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.

Thankful.

As my (2 or 3) faithful readers know, I've been dealing with this migraine business for almost 10 years now.  It's been a struggle.  I've had days when I couldn't get out of bed because of pain and days when I didn't want to get out of bed because of depression.  I've had to miss countless social functions and completely change my life to accommodate this unwelcome guest.

After years of praying for the struggle to end, I've finally come to a place where I can not only accept the suffering but even be thankful for it.  It sounds twisted, I know.  But God has steadily been revealing to me that I am the person I am because of what I've been through and am still going through.  He could have taken this pain away at any moment, so there has to be a good reason that he hasn't.  In some strange way that I may never understand, I can be more useful for him in my pain than I could be as a healthy person.  That's still hard for me to accept sometimes, but I believe so fully that God is truly good and has my best interests at heart that I can trust him completely.

C. S. Lewis once said, "Hardship often prepares an ordinary person for an extraordinary destiny."  I believe that wholeheartedly.  Think about all the people in the Bible who God used in big ways.  None of them were without suffering.  Esther was forced into a marriage.  Moses was taken from his mother as a baby.  David was chased by Saul.  The Lord uses hardship and suffering to mold us into the people he wants us to be. 

I'm not at all the person I was ten years ago and even five years ago.  Back then I had it all together.  I was in control.  I knew where I was going in life, and I knew how to get there.  Boy, was I disillusioned.  Today I know that the only good things in my life are from God, and I have relinquished control of even the little things.  My faith in him has grown exponentially.  He's humbled me in ways that only suffering can do.  He's taught me to lean on other people and allow them to help carry my burdens.  He's shown me what's important in life.  And if changing me is the only reason for this ordeal, it's enough.

I still pray for healing, and I still get discouraged and frustrated on occasion, but I know that my Heavenly Father holds me in his hands, and I know that he wouldn't let me suffer for nothing.  He's preparing me for something great, and one day all this will be worth the struggle.

Strength in suffering.

I recently read a blog post by a fellow migraineur named Kerrie, entitled "True Strength."  Kerrie was outraged by a post she'd read in a chronic pain Facebook group that said, “Pretending to be happy when you’re in pain is just an example of how strong you are as a person.”  She argued that being able to be vulnerable and open about your struggles is the true show of strength. 

I completely agree with her.  It's much easier to put on a brave face and pretend like everything is okay.  When you are real with people about your pain, it's scary.  Letting people in is scary.  I used to think the way the author of that Facebook post thinks.  I pretended I was fine and lied to everybody around me, especially my family.  I didn't realize that I was hurting myself and hurting them.  I just wanted my family to not worry about me, but in shutting them out, I made them worry even more because they knew I wasn't telling the whole truth.  And wearing that mask hurt me just as much as it did them.  I didn't know just how much I needed the support of others.  Being strong means doing it by yourself, right?  Wrong.  Being strong means knowing when to let others help carry your burdens.  I wonder just how different all those years could have been if I had just been honest with myself and with those around me.

If you want to read Kerrie's post, here it is: The Daily Headache: True Strength.

Besides being honest with those around me, something else that's been helping me be strong in suffering lately is the book of Philippians, particularly the first chapter.  Paul is writing a letter to the church at Philippi while he is in jail.  First of all, he doesn't just shut down and mourn his circumstances while he's there; he continues his ministry, just in a different way.  Also, he acknowledges that God is using him even in his suffering.  Tim Keller tweeted recently: "God doesn't use us despite our suffering.  He uses us through our suffering."  Along those same lines, Paul says, "And I want you to know, brothers and sisters, that what has happened to me has actually served to advance the gospel."  Wow.  Talk about faith.  I've been trying (with God's help) to think about my illness in that way.  I often feel like I could be of so much more use to God if I were healthy, but He knows exactly what He's doing.  He can heal me at any moment He chooses, and there's a reason He hasn't yet.  I may not see the whole picture now, but I'm thankful to be able to play whatever tiny part the Lord gives me--even if it's through suffering.

God's spoken world.

This week I started a book called Notes from the Tilt-A-Whirl: Wide-Eyed Wonder in God's Spoken World.  I'm not very far into it yet, but I must say, it is beautiful!  The writing style is different; it's a little tilt-a-whirl-ish, circling among multiple topics simultaneously.  It's almost a stream-of-consciousness but not quite as crazy and definitely not as annoying.  Reading it feels like having a conversation with a friend.

The author is super down-to-earth, not a lofty philosophical theologian type.  In fact, he's a college literature professor who's never published in the spiritual/religious genre before.  (Oh, it's a Christian book.  Guess I should have mentioned that.)  In fact, he even uses curse words and slightly crude images here and there.  You may think I'm crazy or "un-Christian-ly", but that's refreshing to me.  It's real.  It indicates freedom in Christ, a religion built on relationship instead of rules.

Rambling aside, here's what I wanted to share:

The author, N. D. Wilson, talks about the language of God.  We so often get frustrated when we don't hear God speaking to us, but the truth is He is speaking--all around us, every moment of every day.  We expect God to speak in English, but why would He?  He's not American.  Or British or Australian or Canadian for that matter.  Why would God even need words to communicate?  I mean, He's God for crying out loud!

Wilson says we don't hear God not because He isn't speaking, but because we are listening for the wrong language.  God's language is His creation.  He spoke it into existence, didn't He?  He spoke and a mountain appeared.  We look at that and say, "Oh that's too hard; I'll make a shortcut," and we choose the word mountain to mean the actual thing.  God doesn't need shortcuts.

But mountain isn't the answer I needed, you may say.  That's fair.  But God speaks things through His creation as well.  Just one example: "Consider the lilies of the field, how they grow: they neither toil nor spin, yet I tell you, even Solomon in all his glory was not arrayed like one of these." (Matthew 6:28-29)

Listen for God's voice today.  His words are all around you.

P.S. I highly recommend this book.  You can borrow my copy when I'm finished.