My tears, frustration and pain seemed overwhelming…again. My body began to feel jolt after jolt of “electricity,” (muscle spasms) contorting and twisting in a way that was unfamiliar and scary to me.

My oldest daughter and I had stolen a rare Saturday afternoon off to go shopping, when we have such good conversations. (Take note, if you need to chat with a young adult in your life, drives and wandering are magic.)

She began pouring her heart out as we drove, all the ways God is showing himself to her as a camp counselor this summer. I soaked up every word, glancing at her beaming smile, her self-assured pace of the conversation. I marvel at how she’s grown up (again) in the 6 weeks she has lived at camp.

We both knew, it was time together we craved, catching up, giggling, wandering and always, the random hugs and kisses she gives when she is pushing my wheelchair. (I use it when we need to cover a lot of ground quickly.)

Rather suddenly, my body felt strange to me, which if you’ve been following my journey during this season, you know about the pain pump insertion in February, which has been an unexpected journey and blessing. If not, read back a few entries…

Since February, my spasticity has greatly improved. That said, it has also been cause to relearn how to walk. The muscles I knew that felt like rigid tree trucks, are now unfamiliar and feel more like al dente cooked noodles. Less pain and foreign. I don’t know how to trust these new “noodles.” Lots of physical therapy, medication adjustments and trying, falling and trying again.

I would be lying if I said it’s been easy.  I would also be lying if I didn’t tell you about the wonder, gratitude and the fear and frustration. As daughter said perfectly, “this is the biggest both/and ever, mama….” That it is and most likely will continue to be.  It is both processing and easing one issue and also dealing with other issues that arise because of the changes; less spasticity and pain and my body overcompensating and painful in very foreign ways as I try to become familiar with all the new and different ways. Then a med change to address both the spasticity and new pain and wait and see what happens….

Most med changes have been to gradually increase the anti-spasm med. But just before vacation in June, Dr. Rush added a bit of a pain med in the hopes of easing some of the overcompensating muscle tightness. It seemed fine initially, but over the course of vacation, I found it harder and harder to walk at all, hubby and I both feeling like I was moving backward in my progress. By the time we got home, I was so tight that I could hardly walk without someone helping me…

It was decided to remove the pain med, the thought that my body was over-reacting to IT. With that change, my body seemed to ratchet up even more, which was where I found myself last weekend while shopping with my beloved daughter. As we chatted in the mall, bolts of electricity seemed to fly through my body out of the clear blue. I took a breath, hoping this was just random. Even before the pump installation, spasms were not like this, exactly…

Another ripped through my legs and I flinched, HARD. E stopped, came to kneel in front of me, “Mama, what can I do?” Such connection and beauty that she was so aware, but also that we are close enough that she didn’t have to even ask what was happening. She just knew.

I was so frustrated, so wanting to just be with her, but having an instant sinking feeling. Tears filled my eyes as I tried to pretend I was fine. (Why do we do that, pretend we are fine…?)

I instantly begged God to calm it down so I could spend that precious afternoon with her…and felt it ramp up.

“We can go home, Mama.” She stayed kneeled right by me as I tried to cover my fear and pain.

“I’m sorry…” I breathed through clenched teeth. She hugged me so tight, right in the middle of Von Mar, then proceeded to tell me not to apologize for being me. She didn’t let go, as a matter of fact, began praying right there, for Jesus to meet us and take the pain.

I could barely take it all in as she took care of me this time. As she got behind the wheel to drive, she prayed again. The spasms and anxiety seemed to increase. In a blend of my tears, hers began and she cried to Jesus to take it all away from me. It was a moment I will not forget. I’ve not been so proud and so humbled in the same moment in a long while.

The afternoon progressed with more spasms and as I cried, soaked in our hot tub, she and her sister stood beside me, trying to distract me with conversation, humor and even a medley of camp songs that were so familiar. I was simultaneously trying to rise above the wrenching spasms because its’ not their job to take care of me, not wanting them to see me so vulnerable and acutely aware of the transparency and authenticity we’ve woven into our family so we can indeed be human, vulnerable and loved. Another proud and extremely humbling thought….

