Realizations of Beauty

Hey everyone. 

So I'm just going to jump in here. I'm not trying to be insensitive or rude by not getting into more detail, but the fact of the matter is that I'm still processing everything. 

I have thyroid cancer. I'm told that if I have to have cancer, this is the kind I want. Yesterday I found out that the cancer has spread to some of my lymph nodes. I'll be having surgery to remove my thyroid, the lymph nodes under my thyroid and the lymph nodes in another section of my neck that all have cancer, as well. 

To be blatantly honest, today I'm feeling a little weepy and basically just randomly crying here or there. During one of these water works productions, I was talking to God. And I bet you can pretty much guess what happened...

He comforted me.

I know, I know - at this point, that's kind of a repetitive story in blogs. Nonetheless, I want to share this particular story of comfort.

Let's travel back to the good ol' days. The year was 2007 and little high school senior version of me was starting to understand that CF can really, pardon my french, suck. My CF started progressing and I needed to get a port placed so I could do an aggressive IV treatment from home. 

I won't lie guys, I was vain, and still am to a degree. I was so, so, so upset. Not because I was getting sicker, or because I'd be on ivs, or whatever else. I was upset because I really liked my neck. (Bear with me here) I just thought it was so beautiful. Tall and smooth. Imagine if the evil queen from Snow White was just jealous of necks. "Mirror, mirror, on the wall - who has the fairest neck of all?" -- It would have been me. It was the perfect neck. And I was upset about the port because the catheter would make a vein in my neck stick out, and ruin the beauty.

As most of you know, I got the port, and to me, the beauty was ruined.

Fast forward to 2013. I have ECMO in one side of my neck, a tracheostomy in the middle and an IV with so many ports on the left side, it literally looked like a Christmas tree. Needless to say, my neck went from "fairest of them all" to Grand Central Station of Scars. 

Soon, it'll undergo yet another surgery, and bear yet another scar.

And the thing is... it's even more beautiful this way. I've said before that my scars show the markings of my Maker and give a visual of how He has rescued me time, and time again. But to be honest, I don't know if I ever actually viewed them as a thing of beauty. 

This morning, Jesus opened my eyes to this. The physicality that I mourned over being ruined was actually being made into an extravagant work of art by God. His mural of testimonies. 

And although this whole cancer thing is pretty scary and unknown, I love that my favorite artist still isn't finished with his piece yet. 

"Yet God has made everything beautiful for its own time. He has planted eternity in the human heart, but even so, people cannot see the whole scope of God's work from beginning to end." Ecclesiastes 3:11

Jesus has shown me what beauty is because God is love.

For-ev-er.

Hey all!

It's been awhile, but here I am returning to blog not because I'm bored, or am fulfilling an obligatory goal of blogging at least one a year, or any other reason like that. I'm typing away over here because I feel there is something that God wants me to share.

I could explain everything. Why I needed a procedure to get a PICC line put in. What a PICC line is, what the risks are, etc. But honestly, none of that matters because this story isn't about the PICC line itself, or my health. The descriptions I'll type are to help explain my situation, but this story is about God. And God doesn't need any extra details.

Yesterday I was on the table to get a PICC line inserted. Procedure rooms can be a pretty scary and lonely place. Everything is sterilized. Everyone around you is bustling about with a different, but just as crucial job to do, and none of them have faces. They all have medical masks with shields, gloves, and the same sterile scrubs on. The lights are bright, the room is kept cold, and although you can barely feel the room temperature on your body through the mounds of sterile linens covering you, you can still feel that cold, surgical air on your face as you lay completely flat and motionless on the hard table right next to needles, tubes, scapulas and other medical equipment you can't identify but have your name written on them. The team of doctors is nice, and does their best to make you feel human, but let's face it, in this moment, you're a rag doll. You only move when someone moves you; put your left arm here, tilt slightly this way or that. And when you're finally in the right position, when you're finally prepared, they numb you, make sure you can't feel anything, and then begin using the tools in which you could identify, and the ones you couldn't. I'm not sure which is scarier. You know this is a good thing. This is what you need. They are helping you, and you are thankful for them, the medical technology they possess and the ability to receive the treatment you need. But even in that room full of people who seem to be talking all the same time; even though your eyes dart to every section of the room that's in your view without moving searching and failing to find a space that isn't crammed with faceless people, even though you know you aren't alone, it's easy to slip into the feeling that you really are, though. 

But ladies and gentlemen, let me introduce you to my God. He's the One that's there. Even though tons of doctors can vouch that no one was holding my hand, even though you could take a picture and see with your own eyes that no one was standing next to the table whispering comfort and encouragement in my ear, My God was. From the very beginning, I knew where my trust, hope and comfort was. The start of the procedure was pretty standard but as we got further in, there were some complications. What should have been a thirty minute procedure turned into 2 hours. It was scary, uncomfortable and painful. I had worship music playing near me, but the doctors seemed to talk louder about the patient's conundrum. As the chatter became more detailed, I couldn't handle it knowing that the patient they were discussing was me. Those details.. that's what was happening in my body right now. And then they said "Get the metal." I began crying. But God was still holding my hand, and because of that, I was ok. Soon, I felt them working inside my arm. I felt unnatural things popping and snapping in my arm as I could feel them pushing what I can only assume was the metal through my vein. So much pressure and discomfort. And then pain. As calmly as I could, I mustered up my voice and told the doctor that whatever they were doing was causing me pain. He tried to comfort me but I could tell in his voice, I was just going to have to bear this part. I held still as my eyes started leaking mini rivers that flowed quickly down the sides of my cheeks. I appreciated the doctor and his attempted words of comfort, but they didn't comfort me. And then God stepped in. The only comfort that would be found in a moment like that, and just at the right time. A moment sooner, I would have gotten distracted by the coming pain, but a moment later and I would have suffered. Just in time, my Rescuer came to my aid. "This is just temporary. This pain will end. Endure it just a little longer. But your joy and salvation through Me is not temporary. It's eternal. Take comfort in that this will not last forever, but your time with Me, your salvation will." 

And as I lay listening to God, motionless on the cold hard table, the pressure, discomfort and pain didn't stop. But somehow, they didn't really matter either. And you know what? The procedure ended. I'm typing this and I'm not in pain. Pain is temporary. Salvation is not.

2 Corinthians 4:18

 So we fix our eyes not on what is seen, but on what is unseen, since what is seen is temporary, but what is unseen is eternal.

I am comforted by fixing my eyes on the unseen. I am comforted by my Lord himself because God is love.