Check Your Tongue with Your Teeth

As a younger sister, I learned early how to share (and demand my part). For most of my friends, I don't mind sharing things that truly bother some people. If someone's really thirsty, I'll unscrew the top of my water bottle and let them drink. If they're hungry, I'll cut my lunch in half and offer it. In the case of my boyfriend, since we kiss each other, I figure it's perfectly acceptable to drink after each other and, in certain cases, eat off the other person's plate (this way I get the momentary bliss of a crispy french fry before I return to my responsible order of string beans and broccoli).

My pastor is another case, however. In the middle of a sermon, a gnat flew right into his mouth. He grimaced and asked for some water--fast. Since I was sandwiched between several people in the pew, I couldn't get up to get him water, so I offered him my half-full bottle. He turned it down. I wasn't offended, but did lightly tease him about "beggars can't be choosers." He didn't want to share some things with me. It's understandable--because there are some things I don't want to share with him.

Last night at church, it was announced (since the pastor and his wife are driving me) that I am about to get my wisdom teeth pulled on Friday. People prayed, which was comforting, and I'm a lot less nervous about this procedure than before. After the service, the pastor came to sit next to me and proceeded to tell me about his ordeal with getting his wisdom teeth pulled. The story started out on a high note--he woke up feeling just fine, very little pain. Then it took a very dark turn. He developed "dry sockets", which sounds innocuous if you're referencing lighting fixtures but is apparently Dante's eighth circle.

Not to be confused with Dante's fifth circle, which is apparently an extreme form of unending constipation. Yeah, that'll ruin eternity for you.

The story stretched on, including phrases such as "worst pain of my entire life," "filling holes," and "excruciating torture." I'm sure my eyes had to be reflecting my growing horror and unease. I'm a very imaginative person, and my pastor knows this. He paused in a Sunday School lesson regarding cannibalism to warn me as I was munching on my breakfast (a new habit as I can't eat before singing practice lest I lose my voice). He knows I'm a writer, which only furthers the need to watch what is said around me (although I find it funny when he rants about Christian romance novels...and that's what I write). I've admitted to both him and his wife that I'm nervous about the surgery and the recovery. And yet he's sharing his wisdom with me.

I don't mind listening to other people's stories--in fact, I love it. I get to learn about the person and possibly glean some ideas to twist into my next novel.

I *so* want this shirt...because it is *so* true. Bwahahahaha!

Still, I'm uneasy about the future, and getting yet another worst-case scenario in my head to add to all my other fears and doubts that had me sobbing into my boyfriend's chest for an hour Tuesday night wasn't exactly a great idea. I think a female friend noted my look of increasing dread, and so decided to step in. Just as my pastor is getting to the high point of his agonizing memories, she comments, "I had mine out when I was around your age, and I hardly had any problems. A little pain and bleeding, but it healed quickly without any drama."

Bless you, friend.

I understand the need to share horrifying stories, but I liken this to telling excruciating tales of how things went terribly wrong during the birth of a child to a woman in her third trimester (especially if it is her first child). We're already freaking out in vague terms and ideas--we don't need new specifics to color our fears in full Technicolor brilliance. I know it's a way of bonding, even a way we try to prepare others so they can avoid the mistakes we made. Sometimes, though, the trips through memory lane need to be scheduled for more opportune times...like a few months later when we can all look back on it and laugh (or wince).

It's my new motto: A wise tongue is valued, but wise teeth are highly overrated.

Don't walk--laugh it off.

I arrived at the university thirty minutes early for my class, plenty of time to snarf down a yogurt, print off my grading sheets for speeches, change shoes, and apply the bare minimum make-up for a professional look. After dumping everything onto my office table, I shoved the rubber doorstop under the corner of the door and ran down the hall to collect my printing rubrics. When I returned to my office, the doorstop was sitting quietly in the middle of the hallway, looking lost but unperturbed about it. My door was shut. My office door automatically locks. My keys were on the table.