The spasms lasted long into Monday, which meant scrapping an entire day in my counseling practice (a lot of internalized perfectionism, guilt and trying to be compassionate with myself. Even therapists struggle with should, guilt and perfectionism, in case you didn’t know.) The relief was only found in taking another very strong muscle relaxer that knocks me out.

Another appointment with Dr. Rush who could not have been more knowledgeable, caring or equipped with Kleenex after he stated, “you look like you’re going to cry.” That’s all it took. The sheer magnitude of the full-body spasms for 48 straight hours, frustration and the fear of things staying this way had me pulling many Kleenex’s out of the box, then depositing them, soggy, into my husband’s waiting hands. That is true love…

Armed with a plan to bring the spasms down, another new med prescription and my unwavering husband, we headed back home. As soon as he tucked me back in the car, my wails and tears of frustration could not be shut off any longer. He stroked my hair as he drove, whispered reassurance and prayers. How did I come to be so blessed by this man? And because he is so him, I was able to choke out my insecurity….”Is my disability ever going to be too much for you?”

I will probably never forget the steadfast look in his eye, the dance of a near eye roll (that he knew was too soon for) and the safety as he took my hand. “Never.”

I continued to expel the mountain of feelings caged in my body as he provided the safest everything: listening, reassurance, a tight hold on my hand and a bit of humor to draw me away from the heaviness, strategically. And although I felt raw, vulnerable and undone, I can look back now and see Jesus in it all. There is something to allowing your most vulnerable self to be seen. When your person somehow exemplifies Jesus in their love, steadfast devotion and so much grace and mercy, I think this is the closest we’re able to get to heaven while still here on the Earth…

From Dr. Rush and his kindness, my kids never-ending love, grace and fearless acknowledgement of the hard parts of disability and unwavering faith, to my lovely nurse who is so encouraging me, family who checked in regularly, and my sweet love, God was indeed present. No, he did not vanquish the spasms as I asked, but instead, gave me himself in my people, in endurance and strength that was in no way my own.

My youngest daughter sent me worship songs while she spent the week at Summer Service Week – the words and truth in the ones she sent exactly what I needed to hear as my body ached. She brought me to my knees with her faith and prayers, provision in the worship she shared with me.

One song, “Jehovah” included, “Jehovah-Nissi – fight your battles, Jehovah-Jireh- meet your needs. Jehovah-Rapha – heal your body, Jehovah-Shalom be your peace.” Another, repeated, “HE will make a way….” Over, over and over again. Still another was a praise anthem, reasons abounding to praise, no matter what we face. As I sat fighting that whole-body Charlie horse, I clung to these words, to my Savior who is so good, no matter what. I felt him, rather than bringing those muscles to the stillness I begged for, instead, use so many people, words and moments to bring me to him. He, too, promises he will NEVER LEAVE.

A new med, another wait and see. My muscles are slowly calming like sunshine peeking through the clouds after a tumultuous and intensely scary storm. Thanks be to God for who and how he is. He is more than able and never unaware. I was terrified, in so much pain, (feeling abandoned) and then…he reminded me in the most beautiful ways, that is not who he is. He is nothing but love.

If you too, need a reminder that he will not leave and is never unaware, let me know. You are not alone.

“Therefore, my heart is glad and my tongue rejoices; my body will rest secure.” Psalm 16:9

Both/And

xoxo

If you are a regular reader of my blog, you know that the last few posts have been focused on a recent medical procedure, parts of my life with cerebral palsy and many affects in the last few months. While CP certainly is NOT the whole of my identity, it is a never-hidden part of who I am. This season is both rich and frustrating with the focus on CP and my own need for self-compassion.

My body has healed from the pump implantation. We are finally, after about 6 weeks, getting the level of baclofen in the pump to the correct level for me. I am figuring out this new normal and even had my first pump refill.

