A Dog in Eden: How It Was Meant To Be

The Woman’s hand was suddenly wet. The furry white animal with the pointed ears made no sound as he padded past the leaves to her side. Now he was licking her fingers one at a time, five or six licks each. 

When he was finished, he gazed up at her, mouth opening in a smile and tongue hanging out. The Woman felt affection pouring off of him, mixed with anticipation.

“Hello, Dog! I’ve been hoping you would visit this morning.” The Dog thumped his feathery tail against the tree trunk. “Is there something you need, Dog?”

The Dog whined softly, licked his lips, and whined again. I’m thirsty, heard the Woman. Do you have any water?

“Follow me. There’s a stream just up ahead.” The Woman stretched as she got to her feet, and the Dog bounced on his forelegs several times, then sprinted through the trees. “No, silly! You can’t find the water if you go by yourself! I said, follow me.” The Dog barked twice and then burst back into the clearing, panting and smiling. I just got so excited, I had to run! Water is my favorite, and running, and trees, and sunshine, and you! You’re my favorite of all.

***********

Beren strained forward on the leash toward the park. He trotted past the wooden playground boat, a favorite of the neighborhood children, with barely a glance, eyes intent on the open grass just visible through the trees. A few more minutes and we would be there.

A good view of his blue eye

The meadow was completely surrounded by trees, with a small creek running along one side. It was set far enough back from nearby backyards and from the playground that I could safely let Beren off the leash. 

“Hush, you,” I  muttered, smiling, as Beren whined in anticipation. “Okay, now sit.” He sat. “High five!” He touched one forepaw to my outstretched hand. “Other one.” Then the other. I fumbled with the clasp on his leash, then waited another moment as he looked at me with quivering hope. Finally, the magic word: “Okay!”

He took off.

I laid out my blanket and took my book and water bottle out of the striped bag I had brought along. Beren bounded over the tall grass like a gazelle, alternating between leaping after birds and chasing the leaves the breeze brought his way. Only in this meadow did I get to see his swift grace, his astounding speed, his total immersion in his surroundings.

After a few minutes of mad sprinting, Beren trotted over to me, panting and smiling. He flopped down on the corner of the blanket, tongue lolling, brown and blue eyes both narrowed in the sunshine. 

This is how it was meant to be.

*************

Joy filled the Woman’s heart. She loved all the animals, but there were a few with whom she had developed a special bond. This Dog, the great black Horse, and the Doe stopped by at least once a day, and a smaller, long-bodied brown Dog and a sleek gray Cat curled up next to the Woman and the Man to sleep each night.

The Woman had not yet been made when the Man named all the animals, so she tried to meet a handful of new animals each day and discover what they liked to eat, how they liked to play, where they lived, and how she could care for them. 

They each communicated differently. The Mice squeaked and trilled, each family using a slightly different pitch. The Stag might bellow to his Doe if she were far away, but close by, he used soft grunts. The Dogs would yip and bark and whine and growl, often three or four members of the pack speaking over each other, and the Woman had to listen very hard to follow the conversation. 

On his own, though, the white Dog could converse with the Woman easily. She could gather his general mood and intent simply through his barks and whines, as well as his behavior. The specifics of his communication, though, she received through a kind of silent hearing, a listening deeper than sound traveling through the ears. 

The Dog bounded twice around the Woman, put his forepaws on a tree trunk, and barked at a Squirrel, who chittered back at him, its fluffy tail twice the size of its head, Is it necessary for you to yawp at me?

The Dog subsided, and he cocked one paw up to his chest. I just wanted to say that I saw you! I saw a Squirrel! Hi Squirrel! Sorry to bother you!

The Squirrel tipped his head to one side and then the other, then scampered down to the ground, grabbed a shelled walnut from a hole under the tree, and offered it to the Dog. Thanks for coming by and telling everyone that you saw me! Please enjoy this walnut.

The Dog sniffed it twice, then took it with his teeth and crunched for several minutes. He licked his incisors for quite a long time afterward, trying to dislodge the remaining walnut bits.

**********

“What do you think he’s thinking?” my friends often asked.

Since dogs don’t talk, I usually narrated Beren’s actions myself, imagining what he thought and felt in each moment. When he sat at my feet with ears pricked forward and nose twitching while I ate popcorn, I said in a low, dopey voice, “Are you going to eat all of that?” (Think Dug in Up.) When a sudden noise startled him out of a deep slumber and he scrambled upright, blinking, half of his face smashed flat from the floor, I slurred, “Read-ready for duty, I’m awake, shhoo awake, what…*yawn* what do you need, I’m here to help…” 

Sometimes no translation was necessary. His shifty eyes as he carried a stolen towel across the kitchen made it clear he hoped we simply wouldn’t notice the fabric trailing from his mouth like a flag of victory. We knew when he laid down and flopped his face against the couch cushion and gazed up at us that he wanted affection. Whenever we returned, he wiggled up to us, head low to receive pats and sneak in a lick or two on the little one’s face. His wagging stump tail whipped his whole rear end back and forth. The message was clear: I’m so tremendously glad to see you!

**************

The Woman had so much joy to share. The Squirrel’s generosity delighted her, the bounty of the nut trees amazed her, and the silliness of the Dog’s efforts to lick the walnuts out of his teeth filled her with laughing affection. 

“The Lord God made this Garden for us, Dog. Did you know that?”

He cocked his head to one side, still licking his teeth. I didn’t know anybody made it. Who is the Lord God?

