I Don't Want to Forget

I’ve learned some fresh lessons over the past weeks of illness.

I’ve gained a clearer understanding

of how isolating and emotionally debilitating chronic pain is,

and have a new heart-deep empathy for my friends

who deal with invisible pain every day.

My eyes have been opened

to the speed with which sickness or injury

can squeeze a busy, independent, productive, out-going life

into an existence of uncertainty, frailty and fear.

I’ve been jolted alert to the reality

that much of what I usually consider essential-to-my-schedule

is so very, very non-essential.

And I've learned that rest is essential...

as well as wonderful.

I’ve learned that

the presence of God with me is real,

even, or perhaps especially,

when I'm too confused to think anything except,

“Lord, have mercy.

Lord, have mercy.”

I’ve realized over and over again

– as my friends and family members "dropped everything" to take care of me

--that those who say they love me,

really truly do.

And that I have friends with whom I can entrust my life.

Today,

three weeks since my illness began,

I'm cautiously hopeful that I’m starting to get better.

I believe I am getting better.

I fervently pray,

along with those who've prayed so fervently for me... 

that I'll soon be completely, fully well.

When I'm well once again,

when I'm strong,

when I'm productive,

and when the calendar events press in once again...

I'll celebrate my new gratitude for the simple gift of life.

And when I'm well,

when I'm celebrating life...

I pray I remember the lessons I learned in the darkness.

-- Reenie

A Month of Life

I missed my first day of work on February 1. This is February 26, and I’m not well yet. I missed four days of “official” work, two full days of unpaid writing, and several partial days. Even when I’ve been back at work, I haven’t felt like myself.

Earlier this week, a local librarian heard me cough and suggested strongly that I should be home in bed. She wasn’t convinced by my assurance that I’d done my time in bed...and this was much better!

As of today, I see big-time progress. I’m still easily tired, but I only coughed a few times today. Woo hoo! I’m nearly well!

In the meantime, I’ve missed a month of my life.

As I'm sure you've figured out, one can do a lot of things with a month. A few summers ago, for instance, I spent an entire month in Thailand. Trust me on this: a month-long holiday in Thailand is better than a month of sickness.

I’ve been inclined to feel just a little bit sorry for myself. Okay, I'll admit it -- more than just a little.

My pity parties last about two minutes -- when I’m brought up short by the reminder that many people are sick for months...even years. They don’t simply miss out on a month of To Do lists before bouncing back to the usual work or school scene.

These people have to give up their entire “usual scene”, because their illness has no known ending. Or because the treatments required to save them from it, make them too sick to be out in public. Some of them wonder if they'll ever have a To Do list again.

I’d never dare to pretend that, after a mere month-of-slowdown, I can understand what it’s like to have a chronic illness.

But I do want to say this...

Hats off to you who are sick, week after week, month after month, year after year. May God give you courage and strength.

Hats off to you who get horribly sick from your treatments... but keep going for treatments anyway.

Hats off to you who care for a loved one for year-in and year-out... but don’t allow yourself to get bitter about it.

Hats off to you who bear a life-long diagnosis with patience and dignity... and refuse to get mad at God.

My greatest hats off, and my deepest bows, go to you who bear chronic illnesses with no family or friends nearby. May you know the Friend you cannot see, but is always with you. May you know how much He cares about you. And may you know that He’s preparing a much grander life for you on the other side.

This life won’t last forever... but that one will! Now that's worth a WOO HOO!!

-- Reenie

When Hope Hurts

It shouldn’t be true, but it is.

Sometimes it hurts to hope.

When you’re a mom

who’s tried every seizure-stopping medication known to mankind,

but seizures still attack your son several times a day...

Hope hurts.

When you’re wannabe-parents

who’ve spent all your savings and half-a-dozen years

to overcome infertility,

but you’re still,

inexplicably,

very definitely

not pregnant...

Hope hurts.

When you’re the dad of a teenage daughter

who’s never walked or talked

and is nearing the end of her high-school years,

and you have no idea how you'll care for her....

much less how you’ll pay for it...

Hope hurts.

When, like so many of my friends,

you’re a single woman

who is lovely, intelligent and downright-fun,

and you can’t figure out why God doesn’t say “yes”

to your repeated prayers for marriage and a family...

Then, too, hope hurts.

Oh, it hurts.

And sometimes

when hope hurts so deeply,

it seems safer not to hope at all.

Safer not to think about what could be ahead.

Safer not to hope,

not to plan,

and certainly not to expect...

that things could change.

It's definitely safer not to hope that things could get better.

But as many of us have learned

to our sorrow,

hopelessness has consequences, too.

It makes our hearts hard.

It makes us not-so-fun to be around.

And it takes away any good we might be to others

who come to us hoping that we'll give them hope.

I don’t know why God allows some of us to hurt so much.

I don’t know why He doesn’t promise that,

if we just hang on,

and always do the right thing,

it will all get better.

And I wish I knew how to fix the hurt of hoping!

But there are some things I do know.

When hope hurts, we’re not alone.

God has promised to be with us.

And He keeps His promises.

When hope hurts, someone understands how we feel.

When Jesus came to earth,

He experienced every emotion we feel...

So He understands.

When hope hurts, someone cares.

God doesn’t watch with disinterested objectivity,

As if we’re some kind of science experiment.

He cares about each of us.

He cares so much that He collects all our tears!

When hope hurts, someone hears when we cry.

When we cry out to God,

He never turns a deaf ear,

or closes the door to give Himself “a break” from our crying.

He always hears when we cry...

And He always listens.

When hope hurts, there’s always reason to hope.

We almost never understand it.

And it’s hardly ever easy.

But, somehow, in some way,

when we see the big picture,

God brings good out of our hard times.

He does,

and He will.

Even when it hurts to hope.

-- Reenie