New Year’s Resolutions

Resolve: determination, to choose a course of action, an earnest decision.

Can people change? I don’t often ponder this question. I’ve never been big on the formal resolutions when the calendar changes, but perhaps this is because I hear other people making the same resolutions year after year. Why resolve to change if we are doomed to failure?

As I said, I don’t usually think about humanity’s capacity for change, but something new I started this year – not a resolution, mind you – is a daily diary of sorts; it poses one question for each day of the year and has blank lines each day for five separate years. I figured any sort of writing exercise couldn’t hurt, so why not give it a try. I struggled on day one with “What is your mission?” Too many movie quotes ran through my head to give a good answer, and anything I did come up with sounded too much like a resolution.

And then, January 2: Can people change?

I began to wonder if a philosopher had a hand in writing this diary, until I read ahead to some of the more innocuous questions like “What book are you reading?” and “What did you eat for lunch today?”

People form habits. It takes time, but once an action (or, I suppose, inaction) becomes a habit it can be very difficult to break. Difficult, but not impossible. So that means people can change, right?

However, the things that are ingrained, that have been habitual from childhood…can these be changed too? Or is it simply more recent habits that one can shed/adjust? And are personality traits changeable like habits, or simply a part of who you are, as unchangeable as your DNA?

We live in a culture that says if you don’t like something, you can change it. Don’t like being a brunette? Dye your hair and now you’re blonde. B-cup not enough for you, your body not the shape/size you want it to be? Get implants, have plastic surgery or liposuction. Bruce Jenner shed light on the fact even gender can be “reassigned” when he became a she, Caitlyn.

I’ve dyed my hair in the past. I’ve attempted to be a blonde (bad look for me), a redhead (it turned orange – don’t try this from a box!!), off-black, and even purple ombre. But no matter what color I tried, my hair has always grown back brunette. Okay, except for the strands here or there that have come in silver or white, but that’s another story entirely. Changing the external did nothing to change me at the core of my being. Sadly, the same can be said for any other alteration. Tinted contacts don’t change your eye color. Lifts in your shoes only make you taller until the shoes come off. Liposuction doesn’t change your body’s ability to store excess calories as fat. Even gender reassignment doesn’t change DNA; if the hormone treatments stop, the body will revert to the original gender (parts don’t grow back though, if they’ve been removed).

These are all physical changes that aren’t really. But what about the changes we can’t see, like internal motivations, character traits, and the like?

I can’t speak for any other person, so for this I’ll need to base it on personal experience. In more ways than I’d like to admit, I am still the shy, introverted, fairytale obsessed, awkward, fantasy-loving, slightly scared little girl I always was. I still feel like an outsider. I’ve made foolish choices in the past, and I feel like I continue to make foolish choices more often than I should.

But am I the same person I was five years ago? Ten? Looking back at who I was, I do believe I’ve made some changes – not a grand metamorphosis of any kind, granted, but small, incremental differences do stand out…for better or worse.

I don’t believe I’m as naive (read: foolish) as I was fresh out of college, living on my own for the first time, enjoying my shiny new credit and discovering what it really means to be responsible for myself. With that, I also don’t think I’m quite as trusting as I once was. I still want to see good in everyone and have a tendency to view a person’s potential better than who they are at present. But in the past ten years I’ve known heartache and betrayal…that changes you, and it’s hard not to be a bit more suspicious than before the hurt.

A million other miniscule changes could easily be noted, I’m sure. But the answer to the initial question doesn’t need my specifics. I think I’ve found my answer already. Can people change? Simply: yes, we can and we do.

But how much control do we have over how we change or what changes us? Here the answer is subjective. Each opportunity for change, for growth, will change us. We might not even know how until it happens, until we are faced with the choice. I don’t believe change is ever arbitrary, though. The changes that stick always have a catalyst: a broken heart, a health scare, a birth, a death, a thoughtful word at just the right time.

A catalyst may not cause a change in your DNA (unless it’s part of your superhero origin story…then it’s perfectly acceptable and also kind of awesome). But I assure you, this year will bring change. The question is not CAN you change, but HOW will you change?

Make your answer a good one.

#Thankful

“Two men went up to the temple to pray, one a Pharisee and the other a tax collector. The Pharisee stood by himself and prayed: ‘God, I thank you that I am not like other people – robbers, evildoers, adulterers – or even like this tax collector. I fast twice a week and give a tenth of all I get.’

“But the tax collector stood at a distance. He would not even look up to heaven, but beat his breast and said, ‘God, have mercy on me, a sinner.’

“I tell you that this man, rather than the other, went home justified before God. For all those who exalt themselves will be humbled, and those who humble themselves will be exalted.”

– Luke 18:10-14

Thankfulness becomes trendy in November. I can’t say who started it, but five or six years ago I began to see daily “a month of Thanksgiving” Facebook posts.

No judgment, honestly. A few years back I attempted to do a year of thankfulness – but it began to feel forced and a bit preachy, and after the Boston Marathon bombing my heart just wasn’t in it to post every day.

