chronic illness

Never Useless: laying aside harsh words for hard stories

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“In the years since our lives changed forever…”

It was a humble, short phrase, soaked with intention. The author was Katherine Wolf, survivor of a brain stem stroke that disabled her body, her speech, her face, and nearly claimed her life in her early twenties.

But she didn’t write, “In the years since my devastating stroke…” She didn’t even name what happened to her. She didn’t say “ruined.” Instead, she expressed the lasting impact of the stroke by using the phrase, “changed forever.” Katherine refused to turn her story over to be a narrative of only damage.

I wanted that same intention in how I frame what we’ve walked through, but I didn’t know how to get there. So, I started asking the Lord to give me His words for my story.

When I try to explain it, it goes like this:

(If you already know it, feel free to skip ahead.)

We studied for years and worked hard to pay for the flight training needed to prepare for an aviation ministry overseas. We sold our vehicles and belongings and moved our entire lives to Papua New Guinea to support missionaries working to translate the word of God into new languages. We studied the trade language for months to be able to live and function in the country. Then we got pregnant with our second baby. It was a brutal pregnancy filled with unrelenting nausea and vomiting that we could not get under control even with the prescription medications the doctors at our base were able to give me. We fought to handle it with IV fluids a few times a week and support from our co-workers to feed and care for our family while Cody continued in simulator training and working on the planes in the hangar.

Seventeen weeks into the pregnancy, our leadership and medical staff sent us back to the U.S. to receive more complex medical care. I was placed on a pump, constantly infusing nausea medication, then hospitalized for a cardiac arrhythmia that was contributing to how fatigued and weak I felt. I came home with a wearable defibrillator and an implanted heart monitor, then gave birth in the ICU. Shortly after we got the baby home, he began having eye tremors. We took him to the hospital and found that he had fluid compressing and leaking into his brain tissue, cysts in two parts of his brain, and another part that never formed at all. We delayed our return to Papua New Guinea and set up housing and interim work serving at the mission’s retirement home for the next year, which we spent getting frequent brains scans for the baby, trialing a medication to slow down the fluid, and seeing specialists. Each time we thought we were in the clear and could return to our home overseas, another issue came up with either Benaiah, Cody, or I that we had to address: surgery for a birth defect, surgery for ear infections, appendicitis, a tumor too deep to biopsy, speech delays, nervous system disorders, and then, daily migraines which forfeited Cody’s ability to renew his flight medical. Finally, we tried to go back to Papua New Guinea, in a mechanic role, to give whatever we had left, and two things happened. One, another evaluation revealed new delays with the recommendation for more support and early intervention for our child. Two, we felt an unexpected peace that there was something new the Lord had for us to press into: a ministry of comfort and encouragement to missionaries and ministry workers who are struggling.

People can ask me a simple question and sometimes I’ve wrestled that information into a straightforward answer, but sometimes it still unleashes a flood of emotion, frustration, and unexpected detail. Sometimes, I shut the topic down and pack all that untidiness away.

We can be like that with our stories.

Many of our lives take us on trajectories we never wanted or expected. I know the Lord had purpose in it. But I’ve struggled as we’ve made the pivot into this new and good thing before us. It meant letting go of trying to get back to our life in Papua New Guinea. It meant accepting that our lives had changed forever. And it was heart-breaking.

But reading Katherine’s words was a reminder that even our hardest stories are more than what has happened to us or what we’ve lost, and I wanted a way to talk and think about mine that reflected God’s unfaltering intentions and purposes, not just my heartache and confusion.

So I took some intentional time to put away distractions with the purpose of asking the Lord to meet me in the discomfort that I normally numb. I tried to breathe through many, many uncomfortable thoughts and just invite Jesus into those moments.

Comfort me, Lord. Give me your words for my story. Uproot anything that’s untrue. Plant your truth deep in its place.

For a few weeks I have been praying this, and I wanted to share a passage the Lord challenged me with as I sought Him in his word. Right smack in the middle of the powerhouse book of Philippians, Paul takes a moment to talk about Epaphroditus, a man who risked his life for the sake of Christ:

“Meanwhile, I thought I should send Epaphroditus back to you. He is a true brother, co-worker, and fellow soldier. And he was your messenger to help me in my need. I am sending him because he has been longing to see you, and he was very distressed that you heard he was ill. And he certainly was ill; in fact, he almost died. But God had mercy on him – and also on me, so that I would not have one sorrow after another. So I am all the more anxious to send him back to you, for I know you will be glad to see him, and then I will not be so worried about you. Welcome him in the Lord’s love and with great joy, and give him the honor that people like him deserve. For he risked his life for the work of Christ, and he was at the point of death while doing for me what you couldn’t do from far away.”

-Philippians 2:25-30

Here’s what I had never noticed before: Epaphroditus risked his life for the sake of Christ by getting sick.

Does this sound familiar?

My breath caught and I started to object, “But Lord, I didn’t stay to the point of death itself…”

Epaphroditus wanted to keep going. He wanted to give more than he had to give. He got sent back from something that was really important to him. He got sick. This was not his plan. His story is here for a reason. Do you want my words for your story? Look at how I describe his.

