When your favorite becomes your frustration

I love fall. To me, fall is perfection. Not only does it contain two of my favorite holidays, but it brings with it the sound of crunching leaves, a reason to pull out my boots, and most of all, and I cannot stress this enough, it brings the end of summer. 

Growing up in Montana, ending summer was not so important, but living in Texas for the last 19 years, ending summer is akin to receiving a pardon from hell. If you've never moved from a state where the average high temperature in the summer is 85 with a low of 40 to a state with an average high of 102 with a low of 85 with equal parts humidity and scorch your feet, you may not be able to grasp how much I look forward to the end of summer. 

God understands. He made sure that I was born on the first day of fall, and the only day of the year I look forward to more than the end of summer is my birthday. Amen and hallelujah.

Any of you who have been around my blog know that I struggle with health issues, the most prevalent of which is migraines. While I've been able to identify and control a lot of the triggers over the past decade, the one I can't do a thing about is the weather. Every time there is a shift in the barometric pressure, my head spirals out of control. 

So as much as I hate Texas summers, they are actually the best time of year for me migraine-wise. No rain, no cold fronts, no migraines. 

A few days ago, I woke up with not just a migraine, but with swollen joints aching so badly I wasn't sure I'd be able to get out of bed. This happens to me a couple times a year --a doctor thinks it might be the early onset of RA -- or it may just be my body telling me it doesn't want to get out of bed. Who knows? All I knew was it meant the weather was probably changing, and sure enough, rain and a cold front came in two days later, and as I type another cold front is on its way.

I should be ecstatic. After a week of temperatures over 100 in September (which is ridiculous even for Texas), the forecast showed a high of 85 this weekend. That means fall was finally on its way! My mind should be planning outdoor activities for the family this weekend, because after being trapped inside for three months, we cab finally spend a weekend outside without roasting.  

But instead, I've spent the week in bed, lying there in pain, cursing the weather and cursing my body. After months of feeling better I was once again relegated to bed, with even the simplest task draining me of energy. Instead of enjoying the sound of the raindrops on my window, they pounded into my head, making it throb worse. 

My favorite season had become my biggest frustration.

Some of you may be struggling with something similar.

Maybe it's not your health. 

Maybe it is grief. You are about to walk through your first holiday season without your loved one, and that holiday that once was your favorite has now become a dreaded time for you.

You just sent your child off to college, and your home, which was once filled with their laughter and dirty socks is now too quiet, and you aren't sure what to do without them. Your favorite place has now become somewhere you don't want to spend your time. 

Your marriage is struggling and that relationship that once felt so safe and secure now feels like it is faltering. 

It is a horrible feeling to find yourself hating a thing or a place or a time that you once cherished, because somehow it feels like two losses. And that is where I found myself this week. And the more I hurt physically, the more I began dreading the thing I loved.

And then God whispered this verse from Isiah 61 into my soul: To all who mourn in Israel, he will give a crown of beauty for ashes, a joyous blessing instead of mourning, festive praise instead of despair. In their righteousness, they will be like great oaks that the LORD has planted for his own glory.

The only thing I focused on during this pain is ashes, and I forgot the beauty. I forgot that even during the days with pain, even some days where I don't make it out of bed, the leaves will still change colors, painting a beautiful landscape. I forgot that my sweaters will come out of the attic and I will wrap up in them, finding comfort in their softness. I forgot the joy that will fill my heart every time I hear my kids giggling as they jump in leaf piles and the love that will fill my soul with every pot of my grandmother's homemade soup I make. I forgot that even if I'm stuck in bed, I will smell the crisp fall morning air because we will turn the AC off and open the windows.

And don't even get me started on the new fall TV line-up.

The good news, my friends, is that when we our favorite becomes our frustration, we don't have to try to fix it.  God may not change the situation. He won't make it summer in Texas last forever --- please no -- nobody wants that!  But He will give me a joyous blessing instead of mourning, festive praise instead of despair, and a crown of beauty for ashes. 

And he will do the same for you.

And with those promises, my favorite can be my favorite again. 

Waiting for God to Show Up

I don't know the average times each person hits rock bottom during his or her life.  For me, it's been just a handful.  I would guess that is probably below average.

