Between the Promises
The days since our follow-up appointment last week have been somewhat challenging. They've been full of rest, for which I'm very grateful. But they've also been full of questions, of long moments of grappling with symptoms, of waiting.
There are, of course, some good things about the visit with the rheumatologist. For one, a few of the diagnoses that were on the table had the potential to involve complications and increased risk for other illnesses. For the time being, at least, those possibilities and their pitfalls have been eliminated from the running. In fact, as we discussed things on our drive home, we joked that an entire branch of the medical tree has been effectively lopped off. Our answer is not going to be found within the discipline of rheumatology.
One step closer, and ten steps back.
Back to neurology. I placed a call with the neurologist's office on our drive home. It was two days before I heard back from them. The phone call was pretty brief, and the nurse--who I had talked to many times--was just a little less cheerful than she had been on other calls. "After reviewing all of the tests and results, the doctor has said that he won't be seeing you in the office again. There's nothing more we can do for you at this time."
The door to answers slammed shut. Twice in one week. I hung up the phone and stared into space. I didn't even know what to think. I wanted to cry--my throat ached--but the tears wouldn't come. They think I'm crazy. They think this is all in my head--Lord, is it all in my head? What are you doing?
I texted Micah briefly, then sat in silence again. I pulled out my phone and looked up, signs of delusional thinking. Could I be delusional? Could I be imagining all of this? I read through the hallmark signs of delusional disorders. Maybe it was wishful thinking, but I just didn't see myself in the descriptions. Then again, if I truly was delusional about all of this, would I recognize it?
I had just opened my Bible to read when the call from the neurologist had come. I'd sat with it open on my lap all this time. As my head spun, I looked down at the pages. I should read. Maybe there was something there for me. Surely there was something there. I turned back to my concordance, to pick up where I'd left off on the list of verses about rest. I turned to the story of the Israelites divvying up the promised land. Each plot had been promised to the different groups, and as the promise was fulfilled, they rested in the land and were at peace. I turned to the next passage. Solomon was building the temple. He formed an alliance with a neighboring nation, to supply the wood needed for the construction. The neighboring king praised Solomon's wisdom--the result of God's promise to Solomon--and the two had rest and peace between their nations. I read on. David had wanted to build the temple, but God told him it was not his to build. It was going to be Solomon's task, and God promised that Solomon's work (and kingdom) would be established. David rested in God's promise.
All of these people found rest because they were able to fall back on God's promise. God promised, and they could rest, knowing that his word would be fulfilled.
But, God, I don't know what you're promising in this. I've asked you for a promise, for a glimpse of the end result here. What are your promises for this journey? Are there any? If you would only give me a promise, I know I could trust you to fulfill it.
It might seem like an odd thing to ask. The Bible is full of general promises (and some that are very specific). But almost always before, when we've been in a challenging season, God has given us a promise to hold onto. When Thomas was sick many years ago and we were concerned about him, I read the verse, "I will not die, but live, and will proclaim what the Lord has done." (Psalm 118:17). The words seemed to jump off the page, and I asked, Lord, can we claim that verse? Can that be true for Thomas? I can't explain it, but we felt confident that it was his promise for Thomas, and we clung to it. At other times there have been promises of provision, of peace, of whatever it was that we needed. Those words were anchors for us through the very difficult days. But this time there's been no promise.
Lord, I need something solid to hold onto here. I'm trying to hold on, I'm trying to trust. Lord, I need something. Isn't there a promise for me?
Finally the tears came. I cried tears of frustration and fear and exhaustion. As I sat there, I remembered the day of the rheumatology appointment. That day, fretting over the closed door and feeling so far from a diagnosis, I felt like God had suddenly whispered, "I know what this is. It doesn't matter who the doctor is, or what they know, or where you go. I know what this is." As the words came back to me, I prayed, Is that my promise, Lord? Is that the promise in all of this? How is that supposed to help? No offense, but it doesn't seem like much of a promise. I know you know what this is, but--really?
I'll be honest, it only brought a little comfort in the moment. It still hasn't brought as much comfort as I'd like. But I've learned that words like that typically take on life of their own. As they've been tumbling around in my mind, they've begun to take on deeper meaning. For one, if God knows what this is, then it must be something (although, in all fairness, I guess it could be equally true that he knows this is a psychosomatic problem of some kind). For another, this journey has never been just about the diagnosis--which is part of why I'm so desperate to get that part of it over with! This journey has been about laying down my will, my plans, my family, my faith, my relationships, my health... It's never been just about the physical symptoms, because they've affected every part of our lives. As we've moved through this process, I've become more and more excited about the possibilities for how God could use this, for how he could make something entirely new of our lives through this. It's never been about the diagnosis itself--this illness is a doorway to so many more things. The unexpected answers this week didn't just delay the discovery of a name for these symptoms, they delayed the possibilities of what God could do with them. That has frustrated me more than the medical side of things. And yet, God knows what this is--not just the name of this disease, but all of the intricacies of how he might like to use it, regardless of the designs I have. In his infinite subtlety, it was a reminder that I'm reaching for the controls on this thing again, and trying to steer things in the course I feel is best. Just as I'm helpless to find the label for this disease, the plans for how it is used are not in my hands. I know what this is.
And so we wait, not only to learn the name for all of this, but for the unfolding of his plan. He knows what this is, knows exactly each step of this journey. There is rest in knowing that I don't have to force this into some kind of mold or find the answers for myself. "The Lord himself will fight for you. You need only to be still." (Exodus 14:14).