I studied the words used to depict Epaphroditus:

True brother, co-worker, fellow soldier. Welcome him with love and great joy. Give the honor people like him deserve.

I sat quietly with this passage, and I felt a gentle question nudge my heart:

“What if I honor the very thing that fills you with shame?”

Epaphroditus never would have written these things about himself. Nor would I describe myself that way. But I’m writing down this wrestling because I don’t think I’m the only one carrying around a bitter accusation that what I tried to give to the Lord was lost. And I think He confronted me on this because He thinks differently than you or I.

Lost? What do you mean? You offered it to me. As you walk with me, what you lose, give up, or suffer, I count as an offering.

Epaphroditus was upset that the Philippian church even found out he had been sick. But God inspired Paul to write these glowing words about a man who was being sent home. A man whose service was affected and interrupted by an illness totally outside his control.

I get honoring great sacrifice when I see what it accomplished. When hardship happens and it gets in the way and erodes what I am able to give; when I see cost, but I can’t trace out how it could be worthwhile…other words come to mind.

What was all of that? Why did we train for years and leave everything to give our lives to the work of spreading the Gospel only to end up hospitalized and scrambling to figure out housing back in the United States?

How useless. What a waste.

Those are the painful words that have painted my disappointment with extra sting.

What are yours?

My aching friends, God doesn’t think the same way we do.

He didn’t just see Epaphroditus’ body, taken down by illness, falling short of all he may have wanted to accomplish. God saw his heart.

He sees yours and mine, too, even when we are spent and there’s so much more need beyond our reach. Even when it all falls apart and we’re trying to rally, but we’re limping and frustrated and filled with doubt. Even when, like Epaphroditus, we’d rather people not even know how desperate things got. Even when we’ve tried to do something good and it blows up in our face.

“…Man looks at the outward appearance, but the Lord looks at the heart.”

-1 Samuel 16:7

God doesn’t look at weakness or sickness with annoyance like you and I might. He’s not surprised when it disrupts our plans. He’s not stuck on how it’s holding us back. He tells us we can boast all the more gladly about our weakness, because it is in that weakness (not once we get past it) that his power rests on us and that we find His grace sufficient. The unexpected stuff that hits our lives is part of the course that He’s marked out for us, even and especially when it gets in the way of what we wanted to offer.

This week, as I’ve continued asking the Lord to give me His words for my story, I was reading Malachi chapter 3 and I came across this:

““Your words against me are harsh,” says the Lord.

Yet you ask, “What have we spoken against you?”

 You have said, “It is useless to serve God…” 

And again, I was challenged. When I say, “What a waste. How useless.” Not only are those NOT God’s words for anything my story has held, but while leaning on my own understanding, I am speaking harshly against Him. I’m looking at the short timeline and the visible things I can wrap my human brain around and declaring that since this didn’t turn out the way I hoped, it was a waste. But here’s the truth,

“So, my dear brothers and sisters, be strong and immovable. Always work enthusiastically for the Lord, for you know that nothing you do for the Lord is ever useless.”

-1 Corinthians 15:58

Why would Paul need to write that to the church at Corinth? Because life is full of trouble and ministry is hard. Sometimes, it feels useless. So we need the truth that it is never useless.

If you’re spent and hurting and fighting with the lie that it’s not worth it. I’m going to repeat it again. This is what God has to say. Here’s your sword, pick it up:

NOTHING YOU DO FOR THE LORD IS EVER USELESS.

NOTHING YOU’VE DONE FOR THE LORD WAS EVER A WASTE.

In this life you will have trouble. But take heart. He is using those troubles.

Sometimes, it’s not the satisfying moments when it all comes together, it’s the hollow ones when it all comes apart where we learn to treasure and be satisfied in Him. Sometimes, He’s doing something new we never saw coming. Sometimes, waiting feels like defeat, but it’s not.

“So let’s not get tired of doing what is good. At just the right time, we will reap a harvest of blessing if we don’t give up.”

-Galatians 6:9

Epaphroditus carried the letter of Philippians from Paul to the church of Philippi. Maybe he carried the weight of disappointment on that long trek back, too.

Why, Lord, when I came all this way, would you let me get that sick?

But in leaving his ministry in Rome behind, Epaphroditus served as the courier that made it possible for you and I to read the words, “I can do all things through Christ who gives me strength.”

We have Philippians because Epaphroditus carried it back when he was sent home unexpectedly.

Maybe you, too, are carrying a message that God has crafted to strengthen and encourage and comfort, out of the very disappointment that has left your heart heavy, and you yourself just haven’t laid eyes on it yet.

Can you imagine the look on Epaphroditus’ face when Paul’s description of him was read out loud to the whole church?