Here’s the thing about these month-long posts of everything for which we give thanks…it eventually starts to sound like, “Look at me, I’m so blessed, I’m so wonderful, I’m so thankful I’m not like people who aren’t as lucky as me.”

I’m sure it’s done with better intentions. I’m sure few set out to draw attention to themselves. But it does draw attention, and, unfortunately, by Thanksgiving most posters sound like the Pharisee in the above parable.

So what’s the solution? Not expressing thankfulness ever and just being jerks to everyone? Of course not! Personally, I believe humility and thankfulness go hand in hand. The thing about true humility is it doesn’t announce itself. The tax collector stood back, out of the way, and quietly humbled himself, not even looking up to heaven.

Is this parable about thankfulness? Not exactly. Jesus explains this one so we don’t have to speculate. It’s not what we do or have, nor is it who we’re better/worse than. It’s not the outward appearance but the state of the heart that matters. But embedded in this parable is another important message: DON’T BE A SHOWOFF. (Totally how Jesus would’ve said it, I’m fairly certain.)

Am I thankful for people and things that have taken place in my life? Absolutely. Do I post about this occasionally? Yes. Does it come from a place of true humility? If I’m honest? Not completely. Is it the best forum for expressing all our thankfulness? Eh, I’m not so sure.

Don’t let me talk you out of posting daily thankfulness if it’s what you want to do. But may I offer some alternatives to public posts?

• Pay it forward. You’re thankful for what you’ve received, so quietly do something each day that will create thankfulness in others.
• Express thankfulness directly to those who have brought about good things in your life. Do so in person or with personalized notes (who doesn’t like getting actual mail these days?!).
• Write it down in a daily journal. Keep it secret (LOTR fans, finish that quote). Use it to reflect on the good in your life when you’re having a bad day.
• Come up with your own unique way of showing your thankfulness without showing it.

By all means, be thankful. Don’t reserve your thankfulness just for the month of November; be thankful every day of the year. Just don’t stand in front of everyone declaring how #humbled and #thankful you are, lest you begin to look #fullofyourself.

Terror

I remember exactly where I was, what I was doing, and what went through my mind on September 11, 2001. It has been burned into my soul. The following days and weeks, too, remain highlighted in memories: the questions, the candlelight vigils, the horror as details came out and the sheer number of victims was tallied, the tales of heroism and sacrifice, the harrowing images and the heartbreak. We were a country in shock and mourning.

Not for some time did it dawn on me that the majority of the world mourned with us. In the years since, I have seen documentaries and heard interviews in which people from various other countries spoke of their 9/11 recollections. Those acts of terror hit the British, the Italian, the French…just as hard as they hit me. And in the aftermath, these countries reached out to the United States with love, support, condolences, broken hearts, words of hope.

As long as this spirit of fellowship remains, the terrorists do not win.

Today my heart breaks for the people of France. I have never been to France, I do not know anyone who lives there, and my small percentage of French heritage has little meaning beyond an extended family tree. But the attacks on Paris were attacks on my friends. My brothers and sisters. My people.

I will not forget the horror as details were reported yesterday evening, November 13, 2015, nor the images of pain and of heroism, the firsthand accounts, the way people banded together in the aftermath to do what they could to help the victims and offer their support. Sitting on the couch, watching TV as the news came in – and constantly refreshing MSN on my phone, desperate for updates – my heart broke for Paris, for France, over and over.

These cowardly acts of terrorism may have temporarily stunned the nation of France. It was a truly heartwrenching blow. But I know they will heal, with scars and with the pain of those lost always in their hearts. And with the healing they will grow closer as a nation, grow stronger.

This attack was not a win for the terrorists.

Through the grieving, through the pain and the healing process, the world stands with the people of France and all affected by this tragedy. Your loss is our loss. We grieve with you. We pray for you. We call for retribution. We stand with you in defense of freedom.

Terror is not to be feared, it is to be fought and overcome.

Why Do I Watch Cooking Competitions?

A brand new season of Master Chef Junior began this week. I use my phone to keep up with current shows, so I happily queued up the first episode to watch while prepping a crock pot dinner (beef roast) and cooking brunch (French toast and bacon) this morning.

Let me just say shows highlighting pre-teens who have major confidence in their “sophisticated palate” just leave me with feelings of deep inadequacy and wondering why I’ve wasted my entire life.

It probably doesn’t help that I tend to watch these shows whilst preparing my own humble dishes.

I am an…OK cook. My knife skills suck – I haven’t cut off any fingers or nicked any major arteries, but let’s just assume it has more to do with luck and slow speed than anything else. I tend not to work strictly from recipes, but I rarely experiment without at least a loose idea of what should go into the dish. Sometimes things work, sometimes they don’t. But they never look like they could be served at a restaurant, nor could my cooking skills earn me a spot in any professional kitchen.

And yet, I adore cooking. I would watch cooking shows and competitions all day long if I could. I doubt I’ve ever cooked one recipe from a show, but nevertheless I feel inspired.

Cooking is something that gives me joy. I love to cook for myself and for others. When it’s food I could make in my sleep (read: mashed potatoes any and every way), the confidence I have makes me excited to taste something delicious, to see how other people will like it. When it’s a new experiment, there’s a nervous energy and a hopefulness; then the final result of tasting it and finding out how my “guinea pig” boyfriend feels about the new dish.

