Who I am.

In a recent Internet search for any type of therapy I haven't tried (no luck), I came across a long-time chronic migraine sufferer (although I hate to use that word, sufferer; what's better, patient?) who said, "This illness isn't who I am."  She was very adamant about it, and it was like a huge life-changing epiphany she'd had.

That statement was true for me for the first 4-5 years with migraines, before they started to take over every aspect of my life.  Everyone who knew me didn't know I had a chronic illness.  I was still in control.

But then the migraine took over.  I didn't get to choose anymore.  Friends stopped inviting me to things because I was "the sick kid".  People whose names I didn't even know told me they were praying for me.  It wasn't that I was gone; I was still there, but the me people saw was shrouded by migraine.

Now, eleven years into this journey, when I meet new people (which is rare because of my limitations), I get excited about the prospect of being just Kaci, because they don't know, but migraine has become so ingrained into who I am that all it takes is one question or one missed social obligation and it's out there; I'm now migraine Kaci again.

I don't miss the just Kaci of eleven years ago.  She was young and dumb and entitled.  But I kind of like 27-year-old just Kaci, and I wish more people knew her. 

They say that if you want to see who a person truly is, watch them go through something hard.  The past 6 years has been my hard.  And it's allowed me to see who I really am.  I've grown tremendously.  But it's also created this shell around me--part coping mechanism, part stigma, part good-intentioned compassion--so that very few people ever see past the migraine surface.  Even close friends become afraid to get too close.

Sadly, my illness does define me in the eyes of most people who know me.  There's no way around it.  But through it all, He's making me into a better just Kaci, and if it's for no other purpose than to glorify Him, then that's okay.  He sees through the shell.

Death of dreams.

From the time I was a little girl, I've had dreams for my life--some of them small and insignificant, some lofty and grand, some selfish, some noble.  The details of those dreams have changed as I've matured and life has led me in various directions, but the ones dearest to my heart have remained intact.  During my weakest moments, I turn to those dreams and strengthen my feeble grip on them as if somehow they can sustain me.  Somewhere along the way, I got it in my head that those must be God's dreams for me too.

Then a few days ago--I can't even remember who I was talking to or what she said--but her words triggered this weighty realization that the dream I have held most tightly to for as long as I can remember may be the one dream I have to let go of.  If God heals me, then that dream is a possibility, but He may never choose to heal me; and if he doesn't, then I will likely have to let that cherished dream fall through my fingers.

I grieved over that reality.  I wept over the death of the life I always thought I would have.

But then I did the scariest thing I have ever done: I surrendered.  I opened my clenched fists that had been protecting those sacred dreams and emptied them before my Father.  What I could do with those dreams on my best day would be like the mud pies a child offers his mother.  I don't want to offer God mud pies because I'm selfishly holding on to childish dreams.  My prayer in that moment became, Father, do in my life whatever brings you the most glory.

All of the dreams I cherished were good things, but I never want my quest for good to hinder God's plans for best.  Getting to be a part of bringing Him glory will bring me more joy than any of those tiny dreams ever could.

Whispers.

As this constant companion of a headache has returned in the last couple months, so have the enemy's whispers:  You're worthless.  You can't do it.  You'll never finish school.  You'll never have a fulfilling job.  You'll never know the companionship of a husband or the love of a child.  How dare you dream when you can't even manage to spend an afternoon out of bed?

Sometimes those whispers grow until they're deafening.  It's hard not to believe them when I'm so helpless to stop the constant pain.

In the moments the whispers become screams, all I can do is cry out in desperation.  I don't know what to pray.  I have no words.  But then the unmistakable voice of my Father breaks through the cacophony, in a whisper so small yet so crystal clear, it drowns out all others: Daughter, you are fearfully and wonderfully made. This body of yours is my masterpiece.  You're not a mistake.  You're my child, and I want only good things for you.  Dearest, I have not healed you yet, but only because I have something better in store.  Just wait.  Trust me.  Believe me.

Faith in the silence.

In Psalm 69, David is crying out to God in desperation.  He says, "I'm in over my head" (v. 1), and later, "I'm hoarse from calling for help, bleary-eyed from searching the sky for God" (v. 3).  In verse 6, though, he switches his focus: "Don't let those who look to you in hope be discouraged by what happens to me, dear Lord!  God of the armies!  Don't let those out looking for you come to a dead end by following me--Please, dear God of Israel!"

David is concerned about how his unanswered prayer is affecting the faith of those who look to him.  I don't think David is trying to manipulate God here.  He's wise enough to know that would be fruitless.  I think David is asking God to protect the hearts of those whose faith is vulnerable, but more than that, I think he is asking God to increase his own faith and change his perspective so that others are strengthened in the Lord by his reactions. 

Think of Paul.  He went through some dark times, and God didn't always immediately rescue him from his trials, but his perspective was such that God is using him even today to minister to people.  Some of Paul's most influential words were written from a jail cell.

How is the faith of others affected when God seems to be silent in regards to your difficulties?  Do they look to you and say, "Oh, she's been praying, and she's still in that place, so God must not care"?  Or is their response, "How does she endure with such faith and joy?  That has to come from a supernatural place!"?

Dear friend, God's answer isn't always to change our circumstances.  Sometimes the most profound rescue is when He changes our hearts.