I bet that same shocked, humbled feeling would overcome our hearts if we got a good glimpse of the way the Lord sees us. And I imagine He would say:

When I speak about you with grace, joy, hope, and satisfaction. Don’t argue. Take it in. This is who you are because of my Son. Welcomed, loved, honored, upright. Whether you’re making headway or collapsing under duress. When you’re strong and when you’re weak. I love you. I have always loved you. And I’m looking for your heart, not for what you have to offer me.

“So we have stopped evaluating others from a human point of view. At one time we thought of Christ merely from a human point of view. How differently we know him now!“

-2 Corinthians 5:16

“For the eyes of the Lord run to and fro throughout the whole earth, to show Himself strong on behalf of those whose heart is loyal to Him...”

-2 Chronicles 16:9

When Hebrews 12 tells us to lay aside every weight, I think a good portion of it might be wrong descriptions of ourselves, and heavy, stinging versions of our stories that speak harshly of their author. Let’s not carry those around anymore. Life is heavy enough. But our God, full of grace and truth, has spoken new things over us, and He promises that there is a bigger story happening with the suffering and loss we can’t make sense of.

What if we took a deep breath of trust, moved into those dark, hurting places, held it all up to the Lord, and asked Him for His version? What if He’s gentle to us? What if He comforts us? What if He give us rest for our souls?

Lord,

I trust you, here and now, that this is the path you’ve marked out for me and you’re doing more with it than I could ever grasp. So, I will not call “loss” what you call “offering.” I trust how you describe me, even when I see all my issues, and I will take my stand behind the breastplate of your perfect righteousness, which has been applied to me in Christ, to extinguish every fiery dart of accusation my enemy would hurl at my heart, and every harsh word he would speak about my story.

I will not agree with him by speaking of you or of me in that way. Fill my heart instead with your truth, your words, and your peace.

“Unless the Lord had helped me, I would soon have settled in the silence of the grave. I cried out, “I am slipping!” but your unfailing love, O Lord, supported me. When doubts filled my mind, your comfort gave me renewed hope and cheer.”

-Psalm 94:17-19

““Each time He said, “My grace is all you need. My power works best in weakness.” So now I am glad to boast about my weaknesses, so that the power of Christ can work through me. That’s why I take pleasure in my weaknesses, and in the insults, hardships, persecutions, and troubles that I suffer for Christ. For when I am weak, then I am strong.”

-2 Corinthians 12:9-10

Acquainted with Grief: misty paths and solid ground

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“The Lord is close to the brokenhearted
    and saves those who are crushed in spirit.”

–Psalm 34:18

“What would you do if you were braver?”

“What would you choose if you knew everything would be okay?”

These have been my litmus test questions when I’m making an important decision.

Courage and trust are the values I want to live my life by.

Thirty-some days ago, we were camping as the year drew to a close, and we purposed to use the time to connect with each other, to slow down, to take in God’s Word, to get quiet, and to listen. We were surprised at what rose to the surface when we were still. We found that most of our good decisions come not from finding enough answers, but from learning to ask the right questions. And we discovered that for both of our hearts, the answers to

“What would do if you were braver?“

“What would you choose if you knew everything would be okay?”

…had changed.

Not that it’s up to us to lay out where we should go. I’ve assumed incorrectly so, so many times. But if it’s up to us to take action rather than only be acted upon, and we have the privilege to fight for the direction we want, it is worth noting that we really want to care for people.

And we want to care for people in an environment that suits the stillness, reflection, and quiet that most accommodates working through grief.

“A man of sorrows, acquainted with deepest grief.” Was a verse that came up in my heart when, again, this year, I was hit with some things. Again, I went through the cycle of shock, desperate positivity, disconnect, numbness, denial, fury, irritability and I recognized it.

This is grief. I am not new to this anymore. Grief and I are familiar.

And according to Isaiah 53:3, Grief and my Messiah are familiar, too. It’s part of why His heart is so soft and compassionate and patient with me.

And I know now that grief is something that can be moved through, lived through. It has changed me, but there is still beauty and life to be lived, and I will be able to enter into them on the other side of the mist, confusion, pain, and sorrow. Though grief is suffocating, and it can block you from seeing anything else, I know now that it can be moved through, acknowledged, and felt, one step at a time, until it is no longer ALL there is.

Grief will still be there, but there will be more. There will be new life.

In July 2023 I wrote this:

“I looked across the coffee shop at the only artwork on the wall with color. A picture of the mist in the jungle trees. I felt your nudge to go there. Metaphorically. Into the mist. Into the moments when I felt lost. Not just for other people, but for myself.

It represents the heat, the pressure, the moisture, the darkness, and the tangled paths of pain, suffering, and confusion. I am mostly out into the light now. And doing everything I can to not relive who I was in the depths.

… I don’t know. I DON’T KNOW what it means that you chose me out of all the pleading moms, begging you to rescue their babies, and you said yes. AND that you left me broken.

I have both “blessed be your name’s” here.

/Blessed be your name, when the sun’s shining down on me, when the world’s all as it should be, blessed be your name./

AND

/Blessed be your name, when the road’s marked with suffering, when there’s pain in the offering, blessed be your name./

I’ve had both before…but not at the same time.

