Day two of infusions: A friend came to pray with me in the morning. We sat on the screened in porch listening to my three year olds’ screams of joy on the driveway where the babysitter watched them. It was a sweet time of prayer and an encouraging visit from a wise woman with so much life experience to share.
What stuck with me most, though, was a verse she shared: Romans 8:28…
“And we know that in all things God works for the good of those who love him, who have been called according to his purpose.”
She told me people would quote this verse as a means of comfort in this time of great struggle, and she was right. A card from a dear friend sits on my counter with that very verse scratched down in the margin. But she confessed that this verse is especially challenging in the moment—it’s hard in the presence of real struggle. How can this be good?
“You must keep reading,” she said. “It’s verse 29 that provides the real comfort.” So we read on:
“For those God foreknew he also predestined to be conformed to the image of his Son, that he might be the firstborn among many brothers and sisters.”
It’s beautiful, really, and beyond challenging, but the richness of the reward is great, and it is a reminder that life isn’t about what our culture claims. It’s not all about me, my happiness, my comfort. I am here to glorify God. I am to love God. Even with MS. I have been called... . But to be “conformed to the image” of Jesus…? Let’s just say mind-blowing, right? I don’t think our feeble minds can even fathom how that makes our suffering worthwhile. Even the thought of being conformed to His image is humbling. I must be more thankful.
***
It’s day three of infusions, and I find out that unfortunately, I am NOT most people. The steroids have helped some—my torso is no longer numb and my toes are returning to normal—but my hands have experienced no progress. Based on Mrs. Claus’s first day prediction, I know this isn’t good. Will I ever get them back? I wonder. Will I ever teach my daughter the jump shot my father taught me?
I am so tired. The steroids have limited my sleep drastically each night and yet, now—in the middle of the day—I am so desperately tired my eyelids cannot stay open. I look at my sister who so generously offered to come with me to show her love and support, and I apologize. “I’m so sorry,” I explain, “but do you care if I just close them for a few minutes? I am so tired.”
When I wake, not much has changed—the stink of the hospital remains, my warm blanket is now room temperature and I still have MS. Mrs. Claus comes back to remove the needle and finish telling us about the beautiful roast she’s preparing for dinner. “Brussels sprouts, you know,” she tells us, “they enhance the flavor, and they make dinner look so much better.”
She washes her hands at the sink in the back, walks towards us with a happy smile. I can tell she enjoys her job. “Maybe I’ll being seeing you,” she says on our way out.
Oh, Lord, I hope not.