Dear God,

Originally written: July 15, 2015

Today I sat on my favorite street again—alone in my van--and decided to write down my prayer.

Here is what it reads:

Oh, Lord, I pray…

·         You will help me to not have a constant desire to know the future but to live presently for You—to fulfill today’s purpose and pray for tomorrow’s.

·         To trust in your long-term plan—to be reminded that it is far beyond my wildest dreams and that although the steps along the way may be far more challenging than I desire, the end result (even one I may not see on this side of eternity) will be far more “than I could ask or imagine.”

·         For healing in my hands—that the lesion in my spine will heal and that my hands might be fully restored.

·         For complete healing, whether now or in the future with the recognition that the God who reigns over all the earth, the God who gives orders to the morning, who shows the dawn its place, who “might take the earth by the edges and shake the wicked out of it” (Job 38: 12-13) can restore me to full health.

·         BUT to also recognize this very same God may choose to use my MS even more effectively to further the kingdom if I am not healed.

·         For the willingness to accept this. That if there is any way for me to live an “almost normal” life—without a wheelchair, without drastic changes to my mind and physical health, I will fall at Your feet and praise You.

·         But that above all, I will surrender my selfish desires and desire first that Your will be done in my life and not my own.

·         To take comfort, as I watch the leaves sway in the wind, that You know every blade of grass, that You know every hair on my head and that you knew about my MS even before I was born—that you have been preparing me for this every hour since my first breath and that you will never leave me.

·         Never leave me, Lord.

·         Thank you for helping me to dawn the Armor of God. Each day I wake, help me to hold so tightly to the shield of faith—to “extinguish all the flaming arrows of the evil one” and to use to Your honor the sword of the Spirit “which is the word of God.”

·         I love you, Lord, and yet know that my love is insufficient—that I first need your love, Jesus’ love, which He surrendered at the cross.

·         Thank you for the cross—so humanly and selfishly so because I do not have to face MS alone. Thank you that I can cry out to You and feel the Holy Spirit alive and at work in me.

·         Forgive me when I doubt—when I question if all this really is true.

·         I do believe. Help my unbelief!

·         Thank you for loving me even when I don’t deserve to be loved.

·         Oh, God! Have mercy on me!

·         Forgive me my idols—the things I cling to for worth and value and earthly gain. Help me to surrender them to you fully.

·         I pray for Brian—protect him, guard him, help me to love him better, to love him like You love me, or as closely as I can.

·         To be a light to my children and my team, that they will see me and know Your love.

·         Take the ugly parts of my heart and dust them off and take them out. Fill me with all the fullness of God—that I might lean into You, oh Lord, and grow in my faith.

In Jesus’ name I pray. Amen.

Something Unusual...

Originally written: July 2015

Today my back started vibrating. Yes, you heard me correctly—vibrating.  To the point where I kept checking my purse to see if it was my phone or my vertebrae.  I felt a little bit like a dog chasing her tail—looking over my shoulder and peaking in my Vera Bradley backpack (phone or back? Phone or back?).  Walking around Hallmark, playing this game with myself, I realized how ridiculous this really was.  What are things coming to?

In addition to the vibrating phone in my back, I can also send sensations up or down my spine (can’t decide which one it is yet—it happens so quickly) whenever I bend my neck downward.  I’m beginning to think I’m the newest act in the traveling circus. 

I haven’t talked much about my symptoms or what it feels like to live in my body.  I remember waking up in March and wondering exactly what was happening to me.  Looking back now, I wonder how I didn’t freak out—that I must be a freak not to have been more concerned.  The doctor at the Cleveland Clinic did mention that athletes are often very in tune with their bodies, but they are also very used to dismissing issues.  I was trained for thirty years to overlook pain, to push through anything unusual, and the chronic pain in my legs is something I’ve dealt with for so long it is simply a part of everyday life.  Some numbness and tingling— “It’s nothing,” I told everyone.  “I’m fine.”

When June hit, I felt like a pro with the legs but the torso and hands were something new entirely.  My torso has been the least annoying, although it was the most numb.  I checked it every morning when I got out of the shower and put on some lotion.  The odd sensation was like having a child, coming out of the epidural—I could feel my hands on my body and yet I couldn’t. 