SUCH blessing and SUCH brokenness.

Which will hold my attention?

Where you have answered or where you have said that your grace is sufficient?

Hope realized or the demand for more endurance?

I don’t speak of the events and experiences I walked through like somebody who lived a story that can be told…but as a clinical report. A timeline. A compounding list of my surprise, struggle, horror and angst.

It’s not enough to make light of it or excuse it and I can’t explain it. But my other hard experiences, in time, have all become good stories where I can see your faithfulness and I have finally, with some of them, come to terms with the rich context that they are for taking people on a journey with me to a truth that we both need.

The jungles hold that. And my soul needs it. To own my own story. To come to terms with what I have survived so that I can stand, firm and grounded and strong, on the other side of what I’ve overcome, instead of flinching, hunched and haunted – spirit broken.

And maybe part of the path to that wholeness, the first step toward those misty trees, is acknowledging that I have a broken spirit.

“The Lord hears his people when they call to him for help. He rescues them from all their troubles. The Lord is close to the brokenhearted; he rescues those whose spirits are crushed. The righteous person faces many troubles, but the Lord comes to the rescue each time.”

–Psalm 34:17-19

Welp. That hit a nerve.

Now I’m weeping in a coffeeshop.

This grief is so darn unpredictable. That a beautiful verse about your nearness and your rescue…unexpectedly hits on how “many troubles” are part of the plan for people who are doing their best to follow you – not a sign that we’re getting something wrong…or that it would let up if we just believed well.

The difficulty is training, not punishment.

Jen Wilkin hit on this concept in her Hebrews study, and it has become such a core truth for me. Such a mercy for me to hold on to. That you have something for me to learn through this. That it’s not happening because I did something wrong.

That it wasn’t wrong to want another baby.

That I didn’t screw everything up.

That it’s not my fault my family had to relocate and my husband had to lay aside flying.

That I couldn’t control what happened to me and that though I did my very best to plan for it…it wasn’t enough, and that was okay. Because you will rescue me.

Each.

Time.

One of our pastors challenged our church this week to steward people well by stewarding the truth well. He explained that valuing and caring for those relationships means letting them see that your life is a mess when it is – because You work in that truth, Lord, to support us, encourage us, care for us, and provide safety for others in knowing it is not just them who’s coming apart at the seams.

Man, do I know what it’s like to come apart. Not just to feel the pinch of something, the underlying hum of anxiety, or to race with all I’m trying to keep up with.

But to watch helplessly as it all unravels. To stare in horror as the unraveling reaches not just my plans, my home, my work, my relationships, but works its way to me. To watch it fall to the floor and go limp and know that I have no idea how to put this back together. We have not just lost a couple rows of stitching here. There is no stitch in time to save it anymore. We are down to heaps of thread that have no connection to each other. They must be entirely re-woven.

And the screams of “Why????”

Why would you let this happen when I’m trying to serve you? Wasn’t there anything good in it worth preserving? What are the people who are still on the field serving you getting right that I am missing? What am I too dense to understand? Where am I not listening to you that you had to tear it all down? Did you not have my attention already?

In your kindness, I have had a few close friends remind me that you entrusted Job with his difficulties, you singled him out from all the earth, because of your pleasure in him. Not because he was especially hard to teach, but because he had an especially rare heart for you.

And so it is with many who love you and walk with you. Their paths are tangled with unraveling, pain, loss, plot twists, shipwrecks, and snakebites.

“So then, since Christ suffered physical pain, you must arm yourselves with the same attitude He had, and be ready to suffer, too…Dear friends, don’t be surprised at the fiery trials you are going through , as if something strange were happening to you. Instead, be very glad – for these trials make you partners with Christ in his suffering, so that you will have the wonderful joy of seeing his glory…So if you are suffering in a manner that pleases God, keep on doing what is right, and trust your lives to the God who created you, for He will never fail you.”

–1 Peter 4:1, 12, 19

I have told you all this so that you may have peace in me. Here on earth you will have many trials and sorrows. But take heart, because I have overcome the world.”

–John 16:33

Oh Lord, Send forth your word and heal me.

Transform me by the renewing of my mind.

Teach me and help me to ruminate on these truths.

Light my way through the mist, as we revisit the dark places, as we press into the pain, as I seek to understand…maybe not what you have allowed, but you. Your heart for me. Your faithful character. The One who will never fail me.

The more I understand of you, the less I have to understand the path we have traversed. Yours was no cake-walk. I can entrust you with mine. I know you understand it.

Psalm 34:18: “He rescues those whose spirits are crushed.”

Crushed…like grapes. Pressed…like olives. A friend once told me that out of the crushing comes the wine and the oil you use to anoint the wounds of others. But WE are rescued out of the crushing. Lord this is my prayer. Rescue me, whose body was saved, but whose spirit is crushed. I need your work of rescue again, Son of David, have mercy on me. Let me be poor in spirit before you. That I may be blessed by your mercy.

