Completely, Utterly, Gloriously Broken

I've been thinking a lot about brokenness lately. The latest incident that made me come to what I think is new insight happened Saturday. I broke a couple of my toes...two of them on my left foot. I thought it was 3 but alas, the third one is fine. A friend, who is a nurse, confirmed for me yesterday they are indeed broken. I had no intention of going to the doctor for it but since he knows his stuff, why not?

This physical brokenness isn't really the focus of my musings but it helped me pull some things together. I actually said to Steve, "oh for crying out loud, when am I going to get a break anyway?" I'm sure you can anticipate his answer. "Well, you kind of did get a break, literally." I so did not think it was funny then and I still don't.

What made me first think about brokenness happened earlier this year when someone completely broke my heart. At the time I didn't focus on it too much because physically I just wasn't able. I had to focus on getting better. But since I've started a treatment plan and am feeling more normal, I began to want answers and justification for her decision but they didn't really come. I eventually did get some answers but they didn't help me out. People far wiser than me told me not to go searching because I wouldn't get the real truth, only perception at best and lies at worst, and they were right. I should have listened. That only led to further brokenness.

Sadly, this happens in ministry more often than it should. Sometimes God moves people in and out of my life and the purposes and results are far greater. But that's not what I'm talking about here. I miss my friend and wish her well but I just know she's made a bad choice. This leads to even more brokenness. But I can't take that on. It's hers to bear. I just don't want to watch it either.

So between these breaks in my heart (and that was just 1 example) and the actual break of my toes, I have realized something. It isn't until I get to the point of complete brokenness that I can be made completely whole. I've been holding back parts of my being from full service. What I'm holding it back for is a mystery. I mean, really, how is that going to benefit me? But, selling all out for the furtherance of God's plan for me, that not only benefits me but scores of others. Most of them I probably don't even know yet.

I've also realized that I can't depend on those around me to keep me whole. They will let me down. And as an aside, I will let them down too. If I let those incidents affect how or why I minister to people, the rest of my time in ministry will be like a roller coaster depending on what others do. That's ridiculous. It's not fair to others who truly need to be ministered to and it handicaps me or even paralyzes me from going on.

The only brokenness that is beneficial is when I'm broken over the lost or broken over my own sin. God has brought me to this point for me to recognize that I have not been sold out, that I am hanging on too tight to things and that it's time for me to let go.

And let God.....what? He gets to fill in that sentence. Not me.

A Snippet From My Soul

Normally my journal posts are for me but sometimes they are public, particularly after the lesson has been learned. This is one of those times when I feel the potential help to someone else is worth the vulnerability plus it dishonors nobody and does not divulge a confidence. I "un-personalized" the form of some of the thoughts and questions so it isn't quite so awkward to read. Here's a look into the the pages of my journal that reflects the agony of my soul...

For the last couple of days I’ve been pondering this one question…what will (or would) I look like bald? A few of us were talking yesterday (Sunday) about the intricate details God knows about us and how valuable we are. It all stemmed from the verse in Matthew (see post bottom) that references God knowing how many hairs are on our heads. One of the guys commented “well, mine are less than when we started talking about it.” I was already struggling with that thought silently... agonizing over it actually. It must be a full time job for God to keep track of the hairs on my head given the rapidity of their departure from my head.

A couple of weeks ago I wept as I lay in bed at this very thought…I am going to be bald. Steve just held on to my hand and listened as I lamented and sort of grieved over it—even though the process is slow(ish) and it hasn't happened yet. I asked, “Doesn’t it make you sad that I am losing my hair?” He said, “No, but it makes me sad that it makes you sad.” I then asked, “Will you still love me when I’m bald?” That might sound like a ridiculous question but I badly needed the reassurance. He said, “of course I’ll love you.” The truth is he loves me no matter what. We’ve been through a LOT over the years. He wiped the tears from my face. I must have cried for another 5 minutes before I fell asleep.

