As I go about life as a "normal" person, I am still dumbfounded by how quickly the tears flood my eyes when someone tells me of their own health diagnosis. It is seemingly instantaneous when I hear the word cancer, tears swell up and compassion fills my heart as I listen to another's journey with the terrible disease. Empathy is such a powerful thing for both parties involved. You know, it took a lot for the Lord to soften my heart in this way.... "a lot" meaning "near death experience".. .you know, no biggie. I seem to find that I am generally a bit colder and harsher of a person than many females I know. It has its perks in some contexts for sure, but it is most often a deficit. And this particular deficit has made me even more grateful for one of my most precious and long friends here in Raleigh who holds those same compassionate eyes that I now have in some small moments. She, however, holds these eyes for nearly anyone who suffers. She has voiced that she doesn't like that she is so "sensitive," but I see it as beautiful. I see it as a gift and an essential part of the human experience that some, like myself, desperately need more of. You tell my friend of your sadness and she immediately enters in to the depths with you. Often times, before your tears even come, hers are there, and this friendship has been such a gift to me in the 13 years of knowing her. I have always longed for the Lord to soften me in this way and grow within me His eyes of compassion that I see so evidently in her. I heard a speaker say recently that we need to "disrupt the myth that joy can only come in a pain free life" and I have found that having hearts of compassion are what connect us to blaze the trail of suffering for another. Suffering plus a compassionate heart brings healing.

I just got home from visiting my precious grandmother in the hospital. What a gift it is to be with Thelma Mae. She is the midst of quite possibly the most difficult physical suffering we have as humans. She is in the last chapter of a long, bountiful life. How long will this chapter be? Who knows. It could be days, or weeks, or another 10 years.  With the stubborn fighter genes we have in this family, she could honestly live to 150 if God will let her. Selfishly, I would love to ask the Lord for 10 more with her.  I do not think that is the merciful request. I just want her around... I want to come sit at her feet and listen to her talk about her Jesus. I want to laugh at her unfiltered stories, and I want my kids to know her and grow in their compassion as they observe what it is to finish strong. I love her so much. She is so full of wisdom and insight and wit. I thank God that He gave me the privilege of living so close to her in her last chapter. I only wish I had spent more hours with her.

There is something uniquely intimate, holy and blessed about being near to someone who is known completely by and filled with Jesus' presence in the midst of their greatest suffering. She is filled with contentment in her shortcomings and failures in life and utterly grateful for the gift that she's been given. She looks back at her 92 years of life with joy. Tonight, I was given the privilege of putting on her chapstick, rubbing her aches, cleaning  little imperfections and gently aid in alleviating her discomfort as much as I could. Every minute was a gift. I could see the wrestling in her spirit between utter frustration and anger at her body's limitations and yet the deep serenity of sincere faith that she dwelled in.  "If He knows my name, He can heal my being.  How else can I put it?" Lord, I do want another 10 years with her, but only if you send her mercy and heal her being. This is too much. 

 I sat with her, listened to and jotted down a few stories from different stages of her life. What sweet memories from her childhood, young motherhood and grand-motherhood. I cannot get over the hilarious phrases that she uses and the differences between what my children's life is in contrast to her own. I can't wait to document these stories of barefoot walks to school and tomato peeling soon. As I was with her tonight, I couldn't help but think about my aunt Suzie, across from me most of the night, who has done faithfully for years what I so flippantly called a "privilege" tonight. . The constant tender care she poured out was that of a saint, as she watches her mother's body grow increasingly more demanding. It is heart wrenching to watch anyone you love in such pain and discomfort. Every part of grandma's body aches. Every inch we moved her body was painful agony. Her skin is covered in bruises and blood because the slightest bump or knick causes severe damage. She is feeble. She is aging. Her body is slowly giving way to the harsh reality of the entropy of this earth. So much has been taken from her, and yet she is cultivating preposterous gratitude for what remains.