Lead me to the forest, and help me to be brave and patient with the process of sorting through what is painful, of watching things not be in place while you are weaving me and the pieces of my life back together, with frail, delicate thread infused dually with the oil of your strength, and the sweetness of your comfort. A many-faceted, complex garment you are weaving. From a rag to scrub up the messes, to the softest of blankets to wrap around the ones lost in the midst of those messes. From a worker (Martha), to a lover (Mary).”

I prayed this prayer one and a half years ago. And here I am.

My heart is cooperating so well with the medication that I’ve been able to enjoy running. My tumor is out. I can feel my hands and feet again. There are things I am still wading through and waiting for, but I’m no longer huddled in a blanket crying and hoping my life will somehow thread back together again (most days). I feel strong and eager and ready to build something.

I cried out to the Lord and He answered me. Over the last year and a half, He gave me the courage to face down that misty forest. I walked in, and I hiked, and I hiked and I go back often to forage, to understand, and to plant. The forest and I are familiar now.

He is giving me firm footing. Less often do I wrestle with “Will I be abandoned? Will I have what I need?” More often now it is, “Lord, can I wait well for how you WILL take care of me in this? Can I keep YOU in focus instead of the unknowns? If I can do that, I can do this.”

Of course, I still want recognition and attention, but I also recognize the sour aftertaste they carry now. The glory of men. Yeck. It doesn’t satisfy. Oh, how my heart longs to be filled up and satisfied with His gaze, His attention, His love, His approval, of which there is plenty to fill me up and stuff me full so that I approach other people not out of hunger, but overflowing.

And here I am today.

Trying not to be distracted by a random lot of land in North Carolina. Trying to push it down and focus.  But full of desire and ideas for it. For how He might use it.

Cody and I prayed about it and went to take a look. I’m not sure what I expected would happen.

But as we walked across it, from corner to corner, it seemed to me to be a place for souls in pain to heal.

Oh Lord,

I return again and again to the soft blanket idea. Have you brought us out and back again, and through so many things, softening us with each hit that our enemy intended to jade us, and finally bringing us to the edge of our mist, to wrap us around people and be a vessel of your care and gentleness to them as they face their own forest?

As we look to you and depend on you, would you pour into us and into them? Would you be close to us all when our hearts are aching and our spirits are crushed? You are the only Healer who can do the tender work of restoring broken souls.

Amanda Williams, in “Godly Grief” writes:  “I don’t want to experience grief and suffering. I can’t solve them, can’t explain them away – I can only enter in, and honestly, I’d rather not. The only way to get to the other side of the mountains is to walk through them.”

Something has shifted, a little at time, with each pass through my own story, hunting for the markers of your faithfulness.  I no longer want to shrink back from grief and suffering. I want to enter in with people. I want to enter in for myself. I want to walk through to the other side of the mountains, so that we may finally breathe in that view. I am addicted to those, “There it is! We’re going to make it after all!!” moments, where the light warms the edges of that thick mist and we finally push out into the open, and we breathe freely, for we have traversed the fog and it cannot hold us anymore.

Ryan Miller writes:

“Chinese bamboo takes 5 years of being watered every day before it breaks through the ground, but in five months time, it will grow 90 feet in the air. Your breakthrough will look different than you think it will. And your job is not to control when breakthrough happens, your job is to faithfully water every single day and trust the Lord for the breakthrough, even in the wilderness seasons. Because God does his best work in the wilderness. And your goal is to take the manna and to take the quail day by day and to say “Heavenly Father, I trust you for the breakthrough, I’m just going to be faithful.”

Lord,

You are the God who gives the breakthrough. In your time and in your way, Lord, not in mine. You are the God who knows exactly what to expect, and who has laid the groundwork and set in motion the provision for all that is to come. I am surrounded before and behind, bubble-wrapped in your protection and love and not a thing can touch my life or go one centimeter further than you permit. You draw the line and make the waters recede and all the universe must heed your voice. Broken things can be built up again. There is nothing this life can hold that can ruin me. And the hardest things, you like to turn on their heads and redeem for beauty, for healing, for newness, and for strength.

We will carry our sorrows, but you will carry us with understanding of those sorrows and with a solid, leak-proof plan to guard all that we entrust to you, to bless us and give to us and rescue us and make much of yourself through our weaknesses before a watching world.

/This is my story. This is my song. Praising my savior all the day long./

-Fanny Crosby, Blessed Assurance

/I won’t be quiet, my God is alive, How could I keep it inside?/

-Elevation Worship, Praise

Man of Sorrows, acquainted with grief.

Mighty God. Wonderful Counselor.

You understand our pain.

And you have held me in mine.

And through fire, you have pressed into my heart some things that must be said.

Some truths that must be wielded as a shield against an enemy who loves to kick us while we’re down by hurling accusations at us and twisting your character. In the times when we most need to collapse, exhausted, banking only on your unfailing love and faithfulness, he loves to whisper suggestions that you might not be so loving, faithful, or interested after all.

Not everyone is in a place to hear it. But for those who are groping in the dark, I must speak.

