In My Dreams

During the day, I miss her.  My Gramma, that is.  I miss her every day.  I miss her when something is beautiful, I miss her when things get ugly.  I miss her when I smile and when I cry, and when I do well and when I fail.  When I feel like I am soaring high and when the weight of the world is crushing me, I miss her.

Growing up, she was part of every day.  Most of what I did, she was there and she was in the middle of.  I never really learned to let go of that.  The last time Derek and I drove away from their home, I said to remember and treasure that image, as it wouldn't last.  I had the idea that something was about to change, but I didn't really know at all.

I never would have guessed she was to be taken so abruptly from this world.  To think that a driver's carelessness would be the thing responsible for such a staggering loss... I just wouldn't have done it.  That's what happens to other people, not to me.  Not to her.  But despite being willing to give up everything to go back and change it somehow, with chilling finality, she was killed that day.

She's not dead though - not spiritually.  I know she lives and is rejoicing and dancing in heaven.  But until I join her there, she's gone from my world.  She can't tell me who to love or what to do or how to be, no matter how desperately I wish for her wisdom. 

But at night when I dream, I don't know that.  When I dream, she is alive and present.  Usually, in the dreams, I know she is dead and I know she can't be there... and yet, there she is.  She laughs and smiles and speaks, and we all act like it's perfectly natural for her to be doing those things.  I wish dream-hugs lasted after waking.  I wish I could retain that sense of wholeness and safety after sleep stops for the day.  Some mornings, I let myself sleep through my alarm just so I can have a little longer with her.

But in my dreams is just that... in my dreams.

The reality of it all is, the pain is real.  The alone is real.  The sadness and the lingering sense of shock and disbelief and the empty feelings... they are all real.  Even more real, though, is the fact that this isn't going to last forever.  I'll see her again, and it will be a forever reunion.  It's going to be the end of the pain, the end of the nightmares, the end of the loneliness.  THAT is the reality I try my hardest to focus on.

And in my dreams... in my dreams, I let myself have a reminder that this situation isn't exactly as it appears.

What I Am Proudest Of

This is what I am proudest of.  Out of every thing God has given me the ability to do, everything I have accomplished, every drop of sweat and blood and every tear, nothing has meant as much to me as this. 

When I was twelve, I was just a scrawny, insecure, abused little girl with no hope and no concept of "future."  All I had was the present, and the present was nothing I wanted.  But one afternoon, my dad came home from his new job and handed me a newsletter put out by a local hospital.  He said "read the class list - see if there is anything in there that you would like to do together."  My eyes landed on "Karate for adults and children aged eight and up.  Maximum 25 students."  Dad and I made 23.  All of us white belts, with one lone black belt as the instructor.  That man became first an instructor and then a mentor and then my doctor and then my friend, as years passed.  And it turned out not to be Karate - it was Tae Kwan Do, but with some Judo and Hapkido mixed in. 

At our school, earning a black belt is no easy feat.  It takes years, and it takes everything you have to give - and then more.  At age twelve, I saw that and suddenly, I had something in my future.  Something I wanted - needed even.  Something that I could do. I knew I could.  It literally changed everything about who I was.  Not dramatically, especially at first.  But a subtle shift from hopeless to hopeful, from lost to found, from broken to healed. 

There has not been a day since, that I have questioned whether God used martial arts to save my life.  He did.  He still is. 

And that is why this is what I am proudest of.

There Are Days

Ten years ago (well, nine years and eleven and a half months), I graduated from high school.  I remember sitting in the second row of chairs, surrounded by people I'd spent most of my life knowing.  I remember looking around me and seeing how easy they had it.  How simple and enjoyable and effortless their lives were.  How beautiful they were.  How little they struggled and how seldom they had to fight.  I stared briefly at every face.

And I remember them.

But the last ten years have taught me something.  They didn't have it easy.  Their lives weren't necessarily any simpler than mine.  They didn't have a unequal share of happiness.  And they fought.  They grew up with one parent, they were abused, they had eating disorders and were addicted to drugs and self harm.  But they fought.  And because they fought, they got to keep going.  They got to build lives and families and careers.  They got to develop strength and faith and wisdom. 

I see those things reflected in them now.