Locking myself out of my office wasn't that huge of a deal. All I'd have to do is go to the department office and borrow the spare key. Today, however, was the day that the secretary wasn't there at 8am like she usually was. Public Safety officers could unlock the door for me, but there would be no way they'd get there in time for my morning class. I had no pen, no make-up, no stopwatch, and my purple toenails poked out of black Old Navy flip-flops. Hardly a good match to black dress slacks. I tried waiting as long as I could for the secretary, but with only five minutes left before class and a dozen nervous speakers waiting for me, I had to go. I borrowed a pen and stopwatch from another professor then went to class. I apologized profusely for my appearance--especially given that in the previous class period I had given these students a lecture on how important it was to be prepared and professional-looking. We had a laugh about it and everything was righted after class. For a few hours.

When I arrived at a high school around lunchtime to teach my class, I kept on my dressy shoes from the morning. It was a little difficult navigating the gravel lot in clunky heels, but I made it fine and began my trek around the wood-floor gym to the tiny classroom I taught in. About half-way through my walk, I noticed how incredibly shiny the floor seemed since the last time I was there...a second before my no-traction heels slipped in opposite directions in the wax and I fell. My knees bent as I did the splits, throwing most of my weight onto my left hip, knee, and twisted ankle. I have a phobia of falling. I hate it with a passion and don't even enjoy amusement park rides that "fall" much anymore. This fall only reinforced those fears--I did some damage. Thanks to God, I didn't break anything, but my knee and ankle were already swelling and my hip protested any move I made. I hobbled to my feet (still in the heels--I have a death wish, I suppose) and made my way to the classroom.

I somehow made it through class and stopped at home for an ace bandage for the ankle (I have yet to find a good way to do this for my knee/hip--if you know or have a good diagram, fill me in!). The pain wasn't really bad until a few hours later when I had driven three more times, ran two errands, and taught another two-hour class. By the time I was off to Wal-Mart to pick up food and a few necessities, the throbbing had triggered my fibromyalgia. I popped a heavy-duty painkiller on an empty stomach (a sign of how irrational I get when in pain--Heaven help me if I end up pregnant someday) and propped up my swollen leg on the table. Near the end of the night, I ended up having some hilarious girl talk with several good friends that ended up distracting me from the pain. After that, it was sore, but remembering some of the comments had me in giggles again and I didn't feel as bad.

I know it's incredibly cliche, but laughter is good medicine for both the body and the mind. I could have been angry, irritated, or embarrassed to the point of tears over being so unprepared for class. I could have been wallowing in despair and mopey grumpiness over not being able to walk or sit comfortably anymore. Instead, I was able to shake off the foreboding feelings and relax a little. The leg will mend (and it could have been my right and I would be stuck not being able to drive--there's a blessing in this fall already). I have an excuse to wear flip-flops to class for days. My students are playing nice because they know I'm hurting. Yet another instance of locking myself out will play out nicely in my humorous memoirs one day. It's all good.

So, to encourage you to laugh off something that's niggling at you, I'll close with some corny jokes told by my friends last night:

Q: Why did the chocolate-chip cookie go see the doctor?
A: He felt crumby.

Q: How do you make a tissue dance?
A: You put a little boogie in it.

Q: If you are an American going to church and an American coming home from church, what are you when you are getting ready for church?
A: Russian.

Ok, so these may be more groaners than side-splitters for you (or your seven-year-old). Sometimes, though, when you really need a laugh, the absurd works. Monty Python proves that.

Honesty Part II: Masking the Appearance of Trouble

While in worship at the ACFW conference, I heard slight whispers in the crowd.

"Look at her--she's really into it!"
"I think she's one of those pentacostals or something."
"The song must really be speaking to her."

I know these ladies never meant for me to hear them. After all, by all appearances, I was completely wrapped up in the moments of worship. My hands were raised, albeit only at the elbow--I usually extend them higher during powerful songs, my face was uplifted, my body swayed side-to-side and trembled slightly, and tears rolled down my cheeks before splashing onto my blouse. As a singer on my Baptist church's worship team, I do often do all of the above (tears are pretty unusual, though) when the moment is strong and I'm enveloped in the world of praising and praying to my God. I stop caring that my Pentacostal roots are showing and that I'm probably moving too much for the comfort of my congregation. I just do as I'm led to do.

My appearance of being lost in a moment with God during the conference wasn't reflecting the truth. I wasn't that into the song--it was one that, while it was nice, wasn't truly affecting me. One hand braced around my middle, the other raised from the elbow, I was beseeching God for something other than worship. I was desperately seeking help. I was in serious, extreme pain.

