Time for the transplant.

In five days my life will be forever intertwined with someone I've never even met...and I'm nervous.
Organ donation is a beautiful concept that represents the amazing promise of returning a damaged body back to its original state.  For me it represents the promise of sight!  The chance to see things with depth again instead of in only two dimensions through a single eye.

It's a gift...but I have to be honest, not just to you, but to myself for those days far into the future when I reflect back on this spot in my journey...once this is all over and the details are washed out to sea like sandcastles covered by salty ocean water at high tide. 

I'm preoccupied with wondering about, worrying about, and praying for my cornea donor.  I wake up thinking about him or her....wondering if they are suffering or if they have a family who will be lost without them.  I wonder what that cornea has seen....as I watch the news and hear about shootings and child molesters and tremendous humanitarians,  I wonder who will be the original owner of my cornea.  Will my donor have known Christ?  Will they be sure of their salvation? Are they still alive today or have they already died?

As I dig through these layers and get to the root of my preoccupation, it is dawning on me that this gift doesn't have to be one sided.  Just as the cornea is offering me the chance to see my world again with new depth, I have the opportunity to cover strangers with prayer.  I will be able to reach out to this donor family some day and give them a visual connection with their loved one.  My gift will not be an organ that is hidden deep in my body beneath tissues and bones, it will cover the surface of my eye.  The tissue that will cover my iris, or colored part of my eye, a clear dome, that will be outwardly visible.
 
Whether this cornea is coming from a beloved father of small kids who has lived a sacrificial life, a teenager who was killed in a drunk driving accident whose life was cut way to short, or a convicted felon serving life in prison looking for one good decision to redeem a life destroyed by bad choices, I need their help.  Thank you God for the promise that on March 27th, 2014 there will be a donor eye hand selected for me and the promise of a new family that I will be forever indebted to.

I've lost sight of beauty.

 

 

Red nails, red lips, chunky jewelry, scarves, big earrings and bracelets that clink like a cymbal when I walk...those are the things I love to embellish myself with when I head out the door.  As I put all of those colors and metals on my lips, hands and wrists, are those the things that make me beautiful?  Is it one of those things or all of them combined that classify me as attractive?  If my nail chips or I lose an earring will I lose my status as eye catching?

 

As I await my cornea transplant, God has stretched me to look beyond the beauty we see with the naked eye.  As a self-professed "sun worshipper" and lover of a deep dark tan, it is a cruel twist that I now long for dark rooms and my room darkening shades.  Sunlight glistening off of the snow used to be a welcome promise of Spring, now it's torture when I look outside without my darkest sunglasses.

Yet God hasn't taken away my physical sight and left me alone in the darkness to grope for material things to adorn myself with to help me feel beautiful.  He has forced me to peel back that layer of confusion to reveal a deeper definition of beauty.

Five years ago I was gifted with an amazing idea that has allowed me to feel beauty like I had never known. I say gifted, because it fell in my lap at a time when I least expected. In fact, when I received it, I didn't even realize it was a gift. It began as a spark, a tiny sliver of an idea.

Was there a way to let young girls know how deeply they were loved by their father in heaven?  Was there a forum for Him to speak to high school and junior high school girls to let them know that they were worth the wait in our over sexualized culture?  Not a lecture, not a speech, not another list of do's and don'ts, but rather a deep method of touching their spirits in such a way as to let girls know why it mattered to their Heavenly Father that they understood their value.

 

That was the moment that PINC (Purity Is No Compromise) was born.  A retreat held every spring whose sole purpose is to immerse 6th-12th grade girls in an experience that brings them face-to-face with their Heavenly Father and imparts to them His standard for their lives.  Based on a two day format, Friday evening is centered on the cross and the need for Christ in their lives.  We do that through a series of experiences that appeal to each of their senses.  It's very interactive and each experience forces them to look below the surface of superficial responses.  Saturday is a building block and the girls are divided up based on age and life experience and placed in sessions that address specific challenges they may be facing.  There are also large group activities including art and drama exposure.

