The gift of a day...

An early morning fog lays thin across the pasture and fields when I leave home for appointments in the city, but as I turn onto the rural highway and head west, the fog seems to melt in an instant in the sun's majestic rise.

The horizon behind me is brushed orange and wispy clouds streak across the massive globe's face, and the reflection in my rear view mirror is breathtaking.

I've been looking forward to this day for a week. Since Louis' retirement two months ago, I've yet to establish a new and happy rhythm for meeting my introvert longings for silence and solitude. I'm thrilled for Louis and incredibly grateful for this new season of opportunities for both of us, but like every life change, it requires adjusting to a new normal. The hour drive alone to the city and then back home appeals to my longings.

The appointment with my orthopedic surgeon is equally anticipated. As strange as it may sound, I've missed seeing him and his staff as frequently as before. A few months before my surgeries two years ago, I wrote:

My Thursday morning trips to the city to see Lizzie for knee injections are almost like going to church. I leave that office not just with medicine in my knee, but inspired and encouraged to steadfastness and hope. 

This visit I leave copies of our book for my doctor, his nurse and Lizzie (who, sadly, is on vacation), and we talk photography, church, and going to Israel as much as we do my health. And when the doctor tells me I'm a poster patient for recovery from knee surgery and he doesn't need to see me again for 5 years unless I have a problem, I'm actually heartbroken. 

My second appointment is for lab work and is less anticipated. I don't dread it, I have lab work often and schedule it ahead of time so I don't have to wait, so when I open the door to the waiting room with no empty seats and a heavy aroma of too many people in one room, I'm grateful I'd made an appointment. I arrive early so I'm not surprised that I'm not called soon after signing in, but when my appointment time passes I begin to wonder.

The receptionist informs me that she has no record of my appointment and that it will therefore be at least another 45 minute wait so I might want to reschedule. I resist the urge to argue or complain and tell her I live too far away to reschedule. I'll just wait. I'm learning again and again to accept challenges and inconveniences and interruptions to my predetermined plans with grace. They might be divinely appointed, after all. 

I shop for a few necessities, order a tall iced coffee, and return to the highway and the quiet and solitude of driving the rural route home. 

Along the way I briefly stop by a small and rarely visited park. The end of summer is merely a date on the calendar, and I haven neither the desire nor the fortitude to stay long in the heat and humidity that will linger well into fall down here, but I don't like to pass by opportunities to seek and capture beauty. 

I told my editor a few weeks ago that I'm a slow and insecure writer. As much as I wish I could tell her that I'll meet deadlines early, I know I'm going to hold on to the final second. I edit (and still miss errors) to the nth degree before I press send. That said, I'm going to try to be less insecure and more productive here in Pollywog Creek, but I'm not making promises. 

I have a couple of book reviews (and giveaways) scheduled over the next couple of weeks. AND I'm resurrecting Encou{RA}age, hopefully with the addition of many guest posts. I wrote a revised introduction here, and a fantastic contribution from Amy Smith was posted yesterday. Please visit Amy and consider subscribing and sharing Encou{RA}ge with someone you know who lives with an invisible, autoimmune disease like RA. 

Enough about me. What about you? Have you or are you experiencing a life change that is requiring adjustments in your routine? And are you an introvert like me who loves people but also craves quiet and solitude? 

Still Saturday::good medicine and my beautiful mother...

A joyful heart is good medicine...
Proverbs 17.22

My mother lived with the pain of rheumatoid arthritis for most of her adult life. Her legacy to me in that was that she did so with much grace and humor. With a chuckle that made light of the challenges she faced, she'd often remind me that growing older ain't for sissies.

By the time I cared for her in our home, her memory had faded and her disabilities were many, but her ability to laugh at herself and others remained.

Despite my decades earlier career in professional nursing, the hands-on care of someone with mother's complex needs was a new experience. Unaware that she needed adaptive clothing with closures in the back, I remember trying to dress her in a blouse she'd worn for years before her drastic decline in health. Slipping her right arm through the shirt sleeve was a breeze, but even with my daughter's help, repeated efforts and short of breaking her arm, there was no way to slide her left arm through the other. We'd both laugh at our predicament.