The first time it happened I was 15.  My first love broke up with me, and of course I was devastated. I survived it as well as any 15 year old survives heartbreak; a lot of Bon Jovi, raw cookie dough, and hours on the phone with my girlfriends (this was pre-text era).

Two weeks later, he attempted suicide. He took a bottle of some kind of pills and put a knife through his stomach (the details were kind of fuzzy). All I knew was he was in the hospital and I couldn't see him.  Oh yeah, and that my name was in the suicide note.

I know sometimes people say in crisis situations time stands still.  For me, days played out in fast forward.  First seeing the school counselor, then a therapist my mom took me to, non stop headaches, constantly throwing up, seeing a doctor who thought perhaps I had a brain tumor so he ordered a CAT scan. Turns out it was just stress.Writing endlessly in the journal that I titled Suicide 101 (as suggested by the second therapist). Skipping class to sit in the band hall and cry. Then going home to cry more.

Then one night, sitting in church (my dad being a pastor, I spent most of my nights in church), having absolutely no idea what had been sang or said, I just walked out.  Our sanctuary was on the second floor and I walked down the stairs aiming for the biting January air.  It was freezing, but at least I would feel something besides this pain and guilt that left me struggling to breathe.  I got as far as the bottom star and completely collapsed.  Exhausted from not sleeping, my body listless from lack of nourishment, drowning in guilt. And so angry.  So I did what anyone filled with anger would do. I started yelling at God.  "Why?  What is the point of all of this?  I have done nothing for the last 15 years but what I thought you wanted me to do.  I have gone where you wanted me to go, stayed away from things I thought were wrong.  I have shown compassion. Loved.  I have believed in you.  I have loved you.  So why the hell is this happening?  Where are you right now?"

And then, God showed up.

I couldn't see Him.  No Charlton Heston voice filled my ears.  In fact if any one would have walked down those stairs, all they would have seen is a 15 year old crying her eyes out.  But all of the sudden I was crying in the arms of my Father. I had no answers. I had no miracle.  But He showed up.  And eventually I walked back up the stairs and into my life.

The next time it happened was a few years after Richie and I got married, and we decided to try to start a family.  We had an easy (and fun) time trying to get pregnant and it happened quickly.  We were almost through our first trimester (12 weeks) when we went in for our first sonogram.  As I lay on the table, I could see the doctor's cheerful disposition begin to change as she searched for our baby's heartbeat.  She kept looking, but there was no use.  She told us our baby had probably stopped growing at about eight weeks.

But I hadn't had any symptoms of a miscarriage,  I told her. I had no bleeding, no cramping.  Nothing.  This can't be right.  She couldn't be right.  I could see the baby on the screen.  There had to be some mistake.

But there was no mistake.  There was no heartbeat.  And we would have no baby.

Rock bottom this time turned out to be our bathroom floor.  The door locked with me sobbing hysterically and Richie on the other side pleading with me to open the door and come out. I told him I couldn't.  I just knew that somehow I had killed our baby. Something I ate, something I didn't eat.  An exercise I did or didn't do. Vitamins I took. The ones I didn't take. The cross country car trip.  We had our sono too late.  I wasn't sure how, but I was sure I killed our baby.  And I was sure God let it happen.  So I started yelling again. Where the hell was He?  If He loved me, if He loved our baby, why did He let this happen?  God if you are here, why don't you want me to be a mother? Why did you let my baby die?  Why don't I even have the strength to get up off the floor?

And just then, He showed up. 

He cried every tear with me there in that tiny bathroom.  He assured me that my pain was neither in vain nor was it foreign to Him.  He knew exactly what it was like to lose a son. His heart was breaking with mine, but He knew that I would survive this pain, no matter how deep and raw, because He would not let me fail. And eventually, He pulled me up off the bathroom floor and back into my life.

My most recent visit to the bottom of the rock pile was last weekend starting with a trip to the Emergency Room.  Surprisingly that was not my low point.  The low point came almost a week later after an insurance mix up and some communication challenges with doctors and medication changes left me with nothing to treat my migraines. The combination of withdrawing from one kind of medication to start another, while at the same time catching a cold from the kids and constant nausea preventing me from eating for a week -- that wasn't even enough to knock me down (it gets harder to knock you down the more often you are there, I think).