 

April 4&5, 2014 will be the fifth year for this retreat.  It has run in many different formats with many different volunteers, and amazing participants - each who has left their stamp of beauty on the event.  This years' committee is stronger than ever and their commitment to following the call of the Holy Spirit is overwhelmingly evident.  I love sitting with them, planning with them and strategizing with them.  But planning this event is not when I feel beautiful.  I feel strong, inspired, capable even confident (most days), but not beautiful.

 

As I continue to peel back the layers of this gift - this sliver of an idea that God has grown from 14 attendees the first year to 50 participants last year, I've uncovered a feeling of beauty that no amount of red lipstick (and I adore Saucy Sangria #14 by L'Oreal!) or sparkly gems have ever evoked before.  I feel most beautiful when I am sitting eye to eye and pouring into these amazing girls.  I love making them feel like they are the only person in the world and listening to each word, wiping each tear and challenging every self-deprecating thought they process through.

 

During this time of transition waiting, praying and longing for my vision to return, I am seeing beauty with greater clarity than ever before.  It is no longer a question of when I think I look most beautiful, rather it is all about understanding God's purpose for my life and embracing the moments He has given me when I feel the most beautiful.

 

If you are interested in registering a 6th-12th grade girl for PINC this year, find registration information at www.pincretreat2014.eventbrite.com Don't delay!

 

 

 

 

Open Heart Surgery

Did I mention to any of you that awaiting my cornea transplant is forcing me to withstand 90 days of 'emotional' open heart surgery?  The waiting is stretching me and I've had some tough days.  Due to a setback several weeks ago, my surgery has been postponed from January 16th to March 27th.  

There are tons of positives with the date change...more predictable weather for driving to follow up appointments, more time to prepare my house, make meals in advance, organize 'to do' lists for the kids...blah, blah, blah.   However, there is one huge glaring negative, I can't see and I'm tired of pretending that it doesn't faze me.  It does, and I'm sick of it.  The only thing I hate more than not being able to see, is hearing myself complain about it.

Here's where the 'emotional'  open heart surgery comes in...
back in 2004, Scott and I ran the Indianapolis Mini-Marathon.  I hate running. I've run a marathon, a half marathon and a variety of 5k and 10k races....I've hated running every single one....I'm in it for the socializing.  Some runners (most!) are interested in their time, their form and their hydration.  I'm interested in the people and their stories.  I can't stand to run alone and my favorite thing to do is to run alongside strangers and get to know them.

On Mother's Day of 2004, as we huddled in our stall stretching and pinning on our bib numbers, I asked my dear husband to make me a promise.  I asked that no matter how much I complained or whined or cajoled, that he please not run ahead without me during the race.
Please don't leave me, I begged, no matter how mean I get or how many times I tell you I  can go it alone - I won't mean it.
With a quick kiss to seal the deal and an adrenaline rush as the starting gun sounded, we set out shoulder to shoulder awash in a sea of 35,000 runners.

Ordinarily, I would never make a request like that, but on that day I was feeling overwhelmed by the task ahead.  It was as if my words were giving a warning like a canary in a coal mine about what was yet to come.  They were prophetic and as the race got underway with temps soaring 10-15 degrees above normal, I began to get feisty.  At mile 5, I started mentioning that the run was harder than I thought it would be.  I began to complain and by mile 8 I insisted on adding walking breaks every few blocks.  Scott remained the steadfast optimist and encouraged me to celebrate how far I had come and to keep drinking water.

It felt as though someone had kicked on a furnace as we entered the stadium surrounding the Indy 500 Speedway.  I began to encourage Scott to run ahead as we took the black asphalt track that forced us to run on a slant. To Nascar and Daytona 500 fans, the track was like being granted access to Mecca. I felt like I was in Hell.  The heat was oppressive and I was fading fast.  We exited the raceway and followed the course back towards the city center.

I was fried.  I felt overwhelmed by the heat, the run and the fear that I was holding Scott back from reaching a PR. (Personal Record). Again I began begging him to run ahead.  He refused and began the familiar routine of trying to distract me with conversations about our kids or our post-race plans.