The hands, however, are another story entirely.  They have by far been my longest lasting symptom—we’re going on two months as I type these words—and also the most discouraging.  No doctor has been able to assure me they will ever return to “normal.”  They tingle all the time—I can rarely think of a reprieve.  At times they ache and sometimes they downright hurt.  The sensations are most distinctly focused in my fingers, beginning with the tips and permeating upward, at times all the way to my elbows.  In terms of prayers, I ask again and again for healing in my hands. I want them back so badly. I want to catch a basketball with certainty, teach my sons and daughter how to shoot without fear of losing the ball.  I want to play my girls in a game of one-on-one (never mind that I can’t win anymore—I just start with the ball, make sure I get the first point and then say next bucket wins.  It works every time—or at least it did when my hands were at full strength). I want to rub lotion on my children’s soft little bodies and feel their skin without interruption.  I don’t want to drop Peyton’s Mini-Wheats or the box of blueberries as I’m getting them out of the refrigerator. 

I just want to feel normal for awhile.

There are symptoms that could be much, much worse—symptoms I may someday have to face.  So for now, I try to marvel at the body’s oddities.  I can marvel at them, I suppose, because most of them have gone away.  I confess so surely that I do not ever marvel at my hands.  Perhaps someday…one could only hope.  

Today Is a Good Day

July 7, 2015

Cleveland Clinic day. We arrive early, not totally certain of where we are heading. The entire complex is beyond imagination—enormous, overwhelming, but the Mellen Center is surprisingly easy to find. We park just twenty feet from the front door. We give them our name, and I’m immediately directed to a row of cubicles to take a basic inventory of my symptoms.  It asks simple questions—a lot of ranking how often I feel this or how many times in a day/week/month I’ve felt this. It asks about the tingling and numbness. This isn’t so bad, I think. But then it begins to ask other questions, like whether or not I have certain involuntary movements when I sleep at night. Wait a minute, I think, that’s my MS? They are so subtle—so easy to pass over, but now I can give them a name: MS at work and active inside my body.  I didn’t even know those were related, and as the inventory continues my heart sinks a little.  This inventory fits me. I really do have MS.

It doesn’t take too long to finish, and I return to sit with Brian. An enormous fish tank sits across from us. We video a fish doing some crazy acrobatic act to take home and show the kids. But what strikes me most is the clientele.  It’s a busy place—people coming and going, nurses buzzing in and out of the large entry/waiting area.  I lean over to Brian: “Are all of these MS patients?” I confess it to him in my question: I am frightened. Many of them can’t walk, need considerable assistance, some you can tell have severe mental disabilities. I don’t judge them—I don’t even pray for them in that moment. I selfishly only think about myself:  Will I be them?

At first, Brian agrees there are only MS patients being seen, but as we look around, we see from the signs, from the information on the walls that there are various diseases being treated in this building, and I confess that I am relieved.  This is all still so fresh, so new, and I am still so ignorant about my own disease.  And the waiting room is a reminder of what my life will be like now: a waiting room of its own.  But it is also a reminder of how blessed I really am. Yes, this is hard, but it could be so much worse.

When we hear our name, we are amazed to see that in a place as renowned as this, the doctor herself has come to retrieve us. She looks like she belongs here—formal, professional, doctor-ish. But she also looks like my neighbor and talks to us like we’ve met before. I already know this appointment is going to go well.

Over the next two hours (yes, I said two hours!), she speaks to us in terms of reality. She speaks with confidence and certainty, and yet she is a soft spot to land after the last week and a half. 

She pulls up the MRIs on her computer.  “Let’s just make sure you really do have MS,” she says. 

Hope. What if they were wrong… .

She quickly dispels any hope in a misdiagnosis.  This is definitely MS. I confess the spots on my brain and spine are hard to look at. It’s a little like a punch in the gut. And yet she still provides hope for the future. 

She walks us through each of the spots, ones that appear to have been there for a long time and ones that are active, enhancing—“This one is probably responsible for your hands. Give it time,” she encourages us. “It’s in a very tough spot in your spine. It will take a long time to heal.”

Children, she says, are not totally out of the question. In fact, she grills me about having my own children—about any postpartum symptoms. Is there anything at all I can think of that was different in those weeks and months after having kids? she keeps asking me. A tingling in my back after Charlotte is the only thing I know for sure—I just can’t remember with the boys.

But she agrees definitely no children right now. Too much going on in my brain--in my spine--to entertain that at the moment.  We need to get this under control. Everyone keeps saying it, but I feel it.