And I see them reflected in me now.  I'm thankful.  I'm thankful for the lessons and for the joy and for the beauty and for the relationships I've had since that day.  Sometimes, I get overwhelmed by the negatives though.  On mother's day, I let that happen.  It was an empty, heavy day.  I found my thoughts constantly focusing on one thing:  my Gramma, who was the closest thing I had to a mother growing up, is in heaven.  My babies are there too, and I've never met them.  And my mom?  There's an ocean of time and emotional distance between us.  I miss her, always.  She's sick; each night when I am trying to fall asleep, I inevitably find myself thinking about the fact that I don't know if I'll ever see her again.

I let myself focus on that, and it pulled me down. 

This week has felt like swimming through quick sand.  My physical energy is depleted.  Emotionally I've been on edge.  Mentally, my thoughts are jumpy and disconnected.  And each day has gotten just a little harder.

Those things have combined with the reappearance of pain and other symptoms from endometriosis to create days like today.  Days when I'm just... unwell.  Unwell enough to lack the strength even to sit upright.  Unwell enough that I can't focus to follow the plot in the book I'm trying to read.  Unwell enough that my body temperature is up and my blood pressure is down.  Unwell enough that lab work is coming back abnormal.

There are days like that in every one's life, as far as I can tell. 

And as far as I can tell, the only thing I can really do about it, is to rest.  So that is what I am doing.  I am resting.  I want to be with people, to do things, to "be productive."  But there are days when that seems to be too much to ask.

There are certain truths that keep rolling through my head and heart though.

Cast all your cares on Him, for He cares about you.

Come to Me all who are heavy laden, and I will give you rest.  For my yoke is easy and my burden is light.

He leads me beside still waters.  He restores my soul.

Fear not.

Fully God, fully man.  He has done it all, lived through it all, faced it all.  Perfectly.  I don't have to be perfect, because He already was and still is.  And that is why I can have faith and hope.

Even though there are days...

There's This Song

And for the last five and a half weeks, it has been intermittently true.  There is someone in my life who some say, I should not love.  Some say, I should not care.  But I do, and I always will.  And that someone... is sick.   Really sick.  And for a few different reasons, I cannot be there.  I think maybe it looks like I don't want to be there.  Or like I am not comprehending the seriousness of what is happening.  Or like I am just... choosing to be absent.  And I think that is maybe giving, to some people, the impression that I don't care. 

Couldn't be further from the truth.

Being here is okay, most of the time.  But there are moments, every day, when it feels like it is tearing me into pieces.  Moments when I think of this person and I literally cannot breathe.  I think of the pain that is being endured and the battles being fought and lost, and I find myself wondering where this could all go.  In my heart, deep down, I have a pretty good idea, and I don't like it.

So if you see me and there are tears streaming down my face or I look tired or pale; or if you think I am avoiding you or neglecting relationships... that it isn't about you, nor is it even really about me.  It is about someone I love and miss deeply and fear greatly for.

This song is performed/recorded by LifeHouse. 
Lyrics are (C) State One Songs America

Broken
The broken clock is a comfort
It helps me sleep tonight
Maybe it can stop tomorrow
From stealing all my time

And I am here still waiting
Though I still have my doubts
I am damaged at best
Like you've already figured out
I'm falling apart
I'm barley breathing
With a broken heart
That's still beating
In the pain
There is healing
In your name
I find meaning
So I'm holding on
I'm holding on
I'm holding on
I'm barely holding on to you
The broken locks were a warning
You got inside my head
I tried my best to be guarded
I'm an open book instead
And I still see your reflection
Inside of my eyesThat are looking for purpose
They're still looking for life

I'm falling apart
I'm barely breathing
With a broken heart
That's still beating
In the pain
(In the pain)
Is there healing?
In your name
(In your name)
I find meaning
So I'm holding on
(I'm still holding)
I'm holding on
(I'm still holding)
I'm holding on
(I'm still holding)
I'm barely holding on to you

I'm hanging on another day
Just to see what you will throw my way
And I'm hanging on to the words you say
You said that I will be okay

Broken lights on the freeway
Left me here alone
I may have lost my way now
I haven't forgotten my way home

I'm falling apart
I'm barely breathing
With a broken heart
That's still beating

In the pain
(In the pain)
There is healing
In your name
(In your name)
I find meaning

So I'm holding on
(I'm still holding)
I'm holding on
(I'm still holding)
I'm holding on
(I'm still holding)

I'm barely holding on to you

Random Things

In the 23 days since I last wrote, it feels like everything has changed.  And also like nothing has changed.