As mile 12 loomed ahead in the 13.1 mile race, I was done.  In tears, I begged him to run ahead and to leave me alone in my misery.  Then I got mean...have you ever heard of women in labor saying mean things?  I had a really fast delivery with all three of our kids and never had time to say mean things.  I save my outbursts for running in the heat at mile 12.  Rational thinking  had left me and I was mad.  I was yelling about what a dumb idea the race was, why anyone in the history of mankind ever thought of racing, how angry I was at Scott for taking my pre-race pact so seriously....you name it, I ranted about it.

As I was yelling, my husband had me do an amazing thing.  He bantered with me and he kept me moving.  My anger, pain, fatigue, heat stroke, irrational behavior pushed me across the finish line and at the end, it felt amazing.

That race has become symbolic for us in our marriage.  There are many times when I've felt overwhelmed by life and I have to fight the desire to go it alone.  Yet if I can muster the courage to whisper in Scott's ear, "no matter what I say, please don't run ahead"- it elicits a connection and he can tell instantly what I'm anticipating. He can see through my bravado and he knows without fail that I need him more than ever.

As March 27th closes in, I am blessed beyond measure by the number of friends and family praying for me.  I'm not good at accepting help, but I have no choice.  As I expose my open heart to you with these words, please lean in close as I whisper in your ear, "no matter what I say, please don't run ahead."

"The more we surrender to God, the greater our ability to SEE His hand in our life." ~ anonymous 

Transparency Leads to Transplant

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 The mountain was big and daunting to climb.  It seemed like a great idea when we all set out from the guard station at the base.  'The views will be amazing!' we proclaimed. 'We'll be able to see forever from the peak!' we squealed.  The ascent began. 

It was easy at first and the pull on the steering wheel to the left seemed natural and fluid.  We were a carload of smiles and laughter as we felt our ears begin to pop.  'That feels weird.' one of the kids in the backseat mentioned.  'I can't hear anything.' said another.  The car jolted ahead as we climbed above the tree line.  The landscape was changing quickly. 

Treacherous terrain dotted with pockets of snow along the rock faces began to appear.  'Mom, I feel dizzy." my oldest child whimpered as we rounded a few more curves.  My husband gripped the steering wheel more purposefully as the corners came with nauseating frequency. I spied the mountain ledge a few feet away from my locked car door and visions of our car flipping end over end off of the mountain threatened to take me hostage.  'How much further to the top?' we heard from the backseat. 

What seemed like a simple task when we were circling low at the base of the mountain, was now causing me to unravel.  The climb had taken nearly an hour and the peak still wasn't in sight.  My true colors as a Midwestern flat-lander were flying and I was bowled over by altitude sickness. 

Finally, we approached the peak parking lot and we knew we had arrived.  The climb had taken longer than we anticipated and we were relieved to escape the confines of the car. 

The mood of the trip had changed as frequently as the colors and geometrics in a kaleidoscope.  We began with anticipation and enthusiasm as we circled the base of the mountain.  As we climbed, we retold stories we'd heard about road races and speeding motorcycle races that had unfolded on the two-lane road we were traveling.  Some stories had heroic endings...some were tragic.  There were moments of fear as we looked down and pure joy as we looked up.

Now as we stood at the pinnacle of the mountain, we could see forever in all directions.  We were closer to heaven than we had ever been.  Three of my family members were elated.  They ran and jumped and begged to go to the gift-shop.  Two of us, however, were not doing well.  The nausea was overwhelming and the only relief we felt was when we sat with our heads between our knees moaning and begging to get back to flat land.  We could see forever, but we couldn't hold our heads up.  The altitude sickness was too much and we were miserable.

By definition of 'seeing the peak', we'd all been successful.  We had all endured the trip and we had all marveled at the scenery...but at different points along the journey.

Sight rests in the eye of the beholder.  I went to the opthomologist yesterday for a consultation on my loss of vision in my left eye.  What was diagnosed and treated as shingles in 2012, has left a scar that has gradually grown during reoccurring flare-ups.  It is now covering 90% of my cornea.  The current conclusion, which took my breath away, was that I am blind in my left eye.  Excuse me?  But I can squint and shift and walk closer or lean back and turn on more lights and still see....nothing. 

