View from the Prairie Box

Spring has come to Lincoln, Nebraska.

I delivered a breakfast burrito and coffee this morning to Tina for her birthday. I haven’t seen her in months, though we talk from time to time, so seeing her smile today lit up my heart. Through the passenger side window I sang happy birthday and we squeezed hands—followed by some hand cleaner, of course—and that was it. But I know from Livia’s birthday drive-by last week that right now a smile and a gift means a whole lot. I felt sad and happy all at once driving away.

But spring has come. And I almost missed it! I don’t have many reasons to travel far from home and, to be honest, I get a little panicky considering that I may need to use a bathroom when I’m across town and what then? That sounds dumb to the average person who doesn’t mind popping in a store or restaurant, but alas, I’m not average when it comes to my health and I have reasons to be extra careful and thoughtful right now. Today’s drive let the beauty of spring sink into my soul and it. was. delightful. It was cloudy and raining but I could still feel the trees gently growing over Lincoln’s roads, changing an open sky view to one layered in green. A red bud here and there caught my eye, and there are these little round, white globe-like flowers in shrubs every so often that look like small hydrangeas. Getting out felt glorious.

I found myself talking to God on my drive.

I thought of my pregnant friends and prayed for them. I thought of my friends with new little ones and I prayed for them. I considered a friend who is house-hunting and asked God for the right space for her family. I asked for healing for the grieving and provision for our leaders. I asked for wisdom for myself in coming days. It was like a dam had opened and the space between me and God was clear.

Why was God nearer to me when I was behind the wheel of my Nissan Altima? I considered this because it felt confusing.

God is near to me, always. He is the constant, and I am the variable. And boy is life full of variables right now.

I had a rhythm in my pre-coronavirus life—as did we all—and the rhythm was a pretty healthy one. Livia and I would pray for our days and ask for blessings from God on our drives to school. Only recently did I realize that I hadn’t prayed for my husband’s work in weeks and weeks because, well, because I wasn’t driving Liv to school! My mornings used to be filled with meeting with people, going to appointments, checking off to-do lists, or studying in preparation for bible studies or talks. Of course all of that has gone topsy-turvy now and I find myself with very little reason to drive around town, no ability to be around people, and my goals have changed entirely. I have the same amount of time in a day, only now I fill it with assisting my teen in school work and tending to our house.

So while God is near always, I have changed. But on top of that, I have felt lower—emotionally, mentally, spiritually—than I have in a long time, and I believe that’s due to my extroverted personality. This whole corona situation has been a giant struggle bus for me and though I keep posting memes and notes and talking to people, there’s not a lot that makes things better. Each day is hard, some harder than most. Being inside my house, with the same two (beautiful) people, with the walls staring at me all day long, it’s just not a good setup for me. I am now needing to pay more attention to my mental health, in addition to my physical health. If I don’t actually DO something to lighten up my spirit, I might not ever get out of bed.

This morning, a simple drive and goal elevated me. I’ve felt fairly lonely in my extroverted struggles, but there it is: a change of environment and a reason to get out the door did wonders for me. Not only was I encouraged to see the beauty of spring in Lincoln, but I felt God’s sweetness and closeness in a way that has eluded me for weeks.

I am so blessed with a safe home to stay in right now, and I feel grateful that I am not working outside the home at all. My days with Livia and Jeremy are good ones. But they’ve also been very hard. It’s okay to feel both of these truths all at once.

Nothing is normal. Lots of things are normal.

That’s the weirdness of our current situation, isn’t it?

I just told Livia that she could do school in bed. I percolated a giant pot of coffee, made her an iced coffee, and hand-delivered it to her bedside. Certain she was taking longer to wake up because today is a school day, I decided to sweeten the deal. You want to do school in bed? She was down for that, and is now tucked away into what seems like a claustrophobic situation to me: pink curtains pulled closed, dark room cluttered with, well, all her belongings scattered on the floor, shelves, and closet floor, with her Chromebook on her lap.

It seems to me that such concessions are exactly the way I want to be treated at this time. A drink made with love, an understanding of the way I feel joy, and goals padded with grace.

Earlier I sat on the back deck, cool breezes crossing my face, and I listened to birds singing. It’s been a struggle for me to open my bible right now, but today I had it open to Hebrews 11. I’d read a little about faith, then look up and watch the newly-sprouting leaves sway in the wind, watch robins hop around the yard, smile at preschoolers following their moms on the bike path. Has there ever been a time like this? The slow pace? The worry? The future spreading before us that seems confusing?