“He made all of us! He made the Man, and then He made me from the Man, and before that He made these walnut trees, and this grass, and those roses, and that fern, and those Elephants over on that hill, and that Tiger on the other side of the river – all the animals you know and all the ones we haven’t met yet. And the mountains and the rivers, too!”

Wow. He sounds really powerful. Does He talk to you? The Dog’s lip was caught on the side of his gums, and the Woman turned away to hide her chuckle. She wanted to continue their conversation, not dissolve into a pile of giggles. The Lord God had taught her so much, and she was excited to share her understanding with the Dog. She had learned last night that part of her job in tending the Garden was to help the animals come to know more about the Lord God.

“But why don’t you just come walk with them like you do with us every day?” the Woman had asked him. “Then you could tell them everything they need to know about You.”

The Lord God had told the Woman that the animals must come to know Him through her and the Man, because they alone could both understand the Lord God enough to communicate His character and not overwhelm the animals with fear in the process.

So the Woman walked and talked with the Dog. He followed her to the quiet stream that branched off of the great Tigris, and they sat in the shade and dipped their feet and paws into the cool water. She scooped some water out to drink, and the Dog bent his head down and lapped until he was fully refreshed. Then the Woman leaned back against a wide, knobbly oak tree, and the Dog leaned against the Woman, and she patted his ears, and he licked her nose.

And it was Good.

*************

Near the end, Beren lay awake for hours, gazing at us as we watched Jack Ryan. Usually he fell asleep as soon as he had completed his duty and our son was in bed, but that night he just watched us, snout between his paws on the floor. In his pain, we were all that mattered to him.

We helped him walk to the blankets we had piled next to the couch. I laid down and stroked his white head, his silky gray-and-tan ears, the dip between his eyes. Occasionally, he lifted his head to stare at me, then my husband. His eyes followed us each time we got up. He didn’t know why his chest ached, why he had to pant for breath, or why the ten pounds of extra fluid in his abdomen had made it so hard to walk, but he knew that we would take care of him.

The night after he died, I came upon this passage in C. S. Lewis’s The Problem of Pain:

“Even now more animals than you might expect are ready to adore man if they are given a reasonable opportunity: for man was made to be the priest and even, in one sense, the Christ, of the animals—the mediator through whom they apprehend so much of the divine splendour as their irrational nature allows.”

Beren did what he was made to do: keep watch over those he loved, race freely through the grass, eat with gusto, and receive our affection. I hope that through our care, love, and laughter, Beren caught a glimpse of the joyful God who created him.

The Beasts And Their King

The ox stumbled to a stop in the cave, his heavy breaths no longer turning to steam now that they were sheltered from the cold. His master fumbled with the harness, and the ox sighed as the heavy straps slid to the ground. The donkey clattered in, with the master’s son forced into a trot to keep hold of his lead rope. The promise of shelter and food had given an extra spring to the donkey’s usual plodding steps, and the boy was caught by surprise. The sun had sunk behind the hills while they were making their way to their home behind the inn, and now the dark had arrived.

The earth had not cooperated that day. The man was trying to turn the soil for the new year’s plantings, but the ground was hard and full of stones. As hard as the ox pulled, the ground pulled back harder. The heated wine in the skins draped over the donkey’s shoulders had long since grown cold. The man had taken out his resulting frustration on the beast who bore the skins. All of them, animals and humans, longed for rest, warmth, and food. They didn’t know that their calm evening would soon be interrupted by the innkeeper’s newest guests.

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What image does the word Nativity conjure in your head? Most will picture Mary holding the infant Jesus, with Joseph standing nearby, perhaps with a hand on Mary’s shoulder. Several shepherds are present, holding crooked staffs, one of them kneeling in worship. The Wise Men may either be with the Holy Family or on their way, leading a camel laden with gifts for the Christ Child. A star is often pictured overhead. And of course, animals fill in the gaps: a few of the shepherds’ sheep, one lying near Mary, a donkey standing near Joseph, an ox looking over Mary’s shoulder.

But despite this traditional image, no animals appear in the Gospel accounts. Are our beloved nativity sets misleading us? Should we toss out the animal figures because the Bible doesn’t mention them? Or should we let them lead us into deeper thinking about why animals made their way into this centuries-old tradition?

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The sheep huddled together on the hillside against the rising wind. The shepherds had started a small fire, but the sheep shied away from the flames, preferring the living warmth of fleece to the treacherous heat of the blazing logs. A wolf howled in the distance, answered by several others. The sheep bleated and tossed their heads as the shepherds glanced at each other. If several wolf packs joined together, all five men might have to keep watch.

The howls were getting louder. The sheep pressed closer together, their bleating adding to the shepherds’ anxiety. Would they have to let one of the weaker lambs be taken by the wolves, a sacrifice to protect the flock?

The air was silent now. The wolves had either moved on, or they were so close that they preferred to hide their presence. The bleating rose to a crescendo—

Blinding light. Music. And a voice: “Fear not.”

---

St. Francis of Assisi, known for his affinity with and ministry to animals, is credited with creating the first Nativity scene. In the Middle Ages, church services were held in Latin, and very few Bibles were available in the common language of the people. Mystery plays, live enactments of stories from the Bible that relied heavily on symbolism, became one of the primary sources of Biblical understanding. St. Francis followed this pattern with his Nativity. He wanted to present Christ’s birth to his people in all its earthiness and mundanity. He wanted them to see how close Christ was to the agrarian life his people knew. His Nativity scene, with a wax figure representing Jesus, live people representing Mary and Joseph, and a borrowed ox and donkey, was meant to show his people that Jesus came into a life just like their own, in a humble cave, not surrounded by royal robes or rich courtiers but by animals and hay.