The truth is hard to absorb sometimes.  It was in that quiet moment of a doctor's obvious revelation that I was thankful that my wonderful husband, keeper of my secrets, protector of my heart, couldn't see my face.  The arms of the optical machines were surrounding me like an octopus, and with no glasses to assist my right eye, I couldn't see his warm gaze reassuring me from across the exam room. 

On the inside, my firmly built facade of control was trembling like an earthquake.  Had I locked eyes with my devoted husband, all of my irrational fears of disappointing him or my family or scaring them or worrying them would have tumbled down like a game of Jenga when the loose block is pulled.

The diagnosis had been made, and aside from a small 'last ditch' suggestion to try a hard contact lens to 'trick' the cornea into restoring itself, the only hope is a cornea transplant.
I am done circling the mountain. I've been hoping it would get better, taking 6, 9, even 12 drops a day off and on for 18 months.  My vision has not improved. 

I now must decide to pass the guard station and prepare for my climb.  The transplant surgery is tentatively set for mid-January and according to my new seasoned opthomologist, sounds fairly routine.  A cornea  will be harvested from a donor eye, my damaged cornea will be removed,  and the donor replacement will be stitched in place. 


The recovery is long, a full calendar year before the final benefit of the transplant will be known.  During that time, my climb up the mountain will require numerous trips to the eye clinic, lots of drops and a strict adherence to the 'no waiting around and toughing out questionable symptoms' theory of self-care that is foreign to me.  Any issue, no matter how big or small, could be a sign of rejection or infection and will require a doctor visit. 

Today my ascent up the mountain begins. No more circling, wandering or waiting.  I must begin to climb.  It will be treacherous and I will hear awful stories of climbers who didn't reach the summit, but I will meet others who have seen the peak and I will claim their victory as my strength. 

The views will be amazing and terrifying and there will be times when I want to sit and rest.  The summit may seem elusive, but that is my goal....a view from the top and a journey leading me closer to God.

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Lost

 I got lost.  Four little numbers and a stack of letters made up an address for a lacrosse field I'd never heard of, and despite a confident/arrogant GPS, my equally directionally challenged navigator and I, got sidetracked. I must admit, the annoying halo that my left cornea casts across everything it encounters is distracting, but today even that would have been a stretch to assign as the scapegoat for my morning mix-up.

Finally, I reshuffled my series of turns and thankfully arrived at my original destination. As we pulled in to the parking lot I slipped into a spot with ease and realized there was not a car on sight.  I quickly referred back to my phone only to discover we were early for the tournament.  One day early.
In my effort to point to the silver lining, I suggested to my backseat shadows that we would know exactly how to find the field tomorrow! They weren't buying it and they were irritated.
Not a great scenario to start the trip home.  The donuts I'd bribed them with 90 minutes prior were a distant memory and they were restless.  As we closed in on the halfway point of our drive back, a war broke out in the backseat....over a pillow pet named Bill. Previously, Bill had been laying dormant on the middle seat with not even a sliver attention sent his way.  With no warning, Bill was suddenly becoming the pawn in a heated battle behind me.  Little Sis decided on a whim to use Bill as a headrest and her brother immediately objected.

With my octopus arms, I kept one hand on the wheel and another behind my back as I felt around for the stuffed animal hoping to ward off the impending doom.  No luck and I began to unleash my next weapon of choice....the take-away trick.  But my experienced negotiator in the backseat was skilled in deflecting my tactics.  To every threat I unleashed he professed his lack of concern or interest as if he was holding up a shield and my words were ricocheting off of the ceiling of the car.  He was holding Bill and he was not giving up easily despite his sisters' pleas to let her lean her head on his plush belly. All the while my tween sidekick in the front seat was lost in her music with earbuds securely tucked in her ears.

As the battle raged on to no resolve, I pulled over to the side of the road. (the dreaded fear that would wash over most kids in this moment made no difference to my kids) I reevaluated my previous approach and decided to pull out a few more threats.  Still no success.  I had to get physical.
These moments are always so surprising to me....how could we have been happily enjoying donuts and milk less than two hours prior and now be pulling into a random dentist office parking lot raging at my son over a stuffed animal he refused to hand over to his little sister?
I was praying for guidance and counting to ten thousand as I shifted the car into park and opened my car door.  Trying to stay above the fray, my tween was begging to 'just go!'. She had no interest in Bill or the standoff in the backseat.