When I’m in that really good place of recognizing what’s important in life and what is not, I can easily see that losing my hair is not the worst thing that can happen to someone. But let’s face it—I am human like everyone else and a woman losing her hair is traumatic. It’s not insurmountable but it can be almost too much to bear. I also know there are women losing their hair for reasons far worse than mine…like cancer. In spite of everything, I have those days when I really can’t stand the thought.

It makes me smile that I’ve had 4 people tell me they want to go wig shopping with me IF the time comes it’s necessary. I have overwhelming support although the only person who has agreed to shave their head bald with me is Steve; everyone else is a definite “no”. Yet I’m sad. When will the blows stop coming? When will God recognize that I’ve already had more than I can bear? Or am I stronger than I think because it’s not me but Christ in me? It’s not about what I can handle but what God wants to handle through me. For His glory….it’s not about me. I am just the object of the lesson. A bald lesson, perhaps, but a lesson nonetheless.

Matthew 10:29-31 “Are not two sparrows sold for a penny? And not one of them will fall to the ground apart from your Father. But even the hairs of your head are all numbered. Fear not, therefore, you are of more value than many sparrows.”

Oh, yes, I am valuable indeed. Even without a hair on my head I am valuable. That doesn’t mean I won’t cry over it. Again. And again. And maybe again. I guess it just means my tears over it are valuable too. God cares about them because He cares about me and everything that troubles me. 1 Peter 5:7 “Casting all your anxieties on Him for He cares for you.”

Honoring Mom

May just seems to be the time when we are "supposed to" honor our mothers. For reasons I will not fully disclose, I don't generally care for Mother's Day. Part of it could be rebellion--I don't like it when someone tells me I must do something. But most of it is far more personal than that. As an aside, it's better than it used to be. A few year's ago I would have said I HATE Mother's Day. Small steps...small steps....

For me, May also happens to be my mom's birthday. Actually, it's today, the 25th. And on this 25th day of May, mom's birthday, she came over to clean my house. For the zillioneth time this year. I tried to tell her it was ridiculous to spend her birthday morning cleaning her own house, let alone mine but she insisted it was her birthday and she could do whatever she wanted. One in a long line, she said.

May was also the month my parents were married and the 17th would have been their 42nd anniversary. That would be another reason to honor her (and dad but we're talking about mom here) and the commitment she had to her marriage and family.

So, I have many reasons to honor my mother this month. But the reason I'm filled with an urgent need to do so now is actually due to events in the past several months. It's because of what she does on those days that have no special significance that minister to my soul, calm my spirit and bring bursts of happiness to my world. My mom is an "acts of service" kind of gal. She has been cleaning my house because I'm not able to do it myself. She makes Steve cookies because he loves them and I've not had the stamina to do it. She painted my house because I can't hold a brush and it was driving me crazy to leave it incomplete. And so much more.

A couple of months ago mom went with me to one of my tests because Steve could not. It wasn't supposed to be a big deal and I had planned to go alone. But she insisted. And I'm so glad she did. The tests were horrific. The pain nearly unbearable. Each one took 30 minutes and 10 minutes into the first I laid on the table with tears streaming down my face. The poor technician felt terrible, she asked if I wanted to stop, she said sorry but none of that helped. I finally whispered "can you please get my mom from the waiting room?" I thought perhaps some conversation would keep me pre-occupied and make it seem as if the time were going faster. A few minutes later she walked in the room, sat on a stool by my bed, held my hand and stroked my hair.

"It'll be okay," she said. "You can do this. WE can do this." And the next 20 minutes went just like that. "You're doing great!" "It's almost over!" I felt like a little girl all over again trusting my mom to tell me the truth and her strength pulled me through. Then we started the second test and it began all over again. "Hey, you're doing better on this one!" "We're just about there!" And then it was over. It was the last of my tests so she drove to the drugstore, told me to wait in the car and a few minutes later she emerged with some pain pills and a diet soda so I could take them immediately.

