Thin Places

I stumbled to my coffee maker and began my morning ritual. I ground beans, measured them into a filter, and reached for the glass coffee pot - only to discover a roach had died in it over night.

Dead roach in coffee pot. That's how I felt this morning.

It's the third Sunday in advent and I was home alone, battling pain. Last weekend I battled a cough that tired my ribs. An inhaler settled it down, but by mid week, one last little cough popped something in my side that has hurt ever since. A doc will read the x-rays tomorrow, but whether a rib is fractured or not, I'm slowed again, maneuvering with pain.

Dead roach in coffee pot.

I gave up on the coffee and sat down on our sofa to attend TV church in my pj's. The pastor from Second Ponce de Leon Baptist Church delivered a message that gave me what I needed to clean out that pot, make fresh coffee, and move on with my day.

He talked about thin places, moments where the veil between earth and heaven becomes translucent, thin, clear; our awareness of the divine poignant and true. He said that Christmas is a season ripe with thin places, which is why I feel like I'm missing out.

I spent last Christmas season recovering from ankle surgery and preparing to move. And just when my cough seemed to settle after a month of sickness this year, my rib gave way and I'm struggling to keep my day to day schedule going, let alone participate in extra Christmas fun.

Dr. David Snapp reminded me that to encounter thin places, we must be willing to have our lives interrupted. And once interrupted, we must learn to wait with patience and anticipation. His words helped me see my current challenge in a different way. For everyone who was in the manger in Bethlehem were visitors to the town. Their lives had been interrupted and they had taken a journey to a foreign land - and there they encountered the divine.

My journey through advent is different again this year. But it's still my journey. It's still a walk through the ordinary in search of the divine; a thin place, the place of wonder and awe. For God became man and dwelt among us.

A Birthday Blog

As I watched football with Sam in the Chattanooga Choo Choo Hotel this weekend, I surfed the web, searching for info on Mitochondrial Disease. My 82 page muscle biopsy report arrived in my in box ten days ago and while I know it confirms I have adult onset Mitochondrial Disease, there's a lot more I don't know.

My search led to the mito action web site where I read, "When facing a diagnosis of something like Mitochondrial Disease, it is important to acknowledge feelings of grief. There is the grief of the parents over the life they had dreamed or imagined for their child, and there is grief for the adult of the loss of the life they thought they were going to have. Do not underestimate the impact of this grief, and the time that it takes for a person or family to heal... First there is the crisis stage which usually lasts only a short time and is followed by isolation - the person is exhausted by the crisis and now just feels totally alone and wants to be alone..."

Stop right there! It wasn't until I read those words that I understood what I've been feeling the last few months. Yes, my new med is helping a great deal.
But while I've enjoyed relief, I've also grieved continued limitations that may never go away. Trying to filter the good with continued loss made it easy to shrink back into isolation.

The article continues, "Then there is the stage of reconstruction; life is not like it was before but you can reconstruct your sense of self, or your sense of 'normal' for your family." (By Cristy Balcells RN MSN and Joanne Turco, RN, MS)

www.mitoaction.org/blog/coping-mitochondrial-disease

Sometimes I think writing about all this is blah and self focused. But then I read this quote from Joni Eareckson Tada, a quadriplegic who is now battling cancer, "God's up to something big. How can I showcase Him to others?"

www.worldmag.com/articles/17198

Armed with her words and numerous facebook birthday well wishes, I've decided to come back out of hiding and try to get faithful with writing... again. For "we are not of those who shrink back and are destroyed, but of those who believe and are saved." (Heb 10:39)

The above photo was taken at a fund raiser for a mito clinical drug trial. Yes, that's me, a poster child for mito disease. Its' not exactly where I thought I'd be at this point in life... "But we are not of those who shrink back..."

Life with Legs

More than a month has passed since my last entry. I haven’t written for two reasons: depression and awe.

As summer wore on, my body wore down. Knee instability complicated normal ankle and hip weakness, leaving me overwhelmed by everyday tasks. Three rounds of transforaminal shots spread over seven weeks (of summer) helped post surgical nerve damage (from winter). The day after I completed the procedures, however, my insurance company approved a muscle biopsy and spinal tap. Nagging symptoms required further testing, but I had no desire to face more needles or procure another scar. So I watched House marathons unfazed by his cynicism.

