A Patient Process

Do You Trust God with Your Timeline?

noreply@blogger.com (Katie L) — Thu, 20 Mar 2025 01:56:00 +0000

Have you noticed how heartache often comes with a timestamp?

In recent weeks, as friends have shared their disappointments over dinner, each has worked backward, taking me on a journey through the major events that led to this moment. With each recap, I could have grabbed a Sharpie and drawn a timeline on the table in front of us with the major moments marked like a tick on a ruler:

Began following Christ → served faithfully in church → was overlooked for a leadership role
Dreamed of getting married → met an amazing man → got stuck in a prolonged engagement
Prayed for a restored family → worked toward reconciliation → is still estranged from loved ones

Tick, tick, boom.

Each woman had expected her timeline to lead to a different outcome, but reality had caused her to wrestle internally: Did I misunderstand what I was supposed to do? Did I mess up somewhere? Can I really trust God with this part of my life?

A Twist in the Timeline

Scripture is filled with the lives of real people whose stories didn’t unfold according to their desired timing or expectations. If you’ve studied the book of Esther, perhaps you’ve plotted out the major ups and downs of her dramatic story. But have you considered the ordinary and extraordinary moments of Mordecai’s life?

When Mordecai is introduced in Esther 2, his family had been exiled to Babylon, which marked the beginning of a long period of displacement for Mordecai and his people (Est. 2:5–6). He unexpectedly became the guardian of Esther after the death of her parents and then raised her as his own daughter (Est. 2:7). Later, Mordecai heard of a plot to assassinate the king and reported it. The murderous plan was verified, and the men behind it were hanged (Est. 2:21–23).

“After all this took place,” the next chapter begins, “King Ahasuerus honored . . .” Mordecai? No. The villain of the story was promoted to the highest position, and Mordecai was overlooked.

The author [of the book of Esther] places the promotion of Haman just where the original readers would have expected a report of Mordecai’s reward as a benefactor of the king. Haman’s introduction forms an unexpected twist when juxtaposed with Mordecai’s unrewarded loyalty.

If you’re familiar with the story of Esther, you know the conflict between Mordecai and Haman only escalated from there. You also know how the story ended. But what if you were the one living this story? Imagine the moment from Mordecai’s perspective, having fulfilled your role and responsibilities faithfully, only for someone else to reap the benefits.

Can you feel the disappointment? How your prayers would sound that night as you crawled into bed and stared at the ceiling? In deeply disappointing moments, it doesn’t take much for discouragement to lead to doubt about who God is, which can change the way you respond to Him.

Tick, tick, boom.

Finding God’s Providence

As Esther 3 begins, we don’t know what Mordecai was thinking or what doubts plagued his mind. But consider the thoughts that show up in your mind when discouragement feels fresh—when you look at those who receive what you were hoping for and you think, “I thought I’d have that by now.” Or you ask, “Why hasn’t it happened for me yet?”

On those days . . .

Do you struggle to believe that God sees you and cares?
Do you feel as though God is inconsistent or unfair when He allows good to seemingly happen to others and not you?
Do you trust God’s power over the events of your life but not His wisdom in bringing them to pass in the best timing?

Even before this point in the story, God had been at work in the details of Mordecai’s life. In a recent episode of the Revive Our Hearts podcast, Nancy DeMoss Wolgemuth highlighted the providence of God on display in this section of Scripture. Providence, she explained, is the fact that “God sees what is going to happen. [He] ordains ahead, and [He] goes before His people to make provision for those circumstances before we ever get there.”

Nancy pointed out God’s providence in putting Mordecai in a position at the king’s gate to work, as well as in arranging the circumstances of the day so that Mordecai would be able to hear the assassination plot and report it. God’s divine provision is evident when you look at the details of Mordecai’s life.

Paying attention to evidence of past divine providence in your life can help you fight present disappointment—even if you have to think back years or decades. Ask yourself:

Where have I seen God at work orchestrating the details of my life to bring me to this point in time?
How have I experienced God’s goodness, especially in ways I took for granted in the moment?
How have I witnessed His power and wisdom in opening or closing doors at just the right moment?

Allow hindsight to deepen your hope that God’s timing is perfect and His providence is kind.

Will You Trust God’s Timeline?

After Mordecai’s loyalty was overlooked, what was the next tick in his timeline? It was a small one: he went back to his job. As Nancy mentioned in the podcast,

Mordecai’s good deed was not recognized or rewarded for another four or five years.

Can I remind you that God sees, God knows, and God will bring all things to light in His time? You see that theme through the Scripture: “Evil pursues sinners, but to the righteous, good shall be repaid” (Prov. 13:21 NKJV). “The Son of Man will come . . . and then He will reward each according to his works” (Matt. 16:27 NKJV).

Then, not now. So much of the reward for the Christian life is not now. So much of our reward, as servants of God and of our families, is not now. The reward is later.

Mordecai wouldn’t see how this moment fit into the bigger picture until years later. In the meantime, the Lord’s unseen hand was at work behind the scenes, aligning circumstances, shifting pieces into place, and preparing a moment when His plan would unfold in ways beyond what anyone could have imagined (see Esther 6).

When that moment came, it was no longer just about Mordecai. What had seemed like a delay in his life years before had always been part of a much larger storyline, one that meant deliverance for God’s people and drew attention to the sovereignty, provision, and grace of God Himself.

So much of what the Lord is currently doing in your life won’t be fully revealed until you see Him face to face: then, not now. In His kindness, He may reveal reasons why some of the events in your story have happened the way they have, but until then, you can trust His timeline for your life. And that trust will help you:

Stretch and strengthen your faith, as you acknowledge that the Lord’s wisdom surpasses your own, and that His paths and plans are good (Psalm 25:4–5).
Recognize that God’s purposes are bigger than you. If you could see how the pieces of your life fit into His master plan, you’d be amazed at the intentionality and grace behind the good works He’s called you to walk out today (Eph. 2:10).
Bring praise to God’s glory. You’re a small part of the grand narrative He’s been writing from the beginning of time into eternity. As you acknowledge that He’s sovereign over your life and surrender to His good plans, even in the midst of your disappointment, you glorify Him (Eph. 1:11–12).

Two Thousand Years Later

Thousands of years after the events of the book of Esther took place, Jewish people around the world still celebrate His deliverance. Last night, March 13, marked the beginning of one of the most joyous holidays on the Jewish calendar—Purim. Beginning at sunset yesterday evening and continuing through nightfall tonight, Jews will read the book of Esther and rehearse the events that led to their people being saved.

Followers of Christ are still talking about the timeline of Esther all these years later because it was never a story about Mordecai or Esther—it was a testimony of God’s providence, His faithfulness to His people, and the reality that He can be trusted.

As you think back on the story, it’s not enough to see His hand at work in times past or in others’ lives. As you look at what feels absent from your own timeline, if you feel the sting of lingering disappointment in your story today, will you trust the Lord with your story? He never forgets, never overlooks, and never fails. One day you’ll see how every unexpected twist in the plot leads to glory. Until then, rest in His providence, and allow your timeline to turn your eyes to Him. "Do You Trust God with Your Timeline?" was originally published on ReviveOurHearts.com.

The Precious Gift of an Imperfect Christmas

noreply@blogger.com (Katie L) — Wed, 23 Dec 2020 00:28:00 +0000

Picture it: Christmas morning. For the first time all month, you’re not focused on your chronic illness. You’re not thinking about all of the Decembers you were too sick to get out of bed. You’re not fixated on the pain in your head. All of your attention is on the presents in your hands, the poinsettias on your aunt’s front porch, and the family waiting for you inside. As you walk through the entryway and put your purse down, you wrap your arms around your people and almost remember what it’s like to feel well.

Between bites of roasted turkey and fresh cranberries, you listen to your parents and their siblings tease each other about moments from their childhood, and you reach for a napkin to dry tears of laughter. Your cousins share career updates, changes to college majors, plans to get married. The conversation quiets. The questions swing your way. You stare down at your place setting, always startled a bit when your invisible illness is seen by others.

You take a breath and prepare to answer. You know what they want: a praise report to take back to their neighbors and small groups and friends from church who have been praying for you for years. You want to give them an honest update about your health, but at the same time, you don’t want to say that you’re struggling with new symptoms or a fresh flare-up or that you’re afraid your medicine has stopped working. You don’t want to break their hearts on a holiday.

Before you look up, you hear someone say it: “All we want for Christmas is for you to be well.” You don’t know how to respond. You hear the compassion underneath their words. You know they come from a good place. They’re kind words and consistent with your desire to be healed. But they separate you from the rest of your family. You are no longer a part of the whole, but the patient at the end of the table.

In your mind, you’re not much different from the others, sitting beside your aunt who is struggling to get pregnant, your cousin who is still praying for a husband, and your uncle who can’t find a job. Their ongoing needs are a source of ongoing isolation, too.

But the room stills as everyone waits for your answer; you feel like nothing you say will comfort them. What do you do when you show up without the one thing your family wants more than anything? When you can’t give them the gift of not worrying about your health anymore?

Better Gifts

Here’s one solution: offer them something better than your health.

Your family has watched you suffer year after year; they assume the best gift you could receive would be physical healing. But freedom from pain is an unsatisfying present, an empty box, if it comes apart from Christ. Jesus is the best gift. He is what we all need most this season. Because of Him, we have gifts to offer that are better than a clean bill of health.