Get this under control.

I think I know in my heart that I will probably never have any more children of my own—but yet the fact that she says it’s possible makes all the difference.  It’s like I’m a little kid—I hate absolutes—I hate being told, “No, you cannot have that.” And I know that it’s selfish—I have three beautiful children of my own. There are so many people who can’t have any children of their own.  And it goes back to this fallen world, of my interrupted plans—my interrupted plans. It is just another form of loss in this process, and a reminder that I am called to honor the Lord’s plans for me rather than my own.

Another call to obedience.

This doctor understands that I’m a mom--she senses the importance of basketball in my life.  She says depression is a real concern when people are diagnosed and that taking basketball away in addition to the other losses may be more detrimental than good. She recognizes the enormity of the decisions we are making and is patient with all our questions. She says that my brain will not shrink—obviously a concern I had coming in from last week.  She comforts me: “You have more of CMS than MS going on up there! Cluttered mind syndrome—you’re a mom, a coach, a wife. You’ve got a lot going on!”

Deep breath. I smile. I laugh.

We discuss all the drugs. She listens to our concerns about the one and tends to agree. She helps us make an informed decision. She encourages us that our doctor back home is taking all the right steps.  “Come back and see me in six months with new MRIs,” she says. 

I leave the doctor and I still have MS, but I feel as if I have a little more hope in what the future holds.  I know this appointment is a gift from God. I know that she basically told us the same thing as the doctor did a week ago, but I also know that in that short amount of time, the Lord has been working on my heart.  It’s one appointment at a time. It’s day by day, prayer by prayer. It’s deciding to get up each morning and be thankful for His new mercies and the grace that comes with each new dawn.  

Today is a hard day. But as I tell my team all the time: "Get up. Look in the mirror: Today is a good day!" And it is a good day, too. 

Hope.

I can feel it.

A Shadow on the Wall

Originally written: July 3, 2015

It’s everywhere. Fear. Today I woke with it inside of me, around me—everywhere. It’s like the darkness that comes upon you as a little child when your mom closes the door after saying good night.  It’s instantaneous, all consuming, suffocating.  It was the first time since I’d been diagnosed that it was so clearly present—that I could give it a name. What about my kids? What about the future? What about…?

Writing this now, I know where it came from, but it wasn’t so clear to me with my head still upon the pillow.  I told Brian it was there as we were getting ready in the bathroom, and I couldn’t escape it as I drove in my car on my way to breakfast to meet my dear friend, Ann.  “Lord,” I cried out, “help me!”

I came to a stop at the intersection of Pittsburg and Mount Pleasant, the first car at the red light, and looked to my left. The rolling sign at the Baptist Church has always been a distraction for me at this light.  I usually read it while I wait for the light to change, and today the verse scrolling by is so clearly an answer to my prayer: Philippians 4: 6-7.

Do not be anxious about anything, but in every situation, by prayer and petition, with thanksgiving, present your requests to God. And the peace of God, which transcends all understanding, will guard your hearts and your minds in Christ Jesus.

And the songs on the CD, they speak to me again:  “This mountain that’s in front of me, will be thrown into the midst of the sea.” And in the background you can hear people applauding, whistling, cheering.  And although that’s not quite how I feel on the inside, I am abundantly thankful for this clear answer to prayer, and I feel the darkness begin to subside. It creeps away—that monster in the dark--as I make my way along the road.  And it really is like a monster in the dark—make believe, in my mind, a shadow on the wall.  The enemy at work with fear and doubt and uncertainty. 

The fear is not completely gone—but I am refocused, comforted by a power beyond my own making.  Once again, I have been given a peace that "transcends all understanding." And I know that this new thing the Lord has given me—MS—will be an ongoing exercise in trust.  I can feel the Holy Spirit at work, and I am thankful for it.  Some would say that sign was a coincidence, but I don’t believe in coincidence.  I believe in Jesus Christ. 

Finding Strength in the Name of Jesus

Originally written: July 2, 2015

Day four of infusion week. Today is a big day. Today we find out what is really going on inside my body. Brian and I are escorted to the small room—I think it’s the same one from just a week ago. We sit in two chairs right beside each other, close enough to hold hands. The doctor comes in within a minute or two of the nurse leaving.  He is a nice looking man—small in stature, peppered hair and a youthful sense about him.  I think I only really like him because he looks like one of our good friends, and so I compartmentalize him as having the same personality, as if his looks have anything to do with it.