I remember drawing up menus for my very own restaurant when I was a kid. It probably featured competitively priced plates such as: peanut butter and jelly sandwich, grilled cheese sandwich, and macaroni and cheese (I’ll be honest…it wasn’t made from scratch. DON’T tell Gordon Ramsey!!). The pop-up had very few customers and I moved on pretty quickly. But the love of preparing food for others has remained…

Even if overachieving eight-year-olds know a thousand times more about it than I do. Seriously, can those kids give me some lessons??

Change Is Good (…Said No Lutheran Ever)

Forgive me for my absence. Life happens sometimes, and I’ve been keeping myself particularly busy as of late.

Should I still have been writing? Absolutely. In fact, I was writing. Just not anything that felt worth publishing. In fact, I had around ten unposted posts – if that’s what you’d call them – saved up on my WordPress app for when I felt like revisiting or continuing. These have been collecting over the past year.

However, I discovered this evening that now I’ve gone and gotten myself a new phone, any unpublished work I’d done is gone.

GONE.

Suddenly a part of me is entirely certain those lost post fragments were the workings of pure genius and it is a human travesty that they have disappeared!! Even though just yesterday I was lamenting the fact that my Reformation Day post was so boring, formulaic, and, dare I say, sounding a bit phoned-in.

Okay, they’re gone. I’ll live. You’ll live. Unless we don’t, although I doubt my blog will be the direct cause. The important thing to do is keep writing.

As for the title of this post, it’s an inside joke. If you’re a Lutheran or you know a Lutheran, you get it.

I’ve had far too much change in my life lately. The default response to change – Lutheran or not – tends to be resistance. It’s truly a human thing. When the change comes out of trauma or pain, then it’s easier yet to put up a fight. But even when we know the change will be good, there’s still that tug, that little part of you that wants to hold on.

I don’t know how to be a crazy cat lady without any cats. (No, I’m not actually a crazy cat lady. But I’ve always had cats, and I just don’t know quite how to not have any in my care or company.) I have two cats that my parents have been taking care of for the past few years while I cared for my sickly Evie, who passed in August. The plan had always been for me to take my Eddie and Emily back once Evie was gone. It was the one small consolation in losing him, though that ache remains and will for some time.

But now circumstances have arisen that complicate this no-brainer for me. I want my cats back. I am capable of caring for them and I have the room for them, not to mention it would be helpful in my healing process. However, it’s not just me going it alone anymore. I have a boyfriend who has become a very important part of my life, and he’s not comfortable with me taking on pets again, given where we are in our relationship. But I need my cats. I can’t not have cats. That would honestly break my heart…

And now I’ve gone and swapped out my reliable 2-year-old phone for new. I love the new; I miss the old; it’s too much the same, yet it’s far too different. Contradictions abound.

I like to think I handle change slightly better than the average Lutheran, but that doesn’t mean much. With the phone I have a tangible new toy to distract me. With most other changes I’m not so lucky.

No matter what happens now, there will be more change coming my way. I hope it’s the good kind, the hopeful kind. But even that kind comes with the discomfort of change, the loss of the known, the familiar. Because that’s life. Things change. People change. Circumstances change. The world changes.

But amid all that change, there is a God who is the same yesterday, today, and forever. He’s not “I WAS”…He is the great “I AM.” And that will never change.

3:00 A.M. Life Lesson

Sometimes I just can’t sleep.

Don’t get me wrong, I adore sleep. I would hibernate if it were possible. I’m still working on it…I live in Wisconsin, after all.

But sometimes I find myself fighting sleep or putting it off as long as possible. Worries, procrastination, cleaning…whatever the reason, sometimes I just find myself wide awake well past my prime.

It’s perhaps a little too reminiscent of those college finals all-nighter cram sessions. I survived those only by consuming copious amounts of Mountain Dew and white chocolate covered espresso beans.

I’ve since quit soda – twice – and coffee products just never did it for me. But I am still a big fan of the quirky way the brain works when it should be resting. Maybe it’s my creative side. Maybe it’s because I’m still a kid at heart. Who knows. But when it’s 2:00 A.M., you know you need to wake up in four hours, and you’ve got at least six hours of work left, the late-night programming beamed in through your TV antenna can prove pretty interesting.

On one such late night, I happened upon an educational program about our solar system. (First of all, you’re never too old to learn. Secondly, don’t judge; this was before Netflix streamed anything good.)

Hey, planets are cool, and it was around 3:00 A.M. and I was totally all about learning new stuff right at that moment since I was sitting on my living room floor sorting through boxes of clutter.

The (I’m sure very British) narrator began talking about Earth’s orbit around the sun. I considered throwing in a DVD. I know about orbits, gravity, and the like. I needed something more stimulating to keep me going.

And then the narrator said something peculiar that I don’t recall learning in science class.

The northern hemisphere experiences winter when Earth is closest to the sun. The reason we’re experiencing winter? The hemisphere is “turned away” from the sun, because of the tilt in our axis. And conversely, even when the Earth is at its farthest from the sun, because our hemisphere tilts toward the sun, we experience summer.