Two weeks after my spinal tap, and many more before I expected results (muscle biopsy results take up to two months), the doctor’s office called. Tests run on my spinal fluid revealed low levels of 5mthf, a necessary ingredient in fueling central nervous systems. I was told a prescription med could make a big difference. And after a mere weekend on the new meds, my legs worked better than they have in years. The one-eighty turn, from thinking I was headed to wheelchair to walking with liquid legs in less than a week, left me in awe.

I’ve been pondering the change ever since. A few highlights:

I haven’t used my handicap sticker in three weeks. I can walk through Target without spasticity slowing my step and escort my voice and piano students from one building to the next without a cane. I can grocery shop, carry in the bags, cook dinner, and still walk. And it’s probably hard for most of humanity to understand how big a deal that is to me.

I’m living life with legs, relishing them a new.

Entering His Rest

When I watch the sky fill with color, I feel small in a good way. Bent rays twisted through the atmosphere create masterful evening canopies under which I rest, mindful of our Creator.

It's easy to rest by the ocean under a brilliant sky. It's another thing to enter His rest during the day to day toil we live as life.

At one point this summer, I told God if He would just do such and such, I could rest. And I needed rest. My body was stressed enough. Due to recent physical limitations, it made sense to me that God would want to decrease my stress level in the ways I desired most.

He offered a simple reply, "Enter my rest now."

"There remains then, a Sabbath-rest for the people of God; for anyone who enters God's rest also rests from his own work, just as God did from his. Let us, therefore, make every effort to enter that rest..." (Heb. 4:9-11 NIV)

The Message translation states earlier in Hebrews 4, "If we believe, though, we'll experience the state of resting. But not if we don't have faith."

I've stood at this cross road before, the place where I can stew over uncertainty or rest in the reality of God, my Savior, my Lord. It's never easy. But the option is real. We can enter His rest. Trust in His goodness. Watch Him provide.

Or pick our nails.

I long to enter His rest.

Happy At My Feet

My family knows my favorite place in San Destin- the ocean's edge. I carry my sea blue chair to where the water washes over my toes. And I sit. For hours. Sometimes with a journal. Sometimes with just an open heart.

We've shared a week in Dad's time shares for about ten years. At some point on our trip, a related someone will ask something like, "Why do you enjoy staring at the water for hours on end?"

My mom asked this year. And the best answer ever came to me later.

I love watching happy at my feet... where the water bounces, collides, and forms patterns of lace as quick to vanish as a falling snowflake. Bubbles float. Waves dance. And a smooth, thin rush of water washes gently over my feet, cleansing.

I couldn't sit in my chair as long this year. And the water was full of June grass a few days - even at the water's edge. But last Wednesday, crystal clear waters soothed my soul for a time. God was big. The world beautiful. And eternity real.

And as the sun set, I found this happy at my feet...

Be Still

I heard a sermon over a week ago that caused me to face the stark level of anxiety in my soul. WordNet.com defines anxiety as "a vague unpleasant emotion that is experienced in anticipation of some (usually ill-defined) misfortune." When I looked deep inside, deeper than my normal deep, I recognized worry, nervousness, and that "vague unpleasant emotion" that fights fear.

As I thought about it all, the still small voice spoke, "Be still..."

I'm not exactly a fast mover these days, but I pick my nails. Almost constantly. Frayed nails expose my anxiety. Just last Sunday, someone commented on the less than desirable state of my ring and pinkie fingers, especially. I smiled. I used to cover them with acrylic nails, but eventually gave up on the beauty routine and prayed for peace. A peace that would show on my nails.

I looked up the Hebrew definition of "still" from Psalm 46. I read, "abate, cease, consume, fail, faint, forsake, idle, leave, let alone..." At the end of the long list of words, small letters referred me to a related definition a few numbers back. There I read, "cure, heal, repair, thoroughly, make whole."