I said "mom, sorry I was such a baby before and that you had to listen to me cry." She said, "no need to be sorry. I'm just sorry I couldn't fix it for you. That's not easy for a mom to watch." It never occurred to me it would be just as rough on her as it was on me but it was. Yet she stuck it out. I'll never forget it.

A week later, on a Sunday, I couldn't get out of bed. Steve left for church and while we realize it's his job, I have a hunch he would have preferred to stay with me that day. But we both understand the deal. He asked me to call my mom and have her come over. I did so immediately after he left. I told her to let herself in because I couldn't get out of bed. A mere 20 minutes later she was standing in my bedroom. She put one arm under my neck; the other under my back and gently lifted me to a seated position. Steve had done this every day for a month already but this was different. She kept holding on as I leaned into her, tears streaming down my face. The pain was intense, the realization of my complete dependence was more than I could bear. She said "I know it's horrible. I wish I could make it go away. Let me help you into the shower--you'll feel better." She turned on the water, helped me in, then sat on my bed and waited for me. She came to help wash my hair, then sat back down, trying to help me retain as much dignity as possible.

She helped me dress then put me in the chair and scrambled some eggs. She sat with me watching movies until Steve got home at 1. "That's what moms do," she said as she left. "It's no big deal. I'm happy to do it."

All her children are long grown and out of the house but the role of mom has never stopped for her. Sure, it has changed, but in times of crisis, despair and hurt it reverts to the nurturing, protective mother hen. I'm not actually sure it's reverting TO something but more likely something that is always there, perhaps masked by the boundaries she doesn't cross with her adult children....until necessary.

So on this day of my mother's birth I honor her and thank God for her. I wish I had the words to fully express the emotions of my heart. I'd bet everything I have that she knows even though I can't.

Cans of Lysol and a Roller

One of the things I haven't talked about too much is the Sunday I fell at church. I still don't want to talk about it much. But that day one of my favorite people in the world saw it and lovingly stood to the side to give me a hug. He's 100 years old and I adore him--his lovely 90-year-old bride too.

That day he apparently went home and told her what happened. Later that week she left a message on Steve's voice mail telling me she'd heard we had something in common and said she'd love to visit with me if I had time. Because I didn't feel well at all, I delayed calling her a couple of weeks. This is also to my shame. But, almost 2 weeks ago I just decided to sit down and call her. In her humility she said "well, Julie, I'm 90 years old and I can't remember exactly why I called or what we have in common besides both being women." It tickled me pink. As it turns out, she had heard I have MS (I do not praise God!). She does. We had such a great conversation. As a matter of fact before we hung up, she said "it was such a delight in my afternoon to talk to a younger woman. Thank you so kindly for calling." My heart melted.

In spite of the fact that we didn't have what she thought we did in common, she still had some advice for me and I gladly listened. I mean, really, I have no pre-conceived notion that I know it all and that I don't need advice and mentoring from older women. That would be foolish, not to mention contradictory to scripture. In any case, she said "here's the best things you can do for yourself. Always have cans of Lysol on hand and get yourself a roller."

A roller? My mind began to swarm, wondering what in the world she was talking about and I had to consciously push those swirling thoughts to the side so I could concentrate on what she was saying about the Lysol. She told me how her husband brings home all kinds of germs after listening to kids says their verses in Awana. As an aside, I am so inspired by the fact that this 100-year-old man still actively serves in the church. That's the way it should be. Anyway, because her immune system is weakened, as is mine, she sprays the entire house when he comes home. As a matter of fact, she told me she's thought about spraying him too! Totally cracked me up. She said "some may say my house stinks because of it but I don't care a wit. I've got to take care of myself and you do too."

Back to the roller. "Get yourself a roller," she said. "I got mine for almost nothing and it's saved me in so many ways. I can bend over (I'm not sure but I think she was truly bending over while talking to me - as if I could see it) and pick stuff up off the floor and get over to the refrigerator and back to the table without any pressure on my legs." Ah, I thought, she means a wheelchair! Indeed she did. She said when she saves her legs the wear and tear, they work pretty well when she needs them to.