While there are so many victories in those sentences, I have always promised myself that this blog would not be inauthentic. So, if I may, here is the difficult truth….

I am both so grateful for the decreased spasticity that this pump affords me, every day. I am still in awe. And, it is so hard, learning to walk again.

These muscles were very accustomed to being rigid, painful and walking as such. Although painful, for at least 49 of my 51 years, I have been walking on those muscles.

When I had the test dose in January, along with the joy of released spasticity, was the realization that these “relaxed” muscles were a whole different ball game than those I always known. It was easy in the surprise and happiness of feeling less pain to say, “oh, yes, learning to walk again, no problem!” It’s funny how we do that. New Year’s resolutions, painting a room an ambitious design, even changing life style habits. Initially, the things we view as good change can be “exciting, until reality sets in and change reminds us, “Um, this is very unfamiliar and I am not keen on that.”

The reality of these “new but same” muscles is that they just flat out do not know how to walk, function or move the same way they used to. The consistent drip from the pump makes them much more relaxed and thus, when my brain asks them to move, it feels like it takes even longer for the message to get there from my brain. Between that and my brain not quite trusting this “relaxed set of muscles,” there is a lot of coaxing, thinking and prodding a body that feels better but is so unfamiliar. I am leaning on assistive aids more than I ever have which again, is both good and hard. The good is the stability my walking stick provides, (plus it is just badass; hand carved and cool!) and the hard is the feeling so out of my own element.

A couple weeks ago as I carried a cereal bowl into the kitchen, my feet somehow tangled and I found myself crashing hard on our laminate floor. Thankfully, I was not detrimentally hurt, (a small bump on my head and knees) but my pride took a hit. I feel like the toddler I saw recently while in Chicago by the pool. She gripped her daddy’s hand as she wobbled, slipped and marched in an effort to learn how to walk independently. “I’m with you, girlie girl,” I thought under my breath.

I feel herky-jerky, nervous and sore. My body is overcompensating for all the changes going on, so that makes parts of me hurt that never have before. I vacillate between being frustrated with this body, putting too much pressure on myself and remembering that does not help anything and trying to be kind. I will tell you this though…. I am envious of that toddler who will not remember trying, falling and trying again to walk at her age. (Kids also “bounce” when they fall far more than ahem, 50-year-olds… ).

That is the hard right now, trying desperately to be kind and patient with myself while being incredibly grateful for the gift of this pump, relief and hope. It all actually goes hand in hand.

Can you relate? Being honest (human) and grateful can be a really, really hard both/and.

I hope in my sharing, there is further permission to share your own hard both/and with a trusted loved one. I pray you are loved and reassured, that you feel hope to keep going in the good and hard changes. I pray most of all you feel the reassuring presence of God.

I would be lost without that myself.

I am rooting you on,

Xoxo

Both/and

Psalm  16:9

“We could implant a pump for your muscle spasm medication.” Dr. Rush began slowly as I described the contractures that I experience due to cerebral palsy.

I felt my body react in every way: muscles tightened harder, ready to fight this suggestion, my emotions instantly “not wanting to be a person who needed more than oral meds to manage CP” and my heart feeling…embarrassed at the suggestion? Shame? Failure, that I wasn’t managing this well enough, that we were even talking about this? Looking back now, 18 months later– Yes, I was instantly battling all of these…but why?

I think to understand that, we need to go back much further….

I have shared some of this story, pieces and parts along my 51-year-old path. The beauty of time (at least sometimes) is that we get the opportunity to look back, with better vision than we had at the time we were IN a certain part of our journey. For, me, the far more important part is that I get to see how the God I love has been at work through the whole journey because I know and trust that he was, is and always will be.

I was born to parents with medical backgrounds, in a part of the US that had one of two NICU’s at the time. I was born to parents who instilled the blessing and saving grace of a relationship with Jesus Christ. I was given to a family who had the knowledge and ability to pursue treatment, surgical and otherwise to give me the best possible outcomes I could have, with my level of CP. These are all true, all of which I am forever grateful for.