I expected the first list of words, but not the second. They still resonate deep. In stillness there is healing. In letting alone a cure. In ceasing I can be made whole.

Two months of summer lie ahead. I hope within a few weeks to post a photo of healthier nails as I soak in the Psalmist's words, "'Be still and know that I am God; I will be exalted among the nations, I will be exalted in the earth.'" (Ps. 46: 10)

Adventure Mother Driver

A few years ago, I realized why I feel fidgety by summer's end. As the daughter of a Delta pilot, summers often included vacation adventures that started when I was eleven. We traveled to a remote Bahamian island that year where my dad "lost" our passports and later hitchhiked with my sister when our rental car broke down. A few summers later we met Gertrude the Cow in Southern Bavaria when a dirt road ended in her pasture.

I've longed to share those type of adventures with my boys, but have not the resources, or at this point, the body.

So when Sam asked about swimming this summer from 5:45-8:15 am, I struggled a few days before figuring out how to mentally tackle the overwhelming request. I'm not heading to Europe or Hawaii or any other exotic location this summer. No, I'm adventure mother driver, alert in the wee hours, toting my man cub to and from the place of physical challenge. With bra in purse (in case we have a traffic altercation), I grab pillow and blanket and walk bleary eyed to the car. On my more alert days, I brush my teeth and even potty before heading out.

While Sam speeds through currents of chlorine, I let down the windows just a tad, hide my face from the rising sun, and protect the mother ship in the fetal position. When my man cub returns from his morning foray, we travel home for a mid-morning nap.

On day three this week, I woke from said mid-morning nap and proceeded to get ready for a Transforaminal lumbar shot in my back. I made coffee, pulled out crunchy Jif and a power bar, and ate while the pot brewed. Only after the bar was down did I wake enough to remember I wasn't supposed to eat before my Transforaminal shot procedure.

I don't know if the nurses understood how much energy it takes to be an adventure mother driver. But I had no other excuse for my mental lapse and had to wait an extra day for the shot.

I may have a host of mishaps ahead which is why my sense of adventure is heightened when I drive before sun up and sleep in the corner parking lot, communing with nature, supporting my swimmer son.

Green Again

I just opened a daily reading from Ransomed Heart Ministries and read, "Can it really happen? Can things in our lives be green again? No matter what our creeds may tell us, our hearts have settled into another belief. We have accepted the winter of this world as the final word and tried to get on without the hope of spring." (Desire 110-111)

Two weeks ago, I listened as a neurosurgeon offered his assessment of my leg issues. He said there are two things going on. One he could help, the other he could not, since from his perspective, the images from a recent MRI do not explain why my hip is so weak. He concluded permanent muscle damage is the likely cause.

Those words echoed in my head for days, souring my mood--"permanent muscle damage." The finality of it all squelched all hope and left my heart cold.

Four days later, I met with my ankle surgeon. He looked through each image and offered another explanation, speculating that a small protrusion in the disk may be causing the weakness. Both doctors agreed I should schedule an injection from a pain clinic, but only one believes the injection might help the hip.

When I left the second office, I marveled at how much hope helped. Logically, I knew neither doctor really knows why my hip is so weak. But on that Thursday, Dr. Royster took me from winter to spring.

The Ransomed Heart reading from this morning ended with these words, "We make a nothing of eternity by enlarging the significance of this life and by diminishing the reality of what the next life is all about."

If the mere hope of something fixing the weakness in my leg could lighten my mood to such an extent, I wonder what would happen if I anchored my hope in the reality of what's to come verses the tyranny of now. I've not been very good at that lately. But even the Psalmist sang, "Why are you downcast, O my soul? Why so disturbed within me? Put your hope in God..." (Ps. 42: 5)

Last night's storms left a sweet green outside my window today. I found these two blossoms in Donna's flower bed hanging heavy from the wet. But even their sweet smelling beauty,as enticing as it is, doesn't compare with the spring that's yet to come.

Donna's Colors

I lived at 3750 Apple Way for almost twelve years. In all those years, I grew only a small patch of Impatiens. They were dear to me. A sign of hope. A small victory in an otherwise unkept yard.