Chronic pain sufferers have many chances to learn this lesson. We practice dependence on Jesus just to survive the day. Family members who live close by ride this chronic illness wave with us and cry out to the Lord alongside us as our pain comes and goes, as we try new treatments, and as we wait for flare-ups to calm down. But family members who live far away don’t have the same intimate opportunities to enter into our experience of suffering. When they see us on Christmas, they see all of the updates they have received over the last year standing in front of them, face-to-face. As they are reminded of our suffering all over again, they are thrown back into a cycle of grief.

Their sadness can feel like our failure. We may be tempted to succumb to self-pity. We may try to shut down their displays of emotion by refusing to discuss bacteria or pills or medical plans over the holidays. But sickness is not a legitimate excuse to avoid serving our families, even when we feel like we have nothing to offer. This year, whether we are coming into Christmas ready to share good news of improved health or whether our chronic symptoms are in full swing, we do not have to walk (or Zoom) into family gatherings empty-handed. Here are three precious gifts we can talk about this Christmas.

1. The Gift of Faith

Look at the examples of Elizabeth and Mary in Luke 1—Elizabeth’s suffering was real and it was long, but she walked with God and rejoiced in His faithfulness. Tell your family about the deep confidence you have in Christ, especially now, as symptoms of chronic illness remain. Tell them who He is, and why He can be trusted. Talk to them about the promises of God and the power of the cross and why the resurrection is proof that everything God has said will come true. Talk about God’s character: the aspects that make sense to you and the areas that are too great for you to comprehend. Explain what it means to you that God cares about your condition and why it matters that He is sovereign over your sickness. Tell them about the times that you were faithless in the last twelve months, then share all the ways God has not stopped being faithful to you this year. And as you do, don’t forget Elizabeth’s words in Luke 1:45: “Blessed is she who believed that there would be a fulfillment of what was spoken to her from the Lord.”

2. The Gift of Hope

1 Peter 3:15 (NLT) says, "If someone asks about your hope as a believer, always be ready to explain it.” True hope is not based on how well your treatment is working but in the hard won victory of Christ’s accomplishments on the cross. Comfort your family with the reality that a far better future is coming. Because of the gospel, you can be one hundred percent certain that someday you will be well. It might not be today. It might not be until you reach eternity—but one day, because of Jesus, you will be wholly and completely healed. Tell your family why you believe there is no better option than to throw your whole self into the hands of Jesus, knowing that whatever happens next, heaven rules.

3. The Gift of Love

Show your family the same kind of love that Christ has shown to you. Remember 1 Corinthians 13:4–7: Love is patient, even when you are tired of the topic. Love does not respond with sarcasm, even when you are offered weird medical advice. Love is not irritable, even when you are exhausted. Love is not resentful, even when you have reason to be. Model the kind of love that does not keep records of insensitive comments, but rejoices with the truth.

We do not have to wait until we have good news about our health to celebrate the best gifts of all. Let’s invite our families into our suffering, into our celebration of the hope we have in Christ. When the hard questions come, let’s thank God that one day Jesus will wipe away every health question and concern, and all will be well. Picture it: Christmas morning. It will not be perfect. Everyone at your Christmas table will have pain points, some of them seen, most of them invisible. Isn’t this why Jesus came? To give us the only gift that can truly comfort us—Himself. Instead of leaving the best gifts unopened because they can be awkward, let’s unwrap the joy of His presence together.

The Precious Gift of an Imperfect Christmas was originally published on ReviveOurHearts.com.

A Refuge in Harvey's Wake

noreply@blogger.com (Katie L) — Wed, 13 Sep 2017 02:45:00 +0000

Before Hurricane Harvey arrived in Houston, I hadn’t paid much attention to the piece of paper that’s been hanging in my grandparents’ beach house since August 18, 1983. The paper, now faded and framed, has been kept on wood-paneled walls in their living room in Galveston, a few streets away from the Gulf of Mexico.

My brothers and I were raised in those waves, practically born with seawater in our blood and boogie boards under our arms. We never had any reason to be afraid of the water, even as our parents made us aware of the kind of rip currents that can render a strong person powerless. The ferocity of the open water was simply not on our radar; it was represented only in the brown and white photographs my grandparents had framed above their television. The series of 3x5 shots showed the aftermath of Hurricane Alicia, during which tornadoes tossed aside the roof of the house as though it were made of cardboard.

My grandparents rebuilt the beach house after Alicia, and they made repairs after Allison and Rita and Ike. On their walls, the prayer of one guest has remained through the decades, preserved in calligraphy ink. The handwritten dedication is signed by its author, dated in remembrance of Alicia’s destruction. It begins:

We gave it back to you, dear Lord,
the Source from which it came
knowing that You also guard
the seas, the wind, the rain . . .

Harvey Arrives

Growing up on the Gulf Coast, my favorite glimpses of the Creator always came when the sun began to set, when there was just enough light to wander through the fields of wildflowers lining the path to the water. In the moment when dusk turned to darkness, my friends and I would pass around flashlights and point them at hermit crabs hurrying across the sand, scrambling out of holes, and scurrying to find new homes.

I thought about the hermit crabs the night that Hurricane Harvey arrived in Texas. My roommate had come home with waffle fries and bags filled with flashlights and candles, several sacrilegiously painted with the face of Jesus on the glass. We watched the news as Rockport and Corpus Christi were slammed with winds as the hurricane made landfall. It was the first night I heard helicopters flying overhead, their spotlights illuminating the paths of people running for shelter.

Twelve hours later, my roommate and I were the ones receiving messages warning us that water was rising and that we needed to pack bags and prepare to evacuate. As our local meteorologist looked into the camera and said, “Lord, have mercy,” my roommate and I prayed together, surrendering our hearts to the God who reigns sovereignly over the wind and waves.

Then we picked up what was left on the floor and unplugged all electronics and propped up our couch on cans of coconut milk. Water entered our home, and we ran through hallways, sloshing brown water into bedrooms, throwing every towel and sheet and blanket we owned at the baseboards. When we knew it was useless to continue wringing out water, we sat down on dirty floors muddied with debris and begged God to stop the rain. We rejoiced when, days later, He did.

God’s Goodness in the Bayou City

When my street drained to the point that we could safely open the door without water coming in, I pulled yellow rain boots back on and walked to Brays Bayou, one of the slow-moving, marshy rivers that weaves throughout neighborhoods near the Texas Medical Center and Rice University, not too far from downtown. The earliest storm predictions had anticipated that this bayou would overflow its banks and flood nearby homes, but on the first night, it was still startling to hear that water had risen ten feet in one hour.

As the bayou spilled over its banks into my subdivision, just enough water entered our home to force us to throw out furniture and much of our flooring. Although my roommates and I have had to find other places to stay, we are far better off than the majority of our friends, family members, and neighbors nearby, who have lost everything.

Evidence of this is out on front lawns all over the city. Sidewalks have become a wall of floorboards and insulation and sheetrock, rotting and reeking of mold; a wall of carpet and couches and dining room tables; a wall where wet teddy bears top off the trash.

Almost a week has passed, and helicopters continue to fly over the bayou. Some are still dropping baskets down in order to save people, but at this point, most are attempting to measure the amount of loss with wide-angle shots of the area. Their footage reminds me of my grandparents’ photographs. The same faded brown and white haze seems to have fallen over the city; from above, all that can be seen is water.

As reporters conduct interviews on the ground, the stories pour onto land already saturated with grief. For some time, I sat and watched one interviewer give a live TV broadcast while standing on a boat in the middle of the freeway. As he pulled people to safety, he gave them the opportunity to share their experiences. He talked to a six-year-old girl who had seen her home destroyed, but she was quick to tell the world that she was grateful God had kept her family safe. As her dad picked her up and put her feet on dry ground, the interviewer bowed his head and turned away, not wanting his audience to see the tears that were dripping into the water as he whispered, “God is good.”

News updates continue to be shared in a compressed way: a series of calamities coming one after the other. The reporting style has made me think of the opening chapter of Job. The worst news of Job’s life is narrated in rapid succession, summarized in a few short verses. It’s as though the camera stays focused on the news desk, delivering the devastating facts before finally turning to Job to see how it registers with him. In 1:20, Job responds. He stands up, tears his robe, and shaves his head. He falls to the ground and worships.

Texas Strong

This week, organizations and individuals raising support for survivors have used the slogan “Houston Pride” to unite their fundraising efforts. I love my hometown, but I have had a hard time hashtagging “Houston Pride” because this hurricane has humbled so many of us. It has brought us to our knees before the throne of God, asking Him for grace to submit to His reign in the midst of suffering we simply do not understand.

So much devastation has already occurred, and the aftermath of a hurricane can often be more destructive than the storm itself. When demolition occurs and walls are stripped away, damp water becomes the breeding ground for mosquitoes and mold spores to spread. Buckets and buckets of bleach have been brought into the city in recent days, and clean-up efforts are currently focused on keeping dangerous mycotoxins out of the air.

But more than mold, I fear the contamination of bitterness into our atmosphere. Praise God that it has been kept at bay as the Body of Christ has poured into Houston from all over the United States. Christians have sent supplies and they have sent their people, and their presence has infused hope and joy into every part of this city.