Most of my writing and "sorting" has been done in my journal.  My paper and glue, use-a-pen journal.  Rather than try to recap all of it, I'd prefer to just... share.  A little bit of two of the entries.  Enough to show you what's been on my heart, enough to illuminate the struggle and the fight and to show you that even in those things, there is beauty.

---

God,
I need you.  I need you to consume me like a fire, burning away everything that can be destroyed.  I need you to change my heart and renew my mind according to Your will.  My own will is sinful and imperfect.  I love with hesitation and with impurity.  I speak lies with ease and I am afraid of the truth.  But part of me still wants to bend to your will.  My soul is weak and my body is dying, but my spirit is alive and cries out for You.  So fill me, change me, consume me.  Rewrite my script, and make yourself the primary role.

Save me, oh God, and I will be saved for all eternity.

"I Have Eternal Life"
Truly, truly, I say to you:  Whoever hears my Word and believes Him who sent Me has eternal life. 
~1John 5:24a

---

I need to go home.  To my family, to my Father, to my church.  I miss God.  I miss His Word.  I miss His love.  I miss His Presence.  And I miss my Pastor.  I miss his influence in my life.  I miss his protection.  God gives us so many people for so many things... but He only gives us one Pastor.  If something happens that makes it impossible for that Pastor to keep being our Pastor, God can give us another.  But it's not a matter of simple choice.  It's a matter of necessity and a gift born of love.

I have so much I am hiding.  So much shame.  But my Pastor loves me.  He really does.  He always will.  He loves me as a daughter.  And the pain of not being under his care, of not having a leader in my life, of choosing to walk away from that gift, is shredding my heart.

Today, I realized something.  If any of the kids in my class came to me, after being gone - regardless of how long they'd been gone or why they left or what they'd done while they were away - even if the things they'd said or done were so horrible that they hurt the deepest parts of me - I would run to them with open arms and hold them and tell them I never stopped loving them.  And my Pastor is better at love than I am.  So it is time to go home.

Lord, help me and give me the courage and strength that I need to do this.

Half a Dozen Roses

When I was growing up, I wasn't one of those little girls who longed for Prince Charming to come my way and sweep me off of my feet.  I didn't need him.  I had my Daddy, and I had my Grampa.  The loved me and cherished me and were the men who taught me what a man is supposed to be.

I was less than six months old on my first Valentine's day.  My Daddy didn't do anything for me - I was a baby, after all.  But my Grampa gave me a fancy card and bought me a single red rose.  He was my very first Valentine... and that is something that nobody else will ever be.  After my dad regained custody of me, when I was about six and a half, he started a tradition of buying me flowers - lots of them - and chocolate and a fancy card.  He did such a beautiful job of showing me I mattered and was loved and that he thought the world of me.  So did my Grampa.  Others did, too, but there is something special about being a little girl and being treated that way.  Something sweet that lasts.

But even though my Grampa was my first Valentine... I was not his.  My Gramma was his Valentine.  Their love is so beautiful, that it makes me cry.  And I don't cry.

On January 31st, 2007, my Gramma was killed in a car crash.  It has been six Valentine's days since then.  Six days that celebrate love.  Six days that my beloved Grampa has had to watch the world celebrate while his heart breaks. 

This morning, I stopped and bought Grampa a dozen pastel roses.  They are his favorite.  Red ones and white ones make him cry - red because that's what Gramma always got him, and white because that is what we adorned Gramma's casket with when we lowered her into the ground. 

I also bought a dozen red roses.  Red for love... that special love that long-lasting couples share.  That love that I saw between him and Gramma after 49 years of marriage.  Six, I gave to him.  One for each Valentine's day since she went to heaven.  He got a little teary when I explained their presence and why there were six red ones.  I didn't tell him about the other six.  I was already having a hard time holding my composure.  I forgot to remove the price tag from the cellophane wrapper.  I don't know if you know this, but at least around here, roses aren't cheap.  Especially not in the morning on Valentine's day.  And especially if you want them to be exquisite.  When he saw the price sticker, he blurted.  I blurt too.  I think I learned it from him.  He was amazed that I would spend "that much money just to say I love you to an old man."  Of course I would.  Of course. 

I left, and before I even put my car in gear, tears were starting to slide down my cheeks.  Hot, salty tears in the cold winter air.

I went home and did the things necessary to prepare for teaching martial arts, and then I took the remaining roses - six perfect red roses - and drove to the cemetery.