AND

Having CP is a bitch. My body is perpetually confused with what to do and how to do it, from each step I take to maneuvering around kids’ stuff on the floor (or my own,) tripping or falling for no good reason, navigating ice and snow in the ugly Michigan weather and a million things in between. My muscles are constantly “ready,” meaning flexed and tight – requiring a ton of stretching, moving and working through that every day. As I write this, I feel like I am both complaining, and… I am acutely aware of the blessings that are mine, that CP for me, is not harder.

The level of severity for the 1 out of 400^th person who is born with CP is as varied as grains of sand. For some, it is “minimal,” though even minimal is a lot. For others, it is moderate and still others, having CP is severe, the most severe meaning a life without the ability to walk, talk or control your own body. With each level, there is also the possibility of cognitive impairments, all related to the amount of time a person’s brain is deprived of oxygen. The longer that time is, the more involved, impairment becomes.

Yes, I live with both gratitude for all the ways my body functions for me and the grief, anger and frustration that comes with having a life-long disability. I never want to take for granted all that I CAN do, yet, I am finally learning, that it is more than ok to care for the parts of my body, mind and heart that grow tired, endure pain and battle every single day, to live with CP this side of heaven.

As an adult with CP, I have not had a specific doctor who specifically works with the mechanisms of CP, how to manage that and ways to help with it. (At least, not until two years ago…)

Remember that statistic, as we go, 1 in 400 people are affected with CP. What that means in our world is that I don’t really ever “see” someone with CP, like mine. In fact, I don’t really see many. But that also means that for much of my existence as an adult, I’ve kind of been making it up as go. Please don’t misunderstand! I have an amazing support system of family, friends and medical professionals who whole-heartedly support me and my needs. But, having a medical professional who works specifically with CP and is up to date on medication, medical treatments and possible changes? That felt like searching for a unicorn….

As only God can do, I was speaking with a friend who referred me to a neuro psychologist for some testing for a client. It just so happened that the neuro-psychologist shared an office with her husband, a physiatrist. Months before, my physical therapist had asked me if I had ever been in touch with a physiatrist, a medical doctor who works specifically with pain, gait and muscle issues and so much more. What were the odds that in a passing conversation with my PT, a recommendation for a completely different doctor and her being married to and sharing office space with said physiatrist could lead me to exactly where I needed to be to manage CP better as an adult. There are no coincidences, my friends. It is ALL Jesus, always.

Because of so much medical complexity, past surgery trauma and genuine “white coat syndrome” that I still have, I went for that first appointment with Dr. Rush and promptly began crying when he walked into the room. I will not forget his kindness and understanding and even dry humor as he listened during that first appointment. I had come in with a torrent of emotion, fear and anxiety because it has been a long journey with CP. But I left that appointment with hope of relief in this adult with CP body. He was kind, so damn knowledgeable and confident there were things we could try for relief.

For the next year, he gained my trust, (no more tears,) always impressed me with his knowledge and care and each time had suggestions to assist me with living with CP. It was then he began talking about a baclofen pump, where this story began above…

I began taking oral baclofen in my twenties at the suggestion of a friend who is a quadriplegic. It was life changing for me, due to the electrifying muscle spasms that seem to overtake my body in the evening and overnight. For about 25 years. That medication has been a lifeline to me. And yet, there are still many nights that I wake screaming because the spasms literally feel like electric shocks, over and over.

Dr. Rush explained as talked again about the spasms, how an intrathecal baclofen pump worked.

Because my brain instantly thought, “I am not that severe, I don’t need to go to that extreme,” I probably dismissed Dr. Rush’s suggestion without a lot of consideration.

We’ve made due with adding some other medications, which have contributed to some weight gain, mental fogginess and though helpful, all oral, so probably not the most effective.