I live across town now, in a home I tried hard to avoid. My husband and his former wife shared this abode for well over a decade. But God had other plans and we moved in a few days after Christmas, in a deep mid-winter that stretched well into spring.

As the weather thawed, however, daffodils grew and yellow blossoms lined my driveway. Dogwoods and azaleas lit up the front yard soon after. As I took photos today, I discovered a deep burgundy iris I'd driven past several times without noticing.

And all the while I've thought about Donna, her life of color, and the beauty she left behind. Every spring an array of color will unfold in this yard. And every year, the colors of her soul will shine through those who knew and loved her well.

She left a kaleidoscope of color - which leaves me wondering what I will leave behind.

"Therefore as God's chosen people, holy and dearly loved, clothe yourselves with compassion, kindness, humility, gentleness, and patience... Forgive as the Lord forgave you. And over all these virtues, put on love..." (Col. 3:12, 13, &14)

Donna wore love and God's colors showed.

Starting Again

An entire season has passed since I last wrote. I fell on Nov. 14th after months of concern about my weak right ankle. It encountered a small stick or a pine cone, I'm not sure which, and the ankle rolled. As I lay on my front sidewalk in pain, I became well aware that at least one surgery was imminent.

About the time I began to recover from ankle surgery, we sold my former home and moved from the east to the west side of town. Within a week of the move, pain in my back intensified and I realized it needed care. After two trips to the ER on the same day (one in an ambulance), I was admitted to the hospital where the docs discovered a large herniated disk.

It's been two months since back surgery and I'm still recovering. In some ways I have more control of my walking. But my right foot is quite numb and if I lay on my left side with bended knees, I can't lift my right leg. It won't budge. An MRI of my back has been ordered to check for bone fragments which means one surgeon wonders if I might require a third surgery to heal.

It's been easy to hunker down in silence during the long winter months.

But the birds are singing today. It's seventy degrees and the sky is crystal blue. I'm wearing a spring skirt over freshly shaven legs which is no small feat. And the view from the shade of my covered front porch includes a landscape dotted with bright yellow daffodils.

"See! The winter is past; the rains are over and gone. Flowers appear on the earth; the season of singing has come..." (Song of Songs 2: 11-12)

Today, I can join with the birds, delighting in a new season, a new time, a new day to just celebrate the Good King is on His throne and has it all under control.

No, it's not easy. But He is good.

Laughing with Lily

I've read about therapy dogs and even watched a show once called, "Miracles Pets." But I'd never experienced the healing impact an animal can have in your life until this week. As I giggled in the dark, waiting for sleep last night, I was so glad my parents have a new dog.

Thirty minutes earlier, I'd sat on the stairs and scooted up backwards, one step at a time. By the time I reached the top, my right hip muscle burned with fatigue. Drained from the monumental effort, I didn't know how to stand.

Lily, my mom's new puppy, darted around my tired body. Reaching the second floor of the house was an adventure for her. She sniffed the carpet around me and ran up the hall, urging me on. I tried to stand, but couldn't figure out which body part could handle my weight.

Befuddled by the predicament, I was thankful when mom turned the corner with a rolling chair. I pulled myself into the chair and laughed as she wheeled me down the hallway to her guest bedroom. It was funny - almost.

Mom and Lily said goodnight and headed back down the stairs. As I lay in bed with my foot high on pillows, I began to wonder when I'll be able to return to normal life. Since getting up one flight of stairs had wiped me out, I worried about how I'll manage once home. I've spent days and nights on my mom's sofa to avoid the stairs. But I've almost been gone a week. The ankle is healing, but other joint issues have been exacerbated in the process.

As I lay in the dark trying to turn my thoughts to prayers, I heard the soft pitter-patter of Lily's steps. She'd escaped from mom's bedroom, run across the living room, and bolted up the stairs. She scurried down the hall and with a flying leap, landed on my face, licking me as if she'd found her long, lost friend. I forgot my worries and laughed as Lily celebrated her escape.

Soon I heard mom's soft movement on the steps. With her own smile, she took Lily back to her room where she sleeps for the night.