He hasn’t minced words since the first time I met him eight days ago, and he’s not about to begin now.  “It seems your case is a little more advanced,” are the first words out of his mouth. 

Relapsing-remitting is overall a good diagnosis, but the rest of what he says makes my heart sink.

It’s hard to listen the rest of the time, and I think I already knew this was coming…

“But this happened so that the works of God might be displayed in him.” 

In me. 

He continues, “You have more enhancing lesions in the brain than we’d like to see…this many in your spine…we’d prefer that there were none.  What can you expect?  This percentage of people will be in a wheelchair by…at some point you can expect your brain to start shrinking…”

“Wait, what?” I stop him there and get up to retrieve a tissue as the tears begin to roll.  He stays silent for a moment—stoic. 

I’m tuned in, but I’m tuned out. I can’t process that these are only what if’s, maybes… . I tune back in when he says, “I know we discussed having more children when you were here last week.  I understand that I said people with MS often have children.  But I need to be honest--I think they are out of the question for you. With your case, it’s just not safe to be off these drugs for a year.”

The tears stream down my face.  We were planning to try again next month.

But I’m not most people. 

He continues with treatment options.  According to him, the majority of the drugs won’t be strong enough. I really have two options. He explains the risks and some testing I’ll need to see if I’m even eligible for the one. He encourages us to make a decision quickly. 

“We’d like to pray about this,” we tell him. 

“That’s fine,” he says, “but we need to get this under control.”

When the appointment ends, I sit in the waiting room with Brian, waiting to be called back for the various tests and blood draw they need before we leave.  I don’t make a sound, but I can’t help the tears.

I really don’t know much about MS. Since the phone call last week, he told me, “Whatever you do, DO NOT research this on the internet. You must only go to the National MS Society website—it is the only one that is reliable. Wait to talk to me in person." And can you believe it? I didn’t look. I couldn’t look. But now I know--at least a little--and the tears stream silently down my face, as all the other patients look at me wondering what I was just told behind those closed doors.

I know it’s not the worst case scenario—in fact, the relapsing-remitting diagnosis is great news relative to the situation. I don’t have cancer, I’m not dying, I don’t have so many other horrible options. But this is real to me.

This is real to me.

And there is a tension inside of me. I feel as if something has been taken. I feel a real sense of loss. Of who I am. Or who I was. Or who I thought I was. And yet, paradoxically, this sense that in my surrender, I have gained something intangible, something that is filling me up even as it empties me. And I know it is of the Lord.

***

After stopping at my mom’s house to explain everything to her, we head home. Exhausted. As we are pulling into the garage, my phone rings. It’s the Cleveland Clinic. As soon as I was diagnosed last Friday, we of course, decided to get a second opinion.  We got on the computer, my brother started searching: what’s the best in the country? And what a blessing—it’s in our backyard—the Cleveland Clinic. I was originally scheduled for an appointment in a month but now they are calling to offer a sooner appointment for next Tuesday. We take it.

Even in the midst of today’s struggle, it is a reminder of the Lord’s incredible faithfulness.  I will need all my records and copies of the MRIs.  With the holiday weekend approaching, it looks like I’ll have to go get them today.  It’s the last thing I want to do, but it must be done.

I think of the plans I had this afternoon to see a young lady who has attended our church at times, and I am so sad I’ll have to cancel.  When I think about MS and just the short time I’ve had it, I think about how it has already monopolized so much of my time and my thoughts. Am I going to allow it to take everything? No. I decide to take her with me to pick up the MRIs and the records. 

On the way home from the hospital, we pull into a parking lot just to chat for a few minutes. I can tell she wants to ask me something, and I tell her it’s okay—I’ll answer what I can.  So she shoots: “I’ve heard people talk about your diagnosis,” she says. “And all I hear people say is, ‘Abbey’s so strong. She’s so strong.’”

And she looked up at me: “What is it like? To be strong?”

And my heart hurt in that moment because this sweet young woman really does see me as strong.  And in this time of ultimate weakness, where my life seems as though it’s spiraling out of control, my flesh wants me to let her think that I am. It would be so easy to tell her I’ve got it all under control, that this is easy and that I really am strong. My sinful pride is glad she thinks I’m that strong.