When these precious servants return to their own hometowns, pray that we will not forget the compassion and grace God has shown us through each one of them. Pray for our hearts and for our hope, for our city to be rebuilt on the foundation of Jesus Christ. Join us in praising God, for as we have witnessed here in Houston, when the Lord is the saving refuge of the state, there is no strength like “Texas Strong.” There is no faithfulness like our God’s.

The last lines of the poem hanging in the beach house do not promise a future without storms; in the three decades since these words were penned, they have only worsened. But we who have been rescued by Christ have a shelter in the Most High, a refuge and fortress, in whom we can trust.

Though life for us may sometimes seem
A fragment torn by wind,
You, our God, have never failed
To all our needs attend.

~Patricia C. Neil; August 18, 1983

A Refuge in Harvey's Wake was originally published on ReviveOurHearts.com.

a day with women who know true freedom

noreply@blogger.com (Katie L) — Thu, 09 Mar 2017 03:26:00 +0000

In Luke 13, Jesus is teaching in one of the synagogues on the Sabbath. A woman is there, bent over, physically unable to straighten herself; she has been suffering for eighteen years. Jesus sees her and calls for her, and she steps forward, staring at the floor, feeling the eyes of the crowd on her body. Standing in front of Jesus, she strains to look up at Him. He says to her, “You are freed from your disability.” You are freed.

She begins to praise God, pausing as Jesus asks the ruler of the synagogue, “Ought not this woman, a daughter of Abraham whom Satan bound for eighteen years, be loosed from this bond on the Sabbath day?” (v. 16). The woman will not forget these words. Jesus is defending her dignity in a place where women traditionally have been shunned; He is showing the leaders His power, showing her His care. He is declaring her to be a daughter of Abraham, an heir according to promise, part of the family of God. Precious woman, welcome to the sisterhood.

We are the women Christ sets free: women born into a broken world, into aching bodies with bitter hearts, with minds bent on our own way; women who come to Christ with desires so crooked, we could never straighten ourselves. We stand because of Him. We stand amazed by Him. We stand aligned with Him.

A Day Without a Woman

Today, March 8, many communities will be impacted by “A Day Without a Woman,” a protest organized by the same grassroots group behind January’s Global Women’s March. For twenty-four hours, women will disappear across the country and wait for the world to notice. They will refrain from work and abstain from buying items online or in stores. By removing themselves from the economy, women will demand the world acknowledge their significance.

Some people will be drawn to this event to protest the marginalization of disabled women, misogyny, domestic abuse, racism, and other incredibly important issues. However, as Christian women, we need to understand that if we stand with this strike, our actions will affirm the movement’s Unity Principles, especially the founders’ unbiblical views of gender, marriage, and reproduction. Since these views clearly contradict Scripture, we cannot stand for them.

Women Christ Set Free

The organizers of “A Day Without a Woman” proclaim, “We must free ourselves and our society. . . . ” But we are women who have found true freedom in Christ—women given life through His strength.

We are women who were dead in our sin, who have been resurrected by God’s power, who have become heirs of the crucified King. He who did not count equality with God as a thing to be grasped gave up His rights so we could be righteous. He laid down His life in love.

We are women God created in His image, designed with dignity and value, who cling to the work of the gospel. Although the world does not always view the worth of women, we seek to reflect the respect and mercy we received at the cross, “esteeming others as better than ourselves, seeking to build them up,” embracing the beauty of grace.

We are women who uphold the Creator-God’s design of humanity, who see God’s concept of “male and female” as part of His magnificent, purposeful plan. We are women who maintain marriage to be “sacred and binding,” between one man and one woman, and we celebrate and support it as such. We are women who see the worth God has given human life, how precious it is in all stages and seasons, so we work to protect it “from the point of conception until rightful death.”

We are women who have been born again, women who bend our knees on the Solid Rock, who humble ourselves in solidarity, “standing firm in one spirit, with one mind striving side by side for the faith of the gospel.” Thank you, Lord, for the joy of this sisterhood.

In Luke 13, we meet a woman who, after eighteen years of suffering, has only minutes left before she is healed. When Jesus calls her, she walks toward Him, and the last painful steps she takes lead her straight to Christ. He is her finish line, her long-hoped for Healer, and we are women who walk this same way. Each step we take sends us gloriously closer to seeing our Savior face-to-face. Fully free, at last.

A Day with Women Who Know True Freedom was originally published on ReviveOurHearts.com.

facing heartache on earth; finding hope in the heavens

noreply@blogger.com (Katie L) — Fri, 27 Jan 2017 23:10:00 +0000

My first semester as a full-time teacher, my grandfather, the rocket scientist, came to the classroom and explained the concept of propulsion systems to a group of five- to eight-year-olds. It was a presentation he had polished by teaching generations: He had taught my grandmother’s fourth graders and my mom’s fifth graders, and on that Friday, he was going to meet a few of mine.

Looking Toward the Heavens

Neither the students nor Grandpa quite knew what to expect when he entered the women’s center, the safehouse that provided refuge for these kids, their brothers and sisters, and their mothers. The students sat in a semicircle on the rug awaiting his arrival, swinging their feet against chair legs, their muddy tennis shoes hanging over a map of the world. As Grandpa sat down and held up an old poster of a space shuttle on launch day, they leaned forward to look at the mountainous billows of smoke and steam and power left behind. These students, little ones who had seen far too much in their short lifetimes, had never been exposed to anything like this. They were captivated.

As Grandpa pulled out a brightly colored balloon and began to blow it up, the students watched, wide-eyed. As soon as it was completely filled with air, Grandpa winked at me and let it fly. After it fell behind the bookshelves, we began to hunt for higher ceilings. We took the kids outside, and I found my eighty-year-old grandfather kneeling on cold concrete, picking up a kindergartner’s feet and placing them on a launch pad. The students standing in line stared at the stomp rocket then looked to the clouds, focusing their eyes on the bluest of skies. They could suddenly see beyond the security cameras and concrete walls. Here was hope, soaring toward the heavens.

Several months ago, I came across some of the artwork the students had done in response to my grandparents’ visit—several rainbow-colored solar systems, smiling astronauts in space suits, a sun that glowed in the dark. In August, a few days after I stopped by his house to show him those pictures, I received the phone call that my grandfather had gone to be with Jesus.

Why Is It So Dark?

This world had never really been his home. My grandfather had worked at NASA during the first moon walk, but over the years, he had come to see what a small step for man that was compared to the giant leap taken by the Son of God, who gave up the majesty of heaven to stand on earthly soil. My grandfather’s Hero did not place a stake in the sand and leave the planet alone, but laying down His life, He restored what sin had made a “magnificent desolation.” My grandfather never stopped thanking God for this redemption.

The morning my grandparents visited the classroom, after we passed around snapshots of the solar system, a third grader paused to study a picture of earth, its perimeter fringed with the rich black of the galaxy. His hand shot into the air, and he asked, “If the sun is in space, why is it so dark there?” Years later, I feel the weight of that question. The impact of Jesus’ entrance on the atmosphere was immeasurable on every scale, and yet, the radiant eternal hope He provided has not removed the present heartache of death.

When my health hit one of its lowest points, I lived in my grandparents’ guest room. Night after night after night, as I experienced excruciating physical pain, Grandpa knelt beside my bed, gray head bowed, humbling himself before the God of the universe. I did not know then that he was teaching me what I would need to do to endure the present darkness: to press my knees into the ground and put all of my hope in the Son.

He Rules Over It All

Before Genesis 3, before death and disappointment and domestic violence and division, before man’s disobedience caused the consequences of evil, God created the heavens and the earth. The world was good because He was good, and He did not change by the end of the third chapter. Those thin pages carry the framework of the ages.

When the Apollo 8 crew orbited the moon, their message was broadcast against the backdrop of what has been considered one of America’s most turbulent years. As the three astronauts approached the lunar sunrise, they took turns reading familiar words, and the profundity of the passage broke through the static: “In the beginning, God.”

For as high as the heavens are above the earth, so great is his faithful love toward those who fear him . . . and his righteousness to children’s children to those who keep his covenant and remember to do his commandments. The LORD has established his throne in the heavens, and his kingdom rules over all (Ps. 103:11, 17–19).

Facing Heartache on Earth; Finding Hope in the Heavens was originally published on ReviveOurHearts.com.

desert season

noreply@blogger.com (Katie L) — Tue, 12 Jul 2016 13:55:00 +0000

The summer after I turned seventeen, I spent my days sprawled out on a wooden bench, wilting behind the glass of my treatment center's medical sauna. As I stared out at patients preparing for their own sessions, I watched the clock and wiped away the damage that 150 degrees can do. It was an ironic setting for a desert season.

While in the sauna, I was allowed a glass of water, some white towels in a stack, and a pair of clean socks. Any other possessions were to be left in a locker. Twice a day, I would give the nurses my glasses, hair ties, and sandals, but I would keep a small piece of paper and slip it into my pocket. It was a prescription folded over twice, wrapped in cellophane, and signed by the center's medical director.