Don’t listen to that. Listen to Him. Hold on for all you’re worth to His true words. He loves you. He wants you. He’s working in this. We don’t have to understand how. I know you feel lost. This isn’t over. This way, this way, you’re going to make it, press into the mist, keep limping, keep coming, He is worth it, He is worth it, He is worth it.”

For this has been my story.

And this will be my song.

Thank you, Jesus, for you have brought my broken spirit here, to a point where it wants to be poured out.

“Praise the Lord; praise God our savior! For each day He carries us in His arms.”

–Psalm 68:19

“I waited patiently for the Lord to help me,
    and he turned to me and heard my cry.
He lifted me out of the pit of despair,
    out of the mud and the mire.
He set my feet on solid ground
    and steadied me as I walked along.
He has given me a new song to sing,
    a hymn of praise to our God.
Many will see what he has done and be amazed.
    They will put their trust in the Lord.”

–Psalm 40:1-3

““His purpose was for the nations to seek after God and perhaps feel their way toward him and find him—though he is not far from any one of us. For in Him we live and move and exist…”

–Acts 17:27-28

You Were Called To This: encouragement for when God is doing something…but I’m confused

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It’s officially December. Are you taking in the lights and the music and breathing easy? Are you soothed and energized by all the gatherings and baking and letters and gift lists? Are you soaking up all that comes with Christmas? Does it feel like all is well, all is calm, all is bright?

Or are you feeling the stress? Are you under some pressure? If your answer is yes, I’m right there with you.

Looking back on this year, has it gone to plan for you? Have you faced a plot twist at some point? Have you been bowled over by something you didn’t plan for?

Many of you know that my story has taken a couple weird turns over the last 2 years. Cody and I finished up language study in Papua New Guinea in June of 2021 and everything was in place for us to transition into the flight ministry we had been training so long and hard for. We found out in July that we were expecting our second baby, and THEN the plot twists started rolling in.

I got sicker and sicker until the doctors in Papua New Guinea sent us back to the USA for a higher level medical care to manage the pregnancy. My OB set me up with IV therapy and an ongoing pump for nausea medicine, but then I was in and out of the hospital for abnormal heart rhythms. I delivered the baby safely only to find out two weeks later he had swelling, bleeding, cysts, and missing tissue in his brain. We tried to prepare ourselves for brain surgery and then the Lord answered prayer and the swelling stabilized with just medicine. Then he weaned from medicine and started meeting his milestones!

I thought “Maybe we’re going to be okay after all. Maybe, we’re finally headed back!” but his neuro team wanted to watch him for another 6 months. During that 6 months, Benaiah did fine, but my heart rhythms worsened and we discovered a tumor in my neck.  Benaiah was cleared by neuro in October and we got a surgical plan in place with Mayo Clinic for my tumor. Then my surgeon got better imaging and decided it was too dangerous to remove the tumor after all. He cancelled surgery, but reassured me that it will “probably” stay benign. I took a week or two to absorb that, thought I was ready to rally, and then Cody had an abnormal stress test and was referred for imaging of his heart.

Wave after wave after wave. I feel like I am a type A personality being crushed into a type B. You know how people choose life verses? For a while there, mine was Proverbs 20:24:

“The LORD directs our steps, so why try to understand everything along the way?”

For a long time here, my life theme has been: “God’s doing something, but I’m confused.”

After Benaiah was born, I went through a Bible Study on Hebrews by Jen Wilkin with my sisters and there were two ideas she discussed in that study that changed that perspective for me.

The first was the challenge to dwell in the “I don’t know.” Jen Wilkin prefaced the study by explaining the being confused is PART OF the learning process, and if we try to rush to understanding, we miss things. So it was a timely reminder for me to settle in and get comfortable with the tension of what is unresolved and unclear to me – it’s an indicator that God is teaching me something – and it may take time.

The second was a statement that has been so life-giving to me over this past year and a half: “For the believer, trials and difficulty aren’t punishment, they’re training.”

She brought up the simple fact that because our sins are paid for, the challenges we go through here on earth are not God’s punishment. We dwell in the unchanging, unwavering favor and approval of God that was secured for us by Christ’s perfect and satisfactory sacrifice on the cross. So, we don’t have to look at the hardships we’re facing and scratch our heads trying to figure out “What was that for?” We can just buckle up for what the Lord is going to TEACH us through it.

Last month, I spent some time in 1 Peter and I came across these verses:

“When you do good and suffer, if you endure it, this brings favor with God. For you were called to this, because Christ also suffered for you, leaving you an example that you should follow in His steps…when He suffered He did not threaten, but entrusted Himself to the One who judges justly.”

–1 Peter 2:20, 23

Peter was writing to some stressed out people. He wrote to encourage them to stand firm in the midst of persecution. These guys were feeling the pressure. They were dealing with loss and threat and grief. Their lives were not looking like this beautiful example of God’s favor and blessing and provision. It would be easy to look around and say “Hold on! I’m just trying to do what’s right here, and it’s all falling apart! What am I getting wrong?”