My pre-corona life was a tidier mix of goals + freedom and I liked it that way. It was like a well-made bed—something I love to study and re-create in my own life. I like tidy hospital corners (thanks to my nurse parents). I like a soft and fluffy comforter on top. I like neatly stacked pillows—with matching pillowcases—tucked against the headboard. And if a chunky hand-knit blanket lands on top of the whole thing, all the better. Purposeful. Welcoming. I like a well-made bed.

To carry on with the metaphor, coronavirus came on in and royally effed up my bed.

It’s like COVID-19 decided I could still have the bed frame, but the headboard would be replaced by the scratchy wall, stucco. And sure, the mattress is present but it’s haphazardly thrown onto the frame, and oh, here, you can use the old sheets, you know the ones used for drop cloths for painting, as your bedding. We’ll top it off with the picnic blanket from the trunk of the car—complete with some dog hair, grass from the last outing, and perhaps a tick or two for companionship. And here’s the flattest and most stained pillow you’ve forgotten in the back of your closet. No pillowcase. Now, get comfy and sleep!

That’s what coronavirus feels like to me. A scratchy, paint-marked, glass-clipping, slightly smelly bed. I can still lay down and I’m more than welcomed to sleep, but it’s not right, not normal.

The weird thing is that I really like listening to the birds. I’ve had time to watch clouds float past and to really cherish this season of winter changing to spring. With one kid almost 16, I’ve had some freedom to slow down and for that I’m grateful.

But I don’t like the bed I’ve been given.

Not one bit.

In a few weeks I’m teaching a passage of scripture to a group of women, and honestly, prepping for my time with them has been a joy. Not an easy joy. More like a hard-earned, thoughtful, considerate, butt-in-my-office-chair-for-hours kind of joy. It’s the kind of learning and re-learning, assessing my language choices, returning to sources and then double-checking my references type of thing. More simply: it’s teaching.

God bless the teachers. They need it. WE need it.

Teaching is an enormous privilege, and as I prepare for an hour’s worth of teaching on Hebrews 10, I’m reminded of the many ways God has brought me to this point. I think of my training to become an educator. How many hours of classwork was spent on pedagogy, childhood development, professionalism, and dreams of my future classrooms? Not a moment of that was wasted—though I kind of wish someone could’ve informed me that I’d head back to working in the church and not so much towards middle schools. I think of the many many learning experiences in biblical knowledge… from scripture memory as a kid, to training at Horn Creek camps in high school, from some profoundly important teaching at Covenant College to my courses at Covenant Seminary… it comes flooding back at the moment I need it.

I found myself on my hands and knees this morning, digging through a seminary notebook for just the right answer to fill a question I had in my mind. I didn’t find it, therefore there’s a gaping hole until I can scratch that particular itch. But even as this knowledge comes flowing back through my mind, I’m aware that at some point in this process I will have to put my pen down. Or really, I’ll have to step back from the keyboard. I’ll have to submit the discussion questions. I’ll have to quit editing, quit questioning whether I’ve prepared enough, quit imagining all the things that I won’t get to say and I’ll have to commit. I’ll have to trust I’ve done the work and I’ll have to relinquish all I have and all I do to the work of the Holy Spirit.

“Faith is being sure of what you hope for and certain of what you do not see.”

That’s my own translation of Hebrews 11:1 apparently. I haven’t seen the verse printed that way anywhere, but as a kid who grew up in the church and has spent her life there, this is the version that stuck. So there it is.

My hope is in Christ. I teach knowing that I am not enough to enlighten someone else’s mind, but the One who is will be at work. Throughout this process—and during each other time where I’m teaching God’s word—I trust all I do to the Holy Spirit. He alone has the power to enlighten, and he will be working perfectly where I’m working imperfectly. Having faith means taking a leap of sorts. It’s moving from a place of surety in one’s self to a place of surety in God and the work he is doing all the time. I’m trusting that “he who began a good work in you will be faithful to complete it” (Phil 1:6). To God be the glory.