I sat in the snow by her headstone, staring at the words inscribed across the top.  "And Jesus said to them, ye must be born again."  I cried.  I said some things that I pray she got to hear... even though I'm not sure exactly what people in heaven do and do not have access to.  Then I took the first rose from the cellophane.  I broke the stem, because her absence has broken so many hearts.  I laid it on the black marble base, and thought about that first Valentine's day without her.  The rawness and shock hadn't faded at all yet that first year.  I took the second rose, broke the stem, and laid it next to the first.  I remembered how that second year, Derek and I had clung desperately to each other and were living in constant fear that something would happen and we would have to know the pain Grampa was feeling.  The third rose, the third stem, for the third year.  That year, Derek and I celebrated.  We celebrated our love.  The fourth rose didn't want to break - the stem bent back and forth several times before it cracked.  A thorn pricked the skin on my thumb, and I bled one bright red drop.  That fourth year, I was starting down the road I am still on.  The road of admitting how broken and how hurt I truly was; not just about Gramma, but about so much.  The fifth rose broke easily.  The fifth year.  The fifth year slipped past; nothing happened on Valentine's day.  I forgot to call my Grampa, and forgot to call my dad.  I didn't even think to say anything to my husband.  It was like that rose stem - stiff and insignificant.

The last rose... the sixth one... made me cry the most.  I cried because this year, I have watched so many who professed profound and everlasting love hurt one another.  I cried because if Derek and I have the sort of love my grandparents had... if we are that way 43 years from now... I cannot even fathom being given such a gift.  I cried because my Grampa is hurting and missing her and loving her.  I cried because I feel like she is the best parts of me.  And those best parts are not gone, but they are hurting.  The best parts are damaged and incomplete.  I cried because I've been trying since the day she died to figure out how to live in a world where she isn't... and I still don't know.  I cried because I actually thought to myself "Gramma will understand how I'm feeling.  I'll just call her..."

Six red roses.  Red roses on black marble, surrounded by white snow.  Broken stems for broken hearts.

And above it all... those words.  "Ye must be born again."

I cried because none of this pain is permanent.  I cried because I am redeemed, and so was she... and so anyone can be, if they will accept it.

Tonight, I have that heavy, tired, blurry-eyed feeling that one gets when one cries too much.  Every once in a while, I pick up my camera and look at the pictures I took.  I may share some day... but for tonight, they are mine.  The moments were mine, the tears were mine, and the comfort God whispered to my heart is mine.

Drawing Anna.

My God, the Creator of the Universe, speaks to me.  Through His Word, every time I read it or hear it, He speaks.  I have had very few instances where I believe he has spoken to me that were anything else. 

One of those times was in December of 2006.  It was the day our daughter was due... the daughter we'd miscarried that summer.  I was so broken inside, longing so much for her... I prayed fervently, "Lord, give me peace.  I trust You.  I love You.  And right now, I desperately need You to do something inside me... something to make me okay again."

And then I went back to bed, since I really prefer NOT getting up that early.  And I had the most vivid, beautiful dream.  I saw my baby girl... she was laying in my lap, wrapped in a very pale purplish-pink blanket.  She was brand-new... still red and puffy eyed.  But she was so beautiful.  Smooth, soft skin.  Gently rounded cheeks.  A perfect little mouth that turned up at the corners like her daddy's.  A cute little chin that reminds me very much of her aunt Cari.  A nose that clearly came from daddy (or daddy's mom, however you want to look at it), but was still exquisitely formed.  Her eyes were shut, and she had one hand up by her face.  I picked her up carefully, and she settled against my chest.  I could feel her breath on my skin, smell her new-baby smell, I could feel her heart beating against me and the rise and fall of her chest.  I could feel her warmth and her weight, and in the dream, I thought to myself, "This is heaven."

I woke with a start... and could still feel her, almost.  It took a long time to fade, and I expected that eventually the dream would fade all together.  But then I noticed something... I didn't have the heaviness.  I didn't hurt quite so much.  I missed her just as strongly, but I knew she was okay.  

I believe without any hesitation, that dream was a gift from God.

I kept it to myself for a while - weeks, if I remember correctly.  Then I shared it with my husband.  And he wanted to know what she looked like.  All I could say was beautiful.  I tried to describe that mouth, her nose... the shape of her brows being the same as the shape of my Gramma's... her tiny hand that looked just like mine, her chin like Cari's... her complexion dark, like Daddy, with just a tiny bit of soft brown hair.  But words don't work for things like that.