Fast forward to the beginning of this winter when the spasms began to increase again with a vengeance. I talked with sheer frustration again with Dr. Rush.

He was gentle but pointed with the realities of aging with CP, with his suggestions then I asked the magic question, “If you were me would you get a pump?”

“Stacy, I were you, I would’ve had it 20 years ago.” With that one sentence, Dr. Rush cut through my fears, insecurities and excuses. It was a sobering and clarity-giving moment.

I began the discussions with my husband and assuredly, did not have all the details right. Husband was fearful of surgery, spine issues and possible risks of having an artificial device implanted in my body. I loved him that much more for his love and concern. More conversation with our kids, friends and trusted wise counsel. I just couldn’t settle on a right answer…

Again, as only God can do, he placed the right person, right where I and he needed her to be.

I have for the last year been writing a bit for the Cerebral Palsy Foundation and am finding more connections there all the time. As I had been connecting with Jen for a while regarding my writing and other opportunities, it occurred to me that she would be a great resource about this decision.

In a very short time, she explained to me how the pump works for her grown son who also has CP, how the surgery was not the vision we had in our minds and how the relief is possible from the constant state of spasticity my muscles endure.

I cried tears of being understood, and the possibility of relief as she and I said goodbye that day. I continued conversations with the kids and that day even, Dr. Rush. I introduced him to hubby on the phone and he couldn’t have been more patient, explaining the process (again to me) to husband. Hubby and I chatted, pondered and prayed all through the day and by evening, ended feeling like this was the very next right thing in managing a lifetime with CP.

Two weeks ago, was a whirlwind of meetings with a neurosurgeon who will place a catheter in my spine that will be connected to a pump placed under my skin by my rib cage. It will deliver baclofen in a micro dose, directly to my spine, which ultimately is where those spasms originate.

After that meeting was another with Dr. Rush who as typical, is so patient and knowledgeable. It is hard to explain what those things mean to me in the medical realm. The best I can say is that as a kid, the surgeries and medical appointments happened to me, were exactly right, but were also traumatic in my abilities to understand at that time. This choice, feels like my adult self is showing up in my scared kids’ place and choosing this for myself.

Dr. Rush showed us an actual pump, looks like a gold hockey puck. It is hard to imagine how it will feel IN my body…

The next step was to have a lumbar puncture in which a radiologist took a bit of spinal fluid, inserted a small dose of baclofen into my spinal cord, like a pump will do and see how my body responded. This test dose is a necessary step to ensure the medication will work for my body, as well as an insurance requirement before putting the equivalent cost of a high-end Mercedes into my body.

Friday, husband and I arrived back at the hospital where I’d endured so much as a kid. Only this time, as a fully-capable adult. I’ve done so much work, processing, journaling and EMDR to get here. I am so proud of that, of me and of us for the healthy becoming required for me in living with this disability. It is part of why I am driven to help those who want to process trauma. If you can hang with the process, coming out on the other side of our traumas, experiences and things we’ve stored, is the greatest gift. There is nothing like the peace of being comfortable in your present skin. Doing the work does not fix the hard things we endure, but it does make us less afraid, more attune and alive in our present selves, at least in my experiences.

I had fantastic nurses, doctor and care during this test dose. I managed the nerves that inevitably rise when we are doing a big medical thing. I was able to speak for myself, honor the needs and fears I carry and be authentic. As we rolled down the hall, me in the gurney and Stephanie the nurse trying to chat to get my mind off the rolling, I had a wave of anxiety. I tried to be kind and gentle with myself and soon, we were in the room and I was rolling off the gurney to another table. I tuned all the voices and noises out, praying and feeling God’s presence in the room. A rough few pokes of Lidocaine, bits of jabbing pain, and suddenly, Stephanie and Mia (nurses) were helping me roll back on the gurney and we rolled back to my room.

