Early morning dance

One of the beautiful things about being seriously ill is that you get a pass on pretty much anything at any time. Perhaps this is just in my case because I have a husband who is so incredibly understanding and supportive. If I feel tired, he encourages me to nap. If I have even the smallest symptom, he encourages me to rest. If I have the energy and desire to do something, he jumps up and makes it happen. I am very blessed.
I had to smile this morning, admittedly amongst the tears streaming down my face at the same time. I woke up around 3am and just really didn't want to go back to bed. One of the biggest challenges for me right now is

that I can't exercise for any length of time. I have very little strength and even less endurance, but this morning I just needed to move. I couldn't bring myself to go lay down yet again. I was plagued with terrible migraines yesterday,

so other than my doctor's appointment in the morning and a brief drive with the family to get out of the house (thank you, Honey, for making that happen!!), I spent the day in bed, and I just really didn't want to go back there, middle of the night or not. So I came into the living room, put on some Jesus Culture and danced. My stamina lasted only about ten minutes, but there I was, in my living room, in my pajamas, in the middle of the night, getting some exercise and crying out to my Jesus at the same time. 
The irony of my new life struck me. I've never been a spontaneous person. I used to like every detail of my life very planned out and I've had to let go of that. So if, at 3am, I want to dance, then I'm going to dance.
As I sit here typing, the Jesus Culture song "Freedom" is playing. "If you're tired and thirsty, there is freedom...Freedom reigns in this place. Showers of mercy and grace, falling on every face, there is freedom. Jesus reigns." I love the beauty of that. Amidst all of the pain and heartache of the last three years, I have learned to cry out to God from the depths of my soul. I've learned that this is ok. I've learned that He can handle it. He knows every detail about me anyway, so why do I feel the need to hide anything from Him? If I am tired and thirsty, I have the freedom to come before Him and say: "Lord, I can't do this anymore! Feed me! Satisfy my soul! I'm dry and weary and I need you to carry me for awhile." There is nothing wrong in this. I am sure that God cherishes the honesty of His children and I have found Him faithful to wrap me in His arms and carry me through. There are times when I don't see or feel it right away, but when I look back, He has been there with me every time. Thank you, Lord, for your faithfulness!

Oncology update

I had an appointment with my oncologist this morning. I meet with him every month before I get my Lupron shot. He asked me about my symptoms and then told me that, while my symptoms are not a typical presentation for a brain/spinal metastasis, he would like me to get an MRI to rule out that possibility. He said it's very unlikely, but that it's a box that we need to check. So if Stanford doesn't order that when I go up there next Friday, he will, and he scheduled my next appointment with him in two weeks...on Friday the 13th. Lovely. I'm not superstitious in the least, but there is something about having an appointment to discuss whether my cancer has metsed to my brain on Friday the 13th that just seems...well, eerie...and to be honest, freakin' hilarious! Not sure why, probably because I'm not superstitious, but I do find the timing of the appointment really funny.
As for the likelihood that my cancer has metastasized, I'm trying to be realistic and not freak out. To be honest, there's really nothing I can do about it anyway, so why stress, right? But ever since he said: "It's really unlikely, but it's something we need to check.", I keep flashing back to last November, during my appointment with the gynecologist, when she said: "It doesn't feel like a cancerous lump. I'm pretty sure it's not, but let's check it anyway." Then the ultrasound tech said: "It's not a cyst. It's probably benign, but we need to do a biopsy." Then when I had my biopsy, they told me: "Most of these come back benign. I'm sure it's nothing. You don't have a history of it in your family and you're so young." And then I remember going into the office for the results and being told my results were positive, that I did have cancer. I remember the room spinning and wondering if I was going to lose my hair. Then I remember the surgeon coming out after my mastectomy and telling us he got all the cancer, and then a couple weeks later being told they were wrong and it had metastasized to my lymph nodes. So, no, I don't trust doctors when they say "It's probably nothing.", especially when they want to do a test to go along with their "probably nothing" impression. My oncologist is very conservative when it comes to ordering tests. He didn't do a full body scan on me in the first place because he didn't see a need to and doesn't like to do tests just for the sake of doing tests, so to have him say he wants an MRI from my head to my waist, yeah, it scares me a little, or maybe a lot, depending on the moment.
So many of you have been praying. Please continue to pray. May God's glory shine through, no matter the outcome!

Who do I say you are?

