say out loud to his own friends and family. I am forever in search of truth.

If you have read the blog post previous to this one about my health issues, my need for answers predominates the discussion. What lurks between the lines is my need for someone to walk with me through the valley of the shadow of death, and I was fortunate to find Christian Wiman, author of My Bright Abyss. Wiman has no idea of my existence and we are not friends in any sense of the word. But he has been with me as of late, encouraging me with the starkness of views about his life with cancer, his impending death, and how the Creator of the Universe figures into the equation. As I was hanging onto his every word, feeling inspired, crying along with his revelations of truth, my attention is now shifting away from the contemplation of death--as my death sentence was premature--and I am feeling pangs of guilt, leaving him behind.

It seems odd to me how I can arrange my thought processes to reflect whatever truth I choose to believe. And then, whether conscious of this or not, I go about finding others who are willing to agree with me. It validates me to come across sentences like, "Faith steals upon you like dew: some days you wake and it is there. And like dew, it gets burned off in the rising sun of anxieties, ambition, distractions," written by Wiman, and say to myself--yes, it is ok for faith to waiver like mine just has. It is not my faith in God that has come into question, however, but my faith in thinking I know what God is up to. To me it is not the same. God's existence is absolute and his love for me eternal. That does not mean he is going to grant me my wishes, answer my prayers the way in which I have carefully laid them before him with that intention in mind, or even that good things will happen--what I may consider good anyway. God is God. He can do or not do whatever it is an Almighty being would choose to do. How I deal with it is up to me.

So when Wiman suggests that faith gets "burned off in the rising sun" of whatever life throws in my direction, I know what he is talking about. Faith is not needed when the check is ready to clear the bank. Faith is needed when the check is not forthcoming and the calls from the collection agencies start to show up on the answering machine. Faith is not that all is well. Faith is having a sneaking suspicion that all is definitely not well but in time it will be. The big question is when. Does the bottom have to fall out of everything first? Answer: maybe. Will it mean that God does not care? Answer: no. Does God caring have anything to do with the prayers that need to be answered this week? Sort of. He cares. He provides. He will listen to anything I have to say. But like a small child forming her chubby little hand into a fist to say, "No! I won't!" to a parent who has insight into life the toddler lacks, so goes my relationship with God. It is not for me to know but to trust. It is not easy.

When I thought my own demise was near, I started to take on a different point of view. The future looks different when there may not be one. Each day takes on greater significance. A bite of food is savored when the thought of not being able to taste it is introduced. The need to write and use one's gifts move to the forefront as the thought of being silenced once and for all comes into play.

But death will meet us someday. It is part of the script we all live out. Like William Shakespeare said, "All the world's a stage and all the men and women merely players: they have their exits and their entrances . . . ."  Of this one thing we can be certain. Knowing how and when is the secret. Someone dying of cancer can pretty well figure it out. And though he can be seen as brave, I have no doubt there are days when Wiman resists that description and is even mocked by it. Could he trade in the bravery and get his life back? he may wonder. What is so great about being brave anyway? And who gets to decide if someone is brave or whether hidden tears and an underlying fear come to define the person when no one is around.

We want people to be our role models and show us how to believe and the appropriate ways to handle various situations. Wiman's dying is palatable through his book. He makes it seem doable. But he also includes in the writing that years have gone by since a paragraph was penned, inviting one into the depth of pain and frustration a writer must feel as he is searching for words to explain his condition while it is deteriorating rapidly. The platitudes fall away, Christian or otherwise. The trite phrases about God, his healing, his mercy, all take on sinister overtones to the person planning his own funeral. Life exists until death takes it. It is not for the one looking in from the outside to even know what it is like and certainly not to make any kind of judgment. It is a solo journey and yet God accompanies the one who can still reach out. But as I discovered in my brief adventure toward this end, it is God who lifts my hand to hold his. I cannot not even do that much myself.

So thank you Christian Wiman. For sharing your heart poetically and honestly in a beautifully written book that has inspired me. For not hiding behind words but allowing them to draw out your truth, as raw and unforgiving as that is. For living out the role you never meant to be cast in. And for the perseverance it has taken to assign words to the unspeakable; a quiet commentary on that which most would rather not consider.

"My God my bright abyss
into which all my longing will not go
once more I come to the edge of all I know
and believing nothing believe in this."

--Christian Wiman, 2013, My Bright Abyss, Meditation of a Modern Believer

to be normal again

"So, you have tested positive for lupus," she said matter-of-factly--this woman about my age looking intently at her laptop, as we sat together as strangers in a tiny room with a couple of chairs and an examination table.

"But I was told by my general practitioner that I had Sjogren's Syndrome," was my protest, which was not exactly true because I had not heard the news from my doctor but from his assistant who called and rather nonchalantly mentioned I now had an incurable, chronic disease. This new doctor, a rheumatologist to which I had been referred, must have sensed my rising panic, especially since she was telling me I now had two incurable, chronic diseases, and instead of entertaining any of the questions that I had almost a month to formulate, said we would talk after further lab tests, x-rays, urine specimens and whatever else were thoroughly evaluated. In other words, I would be waiting another three weeks.