For someone my age, I can uniquely empathize with some of what she is experiencing, but to a much smaller scale. I had a few moments, a quick glimpse into what has been any every elderly person's reality. I remember bed sores from the hospital bed when you cannot get comfortable because of the bars on the bedside, the rapid decline of organs shutting down. I remember being on 10 liters of oxygen (or however many  I was on) and how impossible it is to get comfortable and long to just BREATHE. I also very keenly remember what it was like to think I was in my last chapter: the somber reflection and in pain, the longing for relief that could come through the mercy of death. I can never forget these things. But, my suffering was so short and hopefully, not one I will endure again until I am in my 90's. This suffering for Thelma has been a long-suffering not only for her, but also for the 7 beloved children that love and care for her. The two that have walked closest with her through this journey have loved her so well, caring for her beyond what anyone would dream to have in their final years.

I watch as the doctor sets the stethoscope on her chest, and my grandma takes as deep a breath as she can. It is so shallow and labored and difficult. I remember moments ago, while we were laughing at the fact that despite several close calls, she's still kickin'. "Well I guess if He keeps keeping me here, I got something left to do." She whispered. She understood that she was on assignment and was reporting for duty even in her 90's. "I'll just keep talking about the Lord as long as I have breath...  (she smiled as she paused) and mine’s getting kinda light." Though her suffering is great, she holds fast to God's goodness, and she refuses to lose heart. "Though outwardly we are wasting away, yet inwardly we are being renewed day by day."

There is such a peace when you enter the room with someone nearing death who knows Jesus... and this woman truly knows Jesus. He is there. His light shines through the suffering. I can remember my husband saying how peaceful it was being with me in the hospital and how hard it was to enter back into the chaos of "reality." Isn't that the hidden treasures in the darkness the Isaiah is talking about? When everything else is stripped away, and all you have is Christ, He is enough. He is the treasure.

Outside in the land of the distracted, this month has felt like so much chaos, fire after fire, drowning in too much, the epitome of more than I can handle. I have on several occasions broken down in tears and exhaustion. Today, likely the hardest one yet, I spend time with my Savior and He says, "I'm with you." During this difficult month, I have even uttered several times to Jesus, "I miss the hospital room." And boy, does that sound ridiculous. It was just so much simpler. I could not hurt those closest to me, I was not consumed by logistics or finances or carpool lines. I was never communicating in a hurry or feeling pressure. I didn't have much "opportunity for the flesh" other than my own mental despair. I joke with my closest friends that it's not hard to be holy when you're isolated in a room with almost no human interaction and you're never in a hurry with nothing to do. It was me and Jesus. He was healing me, He was moving. In some ways, I miss it so much. In others, I beg  God to never let me, my family, or my friends endure that again. I know He has called me out of that season, and I am certainly grateful for the physical relief that comes with that. But now, this season in the land of the distracted, comes with its own challenges. He has me here, the exact boundaries of where He wants me. Sometimes, it feels like God made a mistake. Why would he put the argumentative and quick-tongued know-it-all in a leadership role with a team in a high stress industry that needs tender communication and kindness? It's foolishness. Likewise, I have asked: Why would he put a man with a stutter in charge of an army? Foolishness. I suppose it is His greatest display of humor and irony. He uses the weak to lead the strong. And I am so weak. Lord, keep me. Keep me in perfect peace as my mind is stayed on you. Humble me. Convict me. Change me. Use me. Hide me in your wing. Let me finish well this race you've called me to, however many days you have me here. Help me look back on this season and remember the amazing work you did around me, in me, and through me, despite of me.

Update: Blood work was still all clear last week! And round 2 of immunizations is completed! Next month will be 2 years since diagnosis and God is still using this testimony to share the power of HIS blood. What more could I ask for? 

Prayers: that these dirty hands would toil the field and be found faithful, despite their potential for destruction and decay. Let me be like Jesus and restore others and build them up.