His large calloused thumb gently stroked the tear away from my cheek, but more quickly came to take its place.
"He said I was attention-seeking! All I was doing was trying to serve you. I wanted to inspire others. I wasn't trying to draw attention to myself!"
He looked at me gently as I spoke and I saw nothing but love in his face, but he said nothing in response. Sobs started to shake my body as the words poured out.
"He told me I was a control-freak. All I was doing was trying to find a way to help that worked for both of us!"
The gentleness in his eyes caught my breath, but still he remained quiet, wiping the teary downpour from my face.
"He said he loved me and begged to be friends forever, but now he won't speak to me! I thought forever friends meant forever, but I wasn't good enough. I was too hard for him to love."
He finally spoke at this point. "Where you too hard to love, or was he unable to love you? Why do you blame yourself for something that is much more complicated than that?"
"I...I...I...I'm hard to love. He said I was emotional, all over the place, that he never knew where I was coming from or what to expect from me!" My sobs were coming so hard at this point that my chest hurt as it heaved under the weight of the pain. "He said I manipulate people to get what I want and that I'm really good at it." Torrential tears streamed down my face now. There was no stopping them as I fell into his arms. "I thought he was my best friend, but now he can't stand me and won't even take the time to hear my side of the story! Am I really that terrible of a person that I am not worthy of love?" My words stopped then and he held me as I bled the tears of a heart broken into a million pieces. He held me gently but firmly, allowing me cry out the excruciating pain that threatened to tear me apart. Finally he pulled me away from him and cupped my face in his hands, again gently wiping away the tears that were still streaming down my flushed and swollen face.
"Child," he murmured softly, "why did you send out those morning texts? Where you seeking attention like he said?"
"No." I whispered. "I just wanted you to be happy with me and others said they liked them, so I thought I should send them out."
"Precious, do I not know your heart? Do you think his opinion of you in any way changes what I know about you? He may have thought you were looking for attention, but I know your heart and I know what you were doing. Draw peace in that."
"Daddy, if you know my heart, and I know you do, then you saw all the terrible things I did, and thought, and felt!" He drew me to him again and kissed the top of my head. "Yes, Sweet one, I did. And I was disappointed, but I love you still."
"Daddy, I'm too hard to love. I'm not worthy of love."
"STOP!" He did not yell, but he was firm and I knew he meant business. "Child, I know you respected him and wanted him to love you, but you have been feeding into his lies too long! I need you to stop telling me what HE says of you, what HE thinks of you and tell me what I have said to you. Tell me who you are to me."
I hung my head, aware of his frustration with me, and yet unable not to sense the love oozing from him as he reprimanded me.
"You said you would never leave me, that you would never forsake me."
"And I haven't, have I. I have held true to my promise, even in your darkest times. What else have I told you?"
"You...You said I'm your masterpiece." I said hesitantly.
"Yes, I did! And I meant it! What else?"
"You said...you said...you said..." Tears began to flow again and I could barely speak. "You said that I'm forgiven, and that nothing can separate me from your love." The shame of who I was, of the terrible things I had done, of all of the people I had hurt and who had turned their backs on me overwhelmed me in that moment and I could no longer look at him as sobs shook my body. He gently lifted my chin with his finger until my eyes met his and I gasped at the depths of the love I saw there, and the tears streaming down his own face.
"Child, I would NEVER lie to you, and no matter what others have done to you, no matter how others have judged you, no matter how many friends have turned their backs on you, I NEVER will, because NOTHING can separate you from my love." He paused for a moment and then pulled me close. "Child." I could hear the tears in his voice. "Child, I know this has been a difficult lesson for you, and I have cried every tear with you as I watched you struggle, but I needed you to understand, without a doubt, that my love for you is unconditional. It is not based on the good things you do. It is not based on what others think of you. It is not dependent on the number or type of friends you have. I love you because of who you are. You are mine. You belong to me, and that is the only reason I love you, and I love you with everything that I am. Remember, precious child, I AM love, and nothing you could do will ever change that. Grieve and mourn and take the time you need to heal from the pain of your friendships lost, but don't let them define you anymore, sweet one, because they are not who you are. They are merely what happened to you."