Is she praying...or struggling with a migraine? How can you tell?

Living with fibromyalgia is a challenge beyond any other--random flares of pain, some of them intense enough to make me stop breathing or double over into a ball, happen without warning. I already knew my disease was going to be an issue due to the long hours in a car to travel to Indianapolis, sleeping in a new bed, not getting much sleep due to activities, and a lot of sitting throughout the day. The intense flare in the middle of worship, however, caught me off-guard. It was the strongest one I had had in over a year. The tears and shaking proved it.

Since it's incurable, I've accepted my fibromyalgia as my thorn in my side (a la apostle Paul). Since preventative medications don't work on my system, and I avoid pills as much as possible due to the risks of addiction and damaging internal organs, I'm left with pushing through the pain with the determination of a soon-to-be mother. It also means that I try to mask my pain as much as possible. There's not much anyone can do besides maybe put pressure on a trigger point or massage a cramped muscle into submission. There are very few people I know who would be willing to do this even if I had the gall to ask--and there are very few public situations where this wouldn't attract unwanted attention. Letting others know when I'm hurting gives me a label of "weak" or "delicate"...not the labels I want if I want to be able to serve in the ways I was made to do. No one asks a weak woman to babysit their children. No one asks a fragile person to cook a three-course Mexican dinner for a Bible study. No one allows her to play softball or help move furniture or carry in instruments or renovate a nursery. I can do these things, even if occasionally I pay for it with a flare or two. My life is a chance game, but I refuse to play it safe and let my malfunctioning nervous system win. So I hide the truth from even the people I love and who love me.

This is where the bigger problem comes in. While flares rarely reach a 13-14 on the 10-point scale (ACFW conference was a 14), I do have 9s or 10s occasionally. I had one during a church service while sitting next to my boyfriend. I hid it for the ten minutes it lasted, gritting my teeth, regulating my breathing, clenching my fists, and praying hard. After the service, my boyfriend mentioned that he was really touched by how emotionally moved I was during the prayer--he had felt me shaking. Exhausted, I told him nonchalantly what really happened. The next day, he called to say that I am to notify him in some way any time I have a flare around him--using code words, whispering in his ear, something. The request confused me. "Most of the time there's nothing you can do, and knowing I'm in pain will only hurt you as well, so why do you want to know?" His answer came with a strong "duh" tone. "Uh, so I can be concerned?"

Knowing someone you love is hurting and being powerless to do anything about it is one of the most hopeless and devastating situations to be in, at least in my opinion. Being honest about how my body's torturing me makes me less of a friend/partner and more of a burden. If there is something he can do, I can understand telling him, but all the time? Does he even understand how often I go through these flares and pains? Isn't it enough that my fibromyalgia makes my life difficult--does it have to affect him and other people as well? I'm not opposed to letting people know I have the disease necessarily, but exposing the realities as they occur...that's terrifying.

I'm still struggling with my strong sense of independence on this one. I really don't know if I'll be able to go through with whispering his selected code word into his ear the next time my back spasms. I really don't know if I'll be able to reveal to others when I'm not shaking due to the movements of God or low blood sugar (a nice excuse, really, because you usually get chocolate out of the deal) but rather due to muscles tightening past normal limits. I really don't know if I'll be able to show the fear and anxiety in my eyes instead of closing them when I realize I'm not able to breathe for a few seconds. The answer to where boundary lines belong with this disease is out there, somewhere. I hope I find it soon. Before the next flare around my boyfriend, anyway.

Honesty 101

As someone who works at a highly-regarded university in the Midwest in the Communications department, you would think that I'm a fairly good communicator. Like I teach my students when we cover the communication cycle, there is always interference (otherwise known as "noise") that makes messages garbled, misunderstood, or just plain nonsensical. One form of interference that I have to deal with daily is my poor hearing. I often rhyme out words I hear and it's especially difficult for me to hear well in crowded/noisy rooms. Not being able to understand others, especially when the people around me seem to be doing just fine, annoys me to no end--and I get discouraged, uncomfortable, and tend to withdraw from the group. My problem-solving skills tend to focus on what I can change about myself to work with others, not have others shift to work around me. After all, we're supposed to love our brothers (and sisters) more than ourselves...so wouldn't that mean just dealing with the problems and only focusing on them?

