Brokenness Made Whole

It was this month three years ago that I was diagnosed with Lupus, a chronic autoimmune disease, which has drastically changed my personal journey. Sometimes I feel like a broken record, because this challenge of mine inspires a lot of my writing and much of what I do. It forces me to often have uncomfortable conversations with others, to miss things I would rather not, to plan ahead, to be proactive in taking care of my self and to advocate for myself. It truly invades each and every aspect of my life, and I do not go an hour without having to think about this part of me. So this makes a "carefree" lifestyle that so many people admire and wish for a luxury that I can't afford.

It is not easy to share about. Although I am very open about this part of me, it is still painful for me to talk each time. But I have learned that vulnerability is essential for compassion and understanding. Without it, we cannot even come close. Even with it, we sometimes fall short. It has also been a key to empower myself. This is a constant challenge I face with many layers that come with it. And I have had to learn to love this thing that I most wish had not happened to me. On this quest to love, I find acceptance and healing - I find freedom from it.

As Lupus Awareness Month and Mental Health Awareness Month are coming to an end, I'm sharing this to continue to be authentically who I am, to escape the shame this can sometimes bring on and to continue to allow more love and peace into my life.

This last year of this journey been one of the most challenging years of my life. Last summer shortly after I graduated from college, my illness symptoms progressed quickly and I found myself in one of the lowest points physically that I had ever faced.  The physical pain in my body during these months was horrifying and intense. My Lupus treatments were not working and I was switched to a chemotherapy treatment which had equally as horrifying side effects and did not show any difference in my health. After trying various different treatments, I started to slowly improve by the end of the summer.

This was when I made a drastic life change and moved to Alabama to participate in a year of post-graduate service. I was able to function most days but really struggling with managing my symptoms, which occurred most days but with less intensity. I would often ignore them, push through them, and tell nobody.  The transition was quick and I felt left behind, unable to adjust to the changes - having little control over my body but expectations from others and mostly myself to adapt to a new life. I found myself experiences "Lupus hangovers" or a mini-flare, days or periods of time where you feel extremely depleted and symptoms are high, so much so that doing normal activities feels almost impossible.

I found myself in a strange emotional state. I was relieved and thankful that I was doing a bit better, but I was also filled with worry.

Life with chronic illness is a life of uncertainty - never knowing what could cause me to go into a flare, what will leave me feeling depleted, what I can and won't be able to handle , when I will feel good and when I will feel awful. I started to constantly worry about whether my disease would progress again, laying awake at night wondering if there could possibly be something else wrong or if I could have been misdiagnosed because I should be feeling better. I started to develop extreme anxiety. Planning trips or outings would sometimes give me panic attacks, because of how much I worried about what could go wrong or how much rest I could get. Any day could be a day where the pain is too much to move, where my life will need to be put on hold and where my illness becomes the ruler of what I am capable of. I couldn't stop thinking. I couldn't stop worrying. And because chronic illnesses are heavily influenced by stress, the stress of my out of control emotions caused my physical health to decline as well. It was like the pain that I had faced had scarred me, and the emotional damage leftover was almost just as painful.

I started to feel very sad too - for having to try so hard to take care of myself, for having to rest more than others, for having to skip things, for having to constantly evaluate my decisions - wondering if this thing or that might push me into another flare. Depression and anxiety are two very common side effects of living with illness and I had fortunately avoided those circumstances until now. I always have considered myself a grateful and joyful person, but I felt completely robbed of who I was - that now, not only was my physical body flawed, so completely out of my control - but my mental and emotional self too. I felt completely broken.

I've always had a love for looking up at the clouds and the sky. My phone is filled with pictures of moments where I just looked up in amazement. The beauty of the sky never ceases to put me in awe and I often find myself driving my car, staring into the sky, just smiling. During my recent silent retreat in Louisiana, I was staring into the beautiful sky of illuminated clouds right before dusk. It was completely magical.

I wandered around the grounds of the retreat center and started to think about one of my close friends, who used to say "Feelings are like clouds. They float in and then they float right back out". 

I think it's true. Like our different emotions come in and out of our lives, sometimes uninvited and sometimes warmly welcomed, so do the different moments we face. They float in and out, like the clouds above us moving about the sky. Some are bright and luminous, others grey - invoking anxiety or fear. But all of them have some stroke of blessing beneath them - a beautiful sunset painted among them, shade over the bright sun looming over us, or giving us the rain our Earth needs to keep going.

And even among the changing nature of those clouds, one thing remains constant - the sky beyond them.

Just like the clouds, the moments we face and the emotions we feel in our lives come and go, some with great beauty and some where the beauty might be more difficult to witness. But each with their own blessing, their own opportunity for gratitude to a God who walks with us through them, our sky beyond the floating and chaotic clouds of life.

Brokenness arrives in the moments of life - when we feel deep pain or shame, when we come to know grief and loss, when we lose our grasp on the fact that we are loved beyond compare. And sometimes that brokenness can stay - it doesn't float in and out easily and we wonder how their could be anything else beyond the heartache and pain it brings.

I have learned that our brokenness is an opportunity. An opportunity to look beyond our pain and let God enter in and make us whole again.  Jean Vanier writes "Our brokenness is the wound through which the full power of God can penetrate our being".

