The right words at the right (though unexpected) time
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I'll be posting a review tomorrow of Stephen Altrogge's fantastic book, The Greener Grass Conspiracy: Finding Contentment on Your Side of the Fence. I was planning for this post to be part of that review until I realized that what I have to share here isn't really about the book. It's about me.
You see, RA isn't obvious, and neither is my pain. Most of the time I'm not irked at that facet of my life being overlooked. I don't think I'm entitled to anyone's compassion, and I certainly don't seek pity. I realize RA isn't an illness that is noticeable. I know it doesn't affect as many people as cancer or AIDS. I get that it isn't a hot cause for research or funding.
And I'm okay with that.
What I'm not okay with is a dismissal of it as if it isn't that big of a deal. People have made comments like, "At least it's not cancer or anything." Yes, I am thankful it's not cancer, but really?!? During the month or two that I was in remission, it wasn't that big of a deal. But it can be painfully consuming when I'm not in remission land. And even when I'm in remission, the daily pills and bimonthly IVs give me a regular reminder that my body is not whole.
While I'm sad that my remission was short-lived, I am overwhelmed with gratitude for it because, as I wrote about here, three years of daily pain had worn on me. I've mentioned this before, but the latter part of 2010 was a struggle with depression. My body? I can handle that wasting away. It isn't meant to be eternal anyway. My hope, though? It is eternal. And as I focused on my circumstances instead of that hope, its glow in my life was dimmed. I loved Jesus, but I grieved my life. And I didn't realize how bad it had gotten until God rekindled the joy of life in Him here and now with sweet remission.
The remission didn't stay, but the hope did. I'm not living defeated like I was. Remission is a possibility. That helps me consider, in the words of Paul in 2 Corinthians 4, this to be “light momentary affliction…preparing for me an eternal weight of glory beyond all comparison.” And though I wrote about the bad day when the remission ended here, it hasn't been all bad days since. And even when the days have been physically difficult, God has sustained my spirit in ways that I can't adequately describe, other than just telling you to read Ephesians 3:20-21.
And the days have been difficult. My IVs are spaced every eight weeks right now, but the meds wore off around week 6.5. We'll probably be changing my schedule to every seven weeks now because we're already at the top dose for my weight. (Which - by the way - had my doctor quipping one day: "Well, we can keep it at every eight weeks if you'll agree to eat more cake" to put on the extra eight pounds I would need to qualify for the next dose level. I haven't taken him up on that, but how many of you can say that your doc told you to eat cake?)
Thursday morning I get my next IV, and it will mark a week and a half of pain with each step and each turn of my head, given that my hips, knees, feet, and neck are affected this time around. (It will thankfully mark the end of that painful period, though, because the medicine takes effect quickly. I'll feel a little flu-like on Thursday night, but I'll be feeling wonderful by Friday or Saturday.)
I say all this to set the stage for reading the second to last chapter in Altrogge's book. I was soaking in a hot bath, because that's what I do in the evening when my meds fail me.I helps make the pain subside for a little bit. I wasn't glum, and I wasn't having a pity party. I was just enjoying the water and a good book. I didn't even know that the chapter that would make me sob was coming.
And then I got to (with the italics below added by me, not the author):
I couldn't even type those words without crying. I have never written a thank you note to an author before, but I will be writing one to Stephen Altrogge. Those words and the rest of the chapter had me sobbing (in a good way). I'm used to being encouraged by chapters like this one, but something about his specific reference to my specific sort of suffering triggered a flow of tears that I didn't know was dammed up.
Yes, Stephen, I weep and I have questions and I have days when I hurt as soon as I begin moving. And, yes, praise is a choice that I have to make daily. I wouldn't agree, though, that my life is heroic. The rest of the chapter pointed me toward the hero of the story - Christ - and that's who I hope my suffering in life points to as well.
I'm not great; Jesus is. And I'm thankful He led Altrogge to write this book. I'll be reviewing it in full tomorrow. Until then, I'll leave you with these sweet words:
“But we have this treasure in jars of clay,
You see, RA isn't obvious, and neither is my pain. Most of the time I'm not irked at that facet of my life being overlooked. I don't think I'm entitled to anyone's compassion, and I certainly don't seek pity. I realize RA isn't an illness that is noticeable. I know it doesn't affect as many people as cancer or AIDS. I get that it isn't a hot cause for research or funding.
And I'm okay with that.
What I'm not okay with is a dismissal of it as if it isn't that big of a deal. People have made comments like, "At least it's not cancer or anything." Yes, I am thankful it's not cancer, but really?!? During the month or two that I was in remission, it wasn't that big of a deal. But it can be painfully consuming when I'm not in remission land. And even when I'm in remission, the daily pills and bimonthly IVs give me a regular reminder that my body is not whole.