Last week I had a few hellish nights surrounding a much-anticipated trip with my girlfriend. If you hang in there with me for a sec I’m going to swing this conversation back around to the hot take culture we’re experiencing right now, particularly on social media. But the trip… oh the trip! I love to travel. I dream about traveling and I am instantly inspired by looking out a plane window or a car window onto new-to-me surroundings. Give me 75mph on a rural highway in Nebraska or a flight to Florida high above the clouds, the experience alone makes me giddy. I also have this other thing—and it’s a brain problem—and it’s called anxiety. My travel anxiety is further complicated by the very nature of type 1 diabetes, which demands I prepare for all contingencies in order to… well… in order to stay alive. Type 1 is a jerk like that.

So while I was tremendously excited to ditch town for a few days, my brain was freaking out a little. Or a lot really. I rolled over in bed the night before we left home and thought blearily, “Is today the day I get on a plane?” and after that I was wide awake. When you wake up at night and can’t sleep you play all kinds of games to try to either fall asleep or, at the very least, rest your body. It was only 3:00am, so I tried to be cool but I really was getting more amped up as each hour passed. Enter type 1 diabetes and before long my body started burning ketones.

Ketones are chemicals that build up when your body starts to burn fat for energy. Sounds good until you read a bit more and learn that in T1 diabetics a build-up of ketones can lead to Diabetic Ketoacidosis (DKA) which, if left untreated, can lead to a coma or death. I’ve had DKA before and it was tremendously scary. I’ll do anything to avoid it, which is why, when my body started producing ketones—likely due to stress—in the early morning hours before I boarded a plane, I got more stressed. I also started tending to myself. Gone was the carefree and excited feeling of getting to travel, and present was the need to pound liquids, deal with nausea without actually vomiting, dose insulin to flush the ketones, and try to eat a few carbs to give myself something else to burn. This was not my first rodeo. I struggled to eat; my toast tasted like cardboard in my scared, dry mouth. I struggled to drink and ran to a gas station for a sugar-free Powerade. I pounded the sidewalks out front in 19 degree weather in order to get the blood flowing and do something with my energy. All the while I kept checking for ketones (aka peed on a stick), kept pricking my finger for my glucose, and managed to pack up my 9th grader and wish her a good day. Yes, I did feel like throwing up while driving her to school but I was determined to send her off. It’s amazing what a little determination will do. When I got into Maralee’s minivan for the drive to the airport I looked like death. Already really pale, I was a ghostly shade of pale at that point. I caught her up to speed and suggested that if I wasn’t clear of ketones by the time we hit the airport she should drop me at the hospital and go on her way without me. (I’m certain she wasn’t excited about that option, for many reasons.) My protocol for self-treatment worked beautifully, however, and though I was way behind on sleep, I righted the ship and had zero ketones a hour later. We got on the plane, I crashed in a nap, and we landed to start our adventures. This story was essentially repeated two more times over the course of our four nights away. Two more nights of anxiety, illness, and stress. Two more days with hard crashes into morning naps. And yet, we made loads of memories. So really, I won!

I write all this down to say that my body is unique. I have type 1 diabetes and a few other doozies in the autoimmune department, and until Maralee was witness to every little blood sugar and insulin pump and ketone issue for five days straight, I didn’t think about how much energy it takes to simply live. That’s my life with diabetes. It requires nitty-gritty, hands-on babysitting day in, day out.

People in newstories, people in your newsfeed, friends, enemies, whoever… their needs are unique as well. Before you issue your hot take online—and by that I mean your opinion—take a minute and consider, what do I really know about their story? Am I the best person to comment on their needs? If not, how can I say something encouraging and true rather than critical?

Some of you in the midwest may have heard a KETV news story about a little girl in Iowa who fell asleep on a bus recently. The bus driver didn’t walk back to make sure all children were unloaded and the little one’s morning bus ride went from a 30 minute routine to an hour and 10 minutes. She spent an extra 40 minutes riding the bus. That’s not the worst thing for the average kid, but for this child it was a very bad thing. This little one has a rare form of diabetes where she swings from low glucoses to high ones without any warning. I think I read that she can’t take any insulin without dropping dangerously low.

What I witnessed on Facebook was a surprising number of commenters who were angry with the girl’s mother for raising a stink about her daughter being left on the bus. Without reading the article, without listening to the story, they commented and judged her. They assumed this child was an average child without any special needs. And even when the mother—a single mom, as it turned out, with epilepsy and no husband and no family support close by—began to defend herself in the comment section, people were still terribly rude.

Yes, online commenting is notoriously nasty. But it doesn’t have to be. And it’s not just Facebook, it’s everywhere. I cannot stand being on Twitter because I feel like people are just punching each other there. If I guard my Instagram account it’s a relatively nice place to be. But I’m not content with this and I want to talk about it. WE ARE ALL UNIQUE AND YOU DON’T KNOW EVERY STORY.