The clinic had forbidden the use of any electronic devices: cell phones, walkie-talkies, smartwatches. After I had been there for several weeks, my doctor made an exception. I was the lone teenager loose in the building, his only pediatric patient, a kid in tremendous pain. Perhaps he knew I would need more than physical healing when he pulled out his prescription pad and put his approval in writing. I carried his note with me into the sauna and brought along an iPod so classic it didn't contain the warning light that shines when the device can no longer withstand the heat.

I wasn't sure I could withstand the heat. It was suffocating to sit alone in that space. I was regularly put on oxygen, but it was the circumstances that often made me feel like I could not breathe. My illness became a lonely place to live.

Once I had the prescription, I would lean back in the sauna and press play on my iPod, allowing the opening sequence of Revive Our Hearts to fill the silence. I sipped on water filled with tri-salts and received truth soaked with grace. I listened as Nancy taught from Scripture, telling the redemptive story of a big God, a sovereign God, a God who saw my situation. This God did not spare His own Son from the suffering of the world but sent Him into the middle of it.

Immanuel. That's what His Son was called: "God with us."

GOD with us. God WITH us. God with US.

He did not leave me alone.

A Different Kind of Detox

The first few weeks that I was there, as I would step out of the sauna and walk toward the shower, the nurses would tell me that they could smell the toxins on my skin. I scrubbed harder to get the scent off my body though I knew the source was beyond the surface. As I returned for sessions and continued listening to ROH, I started to smell the bitterness, the discontentment, the self-sufficiency that was seeping out of my pores. I wanted to detox the fear I was wearing on my skin, the despair that left me wondering if there was any purpose to what I was suffering. At some point, somehow, there was joy, as Nancy taught about the blood of Christ that washes away our filth, about the way that Christ fills up our emptiness with hope, about the mercy of God that completely cures our sin-sickness.

I had been struggling with physical illness for a long time. For ten years I faced worsening symptoms, and my family took me to doctor after doctor, some of the best in the nation, specialists who would take hours to study my case only to refer me on to someone else in their field or provide a treatment solution that did not last.

We moved away from the home where my brothers and I had grown up, and when my symptoms became too severe, I was forced to withdraw from my high school. My identity, built on accomplishments at school, fell to pieces; my friends seemed far; my future lacked the certainty of a world I once thought I could control.

Desperation changed my relationship with Christ. It was when it seemed like I had nothing that Jesus became everything.

Anything That Makes Me Need God . . .

I was not diagnosed with chronic neurological Lyme disease until a decade had passed, and in the process, I saw the truth of Nancy's words, even when they came wrapped in the messy reality of everyday life. "Anything that makes me need God is a blessing." I believed that. Then I began treatment for Lyme and started to slip back into some old habits, placing my trust in the doctor's hands and grasping at the hope of physical healing.

God has been merciful to this slow-learning patient.

Over and over again, I have listened to the lies that say a life without pain, a life without loneliness, a life without Lyme disease will bring the most fulfillment. I have banked my faith on blood tests and pill bottles, and when relief does not come, when I wake up with fever or with too much pain to function, the disappointment has been too much to withstand.

In those moments, the Holy Spirit's whispered grace points back to the God who is with us.

He will not leave me alone, and having Christ? It's better than having anything else this world could offer.

Today, I am about five years into my Lyme treatment. I continue to pray for God to restore my health, but even if He doesn't, even if this treatment fails, it doesn't change who God is. He is still good; He is still all-powerful; He is still worthy of all of my worship.

I will always long for health, but if it is sickness that brings me closer to Jesus, then it is a gift, and I am so thankful for it. This God is the one who found me in the desert season; though the heat may press on, there is peace in the soul-satisfying refreshment of His presence. He draws near, and He is enough.

God is with You in Your Desert Season was originally published on ReviveOurHearts.com.

life lesson

noreply@blogger.com (Katie L) — Mon, 15 Jun 2015 01:05:00 +0000

It's what I wanted to say when pre-service teachers asked, wide-eyed, what it's like to student-teach in a hospital classroom –

That what you think will break your heart: the big things, the diagnosis described in an enrollment packet, a body showing signs of disease? That's not what will keep you up at night.

That will become background information. Because when you start to teach, you'll be sitting across from children, and that's how you'll see students: as people. And you'll probably forget for awhile that these kids, your kids, are living as patients.

It's the details that will get to you: tiny moments you'll want to scrub off before they get under your skin. You'll be able to look a terminal patient in the eye, not lingering over the frailness of her body, and laugh with her at Junie B. Jones, not thinking about how soon her story could end.

It will be a piece of paper that unnerves you.

You'll be staring at the hospital census, sliding a highlighter over names, and the lines of black font will blur together. It will become what hurts the most: the moment her name is missing from your clipboard, a gap on the page which grows inside you.

The rest of the semester, you'll hold your breath when the census is printed, until the final name is accounted for and familiar faces sit down at their desks and the world doesn't feel so fragile.

It's a cliche you'll hold in your hands: time here is short. A lesson that forces you to exhale:

Lord, teach me how to live.

Give me life according to Your word.
Give me life in Your ways.
Give me life according to Your promise!

Lord, teach me how to live.

a hard pill to swallow

noreply@blogger.com (Katie L) — Mon, 28 Jul 2014 14:11:00 +0000

There are those who sit across from you in a restaurant booth and speak with such grace, you long for a way to keep all of their words with you, to carry them in your pocket and pass them out to others in need. Katelyn is one of those, and many months ago, she agreed to write down what God was teaching her through sickness. Her words have encouraged me so much, especially over the last few weeks; I am so grateful for her willingness to share them here.
~ post by Katelyn Britton

As I look back over the past nine months of my first pregnancy, I recognize a few things about myself, about pain, and about the Lord that I hadn’t seen quite so clearly before. In His sovereign wisdom, He allowed me to experience pain like I never had before. Both relational breakdown and extended, intense morning sickness became instructive teachers. I know what it feels like to dwell in pain. But Christ, our comfort, is a very present help in time of need. There is one key, recurring maxim that I’ve learned and am yet learning is:

Life is in God’s control, not mine.

This is a hard pill to swallow, and it takes a daily dose of humility to accept what God may allow. However, it is a truth that must be embraced if one wants to live life well. I think that one of the most encouraging examples of this mindset is seen in the book of Genesis as it describes the life of Joseph. Not only do his brothers attempt to kill him and then sell him into slavery, but he is later falsely accused and thrown into prison! In the end, God exalted him to be in a high position of leadership. Though one might expect to see a bitter heart or a desire for revenge end of his life, instead we read in Genesis 50:19-21 that he said to his brothers (who were fearing for their lives):

“Do not be afraid, for am I in God’s place? As for you, you meant evil against me, but God meant it for good in order to bring about this present result, to preserve many people alive. So therefore, do not be afraid; I will provide for you and your little ones.” So he comforted them and spoke kindly to them.”

In this passage, we find Joseph completely content to leave the details of his life in the kind hands of his Father. This includes the pain (past, present and future)! How easy it is to think that if God really loves us then He will certainly spare us from ever needing to endure hard things in life. The often quoted “God doesn’t want our happiness but our holiness” is true in a sense, but I think the better phrase might be, “God wants our holiness to bring about our happiness.” Joseph’s life, though riddled with pain, is one that proclaims the message that God is faithful and good through it all. May we follow Christ through the thorns of life with joy and recognize that they are neither pointless nor unfruitful if we trust the Father to use them!

And not only this, but we also exult in our tribulations, knowing that tribulation brings about perseverance;and perseverance, proven character; and proven character, hope. (Romans 5:3-4)

this far

noreply@blogger.com (Katie L) — Mon, 24 Mar 2014 11:43:00 +0000

Grateful for those who grab you by the hand
and pull you away and pray with you until your fingers stop shaking,
those who show you how Jesus has always provided,
{ with 'enough wisdom, enough strength, more than enough of Himself' }
those who remind you that there is peace in trusting
an uncertain tomorrow to an unchanging God.

My soul, remember, remember the One who has brought you this far.

"When you pass through the waters, I will be with you; and through the rivers, they shall not overwhelm you.... For I am the Lord your God, the Holy One of Israel, your Savior.'" (Isaiah 43:2-3)

an update of sorts

noreply@blogger.com (Katie L) — Tue, 11 Feb 2014 21:30:00 +0000

It was a grace-sandwich: two pieces of unexpected comfort served up cold, smashed on the front and back sides of the kind of news that sticks in your throat and three months later is still hard to swallow.

It started with a phone call from my doctor, several missed calls, and the realization that our relationship is not an ordinary one. He’d called several days in a row, but I was studying, skeptical that he would have an instant fix that was worth walking out of class to discuss.

It was Friday morning when I called him back, and the receptionist stuck him on the line seconds after I said hello. He’d told me before that he keeps my chart on his desk, and it humbles me to think of him thumbing through stacks of paperwork, making sure my symptoms aren’t a match.

When he got on the phone that afternoon, he didn’t waste words: a new study showed that women with all of my main symptoms, cluster headaches and acute migraines and chronic fatigue, were experiencing excellent results, alleviated pain, with one pill. He called the pharmacy as soon as we hung up, and a few hours later, I felt great. Over the years, I had actually forgotten what it’s like to feel well, and at the realization, I wept.

I’ve been sick for over a decade, diagnosed with neurologic Lyme disease three years ago, undergoing treatment ever since. That night, as soon as I started to feel better, I called the doctor’s office and celebrated with nurses and texted the news to friends and family, and we praised God for how He heals.