But at some point I realized, even when the insurance and doctors got it all straightened out, I would be right back where I started.  It's like I'm patching a bullet hole with a band-aid. I am not getting better. I spent four days telling myself what a horrible mother and wife I am.  How all of this must somehow by my fault.  Well meaning friends and family often say things like, "Have you tried this herb?"  or "Maybe you should cut out chocolate or try acupuncture?"  And it isn't that I don't appreciate suggestions.  It is just that what I hear them saying is "This is your fault,"  "This is your fault,"  "This is all your fault."

This time, rock bottom looked like a lot like a bench.  I decided to go for a walk Sunday night.  However, since I hadn't eaten in four days, I only made it about a block and a half to the front of our neighborhood.  Luckily there was a bench to sit on since that short walk left me feeling dizzy and nauseous.  As I sat there, once more yelling at God (perhaps when I am at rock bottom, I find it necessary to yell in order to make sure He hears me).  And then, I waited for Him to show up.

He didn't.

I walked back to the house in the throws of despair and drowning in self inflicted guilt ( See the pattern of guilt.  Guilt from the suicide. Guilt from the miscarriage.  Guilt from the health issues..)  Maybe this really was all my fault.  Maybe I had done something so wrong that God was no longer going to show up when I was desperate.

I got home just in time for the kids to go to bed.  Both claimed stomach aches, and I was too tired to argue, so I let them climb into bed with me. Their sweet little bodies pressed up to mine, soft even breaths, and the smell of pineapple shampoo still in their hair, I took a deep breath and wouldn't you know  . . .

God showed up.

"My child," He whispered.  "If you wouldn't have been so hurt all those years ago when your friend tried to take his life you would be tempted to take your own life when your physical pain gets unbearable. Instead, I know, without question, that no matter how much physical pain you face in this life, suicide is not an option for you because you understand the devastation it leaves on the other side.  And these babies you're holding in your arms.  The ones who bring you so much joy. The ones you would give your own life for.  You never would have known them if their sibling hadn't come home to live with me until you join us someday.

I am still here.

I know you don't understand the trials.

I know you are angry.

 And I know you wish your life was different.

 But there is work to be done here. And it can only be done by you. In this time. Exactly as you are."

Wherever you are today.  If you are on a high mountaintop or if you are standing (or lying face down like me) at rock bottom, God is there.  I know some of you reading this don't even believe in God.  That doesn't mean He isn't there. We are never going to understand suffering. Instead, we have to rely on God's character and believe it when He says, "For I know the plans I have for you,” declares the Lord, “plans to prosper you and not to harm you, plans to give you hope and a future." Jer 29:11

Keep waiting and I promise, He will show up.

Lessons from the Other Cross

On Easter, especially, we take time to reflect on the cross where Jesus died.  As I lay in a hospital bed last month, weeping in despair, I realized the lesson I needed to learn was actually from the other cross.

In Luke 23:40-43 we read, "But the other criminal rebuked him. “Don’t you fear God,” he said, “since you are under the same sentence?  We are punished justly, for we are getting what our deeds deserve. But this man has done nothing wrong.” Then he said, 'Jesus, remember me when you come into your kingdom.'  Jesus answered him, 'Truly I tell you, today you will be with me in paradise.'”

It is a safe assumption that the two thieves in the Easter story were just that, thieves. One admitted as much. And although the “good thief" asked Jesus to remember him in his kingdom, it struck me that he didn't ask for Jesus to save him from his cross. No last minute appeal from death row,  just a cry for mercy. And it is mercy that Jesus granted him. Of course Jesus could have saved the thief from his earthly consequences.  Instead he promised eternal salvation.

So often I find myself on a cross my own making. I battle the sins that plague my human nature and lose more times than I win. The result of my sin frequently leads to deep suffering and sorrow,  feeling abandoned by God, hopeless, and ultimately in despair. It is at exactly this time that I must remember that while Jesus sometimes saves me from myself, there are consequences for my actions here on earth. That doesn't mean God has abandoned me, but instead that He loves me so much more. Instead of a quick fix to my temporal problems, He offers me eternal redemption.

This Easter, take a moment to focus not just on Christ's resurrection, but on the thief who rose with him to glory. Both died that day, but Christ's death overcame sin once for all. And in the end, that is the better story.