Mother's laughter and cheerful disposition were the gift of good medicine for us both.

Over the years, Mothers Day celebrations were often one with my mother's birthday, and were she not in Heaven this Mother's Day weekend, we'd be celebrating her 96th birthday today.

I miss my mother and her hugs terribly. Though I know I must wait for Heaven to hug her back and tell her how much I love her still, I fell asleep last night asking Jesus that if it's possible He'd do so for me.

Hollywood boasts in the Avengers but heaven boasts in the mothers.
 ~ Van Komatsu
{Photo: my paternal grandmother Lucille White, my beautiful mother Mary Eleanor with me, my dad with my baby brother Mike, my maternal grandmother Mary Gardner, Easter, 1952}

For just five minutes...

I wasn't sure I should stop.

Exhausted from two days of busier-than-normal activity and a full morning that included an early appointment with the dermatologist and shopping at both Target and the grocery store {experiences that leave me feeling like I'm walking on rocks}, I was anxious to get home, unload the groceries and rest my feet.

I'd tried to stop one day last week, but when I turned off the highway, a sign on the locked gate declared the park closed. Maybe the sign was still there, and with groceries in the car that needed refrigeration, I really didn't have time to dawdle anyway.

But the gate was open and I couldn't resist. For just five minutes, I could breathe in the fresh air and wonder at the spring that's coming to life in this quiet, isolated park of palmetto-oak scrubs under a canopy of long-needle pines. 

And for just five minutes, it didn't even feel like walking on rocks.

The one who trusts {Psalm 84.12 memory verse}...

This disease isn't going to get better, my pulmonologist explained at the end of my annual visit with him earlier this week, but I don't need to see you again for a year...unless you begin to deteriorate.

Really? I thought. He'd been so encouraging earlier - telling me that the c-t scan and pulmonary function tests I'd had the week before showed no progression of the autoimmune lung disease. In fact, it hasn't appeared to have worsened in the three years since my diagnosis. This makes me very happy, he said. Did he really have to end the visit with talk of deterioration?

Throughout the hour drive back home in the cold drizzling rain, I fought to keep that joy-stealing word from taking root. It's a battle I wage still as I cling to the truth that it's the LORD who orders my steps and has numbered my days.

As January comes to a close, so does Psalm 84, with the exhortation that the blessings in this life come from trusting in the One who created and ordained my days before there was even one. 

For you formed my inward parts;
you knitted me together in my mother's womb.
I praise you, for I am fearfully and wonderfully made.
Wonderful are your works;
my soul knows it very well.
My frame was not hidden from you,
when I was being made in secret,
intricately woven in the depths of the earth.
Your eyes saw my unformed substance;
in your book were written, every one of them,
the days that were formed for me,
when as yet there was none of them.
Psalm 139:12-16, ESV

Have you been memorizing Psalm 84 with me this month? If you have, I'd love to know it. I have a gift for you.

Compassionate Jesus - Rethinking the Christian's Approach to Modern Medicine::a review

Two hours south of this rural community we call home, one of our town’s own, a 12 year old boy named Zachary, makes local, national and international news as he remains in a coma in the intensive care unit of a Miami hospital – the victim of a rare and usually fatal brain infection called primary amoebic meningoencephalitis. Joined by compassionate people worldwide, our small community has come together to raise support for Zachary’s family, and more importantly, to unite with them in prayer – believing God for a miracle for Zachary*. 

Rapid and ongoing advancements in the field of medicine have certainly increased the chances of survival for patients like Zachary, but as author Christopher Bogosh states in his book, Compassionate Jesus – Rethinking the Christian’s Approach to Modern Medicine, as a result of these advancements, “… modern medicine has developed its own distinctive character and philosophical approach to illness, disease, and death.”(p. 8). Bogosh argues that it's an approach that conflicts with a Christian worldview. 