While many of us don’t live a life in quite as close proximity to animals as those in St. Francis’s time, we can still understand the message he sought to communicate: Jesus came to be one of us. He knows our struggles and discomforts. He identifies not with the rich and strong, but with the poor and weak. Could this be part of what the traditional animal-filled Nativity can teach us?

The animals at Jesus’ birth also connect the Incarnation to Creation. Adam and Eve were the pinnacle of God’s work, but animals were included in his “very good.” The tranquility of Eden is mirrored in the companionable ox, donkey, and sheep joining in to adore the newborn King. How fitting, for domestic animals such as these who felt keenly the curse of the Fall, to witness the arrival of the curse breaker. Their presence reminds us that a New Earth comes where oxen don’t have to toil in drudgery all day, where they can partner with humans in the joyous privilege of subduing the earth to the glory of God. No weeds, no stones to catch the plow. No burning heat or icy rain or hard, frozen ground, just the earth bringing forth fruit as God designed it to do. When the baby in the manger defeated death, he sealed the promise of a New Earth where no donkeys are beaten for stubbornness. A day will come when sheep will no longer fear wolves, but commune with them, when shepherds can tend their flocks with joy and laughter, no longer needing to fight off predators.

Those particular animals would never see such a day. And animal consciousness is difficult to ascertain; we may never know exactly how they process their lives. Still, Numbers speaks of Balaam’s donkey seeing the Angel of the Lord before he revealed himself to Balaam. Perhaps this points to some spiritual sense unique to animals, some anticipation of a far-off redemption.

Could those humble animals crowded around Mary and Joseph sense that the infant wailing in the manger had spoken them into being?

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The shepherds’ fear vanished as they stepped into the cave. A few torches threw flickering light across the floor, but whether the light of the angels had followed them or whether the baby shared the angels’ radiance, the room seemed to glow. Was this the Christ? Had the Messiah finally come?

The woman raised her head with a tired smile and beckoned them closer. The man with her gathered the infant out of the manger and gazed with wonder at his tiny form, then placed him gently in the woman’s arms. She leaned back against the ox’s stall, chuckling as the huge animal leaned out to sniff the new arrival. The donkey ambled as close as his tether would allow, ears forward and twitching, eyes shining in the torchlight.

The sheep were bravest. They surged ahead of their shepherds and crowded around the woman and the baby, no longer bleating but quietly inquisitive. The mother did not push the animals away. The helpless infant in her arms was their King, too.

Solid

My dog may be dying.

His legs give out several times every morning, and I have to support his belly until he is strong enough to walk again. He stands or lies in one place for hours, sometimes sleeping, sometimes gazing at me in misery. He doesn’t want to eat until late in the day, but despite missing so many meals, his belly seems swollen.

I hardly feel anything.

What happened to the me of last summer, who spilled out words like the rain pouring off our roof? Who felt things so deeply that I had to force my tears back inside because crying hurt my abdomen too much? Did the stress of this year push that person so deep under a pile everyone else’s burdens that I’m only now clawing my way to the surface?

I can see the light above me, streaming through a gap between a cardboard box labeled “Work Projects” and a metal bucket with “Clean the House” scrawled in Sharpie, sloshing with soapy mop water. I climb toward it, but hundreds of books are shifting under my feet – books that beg me to read them, books that promise me both rest and immediate genius, so many books that I begin to sink in them like quicksand. They tell half the truth: they lead me to beauty and enrich my soul and calm my mind, but if I depend only on them, they’ll keep sliding around on each other and eventually tumble under my feet.

What can I stand on? How can I reach the light and fresh air I know I need?

My foot bumps against something more solid than books, firmer than a cardboard box or an empty bucket. I kick some paperbacks to the side and see that it’s a slab of granite, not the shiny kind in my kitchen but the rough kind we saw jutting out of Vermont’s mountains, sparkling dimly in the narrow shaft of sunlight that beams down through the gap above. I crouch to touch it and see a few letters scratched into the surface. B – E – L – Ah, it’s graffiti. Someone named Bella or Belle made a halfhearted attempt to scratch her name into millennia of solid rock. O – V – but those letters don’t fit. E – D…

Beloved.

I sit down on the rock and run my fingers over the letters again. Beloved. The books remain in reach, offering comfort and distraction if I need them. The sunshine lights up the cardboard box and the metal bucket and all the crates and tubs of responsibilities they are balanced on. I follow the beam down to the rock, and see that the whole precarious arrangement also rests on the solid surface. Nothing is balanced and it all looks like it could crash down at every moment, but if it did, it wouldn’t fall forever, because it would come to rest on the rock.

I’m tired. I can’t face trying to climb to the top right now. I lie down on the rock and try to think of a plan, but the word carved there runs in circles through my head. Beloved. Beloved. Beloved. Maybe instead of climbing, I could lay each box directly on the rock. Maybe that way I wouldn’t always feel one clumsy touch away from being buried.

My thoughts turn back to my dog, my constant companion, my friend and protector. Sometimes he’s felt like just another one of those boxes, piled haphazardly among the rest of my responsibilities. Years passed where I struggled to enjoy him, but now that he’s weak, all his most frustrating habits have drifted away, leaving only sweet affection and dependence. I can feel it swelling in my chest. I can feel it. And then I see that he, too, rests on the rock. He is beloved, and so am I.