If you’re like me, at this point you’re pausing to Google “Earth’s orbit” to see if I’m full of it. Since this revelation was dropped on a sleep-deprived version of myself, trust me, I just double checked.

Maybe you’re shaking your head and saying “So what?” Well, when you’re exhausted, sometimes your mind makes connections it normally wouldn’t. Maybe I learned this in school at some point, maybe not. It could’ve just gone in one ear, etc. But something in the way the narrator explained it…

And then goosebumps rose on my arms.

Did you know that in your life, you will experience summer or winter, not in relation to how close the Son is to you – the sun is always there, after all; instead, whether you lean toward Him or face away from Him makes all the difference.

Yeah, my sleep-deprived mind took it straight there. Funny how God can do a mic drop through 3:00 A.M. educational programming.

Ever since that night a few years ago, I’ve had that thought rattling around in my head. (It was a significant moment for me – I really like those “Oh wow, God is more amazing than I thought” moments.) So I’ve fleshed out the idea a little more.

Time for some bullet points:
• Winter is when things are dead, cold, lifeless, harsh. Nothing grows. Many experience seasonal depression. The flu, colds, pneumonia, and the like run rampant.
• In summer, everything is verdant, alive, fresh, fragrant. There is warmth. In general, people are happier and healthier.
• Winter is not caused by the sun denying its life-giving goodness. The sun is always there, shining, giving off light and heat, same as ever.
• Whether facing the sun or turning away from it, the Earth still experiences both day and night (although it should be pointed out that the face of the planet turned away from the sun in its daily revolution is the side experiencing night). But the nights are longer/days shorter when the axis tilts away.
• The sun has an irresistible gravitational force, regardless of the tilt of our axis.
• The sun doesn’t look big in our sky. We know it’s bigger than it appears, but it’s even bigger than we tend to imagine. How do I know this? Try imagining something 1,300,000 times bigger than our planet. Can you do it?

Now if we think of it in terms of the Son and our lives, it becomes pretty poignant, late night or not. I don’t need to hit you over the head with each metaphor, the basic take-away being that how we view Jesus makes all the difference in our lives.

I don’t have any astounding philosophical revelations to make beyond that. I’m not that smart. But isn’t God cool??

Reaching the Horizon

“The horizon ceases to be the horizon when you get there.”
      – C.S. Lewis, The Four Loves

Oh how life has changed since I first quoted these words in my saluditory speech *mumble* years ago… Okay, it was 14 years and some odd months ago. June, 2001. But it feels like an entire lifetime ago.

At the time I addressed the milestone we had reached, but posited our main goal would remain a moving target as we continued on life’s journey, until we were called Home. It was a bit sentimental, kinda preachy, oversimplified, and oh-so-typical of my essays at the time. (And now, though my writing has hopefully become more conversational.)

I didn’t do Lewis justice.

Clive Staples “Jack” Lewis is my hero. He takes complicated concepts and explains them so simply they sound like the easiest thing in the world to grasp. When I found out I had to write a speech, I immediately grabbed my treasured copy of The Quotable Lewis and began looking up various topics for just the right quote upon which to build the perfect graduation speech.

I still use that book, by the way.

While we newly minted “adults” may have been able to somewhat grasp the meaning of my chosen quote, I must admit it means so much more now that more life has happened. Dreams have been made/dashed/realized/changed too many times to count since that day.

A few examples:

– When we graduated, 911 only meant the number you dial in an emergency; this would forever change in a matter of months.

– Columbine was the only school shooting we’d heard of. In fact, “school shootings” weren’t really a thing as far as we knew. It was a freak isolated event. And it deeply affected the nation.

– We all graduated debt free and with stellar – if mostly untested – credit.

– One student in our graduating class of 100 had a child, born our senior year.

– Most/All of us still had both of our parents; most of us still had our grandparents. A good number still had great grandparents. I believe we had all our siblings.

– If we weren’t sure what we wanted to do with our life, it was okay, there was still time.

– If we were certain what we wanted to do with our life, the plans to accomplish it seemed simple.

I can’t speak for the rest of my graduating class, but my horizon has certainly changed more than once. I’d say it’s changed a bunch of times by this point. And yes, when the above mentioned facts were changed, the horizon shifted too. Innocence was lost in one way or another. We could never again go back to before that time.

The horizon these days usually isn’t as lofty and grand as it was back then. I made big dreams. Now, sometimes the horizon is “make it through the day.”

Sometimes the horizon presents itself and it’s a looming, scary one. Legal battles, health issues, career changes, relationships deteriorating…things your 18-year-old self just doesn’t really think you’ll ever face.

But we continue on. We reach that horizon and like Jack said, it’s no longer the horizon. We can see beyond it. We move on toward the next.

One thing holds true from my speech, though. There is a horizon coming that will not cease. Eternity may seem far off, but it really isn’t. I don’t know when my time here will end. (We rarely do.) But Heaven is the place where longing ceases. Our hearts will be made whole in the presence of God. Nothing more to work toward or fearfully approach. Just an eternity of worship and praise on the very edge of the horizon.