So over the next few months, I drew her.  I drew her so many times... and each time, I ached to hold her, to have her, and I felt so much peace about where she was.  And then I'd finish the drawing, and I'd look at her, my daughter, and I couldn't stand it.  The picture would get tucked away into a box... a box I no longer know if we even have.

One year later, we mourned together the fact that our daughter was not turning one.  And that night, I saw her.  Wobbly, chunky baby legs.  Sparkling brown eyes, that mouth that turned up just a little at the corners, soft, dark hair that was almost black.  That perfectly adorable little chin.  In the dream, she was standing across the room, and I called out her name... "Anna, come to mommy" and she did.  She ran to me, and I felt her slam against me and wrap her pudgy arms around my neck and it was so beautiful.

2008, I dreamt of her again.  She was obviously two.  She told me "I can do it" when I offered to help her get up into a rocking chair.  I asked if I could sit with her... she said "Yes mama.  I like snuggles."  She looked even more like her daddy, and seemed even more beautiful.  I held her, and rocked with her in that chair, and it was glorious.  I woke aching for her, but filled with joy.  I thanked my God.

2009, she would have been three.  This last year, she would have been four.

I keep dreaming of her... on her due date.  On Mother's day the last couple of years.  They are the most vivid dreams I have ever had, and they leave me with so much peace.  I miss her, I long to be with her, I long to just... stay with her, always.  But I have a life to live here and now, and I have to focus on that. 

And I keep drawing Anna.  I keep drawing and it feels so good to get it down on paper, and then I look at her face, and it's a reminder of what is not here, of what is missing... and I can't keep the drawing.

But this year, I want to share her with Derek.  I want to show him.  I want to draw Anna for my husband, and I need God's help and strength to do it.

I know this may not make sense, but... it is where I am at today.

Wow.

Sorry to have left you all hanging.

I stayed home from the hospital for ALMOST 36 hours.  Almost.

When I was readmitted, my temp had gone from 96.8 when I was discharged to 103.9 when I showed up back in the emergency room.  Seven degrees doesn't matter much in weather but inside a human body, it's a really big deal.  Hot stuff. 

Okay, that was across the lame line.  But it made you either smirk or groan, right?

Reality is, I first mentioned my hand to a nurse at the end of December.  I had the fertility doctor check it on January 5th.

I made my first trip to urgent care on January 12th.  No labs were drawn and the only advice was "use lots of heat.  If it weren't for your leg, I'd say this wasn't infected at all.  But it looks similar to how that did, so I'm going to prescribe this particular antibiotic for you for seven days."  I dutifully soaked my hand many times a day, making sure to move it and use it and get it good and toasty.

Nine days later, on the 21st, I was back in the ER with a temp of 100.9 (normally run 96.5-96.8) and my hand looked... rough.  Bad.  Not so good.  Swollen and red and pretty sore.  I had thought I was getting the flu Wednesday night (24 hours after the last dose of antibiotics), and it proceeded to worsen along with the appearance of my hand.  That doctor said that since the first course of antibiotics worked so well (It did?  Really?  How'd I miss that?) he thought I must be one of those "rare people where seven days isn't long enough" and he was going to prescribe the exact same medicine, at the exact same dose, but this time for ten days.  He said that if the heat helped, I should continue it but it didn't really matter.

My husband and I both felt very uncomfortable with the hasty exam (more just a glance than actual exam), the lack of blood work, and the lack of follow up.  Especially since at that point my hand was acting exactly the same as my leg did last year - and the doctor was acting exactly the same as the doctors did last year.  We kept insisting we were uncomfortable and the doctor got more and more irritated, until he finally offered a referral to the wound clinic.  We knew that the 48 hours until I'd be able to see them (if seen immediately) could see things go south really quickly, but at least we also knew that the wound clinic is home to a bunch of very smart, talented, experienced infectious disease doctors and surgeons.