The next morning, I woke up and awaited a similar response, assuming it would come after I took the second pill, but it never came. By the evening, I had built a blanket-nest on the bathroom floor and was unable to walk, sleep, eat. My body had rejected the medicine and reversed its effects, and my hope was replaced with a hurt I felt no one would ever understand.

{ click to continue reading }

a very short post with an extra long title

noreply@blogger.com (Katie L) — Tue, 24 Sep 2013 23:46:00 +0000

So, yesterday, with its medical appointments and cluster headaches
and broken sandals and mean strangers... was one of the worst days.

But God, in His great kindness, provided comfort and hope and
the reminder that all things serve His purpose - even Mondays.

This afternoon, I opened a surprise package from an unfamiliar name -

a friend of a friend of a friend of a friend - who read this little blog and
is undergoing Lyme treatment and wanted to pen her own encouragement.

And, honestly, I have never been so convinced that when pain comes,
nothing helps more than these little traces of the love of Christ.

night light

noreply@blogger.com (Katie L) — Sun, 21 Jul 2013 21:33:00 +0000

"….for we know that as you share in our sufferings, you will also share in our comfort…"

Friday night, we were sprawled out over couches, watching old episodes of 24 (the third season, the first with Chloe), lemonade spread across the room, laughter spilled out – and it felt normal.

It was normal until the shocks started. When the first one came, I doubled over in the kitchen and held onto the counter and gripped it until it stopped. My eyes blurred, and I stood back up, not expecting the same pain to seize again, contractions on the left side of my head that continued to pulse off and on in clusters the rest of the evening.

When I went upstairs, my brother rubbed his thumb at the base of my neck and pushed hard, and I thought that if we continued to press into the pain, it would go away. I climbed into bed and shoved my head hard under the pillow, and when I woke up and felt nothing, I thought we had won.

The episodes returned Saturday morning and took the energy out of me, and as they moved closer and closer together, I called my mom and called the doctor. I dialed his office and held my breath as the automated service asked if I needed a prescription refill, an appointment scheduled, a consultation, until one option remained: press two if you have an emergency.

I set down the phone and watched it until it rang.

The caller ID was slow to process the number, and I waited until the third ring to decide if I really wanted to know what was wrong. The doctor recognized my voice and didn’t wait more than a minute before he told me to grab oxygen, call him Monday, leave an update with the nurse.

Oxygen? I was surprised, and I told him so.

He reminded me oxygen only works on cluster headaches. I knew that. That was my point.

He hung up, and I grabbed my tank and dragged it across the tile in our living room, and it was heavier than I remembered. The clanking became so overwhelmingly loud that I picked it up and carried it to the stairs and strapped on the mask and sat on a step. As the air brought the bolts behind my left eye to a complete stop, I started to sob.

The sheer realization of what was happening became a weight so heavy I couldn’t breathe, a burden too heavy to withstand. I went back to my room and turned off the lights. The disappointment was so deep, the darkness so thick, that glass-half-full didn’t seem like it would ever be an option again. Hope turned to heartache after 7 months without episodes, and I was discouraged and drained. Empty.

The words hurt to pray, I can’t do this anymore.

Three o’clock this morning, pain pierced the darkness and stole sleep as hour after hour sneaked past. I sat on my bedroom floor and looked at the pile of homework, stressed at the thought of finishing the summer semester bleary-eyed and nocturnal.

A notification from Twitter lit up my phone; someone had retweeted a post from May, “God DOES give us more than we can handle,” accompanied by fragments of the verse,

“For we do not want you to be unaware, brothers, of the affliction we experienced…

We were so utterly burdened beyond our strength that we despaired of life itself.

But that was to make us rely not on ourselves but on God who raises the dead....

He delivered us… On Him we have set our hope that He will deliver us again.”

And there, in the quiet dark, my need for Jesus was illuminated. The shadows have returned, but they've come with the reminder: no disappointment is too deep for Christ; His grace is deeper still. The pitfalls, this persistent pain - they are no match for the comfort of my Savior and the strength He delivers in love.

I dread the suffering that will probably wake me up tonight,

but I am so grateful that in the stillness, mercy speaks.

“the darkness is not dark to You;
the night is bright as the day”

love is patient, and this is the process

noreply@blogger.com (Katie L) — Fri, 17 May 2013 03:32:00 +0000

When you’re 22 years old, female, American, it’s expected that you have already been through the relationship-wringer and are now wearing the results: like T Swift - happy, free, confused, and lonely at the same time.

I don’t know much about the kind of breakup country singers write about, but I do know that people do not enter into a partnership they do not think will last. If an end does come unexpectedly, pain follows, unprepared, not expecting to have to fill that which was once a part of the whole.

This morning, we realized that God is leading me away from my Lyme doctor of over two years. My symptoms have worsened over the last few months; we’ve come to realize that he is not able to provide the treatment I need. And yet, we had believed that this doctor would be the one who would send me into remission and cure me of the afflictions that have been wrecking my body for more than a decade.

We were wrong.

I hate that we were wrong. More than that, I hate that I placed my hope in human hands rather than the God who holds the future, the God who does not withhold good from those who are His.

After a morning that has hurt so badly, this is all I am telling myself tonight:

that I no longer have what I thought I needed, but God has already provided all that is necessary. God is working out His good purpose in His perfect timing, and all I am to do is love this overwhelmingly kind Lord with all my heart, all my soul, all my strength.

And it's funny; I’ve had this blog title for months now, and I never realized how it fits -

God is love, and love is patient.

How did I miss this?

This process of seeking the heart of Jesus as I undergo medical treatment? It is only possible because God first loved me, shedding grace by spilling blood, showcasing how faithful He is in all of His actions. And now? Pain continues, but so does God’s mercy even when I make doctors into gods and serve my own motives. God is faithful to provide grace to help me wait for His timing, for love is not love that is not patient.

Soon, when I can write without watering eyes, I’ll put into words the way God continues to sustain us as we press forward in fighting this disease. Until then, I’m drowning myself in God’s promises and old medical-treatment stories that crack me up because, bless my heart, Bluebell doesn’t come gluten/dairy/sugar free.

Years ago, in a shot-in-the-dark attempt to find pain relief, my mom and I packed bags and moved temporarily into an environmentally friendly, toxin-free Dallas palace. Those living nearby had anticipated our arrival and lined white powder piles along the outdoor stairs leading to our apartment. The piles grew in intensity as we neared our door for the first time; white powder tossed in frantic, spastic squirts, boxes of baking soda piled higher and higher, aluminum contraptions set up on doormats as if ET was preparing to phone home.

Y’all.

But we were desperate. We were also emitting electromagnetic energy that was disturbing our neighbor-patients, or so the rumors went. My team of doctors in Dallas soon sent us to see one of their consultants, a “specialist” who had a knack for expressing high-frequencies of crazy.

The consultant took me down a dim hallway into a room with a table like those in any medical office. Once I was on my back staring at the ceiling, she lengthened manicured nails over my body and moved them from top to bottom, naming the colors of my aura, rainbow shades to match the good vibrations humming alongside me: orange – a lot of orange, creativity, imagination, an artist soul– she said. She cupped hands under my head, but I was over the ordeal and prepared to kick through the energy barrier keeping me from the door.

She reached into her stash of supplies and passed along one of the most patronizing glances I have ever received, “Here, sweetie.” And she gave me a rock.

It wasn’t a very big one, a smooth translucent purple, and I got to pick out the color all by myself.

I rolled it around in my hands as she explained how it would ground me, connect my energy to the earth, and I slipped a fingernail under the ‘made in China’ sticker and tried to picture my purple rock in the wild.

She reached for a small bell, and I winced, wondering if she remembered that I was in her office because the pain in my head rang without ceasing. She raised the tiny metal piece, and I heard the reverberations of that afternoon for the weeks following.

Mom and I left the office, the waiting room with its trickling stream and decorative pebbles, and the questions from family members back home flowed in one after another, “How was the appointment?” Well, she gave me a rock….

And we assumed that it was another wasted day, another useless afternoon that didn’t move me any closer to physical healing. But here is the part of the story that I need to be reminded of again and again, “[Satan] meant evil against me,” and intended it to squeeze every ounce of hope from my weary soul. “But God meant it for good, to bring it about that many people should be kept alive….” God wastes nothing.

The afternoon with the consultant, two years with the specialist, twelve years of longing for physical healing while pain continues – it wasn’t in vain.

It's not what I would have chosen, but it wasn’t useless, for God is using everything to shape us into the image of Christ: and He is God, and God is love, and Love is patient, and this is the process.

to those who live in darkness

noreply@blogger.com (Katie L) — Fri, 22 Feb 2013 03:52:00 +0000

When he looks at me, looks through me to the diplomas signed over to dust, I think of them: the ones who bang their heads against the wall and walk with ringing in their ears and move along to a melody that never ends. I know the words of the song they sing, the anthem of the club we never asked to join.

When he speaks, it’s clear he’s never been a member and has never read the bylines. He leans uncomfortably close and shines a light in my eyes, and I wish I could take the flashlight out of his hands and reveal to him what I’ve discovered in the dark.