Love Is in the Math

Like most early memories, this one comes to mind in soft focus through the filter of 29 years of life. I could easily be recalling a flashback scene from a movie…

The room is dimly lit and my mom is holding a round cake covered in white frosting. A few of my parents’ friends are gathered around as my mom carries the cake to the table. I stand at the edge of the table, little hands and chin on the edge, gazing excitedly at the cake and glowing candles as the group starts to sing.

It is my dad’s birthday cake. It is my dad’s birthday. It is also my birthday. So I think it’s my cake too? I look closer at the candles. I know those shapes. “40” sits atop the cake, small flames hovering above each number. But then I realize that my age is on the cake too, because I am turning four. I tell my mom that if you put the zero before the four, that’s how many I am.

And so began my lifelong obsession with numbers.

Now, I might not be remembering the cake correctly. I feel like there may have been M&Ms on it, it may have been a square cake not round, and it most certainly wasn’t as dark as I remember. But the fact remains that my golden birthday and my dad’s fortieth sparked a mathematic curiosity in me that still remains.

I was born on October fourth, which also happens to be my dad’s birthday. (One of my sisters was born on our grandpa’s birthday, the other on our great aunt’s birthday, so it’s kind of our family’s thing!) I absolutely love sharing a birthday, and because of this coincidence, I also get to love sharing his name – sort of. He is John; I am Janna (JOHN-uh, not JAN-uh), so I’m “John, Jr.” and that’s pretty dang cool, if you ask me!

Well, it didn’t take long for me to sort out that 04/40 was not an isolated event. I began to work out the math and discovered that our digits would be reversed every eleven years: 04/40, 15/51, 26/62, 37/73, 48/84, 59/95…and then the math changes.***

I pondered this and pondered this, because to me every birthday with my dad is special. So there had to be something special about our ages every year.

I figured part of it out at age six:

“Hey Dad, did you know if you add the numbers in your age they equal my age?”

Yes, that’s right. 4+1=5, 4+2=6, 4+3=7, 4+4=8, 4+5=9, 4+6=10, 4+7=11, 4+8=12, 4+9=13, 5+0=…uh oh.

But then I worked out that his digits added together equaled my digits added together. Problem solved!

5+0=1+4, 5+1=1+5 (see, it works on our reversed digits years too)…5+5=1+9, 5+6=…uh oh AGAIN.

I was so obsessed with the numbers in our ages somehow being connected at this point that I kept working to figure out how they could be related mathematically once a new decade was reached. And then, I discovered something really farfetched. If I add his digits together, then add those digits together, it equals my digits. (Yes, I was obsessed.)

Example for age 20/56: 5+6=11 then 1+1=2+0. And so it continues until 24/60, at which point the rule reverts to the previous rule: 6+0=2+4, etc.

I was a strange child who did math for fun. I didn’t have many friends.

But I have my dad. And we are connected by birthdays and age math and music – which is really quite mathematical, when you think about it – and humor and faith and so many other things. Which is really just another way of saying:

I love you, Dad. HAPPY BIRTHDAY!

College graduation, 2005

*60/96, 61/97, 62/98, 63/99 – these are “add his digits then add the digits of the result to equal my digits.” Example: 9+8=17, 1+7=6+2.

**64/100, 65/101, 66/102, 67/103, 68/104, 69/105 – this will be the first time my digits need to be added together, then those digits added together, which will equal his digits added together. Example: 6+7=13, 1+3=1+0+3.

***70/106 – and this will be the first in our “every eleven” sequence where digits are not reversed. But this will mark the point where digits added equal each other again. 7+0=1+0+6.

P.S. I’m not as obsessed about our age math anymore. But I still think it’s kind of cool, which definitely still makes me a nerd. And I’m okay with that.

Screw You, Rodgers & Hammerstein!

“When I have a brand new hairdo
With my eyelashes all in curl,
I float as the clouds on air do,
I enjoy being a girl!”
–Flower Drum Song, Rodgers & Hammerstein

“I Enjoy Being a Girl” makes me want to stab Rodgers and Hammerstein.

Disclaimer
This post is about girl stuff. Periods. Irregular menstrual bleeding. Diagnosing and treating a woman – me – when her lady parts don’t want to work properly. Why open up about the embarrassing topic of my period? I am willing to bet there are other girls out there who have/are/will experience something similar. We didn’t learn about female troubles in health class. I figured my mom had told me all she could on the topic. The thought of seeing an OB-GYN can be daunting. It’s embarrassing to talk about periods because that’s what we have been taught.

Here’s hoping I can help change that, if only a little.

Sometimes being a woman is just too awesome to contain. That’s why we bleed.

The Plan
As a little girl, I had a plan: I would study marine biology in college, where I would meet my future husband; we’d marry after graduation, then I’d go on to study orcas and live in Seattle and possibly also have a second career as a singer/songwriter/pianist, and we’d have a few kids; also, I’d have a whole room in our home dedicated to books/music.

Believe it or not, that is not how my life turned out. Not even close. Not remotely.