Noticing the Numinous

I love to dive into awe and beauty, drinking in the glory of a mountain range or marveling at the vastness of the ocean. Even the bark of a tree or a beautiful leaf can fill me with wonder, especially if I can share it with my son. For months I’ve lamented the rarity of my opportunities to interact with creation, to let its beauty wash over me and reawaken my understanding of the Creator. Long walks can lead to days of heightened pain, and defying the heat to tend to my parched plants, even for a few sweaty minutes, leaves me out of breath and depleted for hours. Seeking nature’s glory usually feels out of reach.

But my expectations have been too grand, and my hope in joy’s tenacity, too weak. I was certain only hours staring at the mountains would provide the awe I needed. The five delicious days I spent reading on a Vermont hillside last month certainly refreshed my soul, but so did the glossy, grasshopper-green new leaf I noticed yesterday on my philodendron. Have I been depriving myself of joy because I defined it too narrowly? Have I missed small moments of awe that could have lifted my tired eyes to the hills and brought the help I needed for that next hour?

Why have I confined my search for awe and beauty to the natural world? I crave the grandeur of nature, but my son’s ideas have their own glory. His young mind can still pretend a doll-sized globe is a puppy when he needs a few more toys to re-enact 101 Dalmatians. My tired body groans that the disorder wrought by a three-year-old’s imagination is nothing but a nuisance, but joy sneaks past my exhaustion and leads me into the pure truth of Playing Pretend. Why do I complain about not seeing enough nature when I can watch the pinnacle of creation in my own living room? This little boy is made in the very image of the King of the universe. The vivid tales he enacts flow from the heart of the Great Storyteller. What is more awe-inspiring than the growing mind of a child?

Tomorrow I’ll stumble through breakfast, go to a routine doctor’s appointment, and finish some editing work. My pain may be mild or extreme, my energy overflowing or missing entirely. Chronic illness makes no promises, but my Creator does. In His presence is fullness of joy, bubbling up and spilling over into everything He has made. The mountains will shout symphonies of praise, my philodendron’s leaves will clap their hands, and my son’s imagination will give me a glimpse of the face of God.

God of Strength, God of Detail, God of Rest

I woke up with a pounding headache and tons of congestion. “Great. A cold. Just what I need on top of everything else.” Getting Blaise ready to get out of the house felt impossible. Breakfast felt impossible. Fear and despair settled heavy on my shoulders.

By pure grace, I didn’t start my day with Twitter. I picked up Daily Light, hoping to find some weapons of truth to shake off the mantle of darkness and pain. This was today’s morning reading:

Wait on the Lord; be of good courage, and He shall strengthen your heart. (Psalm 27:14)

My dark mantle shifted a bit.

Have you not known? Have you not heard? The everlasting God, the Lord, the Creator of the ends of the earth, neither faints nor is weary. He gives power to the weak, and to those who have no might He increases strength. (Isaiah 40:28-29)

The mantle began to slip.

Could any words have been better chosen for me in that moment?

Fear not, for I am with you; be not dismayed, for I am your God. I will strengthen you, yes, I will help you, I will uphold you with My righteous right hand. (Isaiah 41:10)

Strength and help and support and endurance, all promised from my Father. Words written for epic crises and mundane struggles.

The despair dissolved into nothing. God was with me. And the command to “be not dismayed” meant that God’s people were dismayed, just like me. Even after he parted the Red Sea, even after the pillars of cloud and fire, they needed to be reminded that he would hold them up. Just like me. Even after God gave me strength to lead worship yesterday, even after all the ways he has preserved my heart and my body in the past few weeks, I forget that he promises to keep me forever.

You have been a strength to the poor, a strength to the needy in his distress, a refuge from the storm, a shade from the heat; for the blast of the terrible ones is as a storm against the wall. (Isaiah 25:4)

Yes, he has been. Even a shade from the heat I fear so much. Despite becoming very weak at the grocery store, and wondering whether it was wise to attempt it in the noonday sun, I was able to unload the groceries from the car with enough strength left to get lunch ready.

(That’s not to say that God is not with me on days I am weakened by the sun. He is with me always. He supports me always, even when my body gives out completely. This was just a particular, unexpected mercy today.)

The testing of your faith produces patience. But let patience have its perfect work, that you may be perfect and complete, lacking nothing. (James 1:3-4)

My faith is tested every day. How will I make it to that appointment with all this pain? How can I love Blaise and Brandon well when talking is exhausting? How can I faithfully fulfill my responsibilities without either overdoing it or shrinking back in fear? And every day, God answers: With my help. With my help. Ask me for wisdom, and I will give it. I don’t know if my patience has increased, but someday, all this testing should eventually have an effect, right?

Do not cast away your confidence, which has great reward. For you have need of endurance, so that after you have done the will of God, you may receive the promise. (Hebrews 10:35-36)

Endurance sums up one of my deepest needs. I struggle to keep on when the pain doesn’t let up, when the exhaustion lingers. But God gives endurance to do his will. Not always endurance to do all the things I want to do, or feel like I must do, but just enough to do what he has planned for me.

When I finished reading, my pain was the same. My head felt heavy, my legs throbbed, and my hip ached. I was still exhausted and daunted by the day. But I had promises to cling to, light to pierce the gloom, truth to battle the despair. And I knew that before time began, God had moved in those who compiled Daily Light to choose these verses for September 2nd, these verses that thousands have read on this day before me and will read for years to come, knowing that these verses would strengthen my heart on September 2nd, 2019. How can I not trust a God who cares for such tiny details?