When it comes to that mess and that pain and that confusion, Peter reassures them with these 5 words:

“You were called to this.”

Those words floored me. It was like the Lord took this blurry, confusing, “why try to understand?” section of my life and brought it into focus.

The hard things He allows in my life and yours aren’t just disruptions. They’re a calling.

And He left us an example for how to face hard callings. Again, Verse 20 and 23 say,

“For you were called to this, because Christ also suffered for you, leaving you an example that you should follow in His steps…when He suffered He did not threaten, but entrusted Himself to the One who judges justly.”

How do I face hard callings? I entrust myself to the One who judges justly and I endure it.

You know what trust looks like? It’s quiet. It waits. It offers itself up as a slave and as a sacrifice to the One who will never waste what I offer.

Christ’s example did not have eyes fixed downward, despairing at the difficulty and loss, or behind, trying to make sense of the story, but upward, declaring “Yet I want your will.” And forward, to the joy set before Him.

That’s the only way I will be able to follow his example of entrusting and enduring:

To gaze, that is, to take a long look:

At the joy, not the loss.

At the Father, not the trouble.

At what’s ahead, not at what’s right in front of me, and not at all I still have to trudge through.

To look past the labor pains, to the new baby

Past the hardest leg of the race, to the rest and satisfaction of the finish line,

Past this body, to the new one,

Past the suffering, to the glory that outweighs it.

To be in it and yet look past it.

When I’m losing heart, When I am twisted into knots of grief and confusion; trying to make sense of what God has allowed into my life, what if I surrendered the need to understand? What if I entrusted myself to Him?

What if I looked at the most difficult and painful parts of my story as a calling? A calling where He promises to strengthen me with such endurance that my hope in Him survives it? A calling that Immanuel, God WITH us, has promised to walk WITH me through and that He has marched out in front of me, entrusting and enduring, looking up and looking forward, so that I would know the steps to get through it, too?

“…Let us strip off every weight that slows us down, especially the sin that so easily trips us up. And let us run with endurance the race

God has set

Before us.”

–Hebrews 12:1

You and I did not set the race that is before us right now. We did not choose the course. Believe me, I would have picked a smoother one. But we were called to this.

“So, if you are suffering in a manner that pleases God, keep on doing what is right, and trust your lives to the God who created you, for He will never fail you.”

–1 Peter 4:19

Oh Lord,

As the pace of life accelerates, may I hold up for just a minute to take a long look at you, in all your perfection, and adore you.

Thank you for your faithfulness to me, your compassion for me, and the example you’ve given me of entrusting yourself to the One who will never fail me. Help me to lay aside the burdens so my hands are free to reach for you and my heart is light to hope in you and my voice is steady to sing your praises. In my suffering, you are working, you are worthy. Lord, help me not to lose sight of that.

Sled Dogs: how to regain endurance in harsh conditions

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“…Let us strip off every weight that slows us down, especially the sin that so easily trips us up. And let us run with endurance the race God has set before us.”

–Hebrews 12:1


This has been a stressful, emotionally exhausting couple of months. The needs, the appointments, the tests, the new problems cropping up, the hum of uncertainty in the back of my brain, the internal pressure to do something! – but the external reality that there’s not a lot I can do to speed anything up or solve it.

I have pushed to the absolute end of my capacity, waiting for answers, resolution, and a plan to manage what’s wrong and move forward with life.  I crossed into a doctor’s office and gripped his hand with relief because finally, the waiting was over, but he didn’t have the answers. The threshold of his door wasn’t a finish line, it was just the first step of the next lap of the race.

If ever there was a time to strip off extra weight, it’s now.

Are you there, too? Are your steps growing heavy? Are you trying to rally, but you have even further to go than you thought?

I appreciated, as I read this verse in Hebrews, that it dealt with weight and sin as two distinct concepts. It mentioned “every weight” and then talked about sin in particular. But sin’s not the only thing that weighs us down. Our lives get hit with heavy things that aren’t our fault. Doing a word study on “weight” got me laughing because one of the definitions was “a mass.” I’m still coming to terms with the news that I have a mass in my neck; it’s been a heavy knowledge. Yet…somehow, I can choose to strip off enough weight to run with a light heart. But how? Anyone else out there struggling with how in the world you strip off the weight of something you can’t resolve?

“We do this by keeping our eyes on Jesus, the champion who initiates and perfects our faith. Because of the joy awaiting him, He endured the cross, disregarding its shame…”

–Hebrews 12:2

I loved this verse…until this month. You do it by keeping your eyes on Jesus. But how? HOW do I keep my eyes on Jesus with all this going on? I am not someone who ignores even minor distractions easily, so telling me to tear my eyes away from this felt like an impossible ask. I am not great at laying aside every weight.

When we lived up in Washington State, Cody got me a husky mix puppy for Christmas. True to her breed, she loved nothing more than to run hard and be in the snow, so we put together a make-shift sled and started training her to pull us. When we taught her sled dog commands, I thought we would just need four directions. If I could get her to go, stop, turn left and turn right, that would be enough, right? Wrong.