But the Lord tells me another thing…the Lord tells me to speak Truth.  After all, that’s why she came along, that’s what I pray for—opportunities to show how the Lord is working.  I reach over and grab her hand. Here is my opportunity: “It’s not me,” I say. “It’s not me. It’s the Lord.” And I remind her that when I am weak, then I am strong. That any hope I have, any peace I have comes directly from the Lord.  That I plead with Him day and night to uphold me. That this peace I feel is not of this world. I am nothing without Him.  I am not strong, but He is the Almighty.

And sitting in that parking lot, as tears roll down my cheeks for the second time that day, I am reminded of the Lord’s will.  This is definitely not my will. And that sucks.  Or does it?  Once again, I am reminded that MS has given me another opportunity to share about the love of Jesus—to share that my life is nothing without Him.  We turn on the song that has become my theme song of late—“It Is Well.” We sit in the quiet peace of the car—people zipping by on the road beside us. But none of that registers.  We just hear the music and nod our heads when we hear again that “the waves and wind still know His name.” 

And I know it rings true and I tell her so: “Far be it from me to not believe.”

His Image

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.

It is Well

Originally written: June 30, 2015

On Monday I had my first of three steroid infusions to help with my current symptoms. I’d been experiencing numbness and tingling in my torso, in parts of my legs and feet and most annoyingly, in my hands since the beginning of June.

The room at Aultman Hospital was small to begin with and there was already another patient receiving treatment, hiding behind a little white curtain that somehow was supposed to constitute privacy.  I felt like a character in a futuristic book, coming in for the nurses to pour the daily drug into my veins like a coffee refill at the local diner.  No big deal—it’s going to get you back to “normal.”

“How quickly do these work?” I asked the cute, middle-aged nurse who reminded me a bit of Mrs. Claus with her whitish hair, jovial smile and extreme positive attitude. 

“Oh, I’ve had patients tell me they notice results after the first day! But don’t worry if you don’t…this really works for most people,” she promised. 

Brian sat across from me in a little chair that could not have been comfortable. He joked that I’d be pumping iron soon enough with all these steroids pouring into me. He snaps a picture of me and sends it a friend’s way: I’ll be using the 40 lb dumbbells in no time!

But the smile does not reflect my thoughts.  “Most people,” Mrs. Claus had said.  Please Lord, let this help my hands. An hour and a half later they warn me that sleep may be erratic or nonexistent for the next few days.  We walked out of the hospital—some liquid soaring through my veins and my mouth tasting like metal, a possible side effect that “most people” don’t get. 

That night after open gym, I came home and talked to Brian as we stood at the island in our kitchen. I noticed that my dear friend, Ann, had left me a CD to take with me to the hospital.  I was never home to get it before going to the hospital but something compelled me to want to listen. So I grabbed it, walked outside and got in our car. 

Insert CD. Track 1: “It is Well.”

Repeat.

Repeat.

And I leaned my head against the rest in the shelter of the quiet garage, and I listened. And the Lord spoke to me through the words of the song. In my heart, I felt a peace—a peace that surpasses all understanding. And I knew in my head that it was from Him, but this song suddenly and so fully explained it (go listen if you can...it's far more beautiful to listen!!!):

Verse 1
Grander earth has quaked before
Moved by the sound of His voice
Seas that are shaken and stirred
Can be calmed and broken for my regard

Chorus
Through it all, through it all
My eyes are on You
Through it all, through it all
It is well

Through it all, through it all
My eyes are on You
It is well with me

Verse 2
Far be it from me to not believe
Even when my eyes can't see
And this mountain that's in front of me
Will be thrown into the midst of the sea

Bridge
So let go my soul and trust in Him
The waves and wind still know His name

It is well with my soul
It is well with my soul
It is well with my soul
It is well with my soul

(Kristene DiMarco & Bethel Music)

And the tears slowly rolled down my cheeks, not out of sadness but out of a deep appreciation for the Holy Spirit’s presence and the recognition of this gift that is so surely and fully from God.  How could it possibly be well with my soul? And yet…it was.

It is well, I thought, with my soul.

And I pondered all the ways the Lord had been so faithful over the past few months. So much so that a friend had mentioned she was going to ask me to pray for her because it seemed “I had the direct connection.”  She was joking but I knew it spoke to the Lord’s faithfulness in my life.