Not exactly. By not communicating my needs, especially ones that aren't that big of an issue (for the most part, no one would begrudge me asking for us to move to a quieter spot. After all, if I can better listen to them, then I can minister to them more--it becomes a win-win situation for all.), I'm only hurting myself and my friends/family. Ignoring my needs and emotions will only poison my time with these wonderful people and make me less of a good support for them. I have to be brave enough to ask for help and prayer with my own issues...and be honest about what's really going on.

The big issue? Fear. I'm afraid I'll lose my friends, my family, because I'm too needy or demanding or something like that. After all, it's happened before. By not being honest, though, I'm not encouraging a real relationship with these people--just empty or superficial shells of friendship and fellowship where I can't trust the person (and maybe the God within) with my vulnerabilities. A recent two-day talk with a very close friend about some serious miscommunications really drove this point home. I was so afraid of hurting her (because I knew how sensitive she was) so I didn't confront her appropriately with the results of some of her actions. Instead, I hid the pain and the discomfort, pretending to be my usual bubbly self. When I got to the point where I couldn't hide anymore, I nearly washed my hands of the relationship and ran away. Part of it was because I couldn't bear to witness the effects of my words on her. Part of it was because I didn't know how to tell her that I was angry and felt like I couldn't trust her sometimes. She meant (and still does mean) so much to me that I didn't want to risk losing her, but as I've learned recently, it's not a bad thing to be angry. Anger is a positive emotion--it's what you do with it (kill, vandalize, hide in the corner) that makes it a negative thing. After all, even the only perfect man who ever lived got angry (John 2:13-22). We did talk things out, and while I never expressed my feelings of betrayal, I think she got the point. If she didn't...I'll soon know.

Jesus commanded us to love one another (John 13:34). Part of love is being honest (1 Cor. 13:6). We can't hide behind fear and think our silence and crossed fingers will make everything better eventually. We have to be brave.

A request you can't deny

A prayer I pray a lot, especially lately, is "God, show me what you want me to do." Note the word choice there--show me. Yes, I'm from Missouri, which indicates one of two things depending on which story you believe about the origin of our state motto: I am either slow on the uptake and need to be shown everything to understand it, or I want proof before I will act on something. In my prayer life, it's a little of both. I admit to being a bit dense sometimes when it comes to making decisions. For instance, I was battling with a particularly sticky situation when a friend came in and, with common sense, parted the murky waters I was wandering lost in. The light bulb indicating my EUREKA! moments is apparently more of a flickering candle than, say, an incandesent wonder.

Not all of us can be like the Centennial light and keep burning nonstop for 109 years...but who wants to be right and wise every single time for that long?

So I keep asking God to show me paths I'm supposed to take. Just show me the way, God, and I'll go. No questions, no hesitations--just go. Big words for a fallible human. You see, I already know a destination God has for me (or at least, I believe it's one). He has laid a particular writing project on my heart. It's not a fiction piece or a really cool poetry project. It's nonfiction. You would think that writing creative non-fiction wouldn't be such a difficult task for me. I specialized in it in college. I love writing in this genre. It's rather what the project is about that has me balking. A year ago, I accepted the charge and knew I was being called to write this massive project. I had already a few small pieces to form a base with. I was strong in my faith and several years past the harrowing sections of my past that would feature in this book. I had perspective. I had praise for a God Who had brought me out of such darkness.

I also had intense fear. My conversations with God were more like desperate arguments than prayers.

Um, I'll write Your book, God. Sure. Just not today.
It's really emotionally intense, God. I'm stressed right now and can't risk it.
I can't publish that. It could keep me from getting published in other arenas.
I can't put my name on that. It'd be linked on my resume.
What college will offer me a full-time position knowing that part of my past?
You've given me a way to minister to people through my current church. If they find out about my dark past, they may not allow me into their lives. I could be ostracized like I was before in different places. Are You wanting me to risk Your will with this book?

I love how I try to point out logical fallacies in God when doing so is so incredibly illogical in and of itself. Fighting God is a completely pointless thing. All I am doing is hurting myself.

