I turned 28 this past Friday (the 16th.)
Photo found on Pinterest
I know for a lot of people that birthdays stop being eagerly anticipated once they become adults. A birthday is just another day of life to many. It no longer possesses an aura of wonder and specialness, but rather becomes an unwanted reminder of how quickly time passes.
For me, though, my birthday is a day that I will always greet with a smile. While I may not always enjoy the number being celebrated, I’ll always be thankful for what the day signifies: I’m still alive.
In my post "Miracle Musings", I mentioned how the trauma from my chronic illness led to me fully believing that I was going to die when I was 21 years old. I will never forget laying in that emergency room while the doctor asked me endless questions, holding tight to my momma’s hand as the pain just kept intensifying, and praying that God would give her the strength to walk out of that hospital without me after I passed away.
So for every birthday that I am here to celebrate, I’m going to do it with a grateful heart.
So blessed to be alive & loved by this man <3
In late June of this year {2016}, because we still had no answers and no real direction to go in, the doctors decided to redo some tests that I’d had done years prior in hopes of receiving new data. I was extremely nervous about going through the procedures again because they hadn’t worked out very well for me the first time. However, I knew something had to be done so I gave my consent.
On June 21st, I began the necessary prep that would allow them to perform the tests on the next day. On June 22nd, I woke JRB up around 1:30am because I was having severe nausea and debilitating pain due to the aforementioned prep.
The next 20 minutes would later be added to our “Most Scary Moments” list.
Once we were awake, I started deteriorating fast. I became increasingly unresponsive, so JRB called my parents and they rushed over to help (for any of you who’ve ever questioned why we chose to build our home so close to my parents’ - there’s your answer.) I was overheated and lethargic, so while one would prop me up and keep me steady, another would attempt to cool me down with cold washcloths.
Then I started dry heaving, which then became me gasping for breath. My dad immediately called 911, but over the course of his conversation, I regained the ability to breathe. They loaded me up in the car and rushed me to the ER themselves. And as JRB held me in the backseat, trying to get me to respond to him, he endured the pain of thinking he lost me several times.
If you ask him now he’ll tell you, “She really scared me, I thought she was gone.”
The weeks following this trauma included more doctors appointments and more testing, all of which ended with the same results: everything appears normal and we still have no answers.
I’m going to be totally honest with you here, Friends. For a while, I was pretty angry with God about all of this. People had been specifically praying that the procedural prep I had to do would not affect me negatively. People had been petitioning Him for answers to be found throughout the course of all the testing. We had been praying and believing that this would finally lead to something.
And yet… and yet.
Photo found on Pinterest
I woke up at 5:30 this morning, with all these words flowing through my brain and just had to write this to you. Aside from one post in September (I {still} DO), I haven't written anything since before all this happened. To have such a strong urge upon waking that I couldn't ignore, I figure this must be a post that someone somewhere needs to read. I'm praying it finds you quickly!
I want you to know that I truly do understand that life is not always rainbows and unicorns, it doesn’t always seem beautiful or magical. I get it that life just really hurts sometimes, that there are seasons where our pain feels overwhelming.
I know how it is to feel like God’s no longer listening, that He’s too far away to hear our cries for help.
In the weeks following all the summer-time trauma, I became pretty silent. I stopped writing, I wasn’t all that talkative, and my prayer life took a hit. Confession: instead of pressing into Him, I pulled away.
JRB would try to encourage me and tell me to hold on to hope, but I'd gaze back into his eyes, my own filled with tears, and respond, "Hope hurts." {That story is for another blog post though...}
I remember walking out to do some weeding in the garden one random day and just suddenly looking to the sky and finally speaking my heart. With tears rolling down my cheeks, I cried, “God, where are You?! Why are You allowing all of this to happen?? I don’t understand any of this, but I want to trust You in it anyways. Help me.”
And like a loving daddy who always welcomes his children with open arms, even when they’ve been absent or distant, my Abba gathered me close to His chest and whispered His reply, “My child, I’m here.”
I don’t have any answers for why God hasn’t healed me, but I choose to still believe that He can. I’m not sure what the reasons are for allowing me this pain, but I choose to believe He’s using it for His glory to be shown and the advancement of His Kingdom.
So happy to be alive <3
And for you. I don’t know why you’re still sick even after all the prayers that have been prayed for your healing, but I know you are loved by a God Who still heals. I don’t have an answer as to why certain pain or trauma has been allowed to enter your world, but I do know there hasn’t been even a moment where you’ve been in it alone. I don’t know what the situation that you’re facing is, Friend, but I know to my very marrow that my God is good, all the time.
So press in, Dear Ones, and let your heart cry out to Him again and again and again. Then listen for His response:
“My child, I’m here.”