I made the decision to pursue an English degree, once I realized I loved telling stories. I chose a school much closer to home in Wisconsin (although I was able to visit schools out in Seattle and I did fall in love with that area). I made great friends in college and met lots of people, but not my future husband. Graduation did not bring a career with orcas. This is still a sore point with me, to be honest…

It’s a Girl Thing. Period.
But where things first started to derail for me was puberty. (I know, happens to a lot of people!) Getting your period is this magical, mystical right of passage for girls. Sometimes being a woman is just too awesome to contain. That’s why we bleed.

They tell you what’s “normal.” But everyone is different. I got my period. Then I didn’t get it. Then I got it and it stuck around. I asked my mom if there was something wrong with me. Her response was “I didn’t have a normal period until after I had a baby.” (Sorry for the overshare, Mom!)

Great. So I’m in middle school with an erratic period that won’t be normal ’til I have a kid. And it’s not the least bit magical. Awesome.

Fast forward a few years and I’ve settled into my body’s clearly abnormal cycle: four to five periods a year, every two to three months, each lasting about a month. Minimal cramping, so yay me?

You read that right. A month-long menses was my norm. I was also lucky because the flow was heavy pretty much the whole time. We’re talking can’t-wear-tampons-need-the-overnight-pads heavy. And this less than popular high schooler had more than one mortifying “incident” that resulted in me wearing my jacket tied around my waist for the remainder of the school day. At least that look was still sort of in.

During my senior year things changed again. It wasn’t one month…it was three. And there were no signs of it stopping. My best friend told her mom – a nurse – and she called my mom. I would have to see one of those doctors. But I just wanted it to stop, so we set up an appointment with a female doctor to make it slightly less awkward for me.

This doctor was terrible. I just want to get this out of the way. She was accusatory, refused to believe what I told her, wouldn’t answer questions or provide information, and prescribed birth control without explaining why (or that I would need to continue taking it once the prescription ran out).

So…birth control pills shortened the periods and made them happen on schedule. That was weird for me. But also an amazing relief. I knew what it was to be “normal” for once in my womanhood.

Until I stopped. After a year my prescription was done and I was glad to be done. Who wants to take a pill every day? And birth control pills always gave me morning sickness, which was…well, it was weird. So I stopped when my last pack ran out.

And then my body stopped.

Six months. Six long months. Nothing. Overly emotional newly minted college sophomore me even wrote a poem to “my unborn child” that I would never have because my body had clearly decided to shut down. (Don’t judge. You had a melodramatic phase too. Mine was just longer.)

But eventually it started again. And eventually it got bad again. Senior year of college I began getting terrible sharp pains that felt a lot like being stabbed repeatedly in the lower abdomen with a serrated knife. I shuffled around like an old man and couldn’t sit or stand without bracing myself. I missed a lot of class. Time to see a doctor again, in spite of my harrowing first experience.

Diagnosis
By the time I was done, so many doctors and techs had seen my nether regions that I honestly wouldn’t have cared too much if they held a party in the exam room. A family doctor referred me to a specialist; the specialist sent me for an ultrasound – where I discovered they don’t put it on your belly like in the movies; in going over the results of my ultrasound, the specialist insisted on performing another transvaginal ultrasound while he was there to confirm.

PCOS. Four letters. Polycystic Ovary Syndrome. I had cysts covering my ovaries, like strange gremlin pods waiting to burst open and wreak havoc. (Clearly I should NOT have fed them after midnight!)

But suddenly everything started to make sense. PCOS causes cysts in about 50% of women who have it. Common symptoms include: irregular periods, excess body/facial hair, difficulty getting pregnant, being overweight, difficulty losing weight. I’d never tried to get pregnant, but otherwise it all sounded pretty familiar.

And wouldn’t you know it…birth control is the most common treatment, because PCOS is actually a thyroid condition, which means it stems from a hormonal imbalance. It’s treated with hormones.

THANKS FOR TELLING ME THAT, ACCUSATORY FIRST OB-GYN DOCTOR I SAW BACK IN HIGH SCHOOL!!

I’m over it. She’s not my doctor anymore. I learned a valuable lesson, though: if your doctor isn’t giving you the answers you need, find a new doctor. After college I met an OB-GYN who told me with a straight face that cysts don’t hurt. I never went back to him.

Treatment
Because PCOS is all about regulating hormone levels, my prescription has been adjusted from time to time. I even chose to go off of meds altogether for a few years to see if my body could regulate itself. And it did, for awhile. Then it didn’t. Then I needed meds again.

The doctor I see now is wonderful. She walks through every option’s pros and cons. And she acts like she loves when I bring her more questions. I see her more often than I see my bestie. Her nurse and I talk on the phone a lot.

We’ve exhausted birth control pills as an option. My body decided I was done with those and just kept bleeding. Next I tried the NuvaRing, which worked for maybe six months. Then I kept bleeding. My doctor was getting frustrated with my uterus, which clearly didn’t want to cooperate.

Last September, nothing was working. An ultrasound revealed that I would continue bleeding indefinitely unless I got a surgical procedure to clear it out. My doctor talked me through everything and I went in for the surgery.