Far be it from me to not believe, I thought.  Would I only believe in times of great blessing, in times of joy? Life isn’t only blessing. It’s real. It’s hard. It’s a battlefield for our souls.  How could I not believe that this was the will of the Father?

And my soul--in that moment--it really was well.

Week Two: To Whom Shall I Go?

Originally written: June 2015

“Simon Peter answered him, ‘Lord, to whom shall we go? You have the words of eternal life. We have come to believe and to know that you are the Holy One of God.’” John 6:68-69

Something like this is a lot to process. And I know in those first few days, I was mostly struck by the unknown--by the loss of "control" over my own life. It used to be that I would worry about the future all the time. I would argue with my husband about where we would live when he graduated from vet school—I would cry and pout and worry.  And worry.  And he would remind me that the Lord would provide all of this.  When people first hear about my disease, one of the first things I say is that the Lord has been preparing me for this for quite some time. And truly, He has. Worrying about the future is just one of those ways. He has taken this worry off my plate over the past few years, as I’ve grown stronger in my faith. I am reminded in Matthew 6:27 “Can any one of you by worrying add a single hour to your life?”

I wish I could say that “worry” as a whole has left my life, but I recognize it is a life long struggle.  My husband says if I don’t have anything to worry about that day, that I’ll go out and find something: Didn’t you fill your quota yet today? he’ll ask. And this is why I know the Lord has been preparing my heart for this. Because in terms of the long term, in terms of the future, I don’t worry anymore. In fact, I stopped trying to make plans, recognizing most of the plans I dreamed of were based on earthly possessions or my own selfish desires: a big house, successful kids, lots of money. 

MS is all about the future.  Yes, it’s immediate: my hands tingle as I type these words. And by evening, they’ll begin to hurt. But so much of the disease is unknown. So much of the disease is dependent on the individual.  So much of the disease is in the future.

I know that the Lord has been preparing me.

I pray that the Lord will prepare me.

On Sunday I spent a lot of time in the Gospel of John, particularly chapters five and six. The Lord has been so faithful in this study, beyond even what I can mention here. So the fact that this was all about Jesus as the bread of life was just another nod towards his amazing mercies, even in our darkest hours.  Jesus, I was reminded, is the bread of life—he is what sustains us, what satisfies us, what fills us up in the deepest of our core. I was reminded that “whoever eats my flesh and drinks my blood remains in me, and I in them” (6:56).

I looked back at my notes from a Bible study I did at my church. It was a quote by Tim Keller that hit hardest:

 “What Jesus Christ says is, ‘…I want that through which you dream of a life of power and joy without God. I want the thing you think will give you a life of power and joy without God. And until you have given it to me, not only we’re not right, but you don’t know it—it’s killing you.’”

And I wondered, what am I turning to for my satisfaction? What are my idols, Lord? What is killing me?

 But I already knew… and the Lord asked me that evening so clearly and truly whether or not I was still willing to give it ALL up for Him? And I was afraid. 

What else will you take, Lord? 

I didn’t have to speak it…I couldn’t speak it. But the Lord knows our hearts—the ugliest depths of our innermost thoughts.

And my heart spoke this: Are you going to take basketball? The one place that outside of You my identity is most deeply rooted. The one thing that probably could give me power and joy without you.  No, not that could—but that DID give me that before I knew you.

When most people think of me—outside of my red hair (that certainly is a huge part of my identity and ironically enough, also a huge trigger for MS)—I would say they think of me first as the Hoover girls basketball coach.  Without going into pages of detail, let’s just say that basketball has consumed much of my life. I won a state championship as a high school player, played in college, coached in college, and have been a high school basketball coach for going on six years now. Before the Lord, “basketball was life”—a phrase so many of my girls use frequently—one at which I cringe on the inside. Because now I know that life is not in sport—is not in winning—it is rooted in Jesus Christ. But it is so easy to idolize basketball and the beautiful and wonderful girls that I coach.

And I was taken back to Hocking Hills—to the birds, and the leaves swaying back and forth like soft bells—jingling a beautiful song, and my heart crying out: I surrender it all.

All. And I meant it.

I think I meant it…

What else are you going to take, Lord?

But chapter 6 continues. What Jesus asks of the people is a very hard teaching and many turn away.  So Jesus asks his disciples: “You do not want to leave too, do you?”

