Sometimes I forget to spit out the seeds…

Archive for April, 2015

When Hope Sinks

When I started this blog almost two years ago, I envisioned it being many things.  I had just begun to experience some health problems, for the first time in my life.  One of my purposes in writing was to both vent my frustration at not being “well,” and catalog my journey to wholeness. Because I was sure that “wholeness” was where I was headed.  I had confidence in the wisdom of doctors and the power of God to heal.

I haven’t published nearly as many posts as I’ve written, in my head, or uncompleted in my drafts folder.  I became weary of chronicling every dead end I encountered.  Trying to escape my tunnel vision, I wrote about other things that God laid on my heart.

Sometimes my brain is screaming with all the things I want to write about what I am going through, but I silence it.  Because it is redundant.  Because it is whiny.  Because the world doesn’t need one more pity-party.

The other day I was feeling so stuck, and stifled, and wondering why blogging about my “journey to wholeness” had become so stale.  I thought about my previous posts, and I suddenly saw a pattern.  They were all about hope, followed by hopes dashed.

I put hope in everything…..

Hope in a “miracle” supplement, supported by hope in a TV doctor.

Hope in a nutritionist-to-the-stars and her metabolism-healing plan.

Hope in coffee, which I had never drank before, to combat fatigue.

Hope in a new doctor, and then another new doctor, to not give up on me.

Hope in WebMD, or an online survey, or some other method of self-diagnosis.

Hope in natural remedies to treat my self-diagnosed conditions.

Hope in another blood test that will surely reveal the elusive cause of my misery.

So many times, I was sure that wholeness was just around the corner.  But it wasn’t.  It still isn’t.

As I thought about this pattern of hope, I heard in my head, softly and slowly:

My hope is built on nothing less, than Jesus’ blood and righteousness.

Through every instance of building up my hope, putting it all on that one thing, I was still praying….still trusting God.  But He wasn’t my focus.  He wasn’t my source.  And when that one thing turned out to not be the thing, my hopes were shattered.  By losing focus on my Savior, I set myself up for devastation, again and again.

This realization comes on the cusp of new hope.  A new doctor.  A fresh view.  A different approach.  But I am very consciously fixing my hope on Jesus.  And turning it back to Him as often as I need to.

My hope is built on nothing less, than Jesus’ blood and righteousness.                     I dare not trust the sweetest frame, but wholly lean on Jesus’ name.                     On Christ the solid rock I stand; all other ground is sinking sand.                               When darkness veils His lovely face, I rest on His unchanging grace.                       In every high and stormy gale, my anchor holds within the veil.

Confessions

I recently realized that a blog site I have been reading also has a “confessional” section.  Anyone can post their “confessions” anonymously as a way to vent.  Others can offer their support with “like,” “hug,” or “me too!”  I can see the value in that….for commiserating about the hard parts of life.  For getting things off our chest.  It’s also a pretty dark place, with people telling secrets that are heart-wrenching, or scary, or even dangerous.  And there’s no way to reach out to those people, due to the anonymity.  More on that another day…..

Today, I thought I’d share some of my own “confessions.”  Nothing serious, or heavy….just for the fun of it.

My bathroom floor is absolutely filthy.  My kids rotate bathroom duty, so the essentials (toilet, sink, garbage, etc.) are taken care of.  I always intend to get in there and tackle the floor….but I don’t.  Between the painted tiles that everything sticks to, necessitating a scrub-by-hand-on-your-knees approach, and the claw foot tub that is impossible to clean under, it’s the worst job in the house.

I fake-nursed in order to sit on the couch longer and not feel lazy.  When I had nurslings, and they fell asleep at the breast, I would often just pretend they were still eating so I could rest some more.  I’m pretty sure I’m not the only one who used that tactic.

I like mayonnaise on my cooked spinach.  Just a little bit, mixed right in.  Creamy, vinegary…yum!  My husband thinks it’s very weird and gross, but I’m the only one in my family who eats cooked spinach, so whatevs.  All for me.

My kids are not allowed to say the “f” word.  No, not that one!  I mean, obviously that one, too.  But also the one for gas.  I hate that word.  It makes me gag.  Sometimes I really can’t believe that anyone says it.  If you say it, I might judge you a little bit.

Of all the changes in my body after having children, I mourn my feet the most.  Stretch marks, loose skin, and other unmentionable things, are permanent evidence that I’m a mother.  And I’m fine with that, really and truly.  But my feet.  They are more or less the same length, but the ligaments seem to be permanently relaxed, so they spread when I’m standing.  I can’t buy strappy sandals anymore, or cheap sneakers, because they usually don’t come in a wide width.  I didn’t know how much I loved cute shoes until I couldn’t wear them anymore.

I served my family leftovers for dinner four nights in a row.  I always plan my menu with a leftover night in mind.  But this week, my mother-in-law brought me a bounty of Easter dinner leftovers.  With the weekend leftovers already in my fridge, we were set for the week!  I added a couple of frozen pizzas one night to break up the monotony, although monotony wasn’t really a problem with the number of choices we had.  Last night I served it up on platters and called it a “smorgasbord”.  I call that a total win.

I made up a song about corn bags, and now I’m forced to sing it every night.  My mom made my kids each their own corn bag for Christmas.  The first time my little girls used them for bedtime, I sang an impromptu song as I delivered the warmed-up bags.  It’s to the tune of “We Got a Dollar” from The Little Rascals.  “I got a corn bag, I got a corn bag, I got a corn bag with zebra stripes (or princess crowns, or sock monkeys)!  I got a corn bag, a warm corn bag, a warm corn bag with zebra stripes!”  If my husband or older kids try to sing the song and deliver the corn bags, they protest loudly.  I’m stuck for life.

So what about you?  Leave your confessions in the comments!