A bum hip is only one tragic excuse away...

God knows I need to put this part of my past finally to rest. Writing about it will let me do that, allow me to move from victim to victor. Writing about it will allow me to touch other people who are suffering with the same problems I was, give them hope, let them know that there is light at the end of the tunnel (and it's not a train). Writing about it will allow me to educate others who don't understand the types of darkness that we humans can become so rolled up in that we do things that we would never do otherwise. Writing about it will allow me to see the truth in myself and come to terms that I did make mistakes, I did learn things, and it's ok to be a person who "used to be" severely messed up. I can let go of the anger and the shame by putting words on a page.

I know all of this. I'm still afraid, still ashamed, still trying to protect myself from being so vulnerable.

This is where--did you see it coming?--faith comes in. If God is the One Who gave me this mission, it's not for my destruction. It's for me to have a future, to have hope, to find him (Jeremiah 29:11-14). God's not going to put me on a path, give me a sense of purpose to do something for Him, and then let me be completely ravaged. Yes, I'll face spiritual warfare again. Yes, there will be consequences. I may lose some friends. I may lose some opportunities. I may even lose jobs. In the long run, though, I know God isn't going to abandon me. I know what I do for His glory, to further His kingdom, will be successful. I don't have to worry.

I need to be brave and expose my heart. I need to remember Who is in control and submit to His authority. To do otherwise is to insist I know better than God. I may be crazy, but I'm not that insane.

Americans have given their lives in response to an ad from a fictional character. How can we expect any less from a request from a very real God?

Getting Uncomfortable

A friend of mine changed her status on Facebook to "If we want to grow, we are always out of our comfort zones." I've heard this sentiment before, usually with the imagery of stagnant ponds that, while they are useful, aren't the beautiful bodies of water that can really make a difference (tell that to the family of tree frogs who thoroughly enjoy the unchanging pond off my backyard, but....point made). This one brings to mind a tender green shoot of a plant, having to push through first earth, then air that is often unforgiving and rarely protecting. Honestly, that plant was safer under a layer of black dirt, even with the beetles scurrying around down there.

I made a choice a few weeks ago to put myself in a new and rather uncomfortable situation: I joined my church's recreational softball league. To put this in context for you, I am very unathletic. I'm tall, overweight, not very coordinated in a gross-motor way, my hand-eye coordination works excellent with embroidery needles but not so much with large balls that could potentially concuss my skull, and I have a multitude of physical problems that make sports difficult (no cartilidge in my knees and fibromyalgia, mainly). I don't even necessarily like sports. I am easily the worst player on the team and not just because I don't even understand all the basic rules of baseball (let alone slow-pitch softball).

The thing is, our city's recreational league rules demand that there be at least four girls playing on each team at all times. The pitcher and catcher must be of opposite genders. At least two girls must be on the infield besides the pitcher/catcher. Batters must be lined up in alternating gender order. If there aren't enough girls on the team, the team forfeits...and loses a costly deposit. Needless to say, our church was having issues getting enough girls. The first few times the pastor asked the congregation for volunteers and a few friends invited me, I shrugged them off. I'm not an athlete. I'll be gone several weekends visiting my boyfriend. It wouldn't work. I'm not comfortable playing sports--and I don't like doing things, especially publically, if I don't think I'll be very good at them.

God had other ideas. Within a week, I had been dumped by my boyfriend and had two ladies practically push me into going to a practice for the team just so I wouldn't be stuck moping around the house, trying to kill off old feelings and deal with being a single woman again. "A little exercise will help distract you, and besides, you need to be around Christian friends right now." I was needed and apparently wanted despite having nothing substantial to offer the team besides my gender. I showed up.

Through a couple practices and a tragic double-header game, I decimated any high hopes of being an asset to the team. I can throw shorter distances ok, but catching is not my strong suit and batting...I'd have better luck if the ball was five feet in diameter. It took me a game and a half to realize, as catcher, that I was supposed to try to catch the foul balls. I kept, to my dismay, squealing and jumping out of the way of close pitches as I batted, terrified of getting hit (not that it kept me from some painful impact bruises). A few bad catches, the ball hitting my left forearm twice with considerable force, ended up jamming the nerve in my arm and I lost the use of my hand for nearly an hour. I tried cracking jokes all the time to relieve the tension I felt, the feelings of being a failure, and basically to keep myself from crying in pain and anger. Not everyone got them...and few of them were laughed at. Apparently my discomfort wasn't so hidden after all.