When he looks at me, looks through me toward his shelves full of answers, I think of them: the ones who sit in his big chair and listen to his long words; I wonder if he recognizes what is coming out of his mouth, the silk-spit that weaves a web and traps the ones who dare to come close: your problem can’t be solved, there’s nothing wrong with you, you’re doing this to yourself, the pain isn’t real, it’s real but it’s not going away.

He goes away.

He leaves without giving an answer, and by the time I am home, the blackness seems deeper than before.

I crawl forward on bruised knees, stretching out hands to grab at what I know is there. I reach out, and I can’t see, but I’ll trust someone who could. Isaiah, he saw the Lord “seated on a high and lofty throne,” and he wrote that the Son of God “Himself bore our sicknesses… carried our pains.”

I think of them: the ones who have been abandoned by doctors, doubted by loved ones, shut out by those who don’t understand. I ache to tell them what I've discovered in the dark: when you know that Jesus has stepped down from heaven and stepped into suffering and taken on your hurts – it changes everything.

When I think of them, those who deal with loneliness because others cannot comprehend the depth of their pain, I thank my God for His kindness: not only is He able to shoulder their burdens, but His comfort comes with the friendship of One who understands.

When I think of them, I think of Him, and I rejoice, for I have forsaken Him far more than any doctor has forsaken me, and yet, my Jesus says, "Come."

Because of our God’s merciful compassion, the Dawn from on high will visit us to shine on those who live in darkness and the shadow of death, to guide our feet into the way of peace. ~ Luke 1:78-79

a note for the new year

noreply@blogger.com (Katie L) — Tue, 01 Jan 2013 22:25:00 +0000

A poem-prayer for 2013:
(that I am posting from the blanket-nest, snuggled warm reading this....)

"With mingling hope and trust and fear
I bid thee welcome, untried year;
The paths before me pause to view;
Which shall I shun and which pursue?
I read my fate with serious eye;
I see dear hopes and treasures fly,
Behold thee on thy opening wing
Now grief, now joy, now sorrow bring.
God grant me grace my course to run
With one blest prayer - His will be done."

~ Elizabeth Payson Prentiss, 1842

too much?

noreply@blogger.com (Katie L) — Mon, 10 Dec 2012 04:20:00 +0000

She sits in my car, and the tears stream down her cheeks and reflect the lights of angry Houstonians on their way home from work, and she presses her head against the window and whispers, “I am so unhappy.”

And she climbs out of my car, and the door slams shut, and my heart clenches, closes, before the brokenness of this world can cut deeper, but it’s too late.

It’s too much.

A week later, I am turning back onto the freeway when a quiet voice trembles in my passenger seat with the news of another who hurts with hopelessness so deep she is ready to end her life.

The conversation ends, and the messenger disappears into the night, and the darkness has never been so thick.

It’s too much.

Later that evening, I drive home in the fog, the world a blur, and I pull in front of the house and drag my body upstairs and set my phone on the dresser and begin to pick up a textbook off the floor, a folder under the bookshelf, a binder inside my closet, filling the blue backpack with item after item. The shuffling sound the pages make as they brush against the inside of the bag has never been so loud, and I turn back to the dresser to make sure I didn't miss a phone call, but the phone hasn't rung, so I continue to pick up and put in and turn around and check again and continue until one phrase fills my mind and forces me to sit.

Words that once made me glad now make mockery of my worst fear: “living hope” becomes a joke, twisted wordplay that dances to my doubts. When awaiting the worst, the news of a death, “life” taunts, and trust totters.

Emotional exhaustion only eggs on the Enemy, who finds vulnerability an easy target. He brings to mind old pain, imprinting the past upon the present, drawing upon material I had stopped thinking about years ago: my introduction to evil, the first encounter I recall, with my carpool sitting next to me, princess sketches stuffed into the pocket of the minivan, her answers to questions unasked, the birth of her baby sister, the burial soon after, the funeral of the child they named Hope; it never leaves you, the day Hope was buried; the night the oxygen didn’t work, when calls were made to the doctor to Grandpa to the hospital, and I walked restless through the waiting room, Mom at the front desk, my chart marked red with misinformation, not suicidal, they’re suicide headaches.

And I am brought back, overwhelmed, over it all.

It’s too much.

And I am brought down, face-first before God. He speaks, His Word steadies, and salvation breaks through, breaks apart the darts set into motion by Satan. The Enemy’s lies lay in submission, bowing flat before the throne of God, but, really, they never stood a chance.

Post-it notes (for the next night that will most likely be spent sitting straight up in bed, trying to process the painful problems):

Lie: God is not equipped to handle the situation if I go to sleep.

Truth: God loves the people I care about more than I do. He is all-powerful and far more equipped to handle these situations than I am. He does not have issues staying awake. He is a tried and true protector with wisdom that supersedes any earthly counsel. He provides perfect peace, consistent comfort. He draws near to the brokenhearted and the hurting.

Indeed, the Protector of Israel does not slumber or sleep. The Lord protects you; the Lord is a shelter right by your side. ~ Psalm 121:4-5

Lie: I should stay awake, anxious, awaiting news that probably won't come regarding a situation I can't control.

Truth: God keeps watch. . . . GOD keeps watch.
He watches over His nest like an eagle and hovers over His young; He spreads His wings, catches him, and lifts him up on His pinions. ~ Deuteronomy 32:11

Lie: All of this – this pain, this situation, this life, this world – it’s more than I can handle.

Truth: The situation might be more than I can handle, but it is does not go outside of the infinite boundaries of God's abilities. He gives what we need to endure, and He gives it out of kindness, meeting us in our weakness, bringing glory to His name.
'My grace is sufficient for you, for my power is made perfect in weakness.' ~ 2 Corinthians 12:9
...my God will supply all your needs according to His riches in glory in Christ Jesus. ~ Philippians 4:19
As a father shows compassion to his children, so the LORD shows compassion to those who fear Him. For He knows your frame; He remembers that we are dust. ~ Psalm 103:13-14

He knows.

When it's all just too much, God is more than enough.

(then comes the end)

noreply@blogger.com (Katie L) — Sun, 11 Nov 2012 23:32:00 +0000

Sometimes, (all the time) I need to be reminded that the Author of life has already etched out the ending of this story in blood-red ink, with vision that goes beyond this scene (the waking up in pain and the waiting and waiting and wondering - will this ever be over?).

Flip ahead a few pages, "Then comes the end, when [Jesus Christ] delivers the kingdom to God the Father after destroying EVERY rule and EVERY authority and power." (1 Corinthians 15:24)

The Word made flesh holds my present in nail-pierced hands, "then comes the end," and disease is destroyed, and victory is given through our Lord Jesus Christ.

(Best story ever.)

in this, we rejoice

noreply@blogger.com (Katie L) — Sat, 29 Sep 2012 18:21:00 +0000

I really really don’t have time to write this post this morning, but some ideas God just sticks in your heart, and those ideas - they rub together and ignite a flame, and that smoke-smell hits your nose, and where there’s smoke, well....

{ Five minutes. I’ll write this in five minutes. }

I had an excision this week. It was the second of two procedures springing from that one night I brushed my hair back and noticed a spot on my scalp and freaked out and showed my mother who freaked out and insisted we show my Lyme doctor who freaked out and sent me to a dermatologist who showed her P.A. who scheduled an appointment and grabbed a knife and cut it out.

During the excision, when the first shot of anesthesia pierced my skin and that tiny piece of flesh was scraped out, I bit my tongue to avoid speaking out loud what I was thinking: the frustration, the ache that something else was being taken away. It stung. As the nurse came into apply the bandage, I rolled onto my side and prayed, Lord, you know what it was like when Lyme entered in and you know how it's robbed these years of my life, so now - why are you letting something like this happen again?

{ Three minutes }

This morning, almost a full week after the surgery, I listened to the book of 1 Peter and picked up coffee and dropped off jackets and -okay - just looked for an excuse to drive around in the rain.

And this morning, I heard the trickle of tears flowing behind the words of the letter, a letter written to exiles, people who didn’t just have an inkling of what it meant to lose something: but who knew what it was like to lose it all.

Peter’s words - I’ve always wondered if maybe he was just penning drama the way he described the inheritance that belongs to those who have been born again:

“...imperishable, undefiled, and unfading, kept in heaven for you...”

But this morning, I heard it: the emphasis on the living hope these people could grab onto without fear that it would suddenly slip through their fingers. God knew the lives of these people: He knew what they needed to hear. He knew how they had hurt because their lives had changed, and how they felt like they had nothing left on this earth. He knew they needed something to hold onto, so He gave them the most glorious promise to claim as theirs. They were a people grieving losses, but in this they rejoiced.

{ Thirty seconds }

The stunning beauty of these words sinks into my soul, filling all of the hollow spaces carved out from the losses of the years. “Though you have not seen Him, you love Him” – would these words penetrate as deeply as they do now if I hadn't gone through the seasons of stripping away? Merciful God, that He would take what Satan meant for evil and use it to bring forth inexpressible joy -

In this, I rejoice.