As I walked around to Ethan's side of the car I had no idea what I would do next...but I was praying.  I opened the door and leaned in and unbuckled his seatbelt and got him out of the car.  We were the only car in the parking lot and there was a huge walnut tree at one end of the lot.  I'm not sure where it came from, but I told him that we were not leaving until he could run from the car to the walnut tree and back in under 10 seconds.

He moped to the tree and stood under the canopy of falling leaves and nuts and wouldn't budge.  My stern warnings to 'get running' fell upon deaf ears and he stood still with his feet planted, lobbing walnuts across the blacktop.  We were at an impasse and I didn't have a plan B. Just to remind me that she was there, my front seat co-pilot opened her door to let me know she thought this was one of my less than effective parenting techniques.  "He's not going to run, this is stupid, let's just go home!" she pleaded.

All the while the walnuts kept rolling my way.
I was beginning to doubt my sanity and thought maybe the nuts my kid was flinging into the air were a subtle signal from God that He too thought I was nuts.
Just then, the entire mood of the moment changed thanks to my youngest kiddo.  After watching this unfold from her vantage point in the backseat (probably cuddling up to Bill!) she opted to join the craziness and ran around the car in her sundress and sandals. "Mom, I want to run! Time me!" she begged as she ran across the parking lot.  With Ethan still immobile at the base of the tree, I figured why not and the running began.  She ran back and forth and up and down.  She got faster and faster as I yelled out her times like a track coach. As she smiled and ran, laughed and squealed, Ethan inched out from under the tree and his competitive spirit took over.  Before I knew it, I was calling out splits for their sprints as they raced across the yellow lines that subdivided the slab of asphalt. As they ran a sense of appreciation swept over me.  I was thankful for my sweet Libby who changed the course of the afternoon with her innocent desire to join in what she viewed as fun.  I was beyond frustrated and in the moment, her fresh perspective was heaven sent.
God reminds us that His ways are not our ways.  His viewpoint is much different and if I'd failed to slow down and seek His face in the midst of the chaos, I would never have been gifted with the sweet outcome of watching two siblings racing in the Fall sun at a random office building parking lot.  Gifts come in all shapes and sizes and only when we slow down to see the beauty of the wrapping paper can we truly understand the value of the present.
After fifteen minutes of solid physical exertion, both kiddos crawled into the backseat and got buckled in.  As I pulled back into traffic I overheard Libby saying to Ethan, "Here, you can have Bill, I don't want him, he has your slobber on him anyway."

I've lost my vision.

I can't see out of my left eye.  I have been struggling with it for over a year and I'm sick of it.  It began a year ago in June when I was misdiagnosed as having had Shingles in my eye.  When diagnosed, I dutifully began steroid drops and hoped for the best.  After a week of no progress and worsening vision, I sought out a second opinion. By that time a scar had formed on my cornea and I had bigger issues.  Six bottles of drops later, multiple trips to various eye doctors, and numerous cries out to God, it finally began to heal and vision began to come back to my eye last October. 

Things were better, for a while, but sometimes you don't know you've taken the first step back into a room until you are already inside.  I've crossed the threshold and I'm back into the foggy world of limited vision in my left eye.  It had been creeping up on me for a few months.  I knew things were distorted and when looking into a large crowd it was getting increasingly difficult to see clearly.  I hate to admit weakness and ask for help.  I begrudgingly knew I needed to take the first step back onto the path of healing. 

It's arrogant of me to call it a step really.  You see my optometrist is a great friend who knows me well and is familiar with my stall tactics.  Here is how my cry for help went....I was standing on the curb at church when she was picking her son up from youth group.  I leaned into her car window and made small talk, briefly got caught up on the status of her week, and casually mentioned in a very loose fashion, at the tail end of our conversation, that "I'm having trouble seeing."  Ugh...the cat was out of the bag.