The logic that a very unathletic girl in athletics probably wouldn't be successful was something to fight against. I was a very intelligent, stubborn, persistent, and often patient person. God wouldn't have pushed me into this activity to make a fool out of me...would he?

Besides a nice dose of humility, something even Paul said was needed for Christians, I believe that God wanted me to stretch myself. I'll never be scouted by a professional team and may never actually hit a ball and get on base in my lifetime (although getting "walked" to first is such a wonderful blessing). I do need to try new things, keeping my focus on being out there, in this crazy uncomfortable world, so I can shine with God's love and be a witness for Him. I can't show my faith if I'm sequestered in my house or only venturing out to do things I know I'm good at (although, if I am willing to remember, I wasn't always good at those things, either).

Surprise of all surprises, I rather like softball. I'm watching baseball games on TV and picking up some ideas. I'm getting excited about games and want to do what I can, as much as I can, to support my church in this ministry. I never would have done this if I hadn't been in so much emotional turmoil over the dissolution of my long-distance romance. Already there is a silver lining, a purpose to losing a guy I thought I could marry someday. Now I'm looking forward to finding a new guy who is even better for me...and who knows. Maybe he'll like softball, too.

The 25th Letter

I think God must think Himself to be one heck of a preschool teacher. I mean, He's the Lord of millions of humans who flat-out don't listen, can't survive on their own, and usually end up making messes of EVERYTHING. We get fingerpaint all over the walls, cost a fortune (or your son's life), and consistently forget at times to think of others besides ourselves. We don't always play well with the other kids, and while we still have innocence, it's not always the kind that we truly need to preserve.

My behavior at times over the past week has been much of that of a two-year-old (although I refuse to have a full-on temper tantrum on the floor--my knees won't take the beating anymore). I keep asking God, "Why?" I know He has a reason--adults *always* have a reason, even if they don't know it. A lot of things have fallen apart lately. My jobs are shaky at best, lowering my contract work to half. My heart has been broken by a man I loved. I spent two sleepless nights crying, then staring into the darkness chanting that infamous 25th letter of the alphabet. I've told friends that if I could see some sort of purpose, some sort of reason, some sort of light at the end, that it wouldn't be so bad.

Truth is, while I'm grabbing onto things that may be the very reasons I seek, it doesn't change the facts that I still have to grieve for my lost love and be a lot more financially cautious. There are still consequences for my choices and the choices of others. No man is an island--we all affect each other in ways that may ripple out to be huge blessings...or disasters.

I'm still not sure what God's trying to tell me through this rough patch, but I have suspected a few messages and reminders so far. First, I'm turning to God more than I ever have...not quite enough, but it's definitely a big change in instinctual behavior for me. Instead of isolating myself, which provides just the darkness necessary for brooding, depression, and self-hatred to grow, I've been pushing myself (and letting others push me) into the light. I've joined the church's recreational softball league despite having no athletic talent in that area. I'm conditioning my long-neglected voice and filling in as a substitute on the praise and worship team. I'm seriously considering beginning a PhD program next fall...something I've never really considered pursuing again. I'm starting new projects with friends and have even stumbled into a surprise babysitting job for a family I love. All these things probably wouldn't have happened if it hadn't been for losing my job security and my boyfriend.

I will still be cautious, trying not to take on too much as I so often do (and, as keeping busy helps me work through pain and sadness, it's incredibly tempting). God needs me to rest a little more this summer, take care of myself, and really focus in on my relationship with Him. Eventually God will bring me my heart's desire, if it is His will. It's about being patient and believing.

I'm still tempted to say, "NO! I no wanna! Gimme now!" I think God's had enough of rolling his eyes at me for now, though. :)

True Relaxation: God Can Use You Anywhere!

