Peripetia

Trust your unknown future to a known God

Shared by an amazing source of encouragement, this quote has stuck with me.  I don't think any of us quite comprehend the uncertainty of the future until we face something big.

I met a coworker at the lab during one of my bloodwork appointments.  I had not seen her since my college days ended in 2010 and in the course of the conversation, she asked what I had been doing since we had last seen each other.  I tried to quickly come up with a summary of my journey... and since the timeline started with the arrival of the twins, there seemed to be a lot to catch up on.  I came home and asked my husband how he would sum it up.  He replied, "the pain, the pain - it hurts!" (this made me laugh - and still can bring a smile - particularly since he knows me so well by leaving room for me to add the punctuation).

A week ago Saturday found me in a place of set back with my condition - "the pain, the pain - it hurts!".  And in this place I realized once again how fragile I am.

How quickly I had forgotten.

I am thankful that the intensity of the pain has lessened to an ebb and flow of uncomfortable pressure.  All the same, I am frustrated by my lack of energy and the persistence of a medical condition which I cannot understand.

***

"Understanding will never bring you peace that is why I've instructed you to trust me.  Humans have a voracious appetite to figure things out to have a mastery of our lives.  We need to cease seeking mastery and start seeking our Master." [paraphrased from Sarah Young "Jesus Calling: Seeking Peace in His Presence"].

This quote comes from a phenomenal sermon in the E100 series at SPAC.  The timing of listening to this sermon (and I can say the same for the School of Faith) couldn't have been more perfect.  There are seasons in your life where "the weary days of waiting are often days that are big with spiritual destiny but they are hard to be endured." (F. B Meyer)

In these weary days of waiting - days where I feel like I've been hit by a train and am therefore am incapacitated in so many ways - I wage war with my emotions. I'm feeling the vertigo from the swing from the depths of regret to the heights of gratefulness.

***

Regret: I feel inclined to apologise.  Without a doubt, it's in my nature to apologise.  This time, the scope has a trajectory which goes a little further from that where I say "I'm sorry" when all that was needed was a polite "excuse me" as I let someone pass in the grocery aisle.

In the way I'd like to voice my regrets, I want to apologise for all those times that I haven't been able to be or be there for those who I care so much about.  I feel compelled to apologise to my husband, my young sons, my family by birth, my family by heart, and my amazing friends - for the impact of burden or of absence.  My physical condition has left me - for months - at a capacity of doing so little.  

The old version of 'me' was fueled by an energy (and, undeniably, a hot cup of strong coffee) that allowed me to swing my children into my arms, into their carseats on the way to a play excursion, and into a variety of activities that we enjoyed together.  That old version could go and do and experience.  My abilities limited, my geography restrained, I am finding joy in doing, going and experiencing within these four walls - within this ministry to my boys.

Nevertheless, coming to terms with the physical and emotional transition by accepting that I am still in one peace has been nothing less than an exercise of faith.

And, in faith, I am waiting for my peripetia.

***

Gratefulness: Already fragile, it is incredibly humbling to (yet again) accept the help that I have received from friends who have given so much while they've delegated their own tasks to come to my aid.  From going above and beyond the call of friendship to practical nurturing of my boys, these women have demonstrated an unending source of the fruit of the spirit for us.  They have cared for me, my children and my house when I have been infirm and recovering.

All the same, it is hard for an independent mother who enjoys caring for others to be on the receiving end of kindnesses, given all the kindness we've been blessed with.  From the  arrival of the twins to the beginning of this recovery, we have had love lavished on us in a thousand ways.  I grapple with my pride as much as with my weakness - my gratefulness is never eclipsed by my desire to give back; however, there are times where I am brought to tears by the goodness gift wrapped to us in the forms of gestures that mean so much.

As I have mentioned in a previous post, how can I even begin to thank them for their immeasurable kindness?

Perhaps even more beautiful than their compassion is their ability to illustrate Christianity in action to my young sons; each has poured out love in an intensely personal way to our family.

***

In one of those moments that I just needed a bit of encouragement, my current Beth Moore study guide fell open to the second last page of my book.  There I found this quote written by an unknown author:

I believe in the sun, even when it is not shining.
I believe in love, even when I do not feel it.
I believe in God, even when He is silent.

I don't understand this medical condition; I don't understand grief or loss; and most importantly, what I don't understand outweighs what I do understand.  I have grown on this journey with a new understanding of gratefulness, thankfulness, and blessings as much as I have been growing in an understanding of regret, pain, and limitations.

Perhaps the most significant understanding - and the best summary of my journey - is this:

I believe.