The lessons from silence
Many of you know, my last post dealt with my taking a real "unplugged" couple of weeks.
I was determined to "hear from God."
Each morning, during this time I would take my coffee back to bed and sit. waiting. listening.
I needed answers. I needed healing. I needed direction. So, every morning and every night, I listened. Sometimes I would kneel. Sometimes I would sit on my bed, but no music and no interruptions.
And after three weeks?
I heard nothing.
There was no epiphany, no Hallelujah chorus and certainly no answers.
This road. I've been looking for some shred of sense in it all and I have to tell you, I haven't discovered it.
There are different ways I have been effected by this journey the last several months.
Emotional toll:
If you've never experienced chronic pain, then I pray you never will. There isn't a single moment of the day or night when I'm pain-free. It's brutal. Although its severity wavers, it is always always there. I have to give myself a " pep talk" every morning and occasionally during the night. Getting out of bed is a process, as it usually involves balancing and leaning on what's available. I know the pain is coming, and I know I have to get up, but I have to go through with it. Things that I took for granted a few months ago: getting dressed, getting in and out of the bathtub, all have to be "thought out." All day. Every day. Self talk has become my way of getting through these scenarios. So, if you see me "talking to myself" don't worry, it's part of the process.
I am also effected emotionally because I can't do the simplest things. Going for a walk, standing in line for any length of time, even working in the yard. I have become that person, I never thought I'd be. I have always been super active. Bike rides, hikes and even mowing and gardening...are all things I can't do right now.
Having to have my 16 year old help me walk at times and take care of me, is humbling to say the least.
Then, at Christmas I had to have "the talk," with my daughters about the "what ifs." This disease is life-threatening. The tissues around my heart and my eyes are effected. Many have died due to chest collapse. I don't have a huge family and the reality of the escalation of this disease, is well....taking an emotional toll.
Misunderstanding:
When people see me, not with crutches and or the isolation boot I was wearing for close to four months, they assume I'm fine. Now, I really don't want pity. That's not it, but what happens is the assumption that I'm okay. In the middle of all this, I've lost my job(s). "Why don't you just get a job?"
"You're better! That's great! You must be so relieved."
Today, I had to turn down a singing engagement, because of the severity of damage to my trachea and windpipe, as well as a chronic cough that has developed due to the inflammation. Those that really know me, know how hard it was, to decline.
"Why don't you go ahead and apply for disability?" You can't apply for disability without proof of symptoms via doctor's and specialist's visits. But, I can't make all those visits and tests needed, without insurance. But I can't just work anywhere. No childcare, no retail, or anything that requires lifting and/or standing.
I know, so if we look at all this, it seems hopeless. I would be lying if I said I never felt that way. There are days, when it takes an hour to just get dressed and ready for the day.
But...
This journey, has brought a level of hope and expectancy that I have to hold close. If I didn't have hope, then I just can't imagine going on.
I know, no matter how hard it gets, no matter how many "unfriend" because "She's asking for money again," no matter how isolated, and lonely the journey becomes, I know He is still there.
No matter how many people try to "encourage" me with:
"Have you tried____?"
"What scriptures are you quoting daily?"
"You can't even talk about what could happen, whose report do you believe?"
"Just have faith!"
"Just let me know if you need anything."
I know He's there, because in the middle of those "pep talks," I feel His presence.
I know He's there, when a friend says:"I don't know what to say, but I know your walk."
I know He's there, when my daughter says her faith is growing even in the middle of this.
I know He's there, when my rent had to be paid last month and a stranger, paid the balance I needed.
I know He's there, even when it's silent and the pain is so great and the tears fall like rain, and the brutality of this disease feels like it's unbearable, then a letter, an email a text, just telling me I'm loved, comes just in time.
He is there, in the sun that streams through my bedroom window.
He is there, in my neighbor taking my trashcan to the road for me.
He is there, when there is silence, but also and without fail, an unspeakable peace.
Revelation 21:4 "He will wipe every tear from their eyes. There will be no more death, or mourning,or crying or pain, for the old order of things has passed away."