And then I glanced at the heading for the evening reading:

He makes me to lie down in green pastures. (Psalm 23:2)

Rest is coming. I write this in my bed, supported by pillows and slowly relaxing. Soon I can sleep. But I can look not just to the green pastures of tonight’s rest – true rest is coming, with no dread of the next day’s work, no tossing and turning, no sleep interrupted by pain or by the needs of another. God is preparing for us glorified bodies with no exhaustion, no achy hips, no stuffy heads, but even better, he is preparing true rest for our souls.

I long for that rest. But until then, I can rest tonight in the hands of my Father, who gives strength out of his infinite power and love out of his infinite joy.

The words of Narnia

The thing about having the Narnia stories embedded deep in my heart for the past 30 years is that sometimes phrases slip into my mind, and I don’t even realize their origin until I pay attention.

These were the words that came to me today:

“Tell me your sorrows.”

Shasta feels sorry for himself, alone and cold and lost on the mountain pass, and instead of shaming Shasta for his self-pity (though he does reframe his circumstances a bit), Aslan dignifies Shasta’s feelings as sorrows. And he listens.

I have sorrows. Incessant headaches, a pinched nerve, abdominal pain, and an itchy-for-no-reason foot are among my physical sorrows today, and anxiety over all my responsbilities and grief over what I can’t do are among the mental sorrows.

And Jesus wants to hear them.

(I know Narnia isn’t the Bible, but I think these stories contain a lot of truth about God, and, as Lewis hoped, I understand Jesus better when I look at Aslan.)

Jesus wants to hear my sorrows. I’m afraid to burden others with them too much, but my sorrow will not burden him.

“There is no other stream.”

(Or, “Where else can we go? You have the words of eternal life.”)

No matter how much of the day I have lived through without remembering Jesus, when the pain and fear will not relent, he is who I cry out to. Lord have mercy. Christ have mercy.

Aslan will not promise Jill her safety. God does not promise us an easy, pain-free life. But there is no other stream. No other source of life and joy and fulfillment. Nothing else will quench our desperate thirst.

“Courage, dear heart.”

A painting with these words hangs in my kitchen, because I am always afraid.

I’m afraid that my headache will last all day. I’m afraid my energy will not. I’m afraid of working through pain and exhaustion. I’m afraid things will never change.

I need courage, and Jesus gives it.

“Take heart, I have overcome the world.”

This is not the end. He is with me, like an albatross leading the Dawn Treader out of the black nightmare and into the sunshine. And I am dear to him, as Lucy is to Aslan.

“Joy shall be yours.”

Not just far-off joy, but joy today. Not happiness with everything I’m dealing with, but joy in the midst of it.

Timid, tired Hwin didn’t have Bree’s strength or bravado, but she trusted Aslan as soon as she saw him, and he promised her joy.

I am Hwin. I lag behind. I ask worried questions. I imagine upsetting circumstances. But if Aslan calls Hwin “Dearest Daughter,” and promises her joy despite her weakness, then Jesus loves me in my exhaustion and pain and fear, and he gives me his joy.

Christian children are exhorted to hide God’s word in their hearts, and that is good and right. Scripture works in us with a power no other words have. But meditating on true and beautiful stories can also nourish our souls.

C. S. Lewis, through Narnia, has discipled me all my life. I hope these few words of his encourage you, too.

Tell me your sorrows.

There is no other stream.

Courage, dear heart.

Joy shall be yours.

Light and High Beauty

I was asked this past weekend about my favorite natural phenomenon. I chose mountains, which I acknowledge aren’t actually a phenomenon, except, perhaps, in the process of their making. As often happens, I started to understand my love for mountains in the moments when I was explaining this love.

The first reason I gave was because they are huge. I feel the same way about the ocean, but mountains are my first love. Their looming presence, their solidity, the way a range of mountains can disappear into the haze of the horizon – they make me feel small, in a good way.

The second reason was the way they can beautify even an ugly industrial landscape. If I’m in a Wal-Mart parking lot, or a gas station, or a run-down part of town, but there are mountains visible, I can lift my eyes to the hills, which rescue me from the ugliness in front of me and remind me that beauty and immensity exist beyond my unpleasant or limiting daily routine.

I referenced this quote from The Return of the King in my answer:

“There, peeping among the cloud-wrack above a dark tor high up in the mountains, Sam saw a white star twinkle for a while. The beauty of it smote his heart, as he looked up out of the forsaken land, and hope returned to him. For like a shaft, clear and cold, the thought pierced him that in the end the Shadow was only a small and passing thing: there was light and high beauty for ever beyond its reach.”

After the others in the group answered this and a few more questions, our friend revealed that each answer secretly said something about how we view a particular area of life. The way I think of mountains is apparently the way I think of the divine: huge, solid, endless, and beautiful. Some of my other answers, when interpreted, were silly, but I haven’t forgotten this part of the conversation in the past five days.

Part of why I love mountains is precisely because they make me feel closer to God. I can immerse myself in the beauty of creation, and see that beauty is larger and more permanent than suffering. The Blue Ridge Mountains of my childhood will remain long after my death, their beauty a constant gift to generations.

It’s hard to see our current suffering as “a small and passing thing.” In the midst of an exhausting day full of aching legs and frustrating medical news, my immediate circumstances can fill my vision. Without mountains to capture my eyes, I resort to candles, art, homemade decor, and music to rescue me with their beauty.

