A young woman bravely walked up to me last week after I had given a talk. Her words she spoke were kind- but I knew they partly were just gateway words to be able to say what she really wanted to say. I know because I’ve done this before. I know because I’ve seen it done before. The next thing I knew she was telling me about the emotionally exhausting week she had just had. She told me about the peace she felt and she told me how her heart broke. “But really, I feel God’s peace. I guess it’s just still a little sad.” I took this near stranger’s hand and told her how it’s allowed to be both. You’re allowed to feel peace and still feel sad. They can co-exist. When I didn’t answer the way she clearly thought I was going to- she tried to challenge it a little. “No, see, I know what I’m sad about is something the Lord instructed me to do. My peace comes from knowing that the Lord guided me not to go down this road anymore. So I know it’s good.” But tears filled her eyes when she tried to convince herself me that she shouldn’t feel sad.

What she doesn’t know is how much I get this.
What she certainly does know is that I still believe they can co-exist.

I have a disease in my body that causes merciless suffering. I know what it feels like to be so sad but still have peace that God is in control. I also know what it feels like to feel angry at what feels like an injustice- and still rest in God’s faithfulness. Yes, I believe they can co-exist.

I believe that if I think they don’t co-exist, I’m fooling myself. Not God- He definitely knows every inch of my heart even when I don’t. If you were to read my prayer journal, even from just this morning you’d read cries of a broken heart- and seeing it end in a chorus of the song “King of My Heart.” David did this in the Psalms too. He modeled it, so I figure it’s okay. Let’s put it all out there. Let’s trust that God can handle our heart ache while we learn to lean in even more into the goodness and faithfulness of the Father. As we lean into His perfect peace.

And while you’re in the middle of the heartache, the suffering, the pain- I personally believe it becomes even more important to do so: to lean in. It’s the only way I know to survive it. To lean in.

I went back in for another round of infusion a month ago. Round 11. {Eleven!} I no longer can count them on my hands. Round eleven came in a November. The month I was born in. The month my pain began in. The month I was diagnosed in. The month (this year) that marked me being in pain for more of my life than not. It was a successful round, for which I’m so grateful, and my pain dropped to a “5” which, for me, is a good place to land.

I’m pretty sure that nearly every pain patient hates the pain scale. It’s really just supposed to be taken as a way doctors can understand us. It’s just supposed to be a tool for them to know how much we are able to tolerate or not tolerate the pain we feel and what kind of intervention needs to be done. But it ends up feeling like a pain patient’s whole life- that darn scale. Amateur pain patients do this thing where the doctor asks “rank your pain on a scale of one to ten” and they say something like “twelve.” (Don’t do this. The rest of us pain patients are judging you. The question was 1-10.) The reason it doesn’t work to say that (we get it- lots and lots of pain) is that what’s to say next time you won’t say 15 and keep getting higher and higher up on the number line? Sticking from 1-10 forces you to think through what number you want to communicate. It also means that in 14 years of pain, I’ve had to readjust my numbers many times as my pain increases. What once was an “8” is now a “5.” What once was a “5” is now a “3.” As you feel worse pain- you re-assess and re-assign your numbers. And for. the. love. you do not compare your pain or your numbers to other people’s numbers. You simply let the tool do its job. You let it communicate the amount of pain your body is in. I’ve never called any pain a 10. It bothers me when people decide for me that my pain is a 10. (note- please don’t ever do this) It can’t be. Not with a progressive pain disorder. I don’t actually think I’ll ever be at a point in my life where I’m comfortable calling it a 10. I can re-adjust the scale a million times and a 9 will always be able to be adjustable. But a 10 means nothing can be worse than this. It’s not adjustable. And if I’m being honest with myself- I know it can get worse than this.

I have learned that the emotions that come alongside of pain can also exist with peace. It sounds easier, cleaner, more straight forward and more poetic when written then it often feels when lived. I re-read my blogs a dozen times before posting to make sure what I have written is truly what I believe. Even still I have a vulnerability freak out the second I actually do post it because often it’s what God’s working on in my heart right then- and it doesn’t feel as “pretty” as it can sound. Sometimes the work or the process is beautiful- but it’s definitely not pretty.

You know what’s not pretty, but oh so real? Ugly crying in the hospital. Lying awake at night and asking every possible question of God that you really know deep down inside you won’t get answered this side of Heaven. Mourning normal. Comparing. Laying down expectations. Picking them up again to only have to lay them down again.  . . . .

Whatever it is that causes the pain- whether it’s financial stress, the news you didn’t see coming, fears about your marriage or your children, the inevitable but painful repercussions of broken people hurting people, the physical pain, the emotional pain, the unforeseen news, the loss of a baby, the loss of a relationship, the broken dream, or waking up (or having your husband, brother, father, grandfather, wake up) jaundice and going to bed with a cancer diagnosis…

I pray you don’t’ just believe in the co-existence of peace and pain but that you feel that peace that surpasses all understanding in the midst of your pain. That your life can be a testimony of God’s faithfulness in the midst of the fire. I pray that you feel God with you today in a rich and beautiful way that feels sacred. I believe that you can still sing of God’s goodness in the midst of your hard.

Even if that pain feels like an actual “ten.”

Cry the tears you feel coming. Scream the ache you feel deep inside you. And lean in. Lean so far in to who you know the Lord is and who He always will be: your peace. Your Wonderful Counselor, Mighty God, Everlasting Father, and Prince of Peace. (ref. Isaiah 9:6)

**Dear Family,

This is Abbie’s current favorite song. She played this song the day all this unfolded with Pop- only a little bit after dad got home from the hospital. I hadn’t fully paid attention to this song until then. And now it’s my anthem for Pop. It felt appropriate with this blog, written truly for you, to put it here. Love you all. Once again Abs, thanks for teaching me about faith by watching yours.  xo

And Mom-Mom and Pop- my heart couldn’t possibly be next to yours any more than it is right now.