Hello, round 13. Here we are. Room 1734 curled up in a ball with that churn, crank, churn, crank sound once more. The sound of medicine entering into my body and, Lord willing, bringing much relief.

Welcome.

Feeling my worst, physically, over Easter, is a humbling thing. I would never willingly choose suffering. Jesus did. That’s not lost on me. Worshipping in pain is emotional for me always. But worshipping in pain, thinking about how Jesus chose pain and death for me to have hope and freedom- yeah, I’m a sweet little hot mess on Good Friday and Easter.

On Easter this year, there was this young woman in the service that I attended who was dancing during worship in the back of the sanctuary and I was so teary about it. How she moved her body so effortlessly and in such a worshipful response kind of way- that was exactly what I had always imagined when I pictured myself pain free in Heaven dancing for Jesus.

But I stood there, watching, with a body full of aching pain.

Someday, Jesus.

{Churn. Crank. Churn. Crank.}

Every time I get to the end of an infusion cycle, just before going in again, I text my doctor in a panic, asking when a bed will come, and sending daily reminders about our plan. He always tells me I’m not annoying (I’m definitely annoying) and tells me I’m advocating and need to be in his face and that it’s good. This happens every time. Every. Time. He’s an encourager and huge supporter. The man got me a hospital bed the day after Easter – and doesn’t that just shout freedom.

Freedom!

Yet, I feel like a little girl, crying here after Easter. I know the cross gives me the hope of Heaven. I know Jesus will heal me either in this side of Heaven or on the other side. But today? Today, I ache to be whole, to move my body freely, and to dance without pain. Every time I enter these halls- the place where a lot of life begins and a lot of life ends, I ache for mine to begin again. Oh, I’m so grateful for each time this treatment brings my pain down enough to help me function more. But sometimes I wish they could do more than just lower it. I wish they could make it go away.

The truth is: they can’t do that. They don’t know how. Only my Jesus can heal this broken body.

It’s like Jesus picks me up and whispers in my ear, “I’m not finished yet,” and sets me into a bed to rest.

So here I lay- in a hospital bed with an infusion doing its job so I can find relief and do mine.

{Churn. Crank. Churn. Crank.}

I lay here, before the Lord, with big prayers. Maybe this time You’ll take it all away. I know you can do that. You are a Healer God. And I know that if I could touch the hem of your garment, or touch Your hand-I’d be healed. Maybe this time You’ll heal me.

And if not…

You are the same God who conquered the grave. You are the same One we sang about on Sunday celebrating the freedom, hope, joy and life we have because of the cross. Because of Jesus; my living hope. My hope is in You, Lord. And I believe You’re not finished yet. You’re not finished yet….with me.

I don’t know why my journey includes physical suffering. But I do know where my help and my hope comes from.

Jesus.

Wonderful Jesus.

So I ask you, from wherever you read this to do one of the following:

-if you don’t know Jesus, give Him a chance. I’d love to have coffee (post infusion) and talk together about Him with you. I don’t know how people have hope without Him.

-if you love Jesus, I humbly ask you help me pray for relief and even healing of my body and the aching bodies surrounding me.

-if you are one of the few who enter these literal halls I’m in-do me a favor when you get here? Share Jesus- love these nurses like Jesus would, and keep songs and verses on repeat of His goodness so we never forget and we don’t lose hope.

•

This suffering will not be wasted.

My Lord is a Redeemer.

•

Your suffering will not be wasted.

Your Lord is a Redeemer.

•

No matter the outcome, Jesus.

I will sing of your goodness.

You will forever be my living hope..

May this entire round honor You, Jesus.

Among the many events between infusions this time- I went to a comedy show with a friend. Oh my goodness, what an experience! I laughed so hard my stomach and my face hurt simply from laughing. It was awesome- but that’s likely what you expect from a comedy show. What I didn’t expect is the comedian said something in his show that struck a heart chord in a way I wasn’t prepared for. He said that the reason he does this is because he wants people to have a break for a couple hours from their pain. He specifically mentioned a cancer patient who had come up to him after a show and thanked him for doing just that for her- and he told us again- that’s why he does this.

I cried at a comedy show. Right there in my seat. Because that’s what he did for me too. He let me escape from the deepest pain- and just laugh. And not only was I so grateful, I felt seen, and I felt cared for. I was given the gift of laughter.

I encourage everyone I know who is in pain of any sort- that as they find their coping strategies that work for them, to fill their life with as much worship and laughter as they can. And I do my best to live my life that way- to worship Jesus and honor Him in this journey- and to laugh a lot.

That’s not always easy to do. And blessed are the people in my life who can get me laughing on my very worst pain days.

I don’t try to laugh to breeze over the hard; I do not pretend that it is no big deal and I do not make a joke out of the pain. Goodness, there is such a difference to me. I try to find moments of joy and laughter in the midst of the pain. For me, laughter is a moment of relief in the suffering. It is an ounce of freedom in the bondage of pain.

The last week has been especially hard with this. I’ve cried more than I’ve laughed. I hate that. I’ve cried from the amount of pain inside my body (in front of several strangers and some colleagues, no less). I’ve cried to God about why He is allowing this much pain when I know He can take it away. And I’ve cried after a hard weekend of pain for my Pop in the midst of his cancer journey. Real talk: lots of tears. But there has been some laughter too. It’s just been a little harder to find.

In Romans 5:3-4 (NIV) it says: “We know that suffering produces perseverance; perseverance, character, and character, hope.”

I was reminded last week that suffering doesn’t just jump straight to hope. First it produces perseverance, and perseverances produces character, and then character produces hope. It’s a process. Being in suffering doesn’t automatically produce hope. Which is why it’s not always easy to laugh in the middle of suffering. Laughter can more easily be found with hope. They hang out together. And sometimes it takes a little while to get there.

So while laughter was a little harder to find, and the words of my prayers were fewer and more repetitive, I found solace in worship music on repeat in my home, in my car, in headphones on a plane. Recently though, this song, “Goodness of God” by Bethel, has been on repeat more than the rest as it brings me to tears more often then not- especially this lyric:

“And all my life You have been faithful. And all my life You have been so, so good. With every breath that I am able, oh I will sing of the goodness of God.”

What a difference between “all my life has been so, so good” and “all my life You have been so, so good.”

When I can’t find laughter, I seek for any kind of joy- and I’m telling you with every part of me- the only way I can find joy is because of Jesus. In the last week I can’t find a lot things that I can say have been so, so good. But my God is. And He has been present with me every time I’ve cried, and every time I’ve laughed. 

He always is. He’s always there.

Jesus, remind us of Your goodness. Help us persevere in the suffering, help us develop character, and help us find hope. May we never stop singing of Your goodness. And may we be known for giving the hope and joy that comes from You alone away to others who need it. And Jesus, may we laugh. Thank you for laughter in the middle of pain. But more than any of that- thank you for being there for every tear and every laugh. For being an ever-present God that holds us close in times of suffering. All my life You have been faithful. All my life you have been so, so good. With every breath that I am able, oh I will sing of the goodness of God.