After surgery, we decided to give the depo Provera shot a try. Because I was still bleeding. Some women don’t get periods at all on the shot. That sounded wonderful! Many women who start the shot gain weight. Not so cool, but I’d run out of options at that point so…

The Joys of Womanhood
I tried to love the depo. I tried. In the nine months I was on the shot, I gained about twenty pounds – mind you, this was after a four-year battle to lose 60 pounds, so I was beyond frustrated. The cramps were terrible. And, after six months, the constant bleeding returned.

So my doctor and I met again. She hates my uterus. If I was five years older and had a couple kids she would’ve ripped it out by now – her words. Instead, we opted for the Mirena IUD. The insertion procedure was incredibly painful and took at least a month for recovery, but then it was supposed to fix everything. FINALLY.

And then the familiar stabbing pains returned. The cysts came back with a vengeance. Because my body has not wanted to work properly since puberty.

I recently had a cyst on my left ovary grow to the point of incredible daily stabby discomfort and then (I think) burst. So that was fun. I am now on a low dose birth control pill in addition to my IUD to help curb the production of cysts.

The Takeaway
I had planned so much for my life. True, there have been some beautifully wonderful surprises and changes to that plan. I’m grateful to be who I am, where I am now, with the people I love.

I am not my uterus. I am not my left ovary. I am not my thyroid.

But what I refuse to accept any longer is for this one softball-sized organ and its cronies to rule my life. I mean that. My PCOS and my excessive bleeding/cysts/cramping have caused missed days from work, distraction from work while I’m there, frustration boiling over into personal relationships, added stress, lack of sleep, concern for overall health…and the list could go on.

I am not my uterus. I am not my left ovary. I am not my thyroid. I am a whole person (minus my gallbladder and adenoids). I may not have my Seattle home with a library featuring that Steinway rosewood baby grand – yet. I don’t work with orcas, I work in an office. But there’s orca pictures on my computer. And the handsome guy in that picture frame next to my computer is pretty great for having stood by me these last two years while I’ve struggled against my own body. I want my life to be the focus of my day-to-day, not pain or a health problem.

I am still working to get answers. I don’t know if the IUD plus pills will work. I know it’s not a permanent solution, and at some point I’ll need to have my uterus and/or ovaries removed. I don’t know if I’ll ever have children. This, far more than the orcas or the library, breaks my heart. Being “defective” sucks.

But there is hope. Hope in the solutions for now. Hope that better answers will come. Hope that someone buys me that Steinway…

And hope that the girls first learning how puberty transforms their bodies are better informed, encouraged to seek answers, and have doctors who address their concerns while treating the whole person.

Seriously though, let’s talk about that baby grand. And orcas. Right after I take my pill…

God as the “Great Physician”

“‘But I will restore you to health and heal your wounds,’ declares the LORD.”

Jeremiah 30:17a

Growing up as a regular church attendee, I’m used to hearing God referred to as the “Great Physician,” but I never thought much of it until recently.

Why is He the Great Physician? What exactly does that mean?

Well, I’m not a Hebrew scholar or a biblical scholar so I’ll keep the why pretty brief. It’s not some sentiment that we came up with to give sick people hope. It’s His name.

Yes, quite literally. Throughout the Bible, God names Himself in different ways to tell us what we need to know about him. (Think of it like an ancient dating app, an “about me” section to try to catch our eye; the Bible is one big love letter to us, after all.) Remember that part in Handel’s Messiah: “And His Name shall be call-ed Wonderful, Counselor, Almighty God, the Everlasting Father, the Prince of Peace”? First off, Handel didn’t write those lyrics, Isaiah did. Secondly, those are some of God’s names.

Another name is JEHOVAH RAPHA. The LORD That Heals. Our God is Healer. In other words: God, the Great Physician.

That’s pretty cool and all, but up until a few years ago all this meant to me was God will make you better if you’re sick. And that’s a very juvenile understanding of a healer.

Three years ago I experienced some of the most excruciating pains of my life. I’ll spare you the gritty details, but I became very ill. After months of painful episodes and spending a Saturday evening thinking I may die, I finally went to the ER on a Sunday afternoon to find out that my gallbladder had mutinied.

I had been experiencing gallstones. My current situation was bad. A gallstone was lodged in my common bile duct, blocking secretions from my pancreas and liver and sending everything back at them. I was very sick. Very sick. Clearly, the gallbladder had to go. But first the gallstone and acute pancreatitis needed to be dealt with (apparently pancreas numbers shouldn’t be triple the norm?). After emergency surgery, they put me in a hospital room, hooked me up to intravenous pain meds (which made me sick), fluids (because I couldn’t eat or drink ANYTHING until I got better), and antibiotics (because hey, I just had emergency surgery and they were planning more).

The next day, plans to remove my gallbladder were nixed; my pancreatitis had gotten worse, not better. They upped the pain meds and kept telling me how pancreatitis is one of the most painful things you can experience. I tried to ask for the pain meds only when I absolutely needed it because of how sick it made me.