While I'm sad that my remission was short-lived, I am overwhelmed with gratitude for it because, as I wrote about here, three years of daily pain had worn on me. I've mentioned this before, but the latter part of 2010 was a struggle with depression. My body? I can handle that wasting away. It isn't meant to be eternal anyway. My hope, though? It is eternal. And as I focused on my circumstances instead of that hope, its glow in my life was dimmed. I loved Jesus, but I grieved my life. And I didn't realize how bad it had gotten until God rekindled the joy of life in Him here and now with sweet remission.
The remission didn't stay, but the hope did. I'm not living defeated like I was. Remission is a possibility. That helps me consider, in the words of Paul in 2 Corinthians 4, this to be “light momentary affliction…preparing for me an eternal weight of glory beyond all comparison.” And though I wrote about the bad day when the remission ended here, it hasn't been all bad days since. And even when the days have been physically difficult, God has sustained my spirit in ways that I can't adequately describe, other than just telling you to read Ephesians 3:20-21.
And the days have been difficult. My IVs are spaced every eight weeks right now, but the meds wore off around week 6.5. We'll probably be changing my schedule to every seven weeks now because we're already at the top dose for my weight. (Which - by the way - had my doctor quipping one day: "Well, we can keep it at every eight weeks if you'll agree to eat more cake" to put on the extra eight pounds I would need to qualify for the next dose level. I haven't taken him up on that, but how many of you can say that your doc told you to eat cake?)
Thursday morning I get my next IV, and it will mark a week and a half of pain with each step and each turn of my head, given that my hips, knees, feet, and neck are affected this time around. (It will thankfully mark the end of that painful period, though, because the medicine takes effect quickly. I'll feel a little flu-like on Thursday night, but I'll be feeling wonderful by Friday or Saturday.)
I say all this to set the stage for reading the second to last chapter in Altrogge's book. I was soaking in a hot bath, because that's what I do in the evening when my meds fail me.I helps make the pain subside for a little bit. I wasn't glum, and I wasn't having a pity party. I was just enjoying the water and a good book. I didn't even know that the chapter that would make me sob was coming.
And then I got to (with the italics below added by me, not the author):
Chapter 11: The Furnace of Suffering
This chapter doesn't begin with a joke or clever illustration or mildly amusing personal story. In fact, I'm not sure where to begin, because this chapter is about finding contentment in the midst of suffering.
I've suffered very little in my life. No chronic illnesses, no tragic deaths, no world-shattering events. Yet.
But I've watched many people suffer in awful ways. There are men and women in my church wh have endured, and are enduring, fiery, world-twisting trials. Chronic arthritis that puts hot nails between every joint. Extreme, unrelenting, chest-squeezing financial pressure. The slow, fierce creep of Alzheimer's disease. The persistent joy-sucking gloom of clinical depression. Terminal brain cancer.
These friends are my heroes, because in the midst of suffocating suffering they still honor God. They don't curse God. They don't hate God. Yes, they weep. Yes, they have questions. Yes, they have days when it hurts to get out of bed. But they praise the Lord anyway. They bless the God who gives and takes away. They set a breathtaking example for me to follow.
This chapter is for my heroes. For those of you who are following Christ through high waters and hot flames. For those of you who are living martyrs, testifying to the power of Christ as the fire licks your feet.
I don't want to give you pat, trite answers. I don't want to tell you just to trust God and everything will be okay. I simply want to connect you to the God who is bigger than your sufferings and who fully understands what I don't. I want to connect you to the only person who can carry you through and give your contentment in the midst of suffering. I want to connect you to Jesus.
I couldn't even type those words without crying. I have never written a thank you note to an author before, but I will be writing one to Stephen Altrogge. Those words and the rest of the chapter had me sobbing (in a good way). I'm used to being encouraged by chapters like this one, but something about his specific reference to my specific sort of suffering triggered a flow of tears that I didn't know was dammed up.
Yes, Stephen, I weep and I have questions and I have days when I hurt as soon as I begin moving. And, yes, praise is a choice that I have to make daily. I wouldn't agree, though, that my life is heroic. The rest of the chapter pointed me toward the hero of the story - Christ - and that's who I hope my suffering in life points to as well.
I'm not great; Jesus is. And I'm thankful He led Altrogge to write this book. I'll be reviewing it in full tomorrow. Until then, I'll leave you with these sweet words:
"When you pass through the waters, I will be with you;
and through the rivers, they shall not overwhelm you;
when you walk through the fire you shall not be burned,
and the flame shall not consume you.
For I am the LORD your God, the Holy One of Israel, your Savior."
Isaiah 43:2-3a
“But we have this treasure in jars of clay,
to show that the surpassing power belongs to God and not to us.
We are afflicted in every way, but not crushed;
perplexed, but not driven to despair;
persecuted, but not forsaken;
struck down, but not destroyed;
So we do not lose heart.
Though our outer self is wasting away, our inner self is being renewed day by day.
For this light momentary affliction is preparing for us an eternal weight of glory
beyond all comparison,
as we look not to the things that are seen but to the things that are unseen.
For the things that are seen are transient, but the things that are unseen are eternal.”
1 Corinthians 4:7-9, 16-19