She’s not a car. She’s a dog. Dogs are not only taking in your directions, they’re taking in their surroundings, and, especially as puppies, they see a lot of things that are more interesting to them than the straight track ahead.

So, there is a special command for when you see they’ve become distracted and you realize they are about to go off track. “On by.” It means, “Leave that alone. Keep going.”

We’re also not cars. We’re people. We’re not just blindly responding to directions. We are also taking in our surroundings. There’s the load on the sled that we were designed to carry, and then there’s the extra workload of plowing through heavy snow off-trail because we’re angling toward a distraction. So Hebrews 12:1 tells us, “On by – Leave that alone. Keep going.”

How does keeping our eyes on Jesus help us do that? He’s the one ahead of us on the trail. We’re running in his tracks. And He finished. So, we can finish. He hit the cross, and he kept on going for the sake of the joy set before Him. He’s the one that proves we can make it past the difficulty, and that what’s waiting for us on the other side is worth it.

You can’t control the wildlife, and the trail we’re on is not tame. So, what’s the best way to not get killed by a moose or a bear you’ve noticed out in the brush? Keep your eyes on the trail and run hard. Don’t turn toward the distraction. Leave it alone and keep going. On by.

“When the Spirit of truth comes, He will guide you into all truth…He will bring me glory by telling you whatever He receives from me.”

–John 16:13-14

Jesus marked out the trail, then He sent his Spirit to run it with us. He is with us every step of the race, coaching us, directing us, and warning us. We stay light-hearted and on track by keeping our eyes on the Champion who finished the race out in front of us and our ears tuned in to the Musher who urges us on from behind.

So what about the things that ARE our fault?

People are all so different and all sorts of different things trip us up. For me, as I considered this verse, I asked: Lord…I’m having a really hard time enduring. I can’t control the external difficulties, and they do affect me. But will you show me where there is something on my part that is tripping me up?

And man, did it hit me like a stack of bricks.

You worry.

Oh. That’s just me trying to prepare.

I’ve already prepared you.

I get why the verse says it so easily trips me up. Worry is the thing I most easily justify. It’s the thing in me that runs absolutely rampant if I give it even the slightest foothold.

If the musher tells the dog to keep going, and the dog tries to run straight, but keeps eye-balling something off to the side, she can get tangled up in the lines. So. Easily. Even obedient steps can lose a lot of their strength to a heart that’s in knots.

If you’re waiting for me to resolve this one for you, I can’t yet. It’s the thing that so easily trips me up. And every time I’ve gained some momentum in the area of saying “no” to worry, the Lord has entrusted me with a harder thing to practice with. So far, I’ve never succeeded at that harder thing on the first try.

I’ll just encourage you with the reminder that He’s patient. And everyone has a thing that so easily trips them up. So, it can be valuable to ask Him what that is for you, keep an eye out for it, and get into the practice of inviting Him to come untangle the lines for you as often as you need Him to, so you can regain your endurance for the run ahead.

“Let us run with endurance the race God has set before us.” (Hebrews 12:1)

Here’s my last thought for you, especially if, like me, you feel weary and frustrated with how the run has gone so far: I didn’t choose the course.

Believe me, if I had, this is not what it would look like. The course I prepared for didn’t have sharp turns or slippery ice, and I could maneuver it without tipping the sled or getting tangled in the lines. The course I prepared for made me look impressive. But that is not the course God set for me.

He set this one. And it is not easy and I am not navigating it smoothly. I don’t look as good as I want to. It is revealing a lot of my weaknesses. In fact, I think for some of this, I have been the pitiful, injured dog that’s riding in the sled while her foot gets a break. There’s just not a whole lot of glory in that. There are easier races. Races where I could have been a front-runner. This one is above my skill level and it does not play to my strengths. But it’s the one He chose for me, and I trust His choice.

So can you.

When we make it to the finish, it will be His skill that got us there. It will be His victory. His trophy. His glory.

But you know what I saw in every single picture of the Iditarod champions, year after year? It wasn’t a lone racer, standing tall, and proudly holding up his trophy. It was a grinning Musher, seated on the podium, hugging his dogs close.

So, when the conditions are harsh and your endurance is flagging, remember who’s running this race with you. He loves you. He’s with you each step of the way. His voice is directing your steps, urging you to keep going, reminding you to keep your eyes on the trail and not to take on extra weight. He’s there to untangle you when you get knotted up. He knows you, He chose this course and He has the skill to navigate you through it. This will not be easy, but it will be worth it. And when you finally pull across that finish line, He’s the kind of champion who pulls you up on the podium with Him to hold you close and share the glory.

“And when Christ, who is your life, is revealed to the whole world, you will share in all His glory.”

–Colossians 3:4

“I am writing to all who have been called by God the Father, who loves you and keeps you safe in the care of Jesus Christ…Now all glory to God, who is able to keep you from falling away and will bring you with great joy into His glorious presence without a single fault.”

–Jude 1, 24