Wound clinic called Monday morning, offering me an appointment less than 30 minutes later.  It's a 40 minute trip in this weather, minimum.  I asked for a later appointment and was put off until the next afternoon.  That night, I did not sleep.  I used heat, I tried ice, I tried compression, I took Advil, I took Zofran, I took Vicodin 7.5 (two of them).  I finally fell asleep at 7:30 A.M.  I slept until noon, and when I woke up I knew I would be admitted.  For what started out as a simple skin infection of the hand, and even Friday night, could have been handled on an outpatient basis if it had been done correctly.  But now my hand was so swollen that it looked fake.  The skin was shiny and tight and deep, dark red.  It was very hot to touch, and I could no longer move my pinkie, ring, or middle fingers.  The pinkie and outside edge of the ring finger were numb.  And I felt generally sick.  Achy, sweats, chills, fever jumping between 99 and 102.9, unable to keep anything down.  I packed some books and clean underwear and socks and a stocking cap along with my favorite pillow, and off I went to the wound clinic.  My appointment was at 2 PM, my blood was drawn and x-rays taken by 2:30, husband got there at 3:00 just in time to watch the orthopedics consult jab an insanely large, thick needle into my hand in an effort to "aspirate" the pus.  By 4:00 I was getting settled into my room and waiting for IV therapy to come get things started.  After five days of high-dose Rocephin and Vancomyacin, with a Fentanyl PCA pump and frequent IV Zofran, I was sent home with Bactrim, Vicodin, Zofran, and Neurontin for the pain in my now-damaged nerves.  I'd been seen by infectious disease, orthopedics, plain internal medicine, neurology, OT and PT, an intensivist, and about a million interns and 500,000 residents. 

I was thrilled to be going home.  Finally, healing and doing well.

I lasted from Saturday afternoon until Monday morning.

When I was readmitted, my hand was blowing back up, I now had no sensation or reflexes below the wrist in my ulnar nerve and limited sensation and reflexes in the others, and my temperature went from 101 when we left home to 103.9 when the admitting nurse took my temperature. 

More Vancomyacin and Rocephin, more Vicodin ans Neurontin, more days on the Fentanyl PCA pump, More Zofran, more doctors, and an operation to remove the abscessed vein (yes, apparently a not-quite-sterile blood draw can lead to the development of not only phlebitis and cellulitis, but also abscesses inside of your veins) and the necrotic (i.e. dead) tissue that was around it, and I was sent home.  After finding out that the infection I was fighting was directly linked with human saliva.  Eeeeewwww.  There is only one person who could have introduced the germs, and that is the technician who drew my blood in December when all of this started.  I was actually asked this past week, by one of the infectious disease doctors, if this infection was self-inflicted.  Um... no flipping way. Besides, how would I have done it?  "Excuse me, Ms. Lab Tech person, before you stab my hand with that needle, would you mind letting me lick it first?"  Seems unlikely.

Now here I am, halfway through February and two months out from the original offending blood draw, and I am struggling hard to stay out of the hospital.  Three admissions might just send me over the deep end.  Well, not so much the admissions... it's the need for the admissions and the fact that this can all be traced to one person and the fact that we aren't ever going to even be apologized to for any of it, plus the fact that I have long-term, likely permanent, damage and loss of function in a previously healthy hand.

I know, I'll let go of the anger and sadness, and I will learn ways of making my hand do what I need it to do, but right now, tonight, I am so very ticked.

Heal the Wound...

Every once in a while, I write a post wherein I expose to you the things that I usually keep carefully covered up.  The things that are uncomfortable, unpopular... without beauty and without grace.  This is going to be one of those.  If you want to continue to look at me the same way you always have - stop reading here.  I'll resume "regular" posting soon.

If you are okay with maybe changing what you think of me, of my life... if you're okay with reality being different than you might think, keep going.

If you were sitting here in the room with me, you wouldn't see my legs.  They'd be covered.  My right hand would probably be covering my left arm.  I'd talk to you, look you in the eyes.  You'd see me smile, see my brows pull together with concern.  I'd listen to your every word, tell you I cared.  And I would care.  I'd do whatever I could to show you His love.  But you wouldn't see my legs.

Unless you were truly broken.

If your hope was gone, if your heart was shattered, if tears were streaming down your face.  I'd take your hand, look into your eyes.  I wouldn't look away.  I might shake, and my voice would get quiet.  I'd pull up the leg of my pants.

You'd look down, wondering what I was doing.  The ugly, red hole in my leg... the lines across my skin... the evidence of old wounds would be there for you to see.  Your face would register surprise.  Maybe repulsion, maybe curiosity.  You'd stare, for a few seconds, maybe minutes.  Silence, until your eyes shifted back to my face.

And then, I would tell you why the song that is playing right now means anything at all to me. 