Bogosh suggests that…”With all things in the world, Christians need to ‘walk circumspectly’ (Eph. 5:15) and not be led astray through ‘philosophy and empty deceit, according to the tradition of men, according to the basic principles of the world, and not according to Christ” (Col. 2:8). This is no less true when Christians engage the world of modern medicine.” (p. 7) 

Bogosh offers his unique experience and insights to the discussion of health care in both the medical field – from his training as a medic in the Army to a career in intensive care nursing, as well as a degree in theology and a call to the pastorate that led to a ministry in hospice and palliative care. It’s this experience that inspired the biblical model for health care that he encourages Christians to consider. 

 “Jesus has a lot to say about the way we understand and use medical science, and from His teaching we are able to develop a compassionate health-care model rooted in His redemptive work that is relevant today – a model based on assumptions radically different from those of modern medicine.” Compassionate Jesus p. 8-9 

In the light of Philippians 1:21, “For to me, to live is Christ, and to die is gain,” Bogosh challenges Christians to consider two important questions: (1) Are we living for Christ in the midst of a medical crisis? (2) Do we see our death as great gain as we look in hope to Christ? He concludes that how we answer those questions will determine how we use modern medical science, how we will cope with our own medical crisis, and how we will provide compassionate care for others. 

As a former RN with thirteen years of experience in a variety of medical settings – from hospital intensive care to outpatient hemodialysis centers, a fulltime caregiver of my elderly bedridden mother in our home prior to her death, and a long-time consumer of modern medicine as a patient with chronic auto-immune diseases, I was both inspired and encouraged by Compassionate Jesus, and I highly recommend it for its ease in reading (even for those without a medical background), biblical foundation with multiple scriptural references, and valuable information on the history of health care and the philosophy of modern medicine and medical science. 

Compassionate Jesus is 160 pages, including an introduction, five chapters, a conclusion and suggestions for further reading. Chapter titles include: God’s Plan and Compassionate Health Care, The Science of Hope, Medical Science: Biblically Informed, God’s Medicine: Prayer in the Spirit, and Hospice Butterflies. 

I was provided with a free digital copy of Compassionate Jesus by Cross-Focused Reviews in exchange for my honest opinion.

*Please remember Zachary and his family in your prayers.

To have a brighter life...

There've been no surprises this first half of August on Pollywog Creek - hot and muggy and green as ever, but when I think of how sick I was two summers ago, I have nothing but gratitude for how I'm doing today. Summer is still difficult, but I'm determined to persevere - focused on those glimpses of mercy.  

You'd laugh hysterically to see me the mornings I wander about. I'm still in my pjs so I can tuck the pant legs into socks to keep mosquitoes off my legs. A small pink battery-operated fan {a birthday gift from a dear friend} that keeps the air moving around my face hangs around my neck, as well as one of those rice-filled cold packs in a long tube {that's been chilling in the freezer}. My nearly white hair is pulled up in a loose, sloppy ponytail on the top of my head, and I carry a basket with my cameras, cell phone {in case I need to call for help should I happen upon a dangerous critter}, a small notebook and pen {because I never know when inspiration will strike and I don't trust my memory}, a bottle of gatorade, and a towel or small pillow to sit on and rest if I can't take another step. 

I'm quite sure that my neighbors worry about my sanity and my children are embarrassed to claim they know me, but it's one of the joys and privileges of growing older, I think - permission to be eccentric, right?

Afterall, what have I got to lose? It's one small way I can live with courage. 

And your life will be brighter than the noonday;
its darkness will be like the morning.
And you will feel secure, because there is hope;
you will look around and take your rest in security.
You will lie down, and none will make you afraid;
many will court your favor.
Job 11:17-19, ESV
{Photos - the first half of August on Pollywog Creek}

No matter what...

It's not quite 7:00 when I stop at the top of the bridge long enough to capture the sun rising over the misty river.

It's not the first time I've done that - foot on the brake, grab the camera and shoot. Five seconds, tops.

My friend insists that there are signs forbidding it - stopping on the bridge, but I've yet to see one. Fishing and swimming? Clearly prohibited, but not one word about stopping, and so far, I've escaped the bridge tender's attention.  

* * *

I crossed the bridge and headed west for a full day of appointments in the city. I'm still recovering. A normal day of activity for most people can feel like a marathon for me. There were moments in the day when I wasn't sure I could take one more step.