And after a good nights rest, my legs worked a little better today. I've still a long road to recovery. But laughing with Lily and cuddling close to her soft fur has added a distinct sweetness to the journey.

Chasing Shadows

I've been staying at my folks since surgery last Thursday which has given me ample time to bond with Lily, their new puppy. Lily can be calm and cuddly or comic relief - depending on her mood. We've napped together several times. She's licked every corner of my face and hands more than once. And I've watched her chase shadows for much longer than I expected.

When sunlight pours through the windows, reflections on the oriental rug next to where I rest captivate her. She races around the rug chasing shadows, digging at shadows, and even barking at them at times. I'm humored by her persistent pursuit of grey adumbrations. It's cheap therapy.

But while I watched her the other day, I thought about all the mental shadows I chase, all the worries I entertain. And I imagined God being as stumped by my obsession with worry as I am with Lily's need to dig at shadows.

It's easy to shake my head and say, "Silly girl, your digging at nothing! You're mesmerized by mere sunlight dancing on the floor." But then I wonder what God would say to me,"Oh princess daughter of mine, trust what you can't see. Trust this day to me. Don't allow simple shadows to disrupt the flow of peace I long to send your way."

So as I heal during this busy time of the year, I'm going to try to stop chasing shadows of doubt and purpose to trust the God of light who shines on us each day. Laying on this sofa nestled close to a wall of windows, I will bask in His light instead of fretting in the dark.

"Arise, shine, for your light has come, and the glory of the Lord rises upon you. See darkness covers the earth and thick darkness is over the peoples, but the Lord rises upon you and his glory appears over you."
(Is. 60: 1-3)

Sweetness on Turkey Day

I had a bona fide meltdown last Sunday. After a shower, church, and lunch in a restaurant with a very slippy floor, I arrived home exhausted. My leg hurt. My heart hurt. And I wasn't sure I could make the trip to South Georgia to celebrate Thanksgiving with my husband's family. So I cried and prayed and asked God to show me what to do.

My answer came in a phone call Monday morning. After a short conversation with a family member, I knew I was supposed to go.

So I packed lots of pillows, rode in the back seat, and propped my foot in Sam's lap - all the way to Bulloch County. While I enjoyed several sweet moments with family, this one remains my favorite.

We arrived at the "River House" about thirty minutes before meal time. While all the other women scurried to prepare the food, I sat with my achy foot on a stool. Before long, Lawrence, our nephew-in-law, walked over and handed me his new born son, Tripp. Tripp is only about two weeks old and as I gently traced his tiny fingers, I marveled at the miracle of life.

Soon after, Baby Catherine crawled over to meet tiny Tripp. Baby Catherine is a miracle herself. Doctor's didn't expect her to live. But after months in the hospital, she defied the odds. When I'm close to her, I feel like I'm connected to a concrete miracle of God.

So as I sat holding Tripp while Baby Catherine checked him out, I was overwhelmed with wonder, and thanked God for all that's good in life.

Nikki, my step-daughter, caught us film and posted the photo on Facebook.

The Psalmist once said, "But as for me, it is good to be near God." (Ps. 73: 28) As I cuddled with Tripp and Catherine, I felt near God and it was good.

New Shoes

I have two new shoes. The right one provides stability for my loose ankle. The left one anchors the weight bearing ankle and foot. Both have made my life easier this week.

It took me a while to remember that this morning. While my right ankle seems to be calming down, I'm still overcoming painful memories from last week. The slightest motion in the wrong direction pulled on a tendon no longer stabilized, triggering an intense spasm of pain several times. I taught all my lessons and even showed my house twice to potential buyers, but this morning I was just wearied by it all.

So I put on some make-up, drank some coffee, and took a picture of my feet on my colorful Guatemala throw. And since it's that time or year, I'll take a moment to count my blessings.

For one, Nathan's at Lee University today, playing with their honor band. My first in-laws drove him there and have spent two days toting him to and from rehearsals. I had plans to be there today, but other's are there for me instead. He's in good hands.

Sam is at the Dreamer's Conference at Riverstone Church. So while we're both dealing with odd physical issues, he's still dreaming big, swimming like crazy, making good grades in school.