I am learning that help from the Lord can come in a song or a timely passage of Scripture as much as it can from a view of the hills. Eyelet curtains passed down from my mother speak of the richness of family tradition. Beloved books smile down from their shelves, telling me again their stories full of despair and pain and hope and life. Even the scalloped metal basket I use to organize my prescription bottles comforts me by hiding the orange plastic and the pharmacy labels in delicate white compartments.

Most beautiful of all is my son’s growing knowledge of Jesus. Not only does he often remind me to recite our Bible memory verses, but he’ll also say the verses out loud to himself throughout the day. “Psalm One Fohty Five Nine. The Yord is good to all.” “Gen-sis Sixteen Firteen. You are da God who sees.” God has repeatedly used the simple faith of this sweet toddler to encourage me to trust Him.

These glimpses of “light and high beauty” return my hope to me. Beauty of all kinds lifts my eyes from my pain and reminds me that my help comes from the Lord, who not only made heaven and earth, but inhabited it. God is teaching me to hold two thoughts in tension: that Jesus himself suffered, knows what it is to be human, and intercedes for me in my weakness before the throne of the Father, and that in the scheme of eternity, my very real trials will indeed seem small and passing.

The final encouragement I receive from that Tolkien passage is that the beauty is beyond the reach of the darkness. The small lovely things that encourage my daily life and the enormous glory of the mountains I long for all work something eternal in my soul: a deepening trust that God, the author of beauty, has conquered death and ugliness. We can join Him in pushing back the darkness, knowing our life and joy remain secure, until He returns to make all things new.

Even So

Today marks one year since I started having abdominal pain. It’s hard to know how to feel about such an anniversary. Celebration? Why would I celebrate something that makes me hurt every single day and often makes me feel like a complete failure at life? But straightforward grief isn’t quite right, either. So much beauty has come out of the past year of suffering.

So I’m going with commemoration. I want to mark the time, not to wallow in the misery of a year of pain, but to force myself to focus on the ways God has undertaken for me when I could do nothing on my own, and how He has given me more courage and endurance than I ever thought possible.

I purchased this mug today. The context of the quote is one close friend encouraging another to remember how far he has come since his years of drug addiction and alcoholism, but I hear it as the voice of God, sometimes straight to me but often through the mouths of others, reminding me of all that he has enabled me to overcome this year: my fear that every day will be painful, my fear of working through pain, my fear of having too much asked of me, my inability to mentally transition to a new way of living, my assumption that everyone who spends their energy caring for me is constantly irritated and disappointed.

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This past Sunday was really tough. Every moment felt like a losing battle. New sources of pain revealed themselves as I got ready for church.

Scrubbing shampoo through my hair showed me that my left knuckle really hurt. The seam on my sweatpants irritated the inside of my knee. Accidentally bumping my hip against the kitchen island hurt so badly that I had to stop stirring my coffee and stand still for a moment, gasping. And of course the familiar lower-right abdominal pain popped up just when I sat down to apply my makeup.

It’s too much. Each sharp jab or dull ache ate away at my tolerance until I couldn’t hold back tears any longer. But I had to get that under control fast, because crying hurts, both at the time and after. And I needed to be able to lead the congregation through seven songs an hour and a half from that moment. The pain in my left hand was enough of a concern; I couldn’t add the possibility of more-severe abdominal pain preventing me from singing when I was already worried about how well I was going to be able to play.

The music went all right – a few technical glitches and miscommunications, but at least most of the discomfort faded away as I sang songs I love, and heard the congregation fervently joining in. Our final song was “It Is Well.” I’d been looking forward to it, because we haven’t sung it as a congregation since we launched last April, and it’s one of my favorite hymns. But it was a struggle to finish it – not because it hurt to play and sing (though it did), but because the feelings of everything being TOO MUCH began to overwhelm me again.

“The Lord shall descend, even so, it is well with my soul.”

Yes, it will be very well with my soul when Jesus comes back and finally gives me a new, healthy body in exchange for this body of pain. But what do I do until then? How do I keep singing “It is well with my soul” on days like today?

Left to myself, I can’t. There’s a reason this song is more than just the chorus.

“When sorrows like sea billows roll, whatever my lot, Thou hast taught me to say it is well, it is well with my soul.”

God has to teach me daily to say “It is well with my soul.” And he isn’t asking me to say “It is well with my body” or “It is well with my circumstances.” He is not teaching me to ignore the sorrows or the trials that come, but to hang my hope on the truth that “Christ has regarded my helpless estate, and has shed His own blood for my soul.”

What does the shed blood of Jesus mean when even basic hygiene hurts, or when getting breakfast ready for me and my son leaves me exhausted? It means that Jesus, being human, understands my suffering. He himself has suffered. He has experienced fatigue, extreme pain, and physical limitation. But he has also conquered sin and death, and will one day return to lead us into the new earth, where “death shall be no more, neither shall there be mourning, nor crying, nor pain anymore.”

So as I commemorate a year of pain and beauty, I pray that any future pain will lead me into deeper fellowship with my Suffering Savior, and that every accomplishment will lead me not to an inflated view of my own worth, but into deeper worship of my Conquering King.

Anxiety, Filthy Rags, and the Peace of God

I thought I didn’t struggle with legalism. My problem is licentiousness – I dismiss the beauty of God and pursue the dim substitutes of earth. But more and more, I have realized that I that I do try to earn God’s kindness. I’m not often tempted to believe that I can purchase my own salvation, but I sometimes think God withholds blessing until my heart is turned purely toward him.