My doctor visited me to go over everything. He explained the gallbladder removal, its benefits, its possible complications. He told me about the pancreatitis being worse, not better as they’d hoped. And then he explained that it could take up to a month to get well enough for surgery…which would mean a month of intravenous fluids instead of food and water and a month of staying in a hospital bed.

Thankfully, the following day my numbers had gone down enough to allow surgery. I ate the most beautiful meal I’ve ever experienced a few short hours after my surgery (you have no idea how delicious broth and jello can be until you’ve been unable to eat or drink anything for days on end). A couple hours after my glorious meal, I had three small incisions bandaged and was ready to go home with some good drugs for pain management.

What does all of that have to do with God as the Great Physician? That whole ordeal taught me a few very important things about healing and about what doctors and nurses do, which gave me quite the “Aha!” moment when I had time to think in my hospital bed.

Healing Can Hurt
Sure, it is comforting to know that God will heal our wounds, heal our brokenness, heal our sickness. But He never promised it wouldn’t hurt. Sometimes the cure can make you sick (like the morphine and other pain medication that made me vomit). Sometimes you will need to be poked and prodded like the plethora of needles that either took my blood or delivered medicines/fluids into my bloodstream. Sometimes He will need to cut you open to get to the root of the sickness, which will need time to heal and will leave you with scars, not so dissimilar from the surgical scars I still carry on this, my third anniversary of the removal.

Physicians Don’t Just Heal
I was shocked by how closely I was monitored while at the hospital. And no, I didn’t expect them to throw me in a room and forget about me. Nurses stopped in to check on me every hour and took my vitals every couple of hours. The bags hooked up to my arms were closely monitored so they could be changed when needed. My veins gave them one hell of a time after awhile and my arms and hands ended up looking like I was a junky. My pain management was very important and they were constantly checking to see if they could make me more comfortable. Because I was on IV fluids (and hooked up to the IV meds), a nurse had to help me get to the bathroom. And here’s the embarrassing part: they measured my urine. They had to because they were putting fluids in me, I get that. But measuring my pee? It made me think of Matthew 10:30, “And even the very hairs of your head are all numbered.” Why would I think God would stop at counting the number of hairs on my head?! Of course He knows all my vitals, what goes in, and what comes out of me.

Physicians Know You Intimately When You’re At Your Worst – And That’s a Good Thing
Which leads me to this point. I might not have wanted these wonderful doctors and nurses to see me in a hospital gown, in need of a shower, feeling unwell (to put it mildly), with messy hair. I definitely didn’t want them to have to measure my pee or have to help me sit on a toilet. Knowing where my scars are, I know they saw more of me than most people ever have. It’s embarrassing. But it was necessary. To assess my health, to provide care, to make me better, these people needed to know me that intimately. I made my peace with it by acknowledging this, reminding myself that they see this much of people all the time, and by making jokes about it to help dispel some of my discomfort.

Physicians Do What’s Needed, Not What You Want
When I was told I might be in the hospital for a month, I was not happy. I had already used the last of my vacation days with the hospital stay to that point, and I lived paycheck to paycheck. I had a cat at home who needed me. I had bills to pay. I had obligations at church. Couldn’t they just go ahead with the surgery anyway and just be really careful?? Well no, they couldn’t. Because it wasn’t what would’ve been best for me. This is also why they wouldn’t let me eat or drink anything, not even water or ice chips. Sometimes what we want could actually be harmful. Sometimes what we want and what we need are two completely different things. God is not obligated to give us facelifts and tummy tucks; He will assess our situation and perform the necessary surgeries for overall health. Unlike our physicians though, God is not obligated to explain why.

Physicians Cut Out the Bad and Throw It Away
Okay, I don’t know how exactly my gallbladder was disposed of, but I know that once it was removed, I never saw it. Something that had caused me so much trouble was unceremoniously junked, never to be seen again. It will certainly never cause me trouble again. Because my doctor removed it. And yet, how often do we not really trust God to remove the bad from our lives? How often do we not really trust Him when He says our sins are forgiven? How often do we think He still holds our sin against us? If the sin has been removed, it has been cut out and thrown away – not set aside and saved to fester on the pile of things He’ll hold against us one day.

Physicians Care About Their Patients
I’d rather not do it again, but surprisingly I can say that, in spite of my discomfort and the reason I was there, I had an enjoyable hospital stay. It wasn’t because of the bed or the meds. I can’t say it was the good food since I only ate once before leaving. It was the nurses who made the stay bearable. They didn’t just check the vitals and ignore the human being. I was a person to them and they made sure to engage me in conversation. I think they appreciated my gracious nature and my sense of humor. But I also think they would’ve treated me with dignity no matter what. I did not interact with my surgeon as much, but when we did speak he answered all of my questions and did what he could to help me be at ease with the situation. God is not just Jehovah Rapha; He is also Abba, Father. How much more will He care for us than doctors and nurses we’ve only just met?

Final Thoughts
I’m sure this has not been a perfect or complete analogy. But my time in that hospital bed gave me time to think, time to reflect. And God has a way of providing those moments of clarity when something we’ve learned about Him suddenly has deeper meaning. I love those moments. And I don’t miss my gallbladder one bit!