{ Three... two... one... }

Blessed be the God and Father of our Lord Jesus Christ! According to His great mercy, He has caused us to be born again to a living hope through the resurrection of Jesus Christ from the dead, to an inheritance that is imperishable, undefiled, and unfading, kept in heaven for you, who by God's power are being guarded through faith for a salvation ready to be revealed in the last time. In this you rejoice, though now for a little while, if necessary, you have been grieved by various trials, so that the tested genuineness of your faith—more precious than gold that perishes though it is tested by fire—may be found to result in praise and glory and honor at the revelation of Jesus Christ. Though you have not seen Him, you love Him. Though you do not now see Him, you believe in Him and rejoice with joy that is inexpressible and filled with glory.... ~ 1 Peter 1:3-8

a quick post because

noreply@blogger.com (Katie L) — Tue, 11 Sep 2012 00:05:00 +0000

I can’t read through messages from fellow cluster headache patients without sobbing. One guys says the episodes are destroying his life. One girl says all she does is cry. And they write these notes and ask if I can take away their pain, if I know how to stop the cycles, if I can make their lives better -- and I used to think I couldn’t offer them anything, but God is showing me that Christ is a gift and He's everything.

Pain’s universal. This doesn’t just apply to sickness. The places in our hearts where hurt cuts deep are the very holes that God fills back up with purpose, with Christ, when we let Him. And this hollowness caused by disappointment can be filled with grace. Grace that pours peace in our souls and shows us the way Christ heals. Sometimes, it’s not the way we want. But there’s never an “in vain” when you’re “in Christ,” and in our suffering, we are free to cling to Him and find all we need to endure - because Jesus suffered first.

And just... this - He is the answer you've been trying to find. Hold tight to Him, friend. It won't be much longer.

Blessed is the man who remains steadfast under trial, for when he has stood the test he will receive the crown of life, which God has promised to those who love him. ~ James 1:12

anxiety and elephants

noreply@blogger.com (Katie L) — Tue, 07 Aug 2012 02:48:00 +0000

Last night, my symptoms flared up and brought on the most severe pain I have experienced since the treatment began. This morning, I woke with hurt dissipated, a new phase of illness begun. How do you describe this period, these moments between episodes, this pause between pain that may be for a moment, that may last for a lifetime?

People keep checking in, trying to find my head in all of this waiting. I’ve transcribed some of the most recent conversations and divided them into a handful of posts. But this feeling that’s creeping in now, this creature that’s dripping drool on my toes and panting in anticipation of my standing up and dealing with it?

I can only describe it this way :

Imagine a woman. A woman who walks into a room. A woman who walks into a room, a room that’s less than ordinary, a Pinterest portal: Anthropologie meets Martha Stewart meets HGTV meets Barbie Dream House.

(I digress.)

Imagine a woman walks into a room: she steps onto cold hardwood floors and feels a dark presence, a deep shadow, wrap around her shoulders. She looks toward the hallway, but the shadow has passed.

The owner of the house walks into the room and takes no notice of the woman’s startled demeanor. He beckons the woman to pay special attention to the new piece of art flown in from one of those European countries that everyone considers the authority on paint splattered in the shapes of circles and squares.

The woman stares at the owner of the house, watches the owner’s face for some acknowledgement of what is looming outside the room, but the owner smiles and nods in the direction of the canvas. The woman blinks and follows the owner’s outstretched arm to the finger tracing the patterns placed before them. The two stand together before the wall, heads nodding to a rhythm as rehearsed as society itself, until the shadow returns, falling across the picture before them.

The woman pales. She drops gaze to the ground as the shadow covers her toes. A piece of glass hits the floor and flies at her ankle, fragments of a vase knocked off a shelf by the creature stomping in behind her. Her hands fly up to her face and start waving frantically back and forth as she tries to catch her breath. She places one hand against the wall to steady herself and turns slowly to look the creature in the face.

She inhales at the sight of it, and her hand moves from the wall to the painting. As her weight shifts to rest against the frame, she stutters, “It’s… it’s –“

The owner brushes glass aside with his foot, exhaling annoyance. “Ma’am, could you please keep your fingers off the painting?”

The words don’t make it to the woman before she takes her hand off the painting and steps toward the creature. She tilts her head and leans in closer. She turns back to the owner, “It’s a –“

“This piece right here has always been one of my favorites.” The owner moves to a sculpture in the far corner of the room. Behind her, the creature winks. The woman looks at the owner, and then back at the creature looming above her, and then towards the owner’s turned back.

The woman stops the conversation and puts a hand on her hip. “Yes. It’s lovely. Now could you tell me about the pink elephant in the room?”

"Oh, you saw that?"
--

This over-sized monster known as fear that waddles in as soon as the possibility of pain approaches? Right. About that... I had planned to ignore it, but it's hard to miss, inconspicuous as a neon behemoth standing in an empty room.

But did you see the sky today? I think it might rain.

And those strawberries in the fridge are finally ripe.

The Olympics? You’ve been watching, right? Phenomenal. Really.

And that pink elephant? Yeah, I guess it’s still there. Staining the rug. Keeping everyone from sleeping.

I’d like to think it will find its way back out the door if I sort of walk away from it and just let it be. Let it stay for now.

But it’s in the stillness of the night that its presence drapes over my body, and I close one eye so that it appears to move farther away - then I close the other eye – nearfarnearnearfarnearfar -, but then it sits on my chest, and it sure does weigh a lot, and it seems like that petting-zoo smell might get trapped in the sheets, so I sit up, and here we are.

I’ve been here before.

When pain starts up, everything within me begs for God to make it stop. When the pain stops, I celebrate. It’s in this place that I am able to catch my breath, but I don’t take off my shoes in case I need to run again. But it's not easy to sleep when you don't take off your shoes.

This fear of the pain returning buries deep: it’s become a disease fed by my illness. It wraps greedy fingers around my heart and festers with promises to kill, steal, destroy the steady peace God so readily supplies.

This fear, it’s multifaceted, but it's more than a mere dread of facing a hurting body once again. Bruises and blood, suffering, stress: I’ve survived enough to warrant breaking into a Kelly Clarkson song every now and then. Sure, God alone sustained me, but my pride would have you know I’m a survivor. What doesn’t kill me makes me stronger. Strong-er. Me. Myself. and I.

This fear, it showcases how much I depend on myself and how little I depend on God. God, who runs an entire universe. Katie, who can’t remember where the car is parked.

And I’ve noticed that this fear hides itself in church-talk. It can be seen in reluctance, a heavy-hearted submission when it’s time to address the trials in life. Like, when people say they’re accepting their suffering because it’s what God has planned, but they say it slow, and you can see them in the middle of their situation, comforted as a cat in a car wash?

An enormous difference exists between begrudgingly submitting and willingly accepting what God wills.

And the pink elephant returns.

This fear of what my future holds, this fear of pain coming back, it doesn’t even live inside the “begrudging submission” bucket. It corrodes the edge, discontent and unbelief spilled over and out, building disgusting rot.

This fear shows where my heart is, exactly what I’m thinking about God. It shows the mistakes in my mindset: the errors that encourage me to believe that God lacks the resources to carry me through another bad night, the lies that like to make my Lord out to be a God of scarcity instead of abundance.

This fear, it tries to trick me into thinking that God does not know what is best for my life and that He won’t be near when troubles start again. This fear, it feeds on the idea that God will draw near in my trouble, but when the pain comes, He won’t be able to handle it.

These fears, they’re overwhelming in the dark. Their shadows worm their way into my room and stretch to the ceiling in overwhelming greatness. Lights turned on, they disappear. The substance of the Light absorbs them: not one shadow is left to dance over me.

My God – He is removing all of my anxiety this way. In gracious love, He illuminates His Word so it glows with the truth of who He is. When my fear begins to make shadow-puppets on the wall of my heart and when dread argues that God will not be able to deliver me from upcoming battles, God shines light and the shadows disappear and He whispers, “Oh yeah? Try me.”

I called on Your name, Yahweh, from the depths of the Pit. You hear my plea: ... You come near when I call on You; You say: 'Do not be afraid.' ~ Lamentations 3:55-58

when your heart is ripped in two

noreply@blogger.com (Katie L) — Tue, 24 Jul 2012 18:37:00 +0000

It surprises me sometimes. The Word opens up, and I inhale life, but two-edged sword, it cuts me open. These unexpected wounds, they sting against summer air, and I wonder, how long will it take before they’re closed again, stitched together in a new way? When stitches fall out, scars remain, and years from now, will I be able to run fingers across the jagged lines where seams tied me together again, remember what was said as the Physician went to work on my heart?

“That evening at sundown they brought to [Jesus] all who were sick…And the whole city was gathered together at the door. And He healed many who were sick with various diseases... And rising very early in the morning, while it was still dark, He departed…”

Yesterday, I drove into the world with the New Testament in the background, but when this section of Scripture started playing, the world around me stilled, and at the red light, my eyes closed tight and a lump grew large in my throat.

Many. He healed many.

Tears burned. He could have healed them all.

Last night, as a new cluster headache cycle started, the tears fell harder. Jesus, why didn’t you take away all of their pain?

Life in a small town means word travels fast. I stop by HEB to pick up food for dinner, but it’s thirty minutes later and someone I’ve never seen before has been telling me all that I’ve been up to and I walk away a little amused, very confused, and leave without the chicken.

Jesus begins His public ministry, and His fame spreads throughout the region, but that’s not surprising: when women have a man on their mind, discussions about who he is and where he’s from and what he’s up to wrap the world several times before he gets a chance to say hello.