Wednesday morning was really rough. I had taken a stronger painkiller than usual the night before, which left me uncomfortably groggy when I woke up. I was frustrated with how out-of-it I felt and annoyed that I needed those painkillers. I couldn’t focus on anything, so eventually I went back to bed, while my mom took Blaise on some errands and to the park.

My anxiety rose as soon as I got in bed. It was 10:30 am – I should be working on a curriculum project, writing, doing chores, or reading, at the very least, but instead, I was taking a nap. My heart pounded and my thoughts raced. Accusing voices resounded in my head: “Why are you so weak and worthless? You should push through your pain and sleepiness. Just drink another cup of coffee. Who cares if it makes you jittery? At least you’d be productive. Only losers sleep in the middle of the day.”

I recognized the accusations as lies, so I tried to interrogate my anxiety. What truth about God was I not believing in that moment? What lie about myself was I buying into? If I could only reframe my mind, maybe God would be merciful to me and take away the fear.

At that moment, it hit me. I was behaving as if God would not be kind to me until I realized the correct truth. I was connecting my worth in God’s eyes with my spiritual “productivity,” just as I judge my own worth based on how much I’ve gotten done. I knew God didn’t care about whether I’d swept the floors, but for a long time, I’d been acting as if he wouldn’t extend his fatherly affection to me unless I grasped exactly the right theological concepts. I thought I needed to understand the specific ways in which I wasn’t trusting God, replace them with truths from Scripture, and apply them to my heart, and only then would God show me his love.

Instead, I heard God say, “Stop. I love you right now, just where you are, just as you are.”

And suddenly I was calm again.

I hadn’t done anything. The Holy Spirit broke through the lies of my anxiety and the lies of my spiritual self-sufficiency and surrounded me, body and soul, with peace. Deep truths that friends had repeated to me and that I’d read on social media finally became reality in my heart:

“God is not disappointed in you, or discouraged by you. He loves you and knows your frame, knows that you are but dust.” (Lucy Crabtree, via text)

“I am not lazy. I am not weak. Taking care of this body is part of my job. Tomorrow can only be better if I give myself what I need today.” (Tabitha McDuffee, on this Instagram post)

I know the accusing voices will rise again. I know I’ll be tempted to respond with accurate awareness of my unbelief and God’s truth – good things to know, when used correctly, but heavy burdens when used as conditions of God’s favor. But maybe next time I’ll also remember the peace God gave me on Wednesday morning in the midst of my striving. God could have taken deep offense at the pile of filthy rags I was proudly holding up to him, but instead, he took the rags, laid them on Jesus, and gathered me into his arms as his beloved daughter.

A Heavy Burden, Lifted

(This is mostly an account of my medical situation these past few months. I’m trying to wake my brain back up and get into some of the pieces I’ve been wanting to write, but it felt like I had to get all this out first.)

A chronic medical condition can make small burdens extra-heavy. It can also make small victories extra-joyful, but sometimes it takes a long time to reach them.

Since September, I haven’t had a clear way forward for one aspect of my post-surgery treatment. My surgeon recommended both physical therapy and pain management: physical therapy to loosen up the muscles and fascia (connective tissue) that had gotten tightly knotted in response to the months of endometriosis pain, and pain management to help me find a painkiller schedule that worked for my needs, with the possibility of a temporary nerve block injection if any nerves seemed to need a “reset.”

Physical therapy has been great. My therapist and her graduate assistant have showed me that the still-very-painful area in my lower abdomen is a knotted mess of muscles, fascia, and nerves. Sometimes, if certain nerves are exposed to pain signals for long periods of time, the fascia will apparently sort of protectively contract around them.

My PT has been slowly training the painful area to accept gentle touch, as well as stretching out the fascia all around the big bad fascia-nerve-knot. I made a lot of progress the first two months, but then scheduling and illness got in the way, and I haven’t been able to go as consistently since the end of October. For a while, though, I could go up to a week without taking any painkillers other than Advil, which was a huge improvement.

Around when I got started with physical therapy, I also tried to find a pain management clinic in College Station. The referral process was complicated, and the clinic apparently had some issues with their fax machine (my surgeon tried to fax my records over eight – yes, EIGHT – times; the seventh time, the girl at the front desk said, “Hmm. I wonder if it’s OUR fax machine that’s the problem?” to which I barely restrained myself from replying “YA THINK?!?!”). They also would not follow up with me when paperwork was in process, so two weeks went by when I thought they were processing my referral and insurance but they actually had not received any of the information.

For a while, I thought I might not even need to see a pain management doctor, because physical therapy was going so well, and because my PT had said that waiting a while to see if I needed a nerve block injection would be better than getting one immediately (because she didn’t want to push too hard on numbed-up tissue and inadvertently cause more damage). Within the past month, though, my pain has flared significantly, and my PT has said that a nerve block could help me, particularly by shutting down my pain receptors for long enough that I could start to do some strength-building exercises and better handle the pain if and when it comes back.

I’ve been in a depressive cycle since October. I’m coming out of it now, but one side effect of depression for me is that my problem-solving capability drops way down. It took me weeks to come up with the idea of asking my PT for an official referral (since apparently this clinic, for whatever reason, was not capable of receiving the referral from my surgeon), and then another week to get the answer that while my PT could offer a recommendation, she could not perform an official referral. My next option was to go through my primary care physician, but at that point it was the week before Thanksgiving and all doctors were either booked or out of town. I ended up going to urgent care and receiving a referral from them.