And as I've struggled to get around this week, I've often thought of those who don't have access to special boots or doctors or surgeons who can tighten their loose ligaments. I'm inconvenienced. But I have hope. Imagine being crippled with no hope.

Some other blessings... Baby Catherine is thriving (see www.letterstocatherine.blogspot.com). Baby Hazel (grandchild #2) is adorable. Our store, "Go Fish" has survived during the economic downturn thanks to my husband's relentless dedication. And the God of heaven that we serve is simply more than able.

As I wobble through another day, hoping not to ignite that tendon, I will "hold unswervingly to the hope that we profess, for he who promised is faithful." (Heb. 10:23)

Changed Hearts

Meet Lily, the Cavalier King Charles puppy my parents recently acquired. She's adorable, a ball of happiness that flits about chasing shadows. She runs like the wind and then collapses like a blob of jello molded to your lap.

There's nothing unusual about someone liking Lily, except when that someone is my dad.

Growing up, we always had a dog. Pele, an Airedale Terrier, ran long and hard for sticks but lost two litters of puppies, the last of which died on an Easter Sunday morning. Pepper, a small Cockapoo, filled our home with flees on more than one occasion and loved to tear up trash when left alone for too long. Still, both dogs brought humor and fun to our home well into my adult years.

But after Pepper died, my dad vetoed another house pet. He bought my mom dog statues and paintings, but wanted to live pet free after years of animal maintenance. And they did, for almost thirteen years.

Then came Lily.

My niece, Jessica, was asked to sell Lily and her sibling after their owner tired of caring for them last summer. Farm girl Jess was the right babe for the job and carried the two pups to the Marietta Square on July 4th, hoping for a sale. No one would have guessed Lily would melt my dad's heart, but she did. Within the month, she began life in my parent's abode and I continue to hear stories that amaze me.

Lily greets my dad with a flying leap to his lap after he returns from work. Then she climbs up his chair and nestles like a warm scarf around his neck. And he loves it. I even heard a rumor this week that she slept in my parent's bed, nestled on a soft fleece.

And I wonder who this new man really is...

But just about the time I got comfortable gloating about dad's changed heart, God did a radical work in mine. I'd sworn I wouldn't move to Don's old home. Living where his former spouse radiated God's glory through her life and death seemed a hurdle not worth trying to jump. The blended families textbook scenario strongly suggests we should to sell both homes and start over with a new one. But just when the house was about to sell, we stopped by and God changed me. In fact, the realtor had called that very morning during church and my heart lept at the thought that someone had made an offer on the house. Little did I know that by sundown, I would be planning a move, trusting an inner peace I still can't explain.

Are you up against a wall? Can't see beyond the brick and mortar you face? So was I.

Take heart. Be of good cheer. God changes hearts, yours and mine.

"The Spirit of the Lord will come upon you in power... and you will be changed into a different person." (1 Sam. 10:6)

Turning Forty

I woke up at Barnsley Gardens on my fortieth birthday. My sweet husband planned the surprise trip almost six months prior to my big day. We have history at the historic resort, thus it was a perfect place to celebrate the milestone in my life.


After loading our bags as we prepared to leave, we took a stroll on the grounds. We'd been there before, crashed a wedding reception once. But I didn't learn the history until that weekend.

Barnsley Gardens is a resort area centered around the ruins of an old mansion built in the 1840's. Godfrey Barnsley, one of the ten most affluent men in the south at that time, built the mansion for the love of his life, Julia. Sadly, the mother of his six children died of a lung ailment before construction was completed. Godfrey abandoned the project until she appeared to him over a year later and told him to finish the home.

The Italian villa came to life by the late 1840's, complete with marble floors and formal gardens. In 1864, however, just over twenty years later, the Civil War caused irreparable financial damage to the estate. When a tornado took the roof off the home in 1906, there were no funds to pay for repairs. And by 1942, the home was sold in auction. Piece by piece, local thieves stole the marble floor. The second floor collapsed. Vines grew thick.