News of Jesus’ coming arrives in the city long before he does, and gossip runs giddy and spins everyone right ‘round: and that evening, that night when Jesus enters the scene, the sun falls in the sky and hangs a spotlight on all who meet Him on the welcome mat.

The book of Mark takes a quick look at the scene and winks, and I laugh too because I know it’s true: in a small town, everyone knows everything, and everyone shows up, “The whole city was gathered together at the door.”

In the back, someone shoves forward, and the shushes spin circles, and nods and notes ripple as people wonder and wait - to be seen, to be healed, to be known - and maybe the longings to be found by this man emerge from the thick of the crowd, but then the group thins out and the noise is absorbed by the night and Jesus moves away from the crowd and the people go back to their homes.

Perhaps, mixed in among the rest, is a woman who follows, a woman who walks behind those who have been healed, who steps in the dust of their dancing and the echoes of their praise. Perhaps, the moon illuminates her face, a smile for those who have been cured, a smile until all of the others have disappeared into the night, but when all are gone, the stars above see her turn without a word into her home and flood the dark shadows with her tears.

She had seen this man, seen his power, seen his abilities, seen how He left to accomplish other tasks. She doesn’t understand what He is doing. She doesn't understand why He didn’t heal her then and there, why He didn’t take her pain away forever. If He wanted, He could have healed her, too.

Centuries before the woman would have been born, an old man felt around in the darkness for tangible hope, but his fingers grasped only the wind. God came to the old man in a vision and reminded him that he would be given a great reward; the old man had received the unique promise that his wife would give birth to a child, but the promise had not yet been wrapped in flesh, and the old man didn’t hear cries from the nursery, and his soul sobbed deep. He spun around to look at what he had, and his voice broke as he took inventory of what was missing: “O Lord God, what will you give me, for I continue childless?"

God saw the old man enveloped in shadows and questions and led him outside and spoke to him, “Look up.” The old man lifted his chin to the sky, and God pointed to the stars and began to reveal to him the Light, to begin to turn his focus to the bigger picture.

God had the old man bring live animals and cut them in half. The old man tore the bodies of a heifer and a goat and a ram, and he breathed the smell of death deep into his lungs and separated the halves so that there was a space between them. And that night, "a deep sleep fell on [the old man]. And behold, dreadful and great darkness fell upon him….When the sun had gone down and it was dark, behold, a smoking fire pot and a flaming torch passed between these pieces.”

That night, God passed through the aisle between the carcasses to say in effect, "If I do not fulfill my promise to you, may it be done to me as it has been done to the animals slain here."

When the old man woke the next morning, the promise to him was not fulfilled before his eyes, but one day it would come to pass, and he would rejoice in the God who had kept His word. In the meantime, God came to the old man again and introduced Himself with a new name: El Shaddai. 'El' referred to God's power; 'shaddai' referred to the way in which God supplies strength to His people and satisfies them completely.

God could have fulfilled His promise on the earth in that moment, but as the old man waited, the suffocating longings for God to bring what He said to pass required the old man to cry out daily for the one he grew to know as El Shaddai.

And the woman, well, she could have been healed instantly, but she wasn't, and she didn't understand why. But she had missed the reason Jesus had come. If she had caught up with Him after He departed from her city, chased Him until she saw His back pressed against a tree, she would have seen His arms stretched wide until His hands were nailed in separate pieces, flesh ripping, pain piercing through the shadows, Light shining in the darkness, Son of the Most High slain in the fulfillment of a promise.

She would have seen Him suffering, she would have heard Him crying out, and when He returned to her city after rising from the dead, she would have felt His scars. And she wouldn't have rubbed those marks with her fingers and asked why He didn't make her pain go away. No. She would have fallen on her knees and praised Him for wounds that spilled mercy, for blood that meant grace. She would have worshiped Him because He had healed her spiritually, she would have thanked Him for the promise that when she died she would be healed physically.

Later on, when pain rained heavy, His peace would flood deep. When she felt as though her heart was ripping apart, she would glory in the broken flesh of the One who had healed her, and she would draw ever-nearer to a God with a name so precious: strength-giving and soul-satisfying, El Shaddai.

...He has torn us, and He will heal us; He has wounded us, and He will bind up our wounds. He will revive us …and on the third day He will raise us up so we can live in His presence. Let us strive to know the Lord. His appearance is as sure as the dawn.

~ Hosea 6:1-3

how are you?

noreply@blogger.com (Katie L) — Wed, 04 Jul 2012 17:44:00 +0000

Good.

It’s the answer people want to hear, the answer I want to tell them. It’s the answer to that question people ask to be polite or to begin a conversation or to fill those big empty spaces.

So, how are you?

Maybe that social expectation, that gentle interrogation is a Southern thing. Or a Texas thing. Like sweet tea and guns. Like not waiting in silence on the elevator but turning to the person next to you and talking their ear off in a conversation fragranced with that gently noticeable drawl that doesn’t so much exist when you’re actually home (you’re from the city, a big city) but seems to sneak out in boots dripping with state pride when you’re away. “How are y’all this morning?”

You can pick out the people not used to the lone star culture, poor dears, looking like critters caught in car headlights in the middle of hunting season. “What? Me? Oh. Yeah. I’m good.”

Bless their hearts.

Now, what's the option if you don't say that you're doing okay? Tell the truth? Are you kidding me? To admit to another human being that you don't have it all together? To stand in absolute vulnerability before them awaiting their disapproval at the fact that you can't handle everything, to look at them and say, “Actually, I’m struggling".... Wait, do people do that?

To answer that way is to point to the dirt before it’s been swept up. It’s opening up the doors to a room you haven’t cleaned in weeks and you want to jump over a couch and shove your body between the door and the person but they turn the knob and they walk in and they look around and they see the disaster area for what it is and they see who you are and they look back at you... and they know.

Those moments, they're not pretty. You want people to only see you at your most attractive moment, and that one? It's not so great.

This season I'm in is a little like that. It's more than a little messy. I’m a patient undergoing medical treatment, but I’m mostly not patient, and if I thought about this a little longer, I would probably talk myself into waiting to tell my story until after all the junk has been cleared away and I could come before you and just tell you the parts that make me look really good. Like, really good.

But it’s here, in the desperation and the weariness and the pain, it’s here that grace finds me. How do you survive the bad days? You cling to what is good.

Growing up, I never thought directly about whether or not I was good. But, mostly, you'd think I was. I learned the Bible in school and won awards at church and danced to Christian boy bands and never cussed and never saw an R-rated movie and gained wisdom from John Avery Whittaker and sang "El Shaddai" like Amy Grant.

Then I got sick. Starting in 5th grade, I started to miss school more and more frequently. Following my 12th birthday, I was hospitalized for the first time. From that point on, my health began to gradually decrease until I was diagnosed with "multisystem organ dysfunction" at age 16. I began to have severe, frequent cycles of cluster headaches, a rare, excruciatingly painful type of headache for which there is technically no cure.

For the past 11 years, I’ve traveled from doctor to doctor, seeing some of the best doctors in the nation, each one taking hours to talk over my case only to either refer me on or try something that would prove ineffective. I withdrew from my high school, and my family moved to a new city. My identity, wrapped up in my accomplishments at school, was shattered; my friends seemed far, my future uncertain.

But it was then - when it seemed like I had nothing - that Jesus became everything. Through the grace of God alone, my eyes slowly began to open to the beauty of a faithful Father who sent His son to be "stricken, smitten by God, and afflicted." In the darkness of my circumstances, I found light in a perfect God, whose glory illuminated my self-centered heart and showed that I wasn’t the good girl I thought I was. Or anywhere close.

And yet, this perfect God allowed His Son to suffer greater pain than anything I could even imagine. He walked through this horrible affliction, and because He did, I received His goodness. He wrapped me up in His nature and let me fall in love with His character.

This Son, Jesus, He knows suffering intimately. "Acquainted with grief," He's the only one who understands what this journey has been like.

Christ's wounds have brought me healing. When cluster headaches came back, when I gave up the dream of going away to college, when all seemed hopeless, Christ Himself became my hope. On sleepless nights, He taught me how to rest in the stability of who He is. He revealed Himself as faithful, loving, gentle, wonderful. Jesus became my peace, my joy. I could trust that He was sovereign over everything, even this physical hurt that didn't make sense. He was in control, and He could be trusted.

A year ago, I was diagnosed with Lyme Disease, and the prayer is that God will use the treatment I'm currently undergoing to keep my cluster headaches from coming back.

If this treatment fails, it doesn't change a thing: God is still good, He is still all-powerful, and He is still worthy of all praise and worship. I will always long for health, but if it is sickness that brings me closer to Jesus, then it is a gift; daily, I must kneel before Him and receive grace to be able to serve Him with this perspective and to thank Him for these circumstances and to praise Him for providing the strength to endure.

Today, in this messy moment, I want to set aside this little space: a corner to sit down and listen to God speak through His Word, a place to record what He’s done and what He’s doing and to wrestle with truth and whisper it back to Him in breathless gratitude.

My hope is that these simple blog posts can be a picture of God's grace and perfect faithfulness in chronic pain, to show that – even now, even in suffering - "God’s presence is my good."

I have made the Lord GOD my refuge, so I can tell about all You do.
~ Psalm 73:28