This is Life.

Early on in my Endometriosis days, I fought a lot with God.

One of my main fight points (and fairly convincing I thought), was that if I was better, healthier, with no more surgeries, no more meds, no more resting so much, then I could get on with life and do more for God!

I mean, I had a compassionate heart and a creative mind, I could learn skills quickly (except math), and I felt like an equipped, teachable, ready and willing participant for whatever God was doing to heal this broken world and draw us to himself. 

I wanted to be better so I could do more and get on with life. 

I wanted less pain so I could get on with life. 

I wanted to heal so I could get on with life. 

I wanted to get on with life.

Yet, somewhere in my pleading, crying, and begging, laying on the couch in my familiar curled-up position, heating pad on my back, icepack on my head, meds in my system, I heard God say (or whisper, nudge, speak) “This is life.” 

These were the three most discouraging and relieving words I've ever heard. 

I had never really known weakness in my life up until this point and if I did I surely didn't show it. I was a tough girl —proud. THIS is life. This IS life. This is LIFE?  It didn’t matter how many ways I rolled it around in my mind it all sounded bad.

This memory came up for me as I was crawling into bed last night. I had just finished a strange day. That morning when I woke up, my pain was so high, I had a fever and I was shaking, both cold and hot at the same time. My abdomen was sore to the touch and I knew it was going to be a tough day. I took my meds and went back to sleep and stayed in bed all day until the evening. Had my breakfast around 6 pm and then back to bed at 10:30 pm. It was a loooong day of pain. 

It has been 30 years since I realized and accepted the reality that God has allowed, given, permitted, or planned (?) that pain would stay in my life. I didn’t understand then and I don’t understand now either. But, pain and weakness have been my life. Doctor appointments, sorting medication into pill boxes, medication refills at the pharmacy, appointments with specialists, and more specialists have been my life. Canceling plans, and saying no has been my life. Staying at home, not driving (due to medication), asking for help, admitting I need to leave places early, and encouraging my husband to go snowboarding with friends while I stay home, all these have been my life. 

But what I know now that I did not know then, is that when we accept the life that we've been given, and the circumstances for whatever reason God allows them to exist, something happens. God opens up space in our lives that we didn't know was there. 

Have you ever had one of those dreams where you're walking through your home and it's familiar but as you open a door, suddenly, there's more room? And more rooms. And you realize that your home has all this expanded space that you've never seen before and you’re really thankful about! That's what it's like! 

We run from weakness. We cover it up with words like, “I'm fine.” We don’t want to appear as if our lives feel less-than, or imperfect, or falling apart, or not strong, or not in control. Even now after living with this disease for 30 years and the complications that managing it has brought up, my hopes still rise each time I have an appointment with a doctor, “Maybe this time they’ll find something they can easily fix!” I have an appointment in on May 10th days with two surgeons. I’m curious to hear their plan. Maybe they CAN fix something for me. But I’m also very aware that the surgeons we’ve talked with in the past have been so hesitant to do anything out of the risk that they will make it worse. So, as I plan for this upcoming appointment, I’m remembering what I’ve learned in the past. 

When the doctors say, “I’m sorry, there is nothing more I can do for you at this time except offer more pain management meds or techniques,” it’s devastating, temporarily. I’ve learned how to live in it, how to live this life that I’ve been given. When pain is breath-taking (literally) and my body is exhausted from coping, when the hours seem long, and the clock moves very slowly, it is in those quiet hours in the darkness of my room, medications not quite cutting through the pain, in the suffering, there is a sweet presence of God. A warmth in my heart (not the fever), tears come quickly as I sink into the reality that pain stays, but also, God is with me. I can literally feel His presence close. So, I say, “Hey God, thanks for being here”. 

I'm loved. It's a deep, deep happiness, an enduring one, not a jump up and party kind of happy, just a quiet, solid contentment. The space that has opened up in my life to include weakness and pain is vast . . . and as I wander through these new expansive places I watch fears diminish and insecurity float away, worries get quiet and confidence builds. Clarity and creativity increase. Compassion for myself now seems like offering worship to God. He created this body. He gave it to me. He promised to be with me through everything and this comfort that I feel, this internal unconditional love and comfort is from him, and so I worship Him. All the worship overflows into generosity for other people, and compassion for their suffering and so I pray for them. Because of the pain and weakness in my life, I’ve opened those doors into an expansive, full and open interior life where I can be still and know that He is God. He is perfect and so His love for me is perfect. I can rest in my imperfection because of His love and because of his purposes that are being played out in my life and through my life. This is my life! And I’m glad.

"God's a safe house for the battered, a sanctuary during bad times, the moment you arrive, you relax, you're never sorry you knocked.” Psalm 9:9-10