As Don and I walked the grounds, we came upon the family grave site. There, on my fortieth birthday, I thought about what was left of one man's life and legacy: the ruins of his dream. He'd enjoyed all the money in the world for about twenty-five years. But a war changed all that.

In 1988, Prince Hubertus Fugger (A German Prince) purchased the land, opting to revive the gardens and restore the ruins. While a walk among what's left of the house is a peaceful step back in time, it's also a haunting reminder that nothing lasts.

That's what I thought about on my birthday.

Life came and went at the ruins. And similarly, my life will come and go. As I turned forty, the thought made me want to live my life fully now.

"For with you is the fountain of life; in your light we see light." (Ps. 36: 9)

He Who Dwells

"He who dwells in the shelter of the Most High will rest in the shadow of the Almighty..." (Ps. 91:1)

I'm a news junky. And my refurbished computer makes surfing the web for odd tidbits of news an easy past time. Sifting through dramatic stories bordering on the morose, however, takes it toll. In time, my spirit is heavy; my soul downcast.

Ironically, I often wallow in news muck when I'm already a bit disheartened, as if I'll find a story to feed my thirst. Instead of "feeding" my soul, the bundle of bad news leaves me numb. And then I dwell in numbness.

"He who dwells in the shelter..."

I went to Emory last week for an EMG, hoping for clarification as to my odd physical issues. They performed the test and stated emphatically, absent a bed side manner, that I do NOT have a myopathy. While I'm fine not having a myopathy, their assertion contradicts what another respected physician noted last June.

And I fight dwelling in crazy lady land.

Sam is scheduled for a muscle biopsy based on the results of our tests last June. Emory's neurologists stated I should ask this other doc about his findings. After a day or two of deliberation, it became clear we should continue with the biopsy.

As a side note, I just googled the pediatric doc's name and found he was featured as the only recommended pediatric neurologist in a recent addition of the Atlanta Magazine. Check this out if you need a "Top Doc"...

http://www.choa.org/Menus/Documents/media/Atlanta_Magazine_Full_Story.pdf

Regardless, as my head hit the pillow last week (after reading too many news stories), the office visit replayed in my mind, the doctor's voices almost hypnotic in their determination to convince me their test was superior to the other. I began to question the last four months of progress, which led me straight down the path to crazy land.

But then a gentle prompting pulled me back. "He who dwells in the shelter..." And I remembered there's a shelter, a divine presence, a place of refuge where the Almighty takes each hit, if only I will dwell there, setting my heart in that place of peace.

He who dwells...

Where do you dwell? I know where I want to dwell. I want to dwell where "I will say of the Lord, 'He is my refuge and my fortress, my God, in whom I trust.'" (Ps. 91:2)

My boys and I memorized this Psalm long ago and used to say it each morning on our way to school. I just read it aloud this morning.

The promises are rich for "He who dwells".

Me and My EMG

Sam and I had abnormal EMG's in June. An EMG tests the health of your muscles. So basically, the test showed our muscles aren't quite healthy.

Two and a half months later, I saw an adult neurologist at Emory. He told me I needed to have another EMG to validate the results of the first one. When I left Emory on August 26th, I was scheduled for an EMG on Monday, Sep. 14th.

A week later, a scheduler from Emory called and told me they had to postpone the appointment due to an emergency. The test was bumped to Sep. 24th until she called again last Friday trying to delay it more. After my urgent pleas, she agreed to perform the test on Tuesday, Sep. 22nd.

I'm not holding my breath.

"It is not for you to know the times or dates the Father has set by his own authority." (Acts 1: 7)

The delays concern me since I'm not sure what shoes I will wear once the weather turns cold. My ankles are weird and not accommodating many shoe options. And the one pair that didn't hurt my ankles, in time, hurt my back.

"And why do you worry about clothes? See how the lilies of the field grow. They do not labor or spin. Yet I tell you that not even Solomon in all his splendor was dressed like one of these." (Matt. 6: 28-29)

Some weeks I must pace my driving. Some days I must choose to sit still. Some times I must run my fingers along a wall to keep balance while moving forward. It's comical in an upside down sort of way.