“You need to lay flat on your back for two hours to avoid a spinal headache. You may or may not feel that baclofen working while you are here. If you aren’t sure if you are feeling it work, we will probably need to repeat it.” Um…no thanks! I laid still while hubby snoozed in the chair next to me, wondering, hoping and praying to feel some sort of relief. My feet carry the brunt of the muscle tightness sometimes, my feet and toes feeling clinched as tight as they can get while still trying to clinch more. As I laid there, I noticed first that my feet were relaxed. I tried to clinch my toes and I couldn’t! (What???)

As I lay there, the strangest sensations of loosening continued throughout my body. I couldn’t stop smiling. My breath came easier and the sighs of relief that my body emitted felt other-worldly. I told hubby and E as she arrived to keep us company that I truly, could not stop smiling.

I have often told people that I don’t know any different than this body. I have had some level of this my whole life. You learn to live with your level of normal, don’t we? But this relief? Well, I have begged God, pleaded, screamed, cried, agonized and come to acceptance that healing and relief this side of heaven were not to be for me. (And then probably the next day, begged, pleaded again – wash, rinse, repeat.) I think this is extremely normal when living with any sort of chronic condition. NO judgements! And, I think it’s extremely difficult even though, I am exceedingly happy with my life, not to feel the weight and difficulty of chronic pain.

This day, however, was nothing short of miraculous hope. Because of science and God-given abilities in the medical field, this relief, this peace that I’ve longed for was happening and within reach because of the “gold hockey-puck.” Suddenly, I could envision, days, weeks, maybe years, of diminished pain and spasticity. Unreal….

Over the next, nearly 24 hours, my body experienced the least amount of pain I’ve ever had. It was pure joy. Also, I will probably again, need to teach myself how to walk on muscles that have changed. But even that, makes me smile because, of course! If I can do that with less pain, NOT A PROBLEM!

Surgery is scheduled for February 24 and though my body is not excited about surgery, recovery and the logistics, the anticipation of how I felt for the last 24, compels me – February 24 cannot get here soon enough.

I am in wonder; I am at peace and I am filled with hope and potential like never before.

I am so grateful for my people, all of you. I am thankful for medical professionals, especially you are so scientifically skilled AND have the ability to be kind, empathetic and gentle. You are a gift.

I am beyond grateful for my family, who loves, supports and worries in the best possible ways. You all are my anchor. Most of all, I am thankful to my Jesus, my Savior who is always saving me in every way. He in all his goodness is always putting the path right, in spite of me. In spite of my doubts, screaming, pleading, anger and fear, he is always right, loving me and he is present.

Perhaps that sounds so easy for me to say. Perhaps you fight your own battles – as we all do, and you DON’T feel God’s presence. I get that, there have been so many times on my journey that I have felt like he utterly abandoned, rejected or just was simply ignoring my cries, anger, desperation and/or fear. All I can promise, is that he doesn’t, and won’t. It’s not in his nature.

Imagine the person who is the most for you; the person who has proven their love and steadfastness so much that you never doubt their presence and place in your life. Just for a minute, imagine that 100x stronger than how you feel it now…that’s Jesus, only never-ending.

I pray for peace, his presence and the feeling of hope and potential for us all. Even with today’s politics, all the terrible and awful we are assaulted with every day and the tsunami of pain and fear that threatens at any given moment. He is near, all shall be well. I pray that whatever battle you are facing and fighting, you have glimpses of miraculous hope. Don’t give up…

 

Both/And

Xoxo

Psalm 13

Around 1995, I heard a song. It was a Christmas song, but funny, I only remember one line of the lyrics. Not the name of the actual song, nor any of the other lyrics. Just 7 random words that have stuck with me for about 30 years…

I wish you a brave new year….

You see, about that time, I was grieving the loss of my grandpa, (who died just a few weeks before Christmas)  and was nearing the 2nd anniversary of my Gram’s death. The time since losing her had not in any way, been easy. I learned more about grief in the loss of her than I could write in 100 pages. We often learn the most in the midst of the hardest seasons, from my perspective. I remember, as the Christmas season approached, still and again feeling shocked some moments, angry in other moments, lonely and desperately sad in others and feeling like the me I’d known before, was completely gone following the loss of them both. The loss of Gram began a process of learning about death that changed me in tremendous ways. With every death following, I have grieved the same and differently. Grandpa was different in many ways but taught me its’ own lessons.