Too many times in my life I feel like a toddler following my mother around the house, asking a single question in response to her every word. “Why?” Lately I’ve been doing that to God. Why haven’t you given me a sign as to my future? Why have you given me the struggles that I have? Why have you healed others but not me? As of this morning, I have an answer.

Living with a disease like fibromyalgia is a study in patience and perseverance. Everything could cause pain, but not everything will all of the time. It’s so full of variables and unexplained phenomena that I’m constantly on my toes. Will I be able to climb the stairs today? Will sitting in my office chair suddenly cause stabs of pain in my hips? Will I get a migraine or not? There are no definite answers, no good “preventative” treatments, at least not for me. There is just my willpower that will breathe through the pain and the prescription narcotics for when it’s too much for me to bear. One thing does help: massage therapy. Going once a week to have these talented women work out my knotted muscles and address the misfiring nerves actually makes each week more livable.

Still, I wondered why God hadn’t healed me. I accepted long ago that there was a reason for this, but we all know how that goes. Without knowing what that “reason” might be, it doesn’t mean as much. Yes, I have developed a great friendship with the two therapists I work with, but is that all?

No.

Today my session ran a little late (my shoulders were tighter than expected). I dressed in a hurry, worrying about the delay causing a problem for the next client waiting for her treatment. The waiting room was a little more crowded than usual, two women waiting on the couch. I usually would have not taken as much time getting out of there, and even offered to call back later to reschedule for next week. God wanted me to stay, though, and the therapist held me off for a few moments, comparing schedules and getting me my requisite post-massage glass of water. I was about to leave when one of the women burst into tears. Turns out that her quiet phone call in the waiting room was to a sibling concerning their sister—who had been told that depending on the surgery today, she would either survive her cancer for three weeks or three months. Ordinarily, sympathetic looks would be all that I could offer—the sobbing redhead was a stranger to me. A fellow client, but no real connection. God didn’t agree.

Before I knew it I was ministering to the woman, telling her my aunt’s story of a miraculous healing from cancer just about ten years ago. “God healed her. She had faith that she would survive, and in six months there was no trace of the cancers whatsoever—and the doctors still can’t figure it out.” Just this past March we had another scare with my aunt. There was a possibility that her brain tumor, surgically removed back in the 1970s, had grown back as her eyesight was once again diminishing. A specialist in Chicago stood dumbfounded as for no “medical” reason, the disruption in sight had disappeared and there was no trace of that looming tumor.

The crying woman gave me a big hug as she left, and later asked me in the parking lot for my name and phone number so I could try to get her family in contact with my aunt. “Thank you so much for sharing that,” she said while wiping her eyes. “It’s exactly what we’ve been needing.”

If I hadn’t been diagnosed with fibromyalgia two years ago, I never would have started getting massages. If I hadn’t build up such a great relationship with the therapists, I never would have seen them this often. If I hadn’t been slammed this week with responsibilities, I never would have made my appointment for this morning. That I met this woman in such great need, my story the exact balm necessary, can only be explained by the hand of God.

When it comes to accepting “there must be a reason” philosophies, leaving our faith in God for Him to show us in His time, be prepared for a wonderful and amazing experience. It may take months, years, or even decades, but everything will come together for His glory. Praise God, our Heavenly Father, in His infinite wisdom and grace.

Collapsed Children

You commanded us to forgive
Seventy times Seven
You commanded us to love them
As we love ourselves
And yet our neighbors stand out in the cold
Waiting
For an open door

We've heard the sermons preached from
Pulpits
Desks
Doors
Remember we are sinful creatures!
Repent ye unworthy!
Remember Who must save you!
And we wonder why He would want to.

We have closed our hearts full of pains
We have closed our eyes full of tears
We have closed our minds full of fears
We have closed our hands full of chains

We fall.

490 and counting...

We all know this woman. The one who keeps us up at night. The one who keeps us ripping out our hair in frustration (and Rogaine ain't cheap, babe). The one who makes, quite honestly, the dumbest mistakes and can't seem to see the obvious warning signs ahead of her that this is NOT A GOOD IDEA. She's the one who even drags us into her problems without our knowledge until one day the phone rings... She's a good friend, or at least used to be.

She was my best friend.