Simon Peter is the disciple to respond: “Lord, to whom shall we go? You have the words of eternal life. We have come to believe and to know that you are the Holy One of God.” (John 6:68-69)

And I knew I was ALL IN. I had already surrendered it all. 

To whom shall I go, Lord? You have the words of eternal life….

Before bed I had to respond to a text message from someone I don’t see often but love very much.  He couldn’t get a hold of the situation, couldn’t grasp why it had to happen to me. And here is what my response to his text message reads:

….I feel compelled to share with you too: You ask, “why me?” But I tell you that Jesus Christ is my Lord and Savior and He would say it is nothing I have done “but that this happened so that the works of God might be displayed in me.” I take such comfort in knowing that He died on the cross for me and that I can certainly endure whatever suffering so that perhaps I can be a comfort to someone else in their suffering. You say that I am strong but my strength comes from Jesus—for “when I am weak, then I am strong.” I know I’m being pretty bold and straight forward right now but I want you to know the truth. I love you and hope you’ll continue to see that light and strength in me! … .

I would never have shared that with him if I didn’t have MS. Thank you, Lord. 

Week One: To Glorify Him

Originally written: June 2015

2 Corinthians 1:3-11 “Praise be to the God and Father of our Lord Jesus Christ, the Father of compassion and the God of all comfort, who comforts us in all our troubles, so that we can comfort those in any trouble with the comfort we ourselves receive from God.  For just as we share abundantly in the sufferings of Christ, so also our comfort abounds through Christ… . But this happened that we might not rely on ourselves but on God… . ”

On Monday morning I sat outside the cabin at Hocking Hills in southwest Ohio where my husband, three young children, and I were vacationing with his family. It was still and quiet like a sanctuary, except for the echo of the birds conversing in the trees. I listened to their quiet song and although the light was as bright as day, it still whispered of dawn—a time of peace, of grace. The Lord had been working on my heart for the past several months, directing me to read so carefully through the Gospel of John, making it so clear that I needed to “clear the stage” as Jimmy Needum’s song so painfully implied. What, He asked, did I love with “all my heart?” What could I not stop thinking of…?  What were my idols?

Surrender cried the Lord…everything.

But I never had. I was deeply afraid. Afraid of suffering, of what complete and total surrender to the Lord might mean. Even my prayers were somewhat guarded: “Teach me, Lord, but don’t let it be too painful.” Or “I give this situation to you, Lord, but here’s how I’d like to make sure it doesn’t play out….”

But anyone who’s read the Gospel of John knows it is all about the Lord’s timing and doing the will of the Father. Doing the will of the Father. John gives us a glimpse into the life of Jesus Christ and he makes it so clear again and again that Jesus came not to fulfill His own desires but those of the Father’s. My heart knew what the Lord wanted, and so did I.  The question: would I be obedient? Would I continue in this journey of sanctification where my faith is not at a standstill but ever moving closer to Him.

On that peaceful Monday morning, I finally submitted. Or gave in. Or gave up.  I lowered my head in prayer and confessed to the Lord: I give it all to you. I surrender, Lord.

And I meant it.

Back it up a few weeks. I’d been experiencing some numbness and tingling in my torso, in my hands and parts of my legs for several weeks.  Nothing major, I thought.  Certainly not normal, of course, but this happened in March too and they said it was only lower back issues from having children. I figured it would go away like the earlier episode but since it didn’t, I’d at least go get it checked out.  Pinched nerve, need to stretch more... .  Nothing major, I kept on saying. That Wednesday, the doctor didn’t think so much in terms of nothing major: “Let’s do three MRIs over the next few days, some blood tests, and we’ll go from there,” he said.

Panic.

I suddenly decided maybe it was time to clear the stage, or in other words, the Lord decided for me. I dropped it all--my meetings, my agenda and parked on my favorite street under the umbrella of a weeping tree while the world cried down in rain and I cried out for mercy. I turned off the van to relish the peace, to tune my heart to the Lord and incline my soul to His Word.

I flipped through my Bible, praying the Lord would answer. My Bible flipped open to John 9. I looked at the heading: “Jesus Heals a Man Born Blind.” Just read it, I thought:

 “As he went along, he saw a man blind from birth. His disciples asked him, ‘Rabbi, who sinned, this man or his parents, that he was born blind?’