I worked for a teen ministry and monthly, I wrote a letter to update our donors about the ministry and the impacts their donations were making. I loved writing those. However, as the difficulty of grief overshadowed many of the ways I experienced joy, writing the Christmas edition of our newsletter was proving to be difficult that year. I was restless, numb and could not find inspiration under the weight of all the confusing, conflicted feelings.

While riding in the car with a dear friend, a Christmas song came on. I am sure I heard it like Charlie Brown hears his teacher….(Waaa waaa, waaaa, wa wa, you get the idea.) But like a light piercing darkness, the lyric, I wish you a brave new year pierced through my grief-heavy thoughts and instantly brought tears to my eyes. My dear friend understood without any explanation that again, grief had shown up in the most obscure way. I am so thankful for that friend, with whom I have known for 30 or more years and we’ve walked through much, including a lot of other losses. She just understood…

I leaned my head back as she drove, half-praying and half willing the big emotions away as the line repeated: I wish you a brave new year. I had no idea how to be brave in another year without them, or any day, for that matter. Yet, as my friend took me shopping in an effort to “be normal,” the line kept running through my head.
I lay in bed that night, praying for bravery for myself.

In the next few days, I sat down and somehow, the newsletter came together. It became a wish for a brave new year as the central theme. It became a drum-beat in my own life and prayers for so many others over time.

I’ve never forgot that line and as I get to this time of year, it has come back to me, again.
I find myself thinking, “Oh my stars, don’t we need bravery more than ever?”
It’s been intense for us as humans this year. Health concerns, social and political upheaval, financial concerns, loss of many kinds and the list goes on…
And we’ve had so much bravery! I am so proud of us all. Holding onto faith, family, careers, our ideals, our hopes and dreams. And yet, the wish for a brave new year couldn’t be more important.

Recently, a dear colleague lost her valiant battle with cancer. She was one of the best therapists I know, she taught me so very much about building rapport, attachment and having fun. Her brave, beautiful fight for life was nothing short of breathtaking. I am praying bravery over her family who endures the loss her, this side of heaven.

A couple from our church have shown me so much about bravery. Perhaps that isn’t even a big enough word…they have immigrated from Venezuela under very intense circumstances. I’m sure I haven’t even heard the smallest bit of what they have also endured but with the bit that I have, I wouldn’t blame them if they were bitter, frustrated or scared. But to say they are the most joy-filled humans I’ve met in a long time isn’t a right description, either. I don’t know of anyone I’ve met recently, who is braver. We all could use that kind of bravery…

Single parents, those who are doing the job that is meant for two, while also caring for themselves.

Those who fight to get out of bed each and every day because of the dark and anxious thoughts that threaten each moment.

Those who endure the plight of homelessness, the cold, food scarcity and painful days.

Yes, the list could go on and on, we could all add to it.

I am overcome with the desire to pray, hold dear and plead for mercy and brave hearts for many as we go into a new year. I have learned so much in the last 365 days. I also know without doubt that I have never been more aware of my need for the love and sovereignty of God than I do these days. It is all both/and isn’t it?

How ever you are stepping into 2025, whether brimming with hope, fighting back hopelessness or somewhere in between, I am grateful for you and praying you into a brave life that is filled with the good.

Jesus, you and your presence is so needed here and now. I am so grateful that you are aware of the many, many ways we need and love you. Even when it feels like there is so much that is hard and scary or even unthinkable, you are the bravery we all need. You are good and true. Thank you for another year that we get to remember how brave we can be because of you.
“Have not I commanded you? Be strong and of a good courage; be not afraid, neither be you dismayed: for the LORD your God is with you wherever you go.” Joshua 1:9

Both/And
xoxo