THOUGHT FOR THE DAY:  Earthly circumstances are small relative to the enormity of our salvation through Christ.


PRAYER: Heavenly Father, you love me with a love that is difficult for me to comprehend. A love that doesn’t remove me from my circumstances, but instead loves me regardless of my circumstances. Help me truly understand that the gift of your Son is better than sanctuary from any earthly pain, sorrow, or even discipline. When I struggle, help me remember the best part of the story, that someday I will be with you in paradise. Amen.

(Photo credit: fiftypercentchanceofrain)

Waiting to Be Still

My three year old has decided to give up naps.  To some of you, this may not seem like a big deal.  To those of us work from home parents, you realize that naps are like the Ark of the Covenant.  They are rare, precious, and contain in them all of the makings for a peaceful world with direction, forgiveness and patience.  You also know that to lose this precious artifact is akin to losing your best friend.  

So I was not going down without a fight.  Unfortunately, neither was he. 

My compromise was to let him nap in my bed with me.  He got to lie down. I got to lie down.  Win-win.  Well, no laundry got done, but I still call it a win.

You know those mattress commercials where one person is jumping on the bed and the glass of wine doesn't spill?  Have you ever noticed they don't use children in those commercials, and it isn't just because a toddler in bed with a glass of wine is kind of inappropriate.  It is because no matter how little the child, when they move in bed, you are going to feel it.  Every fidget, kick, roll, taking off their socks, putting their hands over their eyes, their ears, your eyes, your ears. You feel it all. 

This is the case for our recent nap times.  The number of times I've uttered the words "Be still," must be somewhere in the thousands. When I'm really serious, I gently place my hand on his chest and whisper softly in his ear, because for some reason my kids know if I'm whispering, I'm not messing around.

Turns out, I'm way more like my three year old than I desire to admit. For years Psalms 46:10 has been my favorite verse.  ""Be still, and know that I am God;"  Unfortunately, knowing a verse and applying the verse are two very different things.  

I was recently in the hospital for several days.  By day two I was feeling physically better and was more than ready to go home.  The doctors didn't share my enthusiasm.  They told me it would be at least two more days before I could be discharged.  

I'm not a huge fan of hospitals to begin with, but when you are feeling good they start to seem more like a prison.  A prison where nobody wants you to sleep.  Every two hours, all day and all night, someone is coming in your room to check something, administer something, or just to wake you up and make sure you are still breathing. For a gal who has trouble sleeping in the best of circumstances, sleeping in a hospital was impossible. So I moved the bed up and down, fluffed up pillows, flattened pillows, paced around the room, listened to music, watched re-runs of Seinfeld (it is on at 2 a.m. in case you are looking for it).  My patience waned and my frustration increased.  

Finally, on night three as I once more lamented the fact I was still trapped, it was as if I literally felt God gently put His hand on my chest and say, "Kristen, it is time to be still."  

I still didn't want to be in the hospital, the bed was still uncomfortable, and the nurses still woke me up every time I drifted off.  But something changed.  My heart softened and I felt at peace. Given how I feel about hospitals, finding peace inside one is sort of like my three year old volunteering to nap.  It doesn't happen. 

Or rather, it doesn't happen without God.

I don't know what you is making your restless today. Maybe it is health challenges, marital strife, or your three year old giving up nap, but it is a safe bet that if you aren't facing a storm right now you either just emerged from one or are on your way to one. I want to encourage you not just to read the verse, but to claim it as a promise. God is God. He is bigger, stronger, and smarter that you are.  He feels ever toss, turn, kick, and fidget you make and He is right there next to you with his hand on your chest whispering, "Be still."

Because we all need a rest sometimes.

Waiting for Answers

At a young age we are trained to believe that questions come with answers.

- Who's the cutest baby in the whole wide world? You are.
- And what is your name? Kristen.
- What is two plus two? Four.
- How do you spell Czechoslovakia? Ummm . . . Chec . . .No, wait, Czek. No, Czeh. Is that even a country anymore?

Even questions to which our own political, religious, or philosophical beliefs bend us on

Image by Oberazzi via Flickr

e direction or another still have an answer. For example, the question of whether the earth was created by an intelligent designer or by sheer chance may have different answers depending the textbook, professor, or preacher with whom you are speaking, but each would, no doubt, offer you an answer of some sort.