I'm not really sure what I expected her to say, perhaps an invite to call the office?  Maybe offer some free vision advice?  Who knows where my head was...you see I rarely let my guard down and ask for help and I was immediately furious at myself for letting it trickle out.  As I pulled in the garage at home and dropped my bags on the counter, my phone began to buzz.  The text message that I read offered me two appointment options for the next day.  Really?? Whose optometrist texts her at 9:45pm with appointment times.  Thankfully, mine does. 
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After more stalling, I responded and trudged into her office the next day.  She met me at the door with a huge hug and smile.  She never questioned my slow response to calling the office and she didn't chastise me for waiting so long.  She loved me and told me how glad she was that I was there.  I left the office with new prescriptions, a plan of attack and another appointment card for next week.  I have no doubt that if I fail to make the appointment or am even bold enough (or dumb enough) to cancel it, she will show up at my house.  She has me figured out and my excuses about not having time or putting others first won't fly with her.

My dear eye doctor's grace-filled approach is a "skin on" example of the way God greets us upon return to Him.  If you've been wandering or are in denial about your need for Him, don't deny Him based on a fear that He will chastise you or turn you away.  He longs to help heal your heart and love you   As I begin the uphill climb of adding 12 drops a day to my cloudy eye, I know that God offers soul healing that promises so much more than 20/20 vision.  Open your eyes to Him today.

More than a squeak...

 

Our dryer is broken.  It's been making an awful sound for several months now.  It began with an occasional squeak and I pretended I didn't hear it. Then it got louder.  It moved from a little whine to a squeal that could be heard downstairs and in the basement...probably even in the garage.
I pretended it wasn't that loud.  I turned up the music and sat on the patio and kept using it.  Now it's getting worse.  The squeaking has stopped and it's starting to damage our clothes.  We're noticing little holes in T-shirts and shorts and things are getting stuck in the rim just inside the dryer door.  It's time for a new dryer.

I have other squeaks in my life too.  I can let relationships drift and slide off my radar.  My house can get messier and more cluttered by the day, no matter how many cleaning ideas I 'pin' to make the tasks easier to tackle.  I can get lazy with my parenting.  What used to be unacceptable slowly creeps in and my passivity is perceived as acceptance.  What I accept in moderation they accept in excess.

Is there hope for change for me at 40-years-old or am I destined to continue my catapult into this 'blind eye' approach to living? 

In Tim Kimmel's book, Grace Based Parenting, he asserts that as parents our job is to act as a lighthouse for our kids to keep shining the light of Christ into their lives to help them avoid hitting the rocks.  Who doesn't love the image of a serene coastline with a stately lighthouse? It makes sense and is nostalgic. 

I can be a light, I am actually pretty good at it.  When the light is shining I can rise to the occasion.  Put me in a crisis and I'll be standing strong and steady.  My problem is not with the light, my issue is with the darkness.  It's in those 45 seconds of darkness when the light is busy shining in the other direction that I lose my way.

I can time it perfectly to take full advantage of the darkness too.  I have an uncanny sense of knowing exactly how to make the shadows work in my favor.  Avoid confrontation?  I'm a pro.  Pretend my shadowy vision in my left eye is really no big deal? Easy.  Circumvent a fight with my son by not insisting he clean his room? Done.  Lift the boundaries on movie viewing and allow a few PG-13 movies to keep the peace with my tween.  You bet.

When will the compromise end?  I even have special phrases to squelch the doubt that may creep into my head.  My favorite is "I have to pick my battles!" whew - that's better - suddenly I can justify anything that feels uncomfortable or hard.

The reality is...I need to suck it up.
Maybe you do to? The critical part of the light in the lighthouse is the magnifying glass.  Without the glass the light would have very little refraction and it would simply be a spinning bulb.  The life saving ability of the light is the power of the light to shine over wide distances coupled with the speed of the bulb to turn. 

When I shrink back in the darkness I have no power.  No power to shine for God.  No power to parent with grace and not fear. No power to care for my health or my house or my relationships.
I must be able to stand firm in the light and be agile enough to spin quickly to illuminate the shadows.

It won't be easy, but recognizing my habits is the first step.  I think I'll start by shopping for a new dryer.