I don't need a wheelchair but I was so delighted by her caring manner that I didn't have the heart to tell her so. I thanked her for her wisdom and encouragement and after some more chit-chat, the conversation ended. That day was such a bright spot in my week and I was truly sorry I hadn't done it sooner.

So much wisdom and life reside within the confines of her frail frame. She doesn't get out like she used to or as much as she would like. My generation is so busy being involved in everything that we easily overlook the simple things we could do like making a 5-minute phone call to encourage women just like her. In return we miss the oodles of wisdom and mentoring she longs to offer. This is one of just many, many lessons I am learning during this season. Yes, it's about my physical health but so much more. I am bursting.

No, Not Really Going To Do That

Just yesterday after I told this story to a friend she quipped "you and Steve have to have great senses of humor to be together." Another friend said "it's so great you can laugh about these things and at the same time Steve is so helpful." Both are so true! Here's what happened.

Friday night I took the first dose of the second medication they are trying out on me. I had begun the first medication 3 days prior. The nurse recommended I take it at night because while adjusting to it, I can apparently feel quite sick and that way I'd sleep through most of it. Okay, I thought, makes sense.

BUT, then I read the papers they gave me about all the possible side effects, yada yada. That may very well have been a mistake. One of the things in there read "if while taking the medication you develop a temperature of 101, seek medical attention immediately because it means you are developing a serious infection from it and it could be fatal." Nice. So then I began to think taking it at night was a really bad idea because how would I know if I were to develop said fever / infection? I wouldn't and hence, the end of Julie.

I told Steve all my concerns and he said "really, Julie, if you develop a fever like that, you'll probably wake up. Besides, they have to tell you all that to cover themselves. It's not going to happen." Then I had an ingenious idea. Here's the conversation:

J: "Okay, how about this...set the alarm on your phone to wake up every 2 hours and then you can check my temperature and make sure I'm fine."

S: "Alright." I turned to walk away when it dawned on me he probably wasn't going to do it.

J: "You are so not going to do that, are you?" I said as I turned to face him. He was shaking his head slowly as he dragged out a big...

S: "N-n-n-o-o-o!"

J: "Okay, fine. Then at my funeral you have to stand up and tell everyone the reason I'm dead is because you wouldn't wake up and check my temperature." As I said the last few words I turned to walk to the sink to brush my teeth.

S: "Alright," he said again. I turned back to face him.

J: "You're not really going to do that either, are you?"

S: "N-n-n-o-o," he said again as he shook his head. "But it's okay because you'll be dead so you won't know nor will you care."

J: "Nice."

The next morning he woke me up just before 8 to say he was going for a run. It took me about an hour to get up and around and as I walked into the living room he came in from his run. He looked right at me and said....

S: "Look who's not dead!"

J: "Obviously."

That's all there is to the story except fits of laughter of course.

It Must Be Like Having A Meal With a 3-Year-Old

I have learned so much over the past 4 months I could likely put it all in a 300-page book. And I probably will, mostly for myself, so as never to forget the journey we're taking.

As Steve and I had lunch together today I thought to myself, "dining with me must be like having a meal with a 3-year-old." Really. Truly. I ordered a chicken enchilada. As soon as it arrived I did what is customary these days and asked Steve to cut it up for me. Not only are my hands fairly unusable lately but I'm using a sling to relieve the pressure on my muscle from where they took the biopsy Tuesday. It's my left arm so asking a lefty to eat right handed is a joke all by itself but add to that the inability to really grasp the fork and I'm sure it's something to watch. This is no big deal to Steve and most often he offers before I even ask but it's hard just the same.

And I'm keenly aware of those around me. I'm certain most of them aren't making fun of the fact that I can't cut up my own food but they do notice, likely make judgments on why that is and it makes me so uncomfortable. The truth is, I would probably notice and wonder if I saw one adult cut up the food of another one. It's normal. But when it's me, I can barely hold back the tears. That's my one certainty these days--the ability to cry at almost anything.