With our comfort rooted deeply in questions coupled with answers it is no surprise we become anxious when we find ourselves holding one without the other.

It is my experience that the most frequent flier in the answer-less question arena is "Why?" This three letter word can apply to events as profound as life threatening illnesses, job loss, deaths, catastrophes, acts of God, and wars, or things as simple as failing a test, ending a relationship, bad hair days or being stuck in traffic.

In his book The Case for Faith, agnostic journalist turned Christian Lee Strobel investigates what he calls "The Big Eight" objections to Christianity. Of these, the first one he tackles deals with unanswered questions about pain and suffering in the world. To help answer his questions Strobel interviews Billy Graham's former evangelist partner who became a self-proclaimed agnostic author, Charles Templeton. When asked if there was one thing in particular that caused him to loose his faith in God, Templeton answered that it was a photograph in Life magazine.

"It was a picture of a black woman in Northern Africa. They were experiencing a devastating drought. And she was holding her dead baby in her arms and looking up to heaven with the most forlorn expression. I looked at it and I thought, 'Is it possible to believe that there is a loving or caring Creator when all this woman needed was rain?'"*

That is a question without an answer if I've ever heard one.

Over the past year I have had a lot of conversations with God that started with the word "Why?" These conversations stemmed from a string of seemingly endless health problems that resulted in chronic pain. My life, which admittedly was somewhat charmed up to that point, was literally turned upside down. We paid thousands of dollars in medical bills, which was complicated by the fact I had to resign from my job. I became unable to care for my children and some days was unable to care for myself.

As I sunk deeper into what I'm sure was a mixture of depression and narcotics, I felt confident that if I could just find some reason, some answer as to why this was happening to me, it would give me the strength to get through it. Looking at it now, written out in black and white, it seems almost silly.

I guess God could have posted this on my Facebook;
Hey Kristen; Just wanted to

Image via CrunchBase

let you know that your ovaries will be adhered together for the next five months. The doctors aren't going to be able to figure it out and you are going to be in chronic pain. I know it's a bummer, but hang in there because you are going to learn some really important lessons in patience and especially in humility. You will also resign from your job - I know that's going to be tough because you are going to have to trust that I will provide for your family, which will be hard, especially with the thousands of dollars you are going to rack up in medical bills, but this is the only way that I will ever teach you to totally trust me. Big lesson there. Get your Blockbuster card ready - you will be spending lots of time on the couch. Love ya! Oh, and don't forget to take the Wizard of Oz quiz and find out which character you are. I'm betting you're the Lion :-)

Having a reason for the pain wouldn't have lessened the pain, it would have just made me argue with God whether or not I thought his reason was worthy of the pain I was experiencing at that moment. Would a lesson in humility constitute a trip to the ER or did improving my integrity equal a pint of my blood and so on a so forth. How does one begin to argue those reasons. Looking at it now I understand why God didn't answer my Why's.

Not that it mattered. I didn't get any FB posts from God and I didn't know what was coming a week in advance, a day in advance, or even an hour in advance. My husband uses this analogy; We wish God would give us a floodlight, but instead he gives us a flashlight. Some days, he gives us a candle and not even one of those big roman candles. One of those sad little flimsy birthday candles that barely gives off any light at all.

I promise you if God would have sent that FB post, I would have been booked in the next OR and signed up to have those ovaries removed. Yes, I would have missed out on the pain, but I would have also missed out on the path that was set in front of me and the lessons I have learned and I would not be the person I've become. And even through the pain I can tell you, the person I have become is a better person. I have learned lessons in patience and humility that I would have never signed up for of my own volition. I've become passionate about helping people who are suffering from chronic illnesses or chronic pain and their caregivers. Although I resigned from my job, it allowed me to follow my dream of writing. I think there are still more answers to the Why question down the road, some that I may not see for years or maybe even decades.

I've also noticed that I very rarely ask Why on the good days. Like, why do I deserve a roof over my head and three meals a day? Why do I have a family who loves me? Why was I born in a free country while others are oppressed?

I guess there are a lot of good Why's out there too.

What do you do with the Why's you can't answer?

*The Case for Faith, A Journalist Investigates the Toughest Objections to Christianity; Lee Strobel: Zondervan Publishing House. 2000