Pets - the best therapy

When I was in the mental hospital the first time two years ago, one of our group sessions was on ways that could help alleviate depression. One of these ways was owning a pet. Pets provide unconditional love. As long as they are fed and cared for, you are pretty much guaranteed that they will love you in return. They also gives you someone else to invest in, to live for. You have to get out of bed because the dog needs walked, or the litter box needs scooped, or whatever the need may be. When you own a pet, you have at least one being in the world who needs you.
So when I got out of the hospital, Jason, the kids and I went on a hunt for a cat. One of the pet stores in town had several cats from one of the cat adoption agencies on display. We watched them for awhile and of course the kids were drawn to the kittens, the young, feisty ones. Jason, however, was drawn to a big, fluffy cat with no tail. She seemed very mellow and relaxed, but when we asked about her, we were told that she was part of a bonded pair. If we adopted her, we had to adopt her counterpart as well. After talking it over, we decided to go ahead and do that, and we brought Kaia and Mama Cat (named by the agency, not us) home with us. They were 6 and 5 years old, respectively.
While I knew it would be nice to have a pet, never in a million years would I have guessed how therapeutic they would be, not only for me, but for Jason as well. Mama Cat took awhile to get acclimated, but once she did, she turned in to a great lap cat and she and Jason bonded strongly. She relaxes him when nothing else will. It's funny to watch. No matter how busy Jason is, she will force him to stop working, sit on the couch and pet her for a few minutes before she will allow him to carry on with his day. If he doesn't, she stands at the foot of his desk and meows and if that doesn't work, she jumps up on his desk and sits on his keyboard until he gives her the loves she wants! I find it so amusing how something as small as Mama Cat can have a big man like Jason wrapped around her little claw, but she owns him and there is no doubt about it. And in owning him, she relaxes him and brings him the sanity he has so desperately needs during these difficult times.

As for me, the cats have spent hours with me, snuggled up in bed, during my illnesses. Mama Cat likes to come over and lay on my face when I'm getting ready to go to sleep. She used to lay on my chest, but once I came home from my bilateral mastectomy, she quickly learned that she could no longer do that!! OUCH! 
And then there's Kaia. I love Kaia. She's my cat. She allows others in the family to pet her, but she and I have a bond that the rest of the family doesn't have with her. She's not a lap cat, but she likes to lay next to me for hours on end and I will pet her while she rumbles away in contented purrs. She's a Japanese bobtail, so she is a very vocal cat and she and I will have conversations. I will talk to her in English, using her name, and she will respond to me in "cat". On some of my really rough days, I have sobbed my heart out into Kaia's fur and she has proven to be very absorbent :-).
If you are hurting and need some unconditional love, I highly recommend a pet. It has made a world of difference in our family and I bet it would in yours too. It is easy to underestimate the power of unconditional furry love.