‘Neither this man nor his parents sinned,’ said Jesus, ‘but this happened so that the works of God might be displayed in him…’

And I prayed—again—my brand new mantra: that His will would be done and not my own. If there is any other way, Lord, let it be. But if there is not, I accept your will in my life. 

On Thursday before I pulled my sheets up over me to surrender to the weight of a heavy day, I cried out to God once more. I lay in bed, listening to my newest favorite song from I am They: Here’s My Heart. I listened and prayed and asked for it all to go from my head to heart. I leaned over and reached for my Bible and scratched down with the best handwriting I could muster through all the tingling, “Here’s my heart, Lord. Speak what is true.”

On Friday I received a phone call: “I don’t usually do this over the phone...,” he began.

And I knew. I had already known, I guess. A pinched nerve was just too easy.

My heart sank as I stood alone in my driveway, my car sitting idle next to me with my three children screaming to be let out. Is this really happening??? I thought.

“Yes, I’m 100% sure,” he said. “You have MS.”

Surrender.

It’s hard to know exactly what happened next. I know I begged the younger of my three year old twins to just have some patience as I pulled him from his car seat. I’m sure I knew that was like asking ice cream not to melt or a cop to overlook 25 miles over the speed limit, but I’m sure it spoke to my state of mind at the moment: out of touch. And as I pulled each of my three, sweet babies from the car, my mind reeled with what was happening. Just get them in the house, call Brian, get them to the bathroom, put them down for naps…move your feet, move your hands, you can do this. And of course, I did.

I made each of my phone calls—my husband, my mom, my dad, my sister, my brother, my dearest friends. Give me a little time, Mom, I remember telling her.  I just need to be alone for a minute.  I felt God’s presence even in those first moments, as my two boys yelled from upstairs with the deepest of convictions: “Moooooom!!!! I have to poooooop!” How can you not laugh at that? Through a curtain of tears, I removed Peyton from the toilet after counting to one minute six times in a row: “This is it, Peyton. You need to get back to bed. I’ll count to one minute and then you’re done.” I no more have his pants pulled up and turn around just in time to see Cameron scoot his little bottom onto the seat. For real? I thought, and laughed out loud. Even in the midst of crisis, God has a sense of humor.

Once I got the munchkins back to bed, I feel certain I must have fallen to my knees at the edge of the couch. I remember thinking, Really, God? I surrender on Monday and this is what I get on Friday?? And yet, somehow, I knew it was coming. I knew He’d been preparing me, willing me to Him and I knew I would be okay, that suffering is part of our Christian calling and that this MS was from God. A dear friend of ours had pointed us to 2 Corinthians 1:3-11 when we heard what the diagnosis could potentially be on Wednesday. I turned there in my Bible and read it again. And I prayed, and I thanked Him that I might eventually be a comfort to someone else. I honestly don’t remember what all I prayed, but I do know my heart cried out to the Lord and that He read whatever was there. I’m sure He saw fear, and anger, but that He also saw humility and thankfulness that He would choose me. I know that He held me tightly in those moments and provided a strength and peace that truly does surpass all understanding.

And in those first 24 hours of having MS, I think I talked to more people about Jesus than I’d talked to about Him in my first 31 years. I couldn’t abide the general, broad “God has a plan.” It suddenly became so cliché and just not enough. No, I had to use the name of Jesus. He is the way, the only way, I thought. And I felt the Holy Spirit calling me so clearly to use His name.

I feel in the midst of adversity it’s so easy to generalize and to succumb to society’s version of a self-serving and general God.  A guy up in the clouds who helps only in times of trouble. A genie in a bottle who gives us our heart’s desire. A word to say when people are hurting to make them think it will “all be good” and will “all be okay.” 

No, I screamed in my head! It might not be okay. It might not be all good.  But I will submit to the will of the Father.  The true Father in heaven who is none of those things. Who is the merciful and loving God of a fallen world—of a world that has disease and death and trial and MS. This isn’t about me, I was reminded.  This is about a Jesus who died on the cross so that my sins might be forgiven. “This happened,” I kept being reminded, “so that the works of God might be displayed…”

In me.             

I pause before continuing to type because the tears have welled in my eyes. Not tears of sadness but rather of deep humility because somehow, someway I write to you with a depth of peace that is truly beyond understanding. I know it cannot possibly come from me—I know it is the gift of God.