Steve frequently tells me, "You know Julie, they aren't watching you nearly as much as you think they are. It's in your head." And I think he's right. Sure, a few may notice here and there but mostly I would have to agree (if really pressed) that it's not the ENTIRE restaurant!

But here's the one that really bothered me. A couple of weeks ago I went to a dinner meeting and ordered grilled chicken breast with pasta. I didn't think twice about it until the plate was placed in front of me. Instantly I panicked. How the heck was I going to eat that chicken? Should I just pick it up with my fingers and gnaw on it? I'm not quite used to having to think about this type of thing before I order. I looked around at the table and everyone else was eating. Good. Nobody had noticed the sheer panic on my face. Fortunately I was seated next to one of my closest friends. I leaned over and whispered, "would you mind cutting my chicken for me?" I was on the verge of tears and utterly appalled that I need this kind of help at my age.

"Of course!" she replied. Without making a big deal she took my knife and fork and cut it up then asked if I needed anything else. A few of the ladies noticed but nobody made a deal of it. I proceeded to eat my meal and we had a such a nice time I kind of put it in the back of my mind until we walked out. We got to her car and I said "Thanks for helping me in there and not making me feel like a fool for asking." The tears were no longer on the verge but were streaming down my face. She hugged me and said "it was really not a big deal. I do it for my grandson all the time!" I half laughed in my tears and said "I know, that's the problem - he's 3 and I am so NOT 3!" She laughed and said "that's what friends are for - don't think another thought about it."

She gave me back what I stupidly threw to the side as I requested help - my dignity. One of the things I've had to learn how to do is accept help from others and when I am able, to give it back freely while helping them to maintain their dignity. Even recalling this incident has made me cry all over again. If there's such a thing as "blubbering idiot disease" I most definitely have it.

Fighting For It

Something happened this week that has turned into a story I love to tell. Initially I was a bit annoyed by it but by the time we had small group that night I'd already begun to find humor in it. Then when I told the story and everyone laughed, I further knew it truly was funny. But, it also has a lesson for me.

These past few months have been such a strain on my ability to function and I've found a few work-arounds that make my life a bit easier. One of them is that getting in and out of the recliner is easier than the sofa. But that afternoon I sat down on the sofa anyway. Steve came home and was in one of the chairs typing away on his computer and I tried to get up so I could get some stuff ready for our small group before they arrived.

I grunted, groaned, grumbled and struggled to try to get up off the sofa. I looked over at Steve who continued to type without much attention to me. Finally I said, "Really? You're not going to help me?" He looked over, almost as if he hadn't noticed I was there before. He said "no, you have to fight for it." This is where people generally bust a gut laughing and rightly so because that's funny stuff.

But at that moment, man, I was annoyed...partly because I was frustrated at my physical limitations these days and partly because he's been so good about helping me out over the past several weeks. Now all of a sudden I'm supposed to fight for it and do it alone?

Now it's not like he would've left me there forever had I really been in a bind but if he just jumps in every single time I struggle, I will become far too dependent on him to sustain me. And it would be extremely easy for me to wander back into what I've come to call the "Valley of Self Pity". I so don't need to be there.

The truth is I have to learn (or re-learn) how to do things by myself, even if it hurts or is uncomfortable. I can't have somebody at my side at all times to do things for me. And I have to learn what things I have to let go because I can no longer do them.

This is definitely an interesting season of my life. It's a season of crisis, a season of blessing, a season of suffering, a season of growth and a season of thankfulness all wrapped in one. I may even be missing a thing or two but that wraps it up fairly well.

In some ways I have to fight for my faith. I have to fight the urge to give up, run away, and throw in the proverbial towel. But if I quit half way, I will miss all the blessings God has in store for me at the end. I will miss the ability to be blessed by some and to bless others. There is great opportunity in every aspect of suffering as long as I can get out of myself long enough to let God use it for good.