I would tell you that my hope has been gone.  My heart shattered.  I've cried until I had no more tears.  I've stared silently at the darkness, afraid of the light.  I would take a deep breath.  I would tell you that time and again, the pain and the blood have flowed out of me.  That my own hands have been instruments of destruction.

I would look down, and you would too.  Together, we'd look at the scars.

And I would tell you why I have stopped wishing for God to take them away.  Each one is a silent witness, proclaiming this truth: He is enough.  He is there.  He is faithful.

I do not show them off.  I do not want the world to see them if I don't have a chance to explain.  I am ashamed of what I've done.  But I am not ashamed of Him.  I am not ashamed to say that out of the ashes left by burnt out hope, He is creating a masterpiece.  I cannot see it - it is not finished, and I am on the inside looking out. 

I am breathing.  My heart is beating.  My hands are warm, there is fire in my eyes, my back is strong.  And it is not because of anything I am or have or can do.  It is Him.

He has preserved me.  He will present me blameless.  He lifts my head, He washes the shame from my face.  In Him, there is freedom.  Life.  Liberty.  There is no condemnation.  No fear.

He is your hope.  He is the only thing that can hold the pieces of your heart together.  He is the One who never leaves, never fails, never ends.  His shoulders are broad - they can carry the weight of the world.  And He loves you.  He has redeemed you.  He knew you before you were born, and He knows every minute tomorrow holds. 

The hurt, the loss, the destruction I have known, are not visible.  You can't see them.  If you were here in this room, there wouldn't be any way for you to know about them.  Except for the scars.

They speak.

They might make you cry.  They might make you cringe.  They might make you wonder if I've ever known the pain that you're feeling now. 

They will show you dependence. 

If you were here, I would squeeze your hands, ask you to look at me.

I would tell you that you will fall, again and again.  That your heart might be broken anew.  That you will feel more pain.  And I would tell you that He will pick you up.  That He will hold you, and wash you, and purify you.  I would remind you that in Him, there is healing and fullness of joy. 

And after you left, I would be thankful for the scars.  Not for the pain.  Not for the wounds.  Not for the sorrow.  But for the healing.  For the truth.  For Him.  For you.

If you were here.

Leap of Faith. Again.

A year and a half ago, I said here that I was going to be taking a leap of faith. Back then, I was terrified. Afraid it would hurt, be uncomfortable. Drag me down. Be difficult. Challenge me more than I wanted. Be too much to handle. And tonight, if I am going to be completely honest, all of those things I was so afraid of have happened.

I've wrestled with what to post here for so long... and instead of doing anything with it, I've stared at a blank text box wondering what to write.

Tonight, I am taking a leap of faith. I have been talking a lot lately (in "real life") about how much I admire those who are totally transparent. The people who let their lives - faults and all - shine for Him. Those who are raw and honest, and want God glorified more than they want to protect their own reputation.

So instead of just talking about those people, I am going to try it myself. Take a radical leap of faith, so to speak. Do what I believe God would have me do - and be real. Be raw. Be honest.

Truth is folks, I've been so close to falling completely apart. I've been struggling with the symptoms and manifestations of Post Traumatic Stress Disorder. The nightmares, the flashbacks, the constant "hyper vigilance." The inability to fall asleep, and after I finally do, waking up easily and then being unable to go back to sleep. Unexplainable rage. Irrational fear. Inappropriately intense emotion some days, and some days no emotion at all. And that is just the tip of the ice burg. I am no longer employed by my previous (amazing) employer, as I was hospitalized for quite some time.

Just admitting that is so hard to do. Fear is telling me that "my readers" will judge me. That some will say I'm making it up. That there will be nay-sayers and put-downs. I can't really share details pertaining to the cause of this disorder, other than to say it stems from multiple childhood events. This diagnosis is new, but the problem has been persistent for the last twenty years. I'm twenty six. Do the math - I can't remember ever being any different than I am now. The symptoms have been mild, and I have been able to hide them, up until last year. And things didn't get out of control until this past December.

I am not crazy, by the way.

Since coming home, I'm almost never home. I have Dialectical Behavioral Therapy (DBT) for two hours every week. I also meet with a private therapist once a week, who is taking a two pronged approach as he supports the DBT as well as works in the realm of Cognitive Behavioral Therapy (CBT). I underwent EMDR for nearly five months. It helped immensely in some areas, and in other areas, it stirred up things that probably should have been left alone. Once a week I see a different therapist to address one very specific issue. I can't really share that here - legally, not allowed. I also work with a psychiatrist, who is helping to figure out if we can use medication to control some of the issues.