Each morning, during this time I would take my coffee back to bed and sit. waiting. listening.
I needed answers. I needed healing. I needed direction. So, every morning and every night, I listened. Sometimes I would kneel. Sometimes I would sit on my bed, but no music and no interruptions.
And after three weeks?
I heard nothing.
There was no epiphany, no Hallelujah chorus and certainly no answers.
This road. I've been looking for some shred of sense in it all and I have to tell you, I haven't discovered it.
There are different ways I have been effected by this journey the last several months.
Emotional toll:
If you've never experienced chronic pain, then I pray you never will. There isn't a single moment of the day or night when I'm pain-free. It's brutal. Although its severity wavers, it is always always there. I have to give myself a " pep talk" every morning and occasionally during the night. Getting out of bed is a process, as it usually involves balancing and leaning on what's available. I know the pain is coming, and I know I have to get up, but I have to go through with it. Things that I took for granted a few months ago: getting dressed, getting in and out of the bathtub, all have to be "thought out." All day. Every day. Self talk has become my way of getting through these scenarios. So, if you see me "talking to myself" don't worry, it's part of the process.
I am also effected emotionally because I can't do the simplest things. Going for a walk, standing in line for any length of time, even working in the yard. I have become that person, I never thought I'd be. I have always been super active. Bike rides, hikes and even mowing and gardening...are all things I can't do right now.
Having to have my 16 year old help me walk at times and take care of me, is humbling to say the least.
Then, at Christmas I had to have "the talk," with my daughters about the "what ifs." This disease is life-threatening. The tissues around my heart and my eyes are effected. Many have died due to chest collapse. I don't have a huge family and the reality of the escalation of this disease, is well....taking an emotional toll.
Misunderstanding:
When people see me, not with crutches and or the isolation boot I was wearing for close to four months, they assume I'm fine. Now, I really don't want pity. That's not it, but what happens is the assumption that I'm okay. In the middle of all this, I've lost my job(s). "Why don't you just get a job?"
"You're better! That's great! You must be so relieved."
Today, I had to turn down a singing engagement, because of the severity of damage to my trachea and windpipe, as well as a chronic cough that has developed due to the inflammation. Those that really know me, know how hard it was, to decline.
"Why don't you go ahead and apply for disability?" You can't apply for disability without proof of symptoms via doctor's and specialist's visits. But, I can't make all those visits and tests needed, without insurance. But I can't just work anywhere. No childcare, no retail, or anything that requires lifting and/or standing.
I know, so if we look at all this, it seems hopeless. I would be lying if I said I never felt that way. There are days, when it takes an hour to just get dressed and ready for the day.
But...
This journey, has brought a level of hope and expectancy that I have to hold close. If I didn't have hope, then I just can't imagine going on.
I know, no matter how hard it gets, no matter how many "unfriend" because "She's asking for money again," no matter how isolated, and lonely the journey becomes, I know He is still there.
No matter how many people try to "encourage" me with:
"Have you tried____?"
"What scriptures are you quoting daily?"
"You can't even talk about what could happen, whose report do you believe?"
"Just have faith!"
"Just let me know if you need anything."
I know He's there, because in the middle of those "pep talks," I feel His presence.
I know He's there, when a friend says:"I don't know what to say, but I know your walk."
I know He's there, when my daughter says her faith is growing even in the middle of this.
I know He's there, when my rent had to be paid last month and a stranger, paid the balance I needed.
I know He's there, even when it's silent and the pain is so great and the tears fall like rain, and the brutality of this disease feels like it's unbearable, then a letter, an email a text, just telling me I'm loved, comes just in time.
He is there, in the sun that streams through my bedroom window.
He is there, in my neighbor taking my trashcan to the road for me.
He is there, when there is silence, but also and without fail, an unspeakable peace.
Revelation 21:4 "He will wipe every tear from their eyes. There will be no more death, or mourning,or crying or pain, for the old order of things has passed away."
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