How I arrived at this place in life is still somewhat of a mystery. About a year ago I started to feel worn out and attributed it to the schedule I was on: following my boys in all of their sporting and musical events; working a part-time job while keeping an art business going; and volunteering to be on three boards with regular meetings and expectations. Eating right, sleeping enough hours and exercising regularly sometimes are not at the forefront of one's life when so many immediate needs present themselves. I did what I could to keep up.

Sometime last October I developed a toothache like none other and on Halloween I was treated to my first root canal--a trick, not a treat. Still not feeling my best I figured my hypothyroidism was acting up--a chronic condition I have been dealing with for the past ten years. There also loomed before me the dreaded menopause with all of the changes that accompany it. So many reasons to not feel great and yet no clear answers.

Six months after the first root canal it was apparent that my tooth had become infected so root canal number two was scheduled. A couple of weeks later came root canal number three, technically more of a repair--all on the same tooth, the one that meets the other tooth that allows my open bite mouth to chew food. After over fifty years of use, maybe the orthodontist I saw when I was 16 was right when he predicted I would be gumming my food by the time I was 40. The idea of braces at the time would have affected my flute playing which caused me great angst and my parents were not eager to spend the money, especially when fixing an open bite is not guaranteed. So I continued to go on not being able to chew correctly and not worrying about it.

Trying to make it through my son's senior year began to feel like a death march and by the time our college-aged son had returned home to take over the front room and half the dining room table, I was ready to give in to the clutter and seek to find rest instead of fighting a losing battle to keep the house in any kind of orderly fashion. Hoping to restart a regular exercise regimen to try to regain my strength was a short-lived hope as my husband found a summer job and my son decided to take summer classes, leaving me with no transportation to the gym. I ran until it was too hot outside and tried to get to the pool whenever I could, but the fatigue and joint pain just got worse.

By this point my endocrinologist intervened, taking me off the natural hormone I need to regulate my metabolism and prescribed a synthetic one. I was in too much of a fog by that point to understand what it was he was doing--until the bottom nearly fell out of my life. I no longer could sleep and would cry uncontrollably with little or no provocation. I gained 10 pounds in one month. Depression, a symptom of inadequately treated hypothyroidism, spiraled me to a level I had not before reached. I was becoming someone I was not meant to be, I explained, as I told my doctor I would not be taking any more synthetic hormones. Ever. But the numbers are normal, he explained. I, however, was not.

I began to wonder if this pain I was in was real or imagined. I do not want to be sick. I want to go running. I want to lose weight. I want to have an overall sense of well-being. I am not depressed. Though I do not tend to have the most cheery of dispositions, I am a writer so that is to be expected. This is what I kept telling myself. Whenever I tried to pray, I cried. I had no words that could adequately explain what it was I was hoping for. Whatever it was, I certainly did not think it would be chronic diseases that would perhaps eventually take away my ability to use the very gifts God has given me. I felt like life as I knew it was ending ever so gradually.

Last Tuesday I went back to receive the final diagnosis from the rheumatologist. I was bracing myself for anything from lupus to lymphoma. What is the worst that can happen? I asked myself. Well, I could die. No, I decided, that would not be the worst. The worst would be living with a chronic, debilitating disease that would shut down the reasons for joy in this life. Having people tell me I am brave after I would learn to withhold my emotions so they would not see me feeling desperate, was not something I was looking forward to. Explaining to my friends and loved ones that the woman they once knew no longer exists was something else that burdened me as I am usually the one others turn to for bearing their burdens. It is what it is. I sat waiting with my throbbing head, having scheduled another root canal.

"You do not have lupus and the only test that showed any abnormality was for Sjogren's and it was so slight, I am not diagnosing you with that either," she said. What?! Though I was excited for this good news, I also reminded myself that this is specifically why I am not fond of the medical community. For almost two months I have been on death row, in my mind. I have walked myself through all sorts of scenarios, none of them particularly heroic or brave. I have cried out to God and have had times of silence wondering what I would do if. Nevertheless, I was not abandoned and at times I felt the Spirit of God embracing me in ways more powerfully than I have ever experienced. Contemplating an eternity in heaven is not all that scary. It is the process it takes to get there that gives one pause.

Instead of a fourth root canal, the dentist performed an apicoectomy in which the infected roots are cut from the tooth and the tooth magically continues to stay in my head, or at least that is the plan for now. My mouth hurts and my lip is swollen. I took the day off to gather my thoughts, prepare for a meeting and hopefully do some sewing as the holiday season will soon be upon us. My dentist said that a chronic fatigue condition sometimes develops when a tooth remains infected over a period of time. My health may yet prevail. Or at least maybe I can find a way to make peace with a new kind of normal.