Lest this all seem gloom-and-doom... I do have some good news. First, a new heart med (new to me, not new to the world) has been working really well to control my heart rate. Second, one of the meds from the psychiatrist has enabled me to get an average of 4.5 - 5 hours of sleep every night. I was previously getting between 1 and 3. No exaggeration. I am quite sure that the lack of sleep contributed very much to the major increase in symptoms. Also, I have been blessed with a husband who stands by me through all of this - even when he has no idea what to do. My church has been unspeakably helpful. Always there. Always helping. Always good. My dad, my step mom, friends... so many people have shown themselves so faithful. God has provided financially as well. He just never stops blessing us.

I have gotten back into Martial Arts. I never stopped being a Martial Artist, but I had been skipping class for years. And now, my husband happens to be hooked as well. Which is of course fantastic. :) It's great for the soul (mind and emotions) and helps the body as well. One of my best friends is the head instructor there. It has been such an amazing gift to spend more time with him. I first met him almost 15 years ago. He has been one of my closest friends for 14 of those years. It is amazing how much one single person can do for another, by merely existing. But that's a whole other post.

Now... if you have read all of this, I expect you to have questions. Please feel free to use the "E-mail Me" button over on the left-hand side of the screen. I will do my best to respond to every question, even if that means letting you know that I can't give you an answer.

Me, In Black and White

A few days ago, I found myself with almost three hours in which to do... something. I had no plans, no place to be, no place to go. I took my camera and went off in search of some tranquility. Lately, things have been difficult, to say the least. As I snapped, I didn't really think about what I was doing. I forced myself to shoot in black and white only. I have found myself rather... shocked, really, at the emotion coming through in some of them.

This first one doesn't really do anything for me. It looked neat, and I thought that the resulting photograph would be something worth having. Not so sure about that, but I will share it anyway. If nothing else, it speaks to the uncertainty with which I do most things these days.

I am about to engage in a commitment that will last either six months or one year. It's not one I particularly relish making. I'm afraid - afraid of the process, afraid of the outcome. This next picture speaks of that, at least to me. I feel like my destination is that tree - shelter, protection, safety, sustenance. The ability to be strong in the midst of any storm. It's the solidarity that I crave and fear at the same time. And I feel like in order to get there, I have to walk the line so to speak. Almost as though I have to climb up on that fence and walk. As if I have to generate that balance and that confidence. And I am terrified. I can see the end. And I can see the beginning. And even though much of the middle is hidden, I know what it holds.

Now is the part where I show you the emotion. I'm not usually one to think along these lines. To be honest, I have gotten so used to simply not feeling things that when I find out I actually... felt... it is more than a little surprising. This next shot... it seems so lonely. So lost. So me. Don't get me wrong - I am on my way to heaven. That is the ONE thing absolutely no person and no thing can take way from me. And I rejoice for that. It's just that right now, the trip there seems so lonely. So isolating. So... difficult.

I'll leave you with this one. It is my favorite from the day. I can't even describe why, really. It's just that when I look at it, I feel like me. Like it is the best graphical representation of myself that I can currently find.

Broken.

Today, I am broken. I am hurting. I am sad. I am feeling hopeless. I feel alone. My best friend, after my husband, has been ripped from my life. I didn't get to say good-bye. My gramma is no longer here. She's gone. For real. The greatest woman I've ever known - life is snuffed. Now, the hard part is figuring out what we will do with grampa. He can't live alone. I don't know how we can help him out... just so hard. In some ways, if they'd both gone, at least neither would be lonely. But at the same time, I am not ready to loose one of them, much less both.

And while people assure me that it isn't so, I feel at least partly responsible. Why didn't I ask them to stay a little longer on Wednesday? Why didn't I pray for their safety? Why did I have to have knee surgery at all? If it wasn't for that, they wouldn't have been on that part of the road. And yet, they were. And now look... our family has been wrent, torn, broken. I'm not the only one who can't picture life without her. Seems to consist primarily of emptiness, grief, sorry, and tears.

So tonight I am broken over the fact that I did not do my job - I didn't show her how much she was loved. I was too selfish. Now all there is for it is to help grampa, and to make sure I show up in heaven to be with her again.