a memorial and thankfulness

Today marks one year since I started treatment for my Graves' Disease. Since that day in Seattle, Washington, I have gone through a lot of changes. Physical changes like my thyroid levels normalizing, the thyroid eye disease going into remission, and losing 75% of the weight I had gained over the course of my year from hell. Psychosocial changes like climbing out of the deep pit of depression and anxiety that the disease had brought, being aware of the fragility of life, pursuing my friends once again, and discovering that I am a creative and metaphorical woman. There are so many other ways that I have grown and changed in the last 365 days and I just know there will continue to be more and more changes as I continue on the road to full physical, mental, and spiritual health.

At Legacy this morning, Brant talked about making memorials, physical reminders of where I have been and what God has brought me through. So here is a little something that I wrote about my year from hell this evening.

I praise you for I am fearfully and wonderfully made!
It is because of you that I can praise you today!
You alone are the reason I can sing and dance!
You walked with me, holding my hand until I couldn't walk anymore.
And when I crumbled to the ground, unable to take another step,
you picked me up and carried me through the worst of the desert storm.
You carried me whispering that you had me and to rest in your arms.
You didn't leave me in the desert with the wind howling,
the dust swirling about, and the thunder and lightening hovering overhead.
No, you didn't leave me.
You lovingly took me in your arms, pressed my head to your chest,
whispered, "I've got you. Rest now." and started walking,
while the storm raged on.

the desert and declarations

Have you ever felt like you were alone, wandering through a lonely desert, unsure of where you're going or what your purpose is there? Have you ever felt like no matter how loud you shouted, nobody could hear you?

I have struggled a lot with feeling like that since the sickness started. So many times I have felt that not one person understood what I was dealing with. Oh sure they could read about it and understand in a small way but nobody had gone through what I was going through. I felt so very alone.

I feel like I woke up one day in the middle of a wide expansive desert, not a tree in sight nor any body of water. All I could see was dry, cracked earth reaching as far as the eye could see. I didn't have any idea how I got there or why I was there; all I knew was that I was supposed to walk and keep walking until I could somehow escape the desert. It was a very silent area - no people, no cars, no city noises, no animals, nothing except for me and the hard, cracked dirt. I couldn't call out for help, it might bring unspoken danger. I couldn't rest, if I did, then I might die for lack of wanting to get up again.

I don't know how to get out of my desert. Elle, my counselor, compared my desert to the Israelites' 40 years wandering  in the desert. Their desert was a time of cleansing, of getting rid of the impurities in the characters of each person. What was left at the end of the 40 years was a group who had faith, a faith that had endured through 40 years of wandering and waiting. I'm not sure what the purpose of my desert is. Maybe it is to purify my character, to get rid of the impurities. Or maybe it has a whole other purpose that I can't see yet. But maybe its not about knowing what the purpose is. Maybe its about being open to God's work in you, in your character, your desires, your thoughts.

"In the same way I was with Moses, I'll be with you. I won't give up on you; I won't leave you." ~ Joshua 1:5 (The Message)


Abba, I feel alone in my desert. It feels like you have given up on me, that you have left me. Thank you for reminding me that you are with me. You didn't leave Moses or the Israelites and you won't leave me. Help me to remember, when the lies that I am all alone are crowding in, that you have declared that you will never leave me. As you wish.