Broken clay

I'm currently reading a book called "Honestly" by Sheila Walsh. It is truly an amazing book, and has brought about a lot of healing for me over the last couple weeks.
Tonight's chapter was on shame. Wow, could I relate! I have lived most of my life in shame, believing that unless I could perform perfectly, I was worthless. And so I performed, and boy did I look good!
I was both a pastor's kid and a missionary kid. I started the first Bible Study at our High School. I graduated as Salutatorian in High School, and helped lead youth group during college. I spent a summer on a mission's trip in the inner city of Philadelphia, and lead short term mission trips to Mexico and Toppenish (an indian reservation). I worked in a lock down treatment center for juvenile sex offenders. I graduated with honors from a Christian college with an international studies degree so I could go to the mission field. I started and lead a meals ministry at a large church, and headed up the clothing ministry for a large homeless ministry. I looked GOOD, actually not just on paper. I had also worked hard to lose fifty pounds and looked and felt really good. I was at the top of my game, looking good to any church member I wanted to impress. Then my world fell apart.
Everything that I put my value in was gone. I was stripped bare, and one thing after another broke me more and more and more until I realized that I had nothing left. I lost friends, dignity, ministries, health, both physical and mental. I was truly broken, shattered with nothing left to show off to the world. I titled this blog "This treasure in a jar of clay" but even then, I had no idea what I was talking about. I still saw my jar of clay as a bright red, smooth, varnished jar of clay, but now I realize that my jar is actually brown and lumpy and crooked. The lid doesn't even fit on right. But inside that jar sits the most beautiful treasure you will ever see!
I won't tell you the whole story of my demise. Let's just say that for two years my squeaky clean self went from bad to worse. I toyed with sin, trying to get as close as possible to the line without getting burned. I questioned my faith and nearly turned my back on God. I almost lost my marriage. I used and hurt people I called friends. I literally lost my mind, spent time in a mental hospital and now have official paperwork proving that I am mentally ill. Not only did I lose my mental health, but I lost my physical health as well. I lost my ministry, my friends and all the things that made me feel like I had value. I was no longer squeaky clean. As a matter of fact, I wasn't clean at all! When I got my breast cancer diagnosis, I was a filthy mess, broken, sick, rejected and rotten.
We started attending a new church, where people showed us the unconditional love of Christ. The staff knew most of the garbage that had brought me to where we were and they loved me anyway. They embraced our entire family with open arms and started helping us heal. People from all over sent cards and gifts of encouragement and I began to call my cancer the cancer that healed me.
When my chemo ended, I hit the road running again. I was determined to be worth something again, to prove that my life mattered. I started handing out waters at West Side Park and I would push myself on those hot days to reach out and make my life count. I NEEDED to matter. I had to prove that I was worth something, that the world needed me. What I didn't realize is that I was still focusing on MY life. I wasn't focusing on HIM. My focus was not on making sure that He was shining through me. It was on making sure that I was shining. Through all of the muck I had gone through, I had learned a lot about where my value comes from and what grace and redemption mean, but I still hadn't quite gotten what my life needed to be all about, and then I got sick again.
This time I was mad. Really mad. I was ready to make my life count again and here I was, so drugged up because of my mysterious spasms that I could barely spend time with my kids, let alone anything else. I was worthless. I had to cancel every ministry I had involved myself in. It was worse than when I was on chemo. I had literally nothing to offer.
Tonight, as I read through Sheila Walsh's chapter on shame, and on how hard we try to impress others to make up for how little we think of ourselves, I realized that my pride had kicked in again.
I am God's masterpiece (Ephesians 2:10), fearfully and wonderfully made (Psalm 139:14), adopted as God's child (Romans 14:16). Andy Stanley, one of my favorite preachers, said in one of his sermons: "Who has the right to label you? Only the one who made you and the one who owns you. No one else." So what are my labels? Redeemed, Beloved, Forgiven, Valued, and these have NOTHING to do with what I have done or haven't done. They have to do with who made me me and who owns me.
So yeah. I'm a wreck. Not worth much on paper these days and won't be chalking up many deeds for the Kingdom while I lay in bed, doped up, trying to find out what is physically going on with my body. But that's ok, because He loves me still, just as much as if I were delivering waters to the homeless or building houses in Mexico. I don't have to earn His love. I already have it.

Until You take me home

I went looking for joy this morning but I couldn't find it. It's not that I'm depressed. Well, perhaps I am, somewhat, but nothing that compares to the depths of depression I hit last year.
I am down, and frustrated, and I don't know how to be. I don't know how to be sick! I went looking for pictures of joy this morning, thinking I'd write an uplifting, encouraging blog post for once. You know, stick it to this nasty illness and say you can't get the best of me. And it hasn't. And it won't. Get the best of me, that is. But it has stolen my smile and my spunk right now. I am beyond frustrated and I've always thought that as a Christian, I should never complain, "counting it all joy", always see the silver lining and if I can't find it, keep my mouth shut. And maybe I should, but then I think of Job, and of David, how they poured their hearts out and it is written in the Bible for all to see, and I need to cry out too! All of this builds up inside me and I can't play the happy, peaceful Christian anymore! My mind is filled with questions and turmoil.
What am I to do if this is a lifelong illness?
What if they find this to be something with no cure?
What am I to do with the boredom and frustration that mounts every day?
I don't understand!!! And I just want to go home. I want to throw myself in my Father's arms and hear Him say "Well done." I want to be done, to know that I've done everything that I was called here to do and I don't have to hurt or struggle anymore because I am weary and tired. Don't hear me wrong. I am not suicidal. Been there. Done that, and this is very different. I have two children and a husband who need me as part of their lives and I will fight to be here as long as I can, but I'm so tired of this exhausting fight that we call life.
A friend of mine a while back was going through a really rough period and the more he struggled with things, the more irritable he got. One day, some of the kids in our group and I played a practical joke on him. The kids were giggling and laughing while we turned on a song that we knew he hated. He flipped around and shouted: "Turn that off!!" and then he sunk into a chair with his head in his hands. I went over to talk to him and he said: "The kids were so happy, laughing and having a good time, and I just snapped at them." He pointed up to the sky and said: "I just want to go home." I'll never forget that day, how dejected and tired he looked, and how desperately he yearned for home.
I believe we are made to yearn for home, the place we are meant to spend eternity, but many times, we have to pick ourselves up by our bootstraps and remind ourselves that it's not time yet. We will go home. I will go home...when my time comes, and I will celebrate that day, but today is not that day. For whatever reason, God still has me here on earth. He hasn't given me the easiest of circumstances right now, but in the grand scheme of things, this is so temporary. It may feel like an eternity right now, as the minutes drag by in the darkness of my room, but one day I will look back and it will be like a blink of an eye.
I begged God to allow me to make a difference in this world. I wanted, and still want, my life to count. When I go home, I want to hear those words loud and clear: "WELL DONE!"