By my last stop of the day in the late afternoon, when the radiology tech called me out of the waiting room for a thyroid ultrasound and dexa scan, I'd already had x-rays of my knees, seen an orthopedic surgeon and his excellent nurse practitioner Lizzie (who gives the best knee injections and is overall awesome), spent the rest of the morning at church working on the soon-to-be-released church blog, and shopped for clothes and birthday gifts. I was grateful to lie down on the exam table, get off my feet and close my eyes during the tests.

***

With appointments with my rheumatologist, another knee injection from Lizzie, and the removal of a cyst at the plastic surgeon's office on the calender, next week's schedule appears equally daunting - and, technically, I'll be a whole year older.

I won't tell you how old I was when I woke up this morning, but let you figure it out. Born smack dab in the middle of the last century, on May 18, 1950 and having lived through the turn of the century makes it easy - 50 + the year it is. The older I get, the harder it is to remember or care how old I am and the more I appreciate easy math problems.

God has been good to me these 50 + 13 years, and I know He always will be. Ann Voskamp's God is Always Good and You are Always Loved is written on my blackboard this week as a reminder, and the book Robbi and I have been working on - No Matter What It's a Good Day When - is in the hands of a publisher.

I woke up to fresh coffee and a lovely gift from Louis. A beautiful bouquet of white and dark pink peonies from Emily is on the counter and my daughter-in-love Kristin is cooking dinner for me tonight. The day has just begun and it's already very good.

For the Lord is good;
his steadfast love endures forever,
and his faithfulness to all generations.
Psalm 100.5

I have a choice...

Every day I have a choice – to choose despair or delight, grumbling or gratitude, pugnaciousness or peace – despite my circumstances. 

I'm at Bible Dude this morning...won't you come on over and tell me what you think?

I'd like to know - when has affliction been grace for you?

To be useful in affliction...

The chronic pain of RAD, with it's unpredictable tidal waves of intensity, has opened my eyes to the deceptive power of addiction - and for that I am grateful. It's all too easy to condemn what I do not understand or cannot see.

God has graced me with a cheerful disposition; I was shocked when my doctor once asked if I was depressed. Chronic pain does that to you, you know, she added, and I had to admit that she was right. Not that I was clinically or chronically depressed, but that there have been moments when unrelenting pain wears down my resolve and dark clouds circle overhead. I begin adding up the lifestyle changes I've been forced to accept, the ways my disability has affected my relationships with those I love, and a way out begins to look attractive. Consequences are overshadowed by the promise of relief. Only  the sovereign grace of God, the will to persevere, to lean into Christ and push through pain, keeps me from falling into a trap where the grasp of addiction would be beyond my physical or emotional strength to escape.

So I throw no stones. No. Stones. I understand your pain. Take my hand and we'll hold onto Christ, for though a man might prevail against one who is alone, two will withstand him—a threefold cord is not quickly broken.

I was grieved for my friend, a young mother and sister in Christ, when she messaged me last week to say she's been diagnosed with RAD, but she was relieved to know that someone understands what she is going through and encouraged that I will walk through this with her. To know that my suffering is useful - that though I'm not able to do what I've done in the past - there is a purpose that brings me joy.

I thought of this yesterday as I read Piper's No Blessing Like Health — With the Exception of Sickness. Piper identifies suffering as something that in God's sovereignty pastors must endure to be useful to their people, but I believe it's true for each of us - and to be useful in my affliction is grace. It brings joy and cheerfulness that strengthens my resolve and keeps those dark clouds away.  

{Photos: this week from my swing under the sweetgum trees in my Pollywog Creek backyard}

In every condition...

Christian contentment is that sweet, inward, quiet, gracious frame of spirit, which freely submits to and delights in God's wise and fatherly disposal in every condition.

Jeremiah Burroughs

It's only a hundred feet or so to the pasture, but the air weighs heavy like a wet blanket and the distance feels like miles.  

I will myself to put one swollen foot in front of the other, and when I reach the back of the pasture near the fence parallel to the creek, I sit right down in the grass. It would be just as easy to climb a mountain as it would be to return to the house for a towel. The wet soaks right through to my skin.  