There are, of course, some good things about the visit with the rheumatologist. For one, a few of the diagnoses that were on the table had the potential to involve complications and increased risk for other illnesses. For the time being, at least, those possibilities and their pitfalls have been eliminated from the running. In fact, as we discussed things on our drive home, we joked that an entire branch of the medical tree has been effectively lopped off. Our answer is not going to be found within the discipline of rheumatology.
One step closer, and ten steps back.
Back to neurology. I placed a call with the neurologist's office on our drive home. It was two days before I heard back from them. The phone call was pretty brief, and the nurse--who I had talked to many times--was just a little less cheerful than she had been on other calls. "After reviewing all of the tests and results, the doctor has said that he won't be seeing you in the office again. There's nothing more we can do for you at this time."
The door to answers slammed shut. Twice in one week. I hung up the phone and stared into space. I didn't even know what to think. I wanted to cry--my throat ached--but the tears wouldn't come. They think I'm crazy. They think this is all in my head--Lord, is it all in my head? What are you doing?
I texted Micah briefly, then sat in silence again. I pulled out my phone and looked up, signs of delusional thinking. Could I be delusional? Could I be imagining all of this? I read through the hallmark signs of delusional disorders. Maybe it was wishful thinking, but I just didn't see myself in the descriptions. Then again, if I truly was delusional about all of this, would I recognize it?
I had just opened my Bible to read when the call from the neurologist had come. I'd sat with it open on my lap all this time. As my head spun, I looked down at the pages. I should read. Maybe there was something there for me. Surely there was something there. I turned back to my concordance, to pick up where I'd left off on the list of verses about rest. I turned to the story of the Israelites divvying up the promised land. Each plot had been promised to the different groups, and as the promise was fulfilled, they rested in the land and were at peace. I turned to the next passage. Solomon was building the temple. He formed an alliance with a neighboring nation, to supply the wood needed for the construction. The neighboring king praised Solomon's wisdom--the result of God's promise to Solomon--and the two had rest and peace between their nations. I read on. David had wanted to build the temple, but God told him it was not his to build. It was going to be Solomon's task, and God promised that Solomon's work (and kingdom) would be established. David rested in God's promise.
All of these people found rest because they were able to fall back on God's promise. God promised, and they could rest, knowing that his word would be fulfilled.
But, God, I don't know what you're promising in this. I've asked you for a promise, for a glimpse of the end result here. What are your promises for this journey? Are there any? If you would only give me a promise, I know I could trust you to fulfill it.
It might seem like an odd thing to ask. The Bible is full of general promises (and some that are very specific). But almost always before, when we've been in a challenging season, God has given us a promise to hold onto. When Thomas was sick many years ago and we were concerned about him, I read the verse, "I will not die, but live, and will proclaim what the Lord has done." (Psalm 118:17). The words seemed to jump off the page, and I asked, Lord, can we claim that verse? Can that be true for Thomas? I can't explain it, but we felt confident that it was his promise for Thomas, and we clung to it. At other times there have been promises of provision, of peace, of whatever it was that we needed. Those words were anchors for us through the very difficult days. But this time there's been no promise.
Lord, I need something solid to hold onto here. I'm trying to hold on, I'm trying to trust. Lord, I need something. Isn't there a promise for me?
Finally the tears came. I cried tears of frustration and fear and exhaustion. As I sat there, I remembered the day of the rheumatology appointment. That day, fretting over the closed door and feeling so far from a diagnosis, I felt like God had suddenly whispered, "I know what this is. It doesn't matter who the doctor is, or what they know, or where you go. I know what this is." As the words came back to me, I prayed, Is that my promise, Lord? Is that the promise in all of this? How is that supposed to help? No offense, but it doesn't seem like much of a promise. I know you know what this is, but--really?
I'll be honest, it only brought a little comfort in the moment. It still hasn't brought as much comfort as I'd like. But I've learned that words like that typically take on life of their own. As they've been tumbling around in my mind, they've begun to take on deeper meaning. For one, if God knows what this is, then it must be something (although, in all fairness, I guess it could be equally true that he knows this is a psychosomatic problem of some kind). For another, this journey has never been just about the diagnosis--which is part of why I'm so desperate to get that part of it over with! This journey has been about laying down my will, my plans, my family, my faith, my relationships, my health... It's never been just about the physical symptoms, because they've affected every part of our lives. As we've moved through this process, I've become more and more excited about the possibilities for how God could use this, for how he could make something entirely new of our lives through this. It's never been about the diagnosis itself--this illness is a doorway to so many more things. The unexpected answers this week didn't just delay the discovery of a name for these symptoms, they delayed the possibilities of what God could do with them. That has frustrated me more than the medical side of things. And yet, God knows what this is--not just the name of this disease, but all of the intricacies of how he might like to use it, regardless of the designs I have. In his infinite subtlety, it was a reminder that I'm reaching for the controls on this thing again, and trying to steer things in the course I feel is best. Just as I'm helpless to find the label for this disease, the plans for how it is used are not in my hands. I know what this is.
And so we wait, not only to learn the name for all of this, but for the unfolding of his plan. He knows what this is, knows exactly each step of this journey. There is rest in knowing that I don't have to force this into some kind of mold or find the answers for myself. "The Lord himself will fight for you. You need only to be still." (Exodus 14:14).