After another week, during which I discovered that the clinic had, in fact, actually received the referral from urgent care (miracle of miracles!), and had also received the detailed recommendation from my PT, I learned that the nurses would then have to decide whether the clinic could help me. This surprised me, since when I had initially called in September, and outlined the specific treatments I was looking for, the receptionist had said that they do offer those treatments and can usually get patients in the day after a referral is received.

So I called last Monday to see if a decision had been made. It had. They couldn’t help.

I was furious. They told me that they didn’t take over prescriptions for painkillers (which is one of THE MAIN things a pain management clinic typically does, so I don’t understand the reasoning there), and that they did not offer nerve blocks in the part of the body where I needed it (despite me asking if they did this type of treatment during our very first phone call, and receiving an affirmative answer). If they had only told me in September that they could not help me, I could have spent the past three months working with another clinic, either locally or in Austin or Houston, and receiving the treatment that I needed.

I spent the next several days trying to find a pain management clinic somewhere within a few hours of College Station that would 1) take my insurance, 2) offer the treatment I needed, and 3) be able to fit me in within a week or two. I finally found one in Austin, and they’ve been fantastic. I saw the doctor on Thursday. He gave me several prescriptions, including some that I hadn’t tried before, and scheduled my nerve block injection for the 19th.

It wasn’t until I got back to my parents’ house in Bastrop that evening that I realized how much of a burden this had been. I felt lighter than I had in months. My head felt clearer, I had more energy, and I had hope. The months of not knowing whether my pain would be taken care of, or where my next prescription was coming from, had worn me down far more than I had realized. There’s a lot of shame associated with asking doctors for painkiller prescriptions, even when the painkiller is as mild as Tramadol (which has opioid ingredients and is a “controlled substance” but is classified as non-narcotic). Most doctors who aren’t pain-management specialists are hesitant to refill painkiller prescriptions more than once, because of the dependency/addiction issues. Pain-management specialists, however, are better equipped to make dosage decisions over a more extended period of time.

While I was waiting for the local clinic to get their act together, I had to ask my surgeon and two urgent care doctors to refill my prescription, and each time, I didn’t know who would take care of it the next time. As a result, I rationed my painkillers more than I should have, spending hours on my heavy-pain days not taking anything but over-the-counter medication (which barely touches this particular discomfort) and, as a result, barely able to leave the couch, much less accomplish anything around the house. The stress of extreme discomfort every day, combined with the shame of not being able to get more done and the fear of seeming like an addict whenever I ran out of painkillers all piled up into a huge weight on my heart and mind.

The pain-management specialist I saw on Thursday told me to stop rationing painkillers, because hours of pain take a physical toll on my already-weakened body. Of course, he understood why I had been trying to tough it out, but gave me a dosage that allows me to treat the pain whenever I experience it, instead of only during strategic times of the day. Tramadol can sometimes make me a bit sleepy, but it doesn’t knock me out like narcotics do, and usually, once it kicks in, I’m so relieved to not be in pain anymore that I get a burst of energy and get a lot done. Just knowing that I can manage my pain this way for the foreseeable future has given me so much optimism. It seems doable to embark upon our Great Decluttering Project of 2019, because I might actually be able to do one small task each day, instead of being confined to the couch and only attending to the most urgent responsibilities. Hospitality seems achievable, as long as I keep my expectations reasonable. And writing, for which my brain has not had the space since October, is suddenly possible again.

It’s amazing how much a seemingly-small change can make in my overall outlook.

Yesterday, I had a much lighter pain day, and I celebrated by tidying up the house, doing all the laundry (including sheets and towels), purchasing and setting up a few final Christmas decorations, and making a garland. I was hurting this morning, which made packing up for our trip to Bastrop pretty challenging, but I was happy to be able to leave a clean, decorated house, and to have the comfort of knowing that I could take a painkiller when I arrived at my parents’ house and feel better in an hour or two.

Keeping my pain under control means I can work to make our house not just livable but beautiful. It means I can handle work responsibilities without getting overwhelmed. It means I can even try to do social things every once in a while. And today, it means I can finish my first blog post in more than two months.

I am so, so thankful that God worked to lift this burden. And while the past few months have been really hard, I’m thankful for what they’ve taught me: how to share my burdens with others, even when I feel like I’ve far exceeded my “neediness quota;” how often I shame myself for things that are beyond my control; how much joy simple beauty can bring to my heart. I hope that next time I go through a rough time, I’ll give myself more grace and take advantage of the healing power of beauty, friendship, Scripture, and music.

I keep coming back to Jesus’ words in Matthew 11:30 – “For my yoke is easy, and my burden is light.” I want to learn to receive the light burden Jesus gives me when I am weary and heavy-laden, to trade in the fear that no one will take care of me for the faith that God will provide all my needs. He continues to prove himself faithful, even when I don’t have the energy for simple prayers. I want to grow in trust that he is caring for me even when I don’t see an immediate solution. And Advent is the perfect time to cultivate that trust: longing to celebrate Jesus’ incarnation, and longing for his return.

So many thoughts are still swirling around in my head, but I’ll save them for another post. Thank you to all of you who have prayed for me these past few months, particularly when I was so overwhelmed by the pain-management situation. God showed his care by providing his Body to minister to me. Some days I could not see that things would ever get better, but you held onto hope for me. So again: thank you.