"Three times I pleaded with the Lord to take it away from me. But he said to me, 'My grace is sufficient for you, for my power is made perfect in weakness.'" (2 Cor. 12: 8-9)

I turn forty in a few weeks and never dreamed I'd be facing an odd muscle thing at this point in my life. And I guess until my test on Tuesday, I can hold out hope for another diagnosis. But the biggest hope I can grab hold of far surpasses normal legs, warm shoes, or medical understanding.


For "he was pierced for our transgressions, he was crushed for our iniquities; the punishment that brought us peace was upon him, and by his wounds we are healed." (Isaiah 53: 5)

That's the crazy, cool part. Right now, right here, through Jesus Christ, we are healed.

Looking Back

My computer died last week. It hadn't worked well for months. Looking back, I put off the inevitable as long as I could. So Labor Day weekend began with a trip to the computer doc.

My computer spent the long weekend in rehab and came home a few days ago. It's amazing. A friend installed upgraded parts I never dreamed I would own right now. I can traffic the Internet with ease and add to blogs without battling for proper word spacing. My desk is a mess since I dug everywhere to find software to reinstall. But the computer's so easy to work with, I can write surrounded by chaos.

It reflects the recent skirmish in my heart.

When I found out Sam had to have a muscle biopsy in early August, I lost normal momentum. I spent days haggling with insurance companies and doctor's offices. Yet even when the procedure was scheduled and close at hand, I felt slowed and unable to find my happy place. Ironically, he got sick last week and the procedure was postponed a month. It's still not over.

But after long hours of quiet last week, perhaps even a shut down of sorts, I found Susan again. It could be the antibiotics I'm on. It could also be the work of that new supplement I've been taking. But somehow it seems more than that.

The creative side of my brain has concluded that God upgraded my hardware to better serve my software. I'm learning what to care about versus what to let go of, and it's an intriguing process, forcing me to go against the normal emotional flow of my heart.

It's tricky. But I spent an hour today surrounded by an enthusiastic group of elementary aged singers and can't wait to teach them my favorite elephant song next week. My ankles are weak. My legs still unsteady. But I could sing and help a few others learn songs that speak of hope and joy and the good in life.

"The Lord is good to those whose hope is in him, to the one who seeks him... Let him sit alone in silence for the Lord has laid it on him." (Lam. 3: 25 & 28)

There are times of quiet; times when hours in a blue recliner offer an escape or perhaps a respite of sorts.

But "men are not cast off by the Lord forever. Though he brings grief, he will show compassion, so great is his unfailing love." (Lam. 3: 31-32)

A new computer. A stronger heart. Both after a crash of sorts.

Looking back, I understand.

The August Butterfly Dance

Has anyone noticed the number of butterflies dancing in mid air the past few weeks? We spent the weekend in south Georgia for a family wedding. As we traveled country roads, I was amazed at the number of yellow and orange butterflies flitting about.

Years ago, I noticed that Pear Trees shed their blossoms in mid-March, creating what I affectionately dubbed, "March Snow." Just about the time their smell overtook their beauty, a storm would blow the tiny blossoms off the trees, covering my driveway in a blanket of white. I still look forward to March snow; to one last twirl of white before winter is gone and spring grabs hold.

And after driving through a canopy of dancing color this weekend, my antenna will be up next August to see if the phenomenon repeats itself. I have a feeling I've overlooked the late summer occurrence for too many years.

Dancing butterflies stir my deep places. And they've needed stirring lately. Our first genetic test came back negative in early August which means Sam will undergo a muscle biopsy next week--if his recent cough goes away. It's only minor surgery. But the mom in me has felt a little overwhelmed by it all lately.

I know there are much worse things. Even Sam recently said he doesn't like visiting his neurologist's office since we see some fairly sick kids while waiting. Perspective is a good thing.

But if God brings us to mind, I'd appreciate your prayers. Sam needs to get healthy this weekend so the biopsy can take place Sep. 10th at 9 am.

"For since the creation of the world God's invisible qualities--his eternal power and divine nature--have been clearly seen, being understood from what has been made..." (Rom. 1:20)

...especially as it relates to dancing butterflies.