Help me, dear God, with the strength that only you can give.

Fill me with the joy of Your presence no matter the trial. 

And please, Lord, please don't let these trials go to waste. 

May these struggles and this pain bring You glory, 

until the day You take me home. 

As Jeremy Camp puts it so well in this song (There will be a day, by Jeremy Camp), there will be a day will no more tears, no more pain, and no more fear. I cannot wait! 

PAIN!

Dark. Quiet. Lonely.
The soft purr of the cat and murmur of a fan in the distance.

Then PAIN!

Shooting pain!
I grab my ears and rock from the pressure in my head. There is no noise in the room, but my ear drums feel as if they are going to burst. My brain is in a vice and I want to pull it from my skull.
I scream as the tears course down my face and my body begs for release. 
The spasms come. Slowly at first, then faster and faster and I wish that I could lose consciousness. I wish for the sweet release of the nurse's syringe, but there is none. There is no nurse. Just the calm, deep voice of my husband reminding me to breathe. And then it's over, for a moment.
The squeeze on my brain reminds me that another one is about to come, but for a moment, for a second or two, I relax, waiting for the next storm to strike.

Leaving my case in His hands

I've been struggling a lot lately with issues of faith, forgiveness, anger, bitterness, and confusion. The "church" answers I've heard all of my life just haven't been cutting it for me anymore and I have found myself dry, confused and hurting. Because many of my physical symptoms lately involve sensitivity to light and sound, I spent many hours in the dark, with me, my thoughts and my prayers and I'm wrestling with many issues.
One of the reoccurring ones is how do I forgive someone who isn't sorry? How do I move beyond a deep, deep wound that while it slowly heals, resurfaces painfully in the darkness of my room when all I have is my thoughts to occupy my time?
For awhile, I put my Bible aside. All it did was create more conflict within me and I just didn't want to deal with it. Lately, however, I have pulled it back out, begging the God of the universe, the one I trust with all my heart, but just don't understand, to show Himself to me. This morning, this is what I read:

"For God called you to do good, even if it means suffering, just as Christ suffered for you. He is your example, and you must follow in his steps.
He never sinned, nor ever deceived anyone. He did not retaliate when he was insulted, nor threaten revenge when he suffered. He left his case in the hands of God, who always judges fairly. He personally carried our sins in his body on the cross so that we can be dead to sin and live for what is right. By his wounds you are healed. Once you were like sheep who wandered away. But now you have turned to your Shepherd, the Guardian of your souls." 1 Peter 2:21-25 (Emphasis mine)

I want so desperately to be told by the people who hurt me, who shunned me, that I am acceptable, that I'm forgiven, that they love me again. But the fact of the matter is, I may never hear those words from them, but I have heard them from the only One who matters. I AM accepted. I AM forgiven. I AM loved. I was hurt and there has been no justice. There may never be any justice in this lifetime. The situation was a mess. I was hurt. I hurt other people and now I need to "leave my case in the hands of God, who always judges fairly", just like Jesus did when He was hung on that cross. On several occasions, He spoke not a word in His own defense. He didn't have to. He wasn't there to plead His case to His accusers. He left that in the hands of God and I am striving to do the same.
It's funny, really, when I think about scars. We can look at them two ways. We can despise them and try to cover them up, or we can embrace them and realize that they make us unique. I was told by a former friend of mine that I am "sensitive like a daisy" and I am, in every way of the word. I am sensitive to medications, heat, sound, smells, and light. And I'm sensitive to emotions. When I get hurt, I get deeply, seriously hurt. But God made me that way. He has a reason for wanting me to be that way and I know that I can trust Him with that. I have a tattoo on my shoulder of a daisy and the words "Fearfully and Wonderfully made". Sensitive like a daisy, just like I was made to be.