God only invites us into a relationship with Him. And in our hardships and our troubles, he is with us. He knows our pain and feels it too. And by accepting His invitation, by letting God into our own brokenness,  we can be made whole even when the pain is still there, even when the brokenness remains - because we can know that we are loved deeply and that our lives have purpose beyond anything that hurts us. Brokenness is our opportunity to find blessing, gratitude and beauty in every moment. Do not let your heart be troubled by it, but let your heart be opened to the healing power of Jesus's heart.

I don't want it to sound like I am just saying that the cure to mental illness or chronic illness is gratitude. It is not. It is a harmful thing to say that a person can stop being depressed because they suddenly become grateful and I want to be clear about that. I still often feel depressed. I am still very much chronically ill, and anxiety still overwhelms me. I still sometimes feel like I have lost a big part of who I am, and this is hard stuff that takes work and practice to overcome. I do not feel gratitude for any of these things right now and I think it is silly to suggest that any person might.

However I do find love this part of me, not for what it is and has brought into my life but for continuously pointing me back to God, for bringing me closer to His love and the love of those around me and teaching me how to be better. This love brings me to acceptance, awareness and freedom even among the toughness of all of it. And I do feel grateful, for a God who is preparing me for a life of excitement - each moment inviting me to feel whole in His love.

As I Have Done For You

"When he had finished washing their feet, he put on his clothes and returned to his place. 'Do you understand what I have done for you?' he asked them. 'You call me 'teacher' and 'Lord' and rightly so, for that is what I am. Now that I, your Lord and teacher, have washed your feet, you should also wash one another's feet. I have set an example that you do as I have done for you.'"

John 13:12-15

       As I read over this story in John's gospel, the story of Jesus as he washes his disciple's feet, I imagine what it might have felt like to be in this scene, having Jesus - the man who performed miracles, a man people gave up their lives to follow - kneel down and wash my own feet. 

     The disciples were shocked by it. Why was the Son of Man washing their feet? He was too good for this. But this simple act was so significant, as Jesus didn't pay attention to his own social status or his ego, but he simply knelt down to wash the feet of those who followed him, an act that a servant would usually perform. Jesus's willingness and humility as he easily prepared to wash his disciples feet was an act of love and service, a plain action which displayed our common humanity and the truth that in this world: that there should be no one who is deemed better or worse, but that we all belong to each other. And then he asks us to follow his example: serve one another "as I have done for you."

     Before Easter, we held a foot washing ceremony at L'Arche. In this ceremony, we formed small groups and sat in a circle. We turned to the person next to us, removed our socks and shoes and they would pour water over our feet into a basin and dry them with a towel, washing our feet. This person would then turn to the person next to them and have their own feet washed, and so on. As I sat in this circle, John's gospel in my head, I realized that this year has almost felt like a continuous washing of my feet - that I have again and again encountered God in my last 9 months with L'Arche and more than anything, in a year where I expected to be giving my own service, I myself had been served and loved more fully than I could have imagined. 

     Peggy, a core member at L'Arche who I've grown very close with, comes straight to my mind. She has such a spirit of compassion, love, sassiness, humor and just outright kindness that I hope to embody. One of my personal challenges this year has presented me with has been managing my physical health while working full time for the first time, transitioning to a new area and balancing several changes in my Lupus treatments. This has often left me feeling very frustrated, stressed and sometimes even alone. And something that has helped me to keep going despite this challenge has been Peggy's love, concern and compassion towards me. 

     As I've been missing work for different doctor appointments and dealing with some side effects from my treatment changes, I'm walking alongside the core members of L'Arche who are living a shared reality with me, often facing some of these same challenges in their own ways, and I am finding that as I am caring for them - I am being cared for too. In this, I find a profound sense of belonging and connection to my place here. 

     Sometimes I'll chat with Peggy about my upcoming appointments, when I will be late the next day because I have an appointment or if I'm feeling a particular way that day, I'll let her know. She always remembers. She will ask me the next day how the doctor was and tell me about how much she hates going to the doctor herself. She lets me know she missed me. She will ask for the next few weeks how the pain in my foot is, or how my headache is, or if I finally got a good night sleep. She makes me feel intently heard and listened to what I am struggling with, when often in my life this really hasn't been the case. My health has often felt like a burden, or something that I need to prove to doctors, people around me, etc. It is something that unfortunately I know most of those close to me will never be able to fully understand because they don't live it. Feeling misunderstood is a really hard place to be. But Peggy understands.

     This feeling of belonging and understanding is radiated by all of the core members I am with at L'Arche. Sometimes Mark can see me struggling throughout the day and continues to asks me if I am okay. Elmore and Marcell welcome me back with a big hug, saying they prayed for me while I was away sick. Jon and Willie give me their giant hugs and unforgettable smiles. Their love and understanding is my daily encounter with God, a renewing, refreshing and humbling daily washing of my feet. 

     When I pictured what my year living in Alabama might look like, I didn't imagine that it would lead me into an overwhelming feeling of love, care, attention and belonging from those I came to serve.  I feel that my experience with L'Arche has not only been a continuous washing of the feet, but a washing of the heart and soul too. And I am so grateful for it.