I wonder how long I sit here before neighbors worry that I've fallen, but it's far more likely that no one will even notice, and I laugh at myself - a grown woman still in her pajamas sitting outside on the dew-soaked ground like a child without a care. 

It's not in my nature to have wandered out here these days, and I question my reasoning and sanity. No backyard swing, sweetgum trees or painted buntings. Not even the small patches of wildflowers along the fence to the east entice me to move. I'm left sitting in the shadows cast by the long-needle pines towering above, and for some strange reason, it's more than enough.   

A heaven-hearted hope...

It's my favorite word in medicine, JR tells me after I describe the ongoing pain in my gut that landed me in the hospital two months ago and the grumblings the pain appears to produce. Borborygmus, he continues. It's onomatopoetic, don't you think - the medical term for intestinal grumblings? Borborygmus. He repeats, drawing out the bor bory, slow and deep.

JR is a PA in my gastroenterologist's office, and his little English lesson in the middle of my visit is amusing and makes me laugh, but it's not at all funny to hear that there are no easy solutions to the adhesions that they are sure are the source of my pain. Unless they cause a blockage, surgery to remove or cut them simply results in more adhesions.

The rheumatologist calls before my appointment last week. My hemoglobin levels keep dropping and he wants me to get more blood work before I see him. I'm not surprised. I can't remember being so fatigued as I've been the past few months. My iron levels are good. B-12, too. It's the anemia of chronic illness, he tells me. Iron supplements, a change in diet, or B-12 shots won't help, so he refers me to a hematologist for procrit injections. I worked for a hematologist once, so I know how this goes, and I resolve to refuse a bone marrow aspiration, should he suggest it.

I read that treating the chronic illness more aggressively is the best treatment for this kind of anemia, but my options are few. The rheumatologist offers the only biologic he believes won't make my lungs worse, but it comes with the rare risk of a fatal, untreatable brain infection. The risks are low, he tells me, but that doesn't mean anything if you are one of the ones that get it. 

I'm between a rock and a hard place, I tell friends, and that I think I'll stay on the Rock for now. I mean it. I'm not afraid of medicine. I'm an RN, a nurse practitioner even - once upon a time. For years I've willingly followed the suggestions of those in the medical profession I respect. But this? I pray and pray, but I don't have a peace about this medicine's risk, rare that it is, and I don't dare move forward unless or until I do.

The endocrinologist's office calls to remind me that I'm due for a sonogram to check on those nodules in my thyroid. The cyst on my cheek is getting larger and I wonder if I should have the surgeon who removed the cyst on my neck last summer take a look at this one before it gets any larger. And while I'm at it, I need to see the podiatrist about the corn on the bottom of my left foot that's causing me more and more pain. And I laugh again, thinking of JR's onomatopoeia and my mother's growing older ain't for sissies and the merry heart that's good medicine.

But what also comes to my mind is this...

Affliction is what fuels the furnace of this heaven-hearted hope. People whose lives are unscathed by affliction have a less energetic hope. Oh, they are glad to know they are going to heaven. But suffering makes the Christian experience more than signing the dotted line on an eternal health-care contract. Suffering turns our heart toward the future, like a mother turning the face of her child, insisting “Look this way!” Once heaven has our attention, a fervent anticipation for God’s ultimate reality – appearing with Him in glory – begins to glow, making everything earthly pale in comparison. Earth’s pain keeps crushing our hopes, reminding us this world can never satisfy; only heaven can. And every time we begin to nestle too comfortably on this planet, God cracks open the locks of the dam to allow an ice-cold splash of suffering to wake us from our spiritual slumber. 

Suffering keeps swelling our feet so that earth’s shoes won’t fit.  

~ Joni Eareckson Tada

I believe it. I truly do. And I'm OK with it, too. If I had a choice, I wouldn't choose these momentary afflictions that are swelling my feet anymore than Joni would choose paralysis and breast cancer, but to have that heaven-hearted hope and a fervent anticipation for God's ultimate reality makes it all OK.

{Photos: This week on Pollywog Creek - muscovy duck on the pond, a pair of grey squirrels in the sweetgum tree, and a fox squirrel out on a limb}