I don't quite understand what happened to this girl I knew. She was my rock when I hit sub-bottom in life. She listened and cared and prayed and got me back on track. Once I was healthy, I noticed her sliding and desperately tried to pull her up. I bailed her out. I kept her secrets. I gave her gentle scoldings while still nodding, yeah, I know. I watched as she completely blew up her life, time and time again, for no real reason while denying that she was ever in trouble. At that point, all I could do was watch. She wouldn't let me guide her and I can't save her, just like she couldn't save me. She had to make that decision to save herself.

Time went on, she moved out of town to just over an hour away, and it seemed that after a few rocky starts that things were finally on the rise for her. Yeah, it wasn't her ideal picture of the world, but she was making progress (at least as much as she would admit to on the phone). She made new friends, got involved with a community, and left me behind. In a way, I understood. Long-distance relationships were never my strong point, either. We still chatted occasionally on the phone and kept in touch via Facebook (thank you to that mysterious college student creator--you have no idea what you have done for my social life). I kept up with her as best I could, which isn't easy when I'm working two jobs and returning phone calls was never her strong suit (especially with creditors bugging her for money--but that's a story for another day).

My current struggle with her is one that I'm not sue how to negotiate. The short version goes like this: one of my favorite living authors was visiting her town for a special speaking engagement, the kind of thing that happens once in a blue moon. She promised to get us tickets as part of her "repay me" fund. It would be a bonding event for the both of us, the first time we would have spent significant time together in person in months. It meant the world to me--what could be greater than a public reading and my best friend?

I knew money was an issue so I offered to buy the tickets. No, it's my treat for you, she said. You can pay me back--I just want to make sure we get them before they sell out. Nope, I got it under control. Four months before the reading, it seemed that way--and before I knew it she told me she bought two tickets, balcony seating. Wahoo!

I found out a few weeks ago that the reading was sold-out, and upon touching base with my friend she seemed confused. Apparently she had lied (deliberately or not, I'm not entirely sure) and hadn't bought the tickets. No worries, though--she'd take care of everything.

You know where this is going, right? I spent the night of the reading alone, at home, grading papers while many of my other friends and classmates got to hear my favorite author in person. Everyone was chattering excitedly about it today, thanking me for bringing the event to their attention. I felt betrayed.

If my friend had just been honest, or responsible, I would have had a great time with her last night. She knew what going to that reading meant to me. It wasn't so much missing the event that bugged me. It was that she hadn't taken the time to make room for me in her life. If it was money, she could have asked and I would have had absolutely no qualms or judgments about paying. Instead, I have no clue what she did that night, but I know it wasn't with me. I wasn't important enough for her to take the time or energy to spend less than two minutes on a website and buy tickets. Our friendship wasn't worth the $70 I would have happily spent on seats. Our years of supporting each other as best we could added up to no communication and half-truths. In the end, all I get is a confused reply to my text this morning, wondering how I didn't know that we weren't going.

Making friends, especially close Christian female friends, in this world is pretty tough. We should hold on to the ones we have, forgiving 70 x 7 as Jesus said (although the implication was more unconditional than numerical). Forgiveness means working past the hurt feelings. Forgiveness means being honest that there were hurt feelings. Forgiveness means challenging yourself and the friend to work on the hiccups in the road.

I have a German-Austrian heritage and temper, which means we have a long fuse, blow hard, but blow over quickly. Within a day or two I'll have calmed down and forgiven her. What won't happen overnight is trust. Her behavior as of last year had decimated a lot of the trust between us, and this latest issue crushed most of the remaining bits. I keep asking myself why this happened, what went wrong, what I should have done, just how far I feel like I can trust her now--and I'm telling you that it's not very far. I wanted to believe in her again. I wanted to use this great event to springboard reclaiming lost ground between us. I feel as though I got her answer--silence, and then the usual plea for infinite forgiveness. And she wonders why I don't trust her. Sometimes "sorry" just isn't enough.

Trust is vital to healthy relationships. We trust God to care for us, and therfore don't worry as much (theoretically). We need to trust each other, and care well for that trust, in order to thrive as sisters-in-Christ. After forgiveness comes prayer again--this time to build up trust and start over...seventy times seven. This week, let's pray for the wisdom to rebuild broken walls and set solid foundations. In an increasingly secular world, can we really afford to lose much more ground?