Even on my diabetes support groups, which are often a really cozy and encouraging space on the internet, I’m finding folks who simply go for the hot take. Instead of perhaps supporting a person’s desire to stockpile some meds or pantry items in case this coronavirus spreads to the US, they are harping on **fellow* diabetics saying this virus is no different from the flu. And yet, they don’t know which T1 also has RA and is on meds which suppress her immune system (raising my hand). Autoimmune issues tend to run in packs, but even if that wasn’t so, which T1s are also on dialysis? Which ones are caring for elderly parents with lung problems? Which ones have survived cancer and have depressed immune systems? I could go on and on.

The truth is, your judgement is hurtful and your judgement is unwelcome.

Before you type, stop for a minute and ask yourself, why am I writing this? How might the original poster interpret my comment? If there’s a chance it could be perceived as hurtful, perhaps I should hold off. And if it’s something that needs to be said, should I take this to a private venue?

I’ve been thinking about that mom in Iowa and I’ve wanted to contact her to share a bit of love. Her life sounds hard. Imagine having epilepsy and then having a medical tricky child who you have to put on a bus each day to get to school. Imagine the fear of wondering if she might drop too low or shoot so high she needs to be hospitalized or worse, dies. Imagine trusting the bus driver to do his job and then he, for whatever reason, messes up. Imagine all the worries of a normal parent and than multiply those by a hundred, or by a thousand.

Honestly, I don’t know what to do about my issues with anxiety and travel. I’ve spent several summers in therapy with different therapists working on the issue and yet, here I am after a particularly bad (yet marvelously wonderful) trip. I survived it, but I’m not going to travel again until I have some more solutions. Therapy, better drugs, whatever; I’m game for whatever works. What I do know is that I’ll keep pressing on towards hope because I truly truly love traveling and I want to see the world. We figure out how to do what we love to do, even when it’s not convenient or simple. All I’m asking for today is a bit more grace, a bit more patience… and a heart and typing fingers that give up the hot take in order to truly see another human behind the screen.

I knew she wasn’t pursuing chemotherapy, but I prayed many times for miraculous healing. Due to my own issues, I was not particularly hopeful, but I asked God for it nonetheless. When her health took a turn for the worse I felt desperate to talk with her face-to-face. I couldn’t stand to ask questions without some nuance to my voice and without being able to look into her eyes. I finally found Karen near the front doors of church and grabbed her before she left the building. I can’t even recall exactly what I asked. It wasn’t, “so you’re going to die?!” But the understanding was the same: she was not pursuing treatment this time. I looked in her eyes and understood we were going to lose her.

I took my cues from Karen, and though I felt despondent over this news, I did not fall apart. She was not falling apart—she was living! The information sat sadly in my soul, however. This spark of a woman—not easily bowled over by life’s problems or problem people—wouldn’t last much longer.

Something strange happens with a terrible cancer diagnosis, a terrible cancer fight, and it’s that you have something of a deadline. Either the one bearing cancer will die or the cancer will die—only one emerges from the battle.

In our small group from church we’ve had two beloved women dealing with cancer at the same time. One was dealt a first-time diagnosis and the other, Karen, was facing it for the third time. We buckled down in our basement on Tuesday nights, never knowing whether the evening would bring tears, great fears, or simply deep sharing as usual. It was hard. There were nights that were difficult with an intensity I’ve rarely felt, nights where we prayed and cried and laid hands on each other and prayed again and carried these cancer fears to the Lord, not knowing what the outcome would be. At times it showed great bravery to even show up. And yet we still laughed downstairs on the comfy basement couches, with candles burning, hot coffee warming our hands. We prayed together. And in the midst of cancer, we rejoiced together too as we witnessed the pregnant, growing bellies of two of our number. New life emerged and we celebrated. Other lives struggled. And one life slowly began to be extinguished.

It was only at the very end that Karen’s great internal light diminished. That woman had one of the toughest, most tenacious spirits I’ve seen. She’s the greeter. The weeder of the garden. The drink maker and server. The one with suggestions and solutions. The one riding her bike to my house far south. The one working even as she grew sicker. The one climbing mountains with zero body fat. The one praying for her girls’ trip with her daughter. The one expressing devotion to her man, after all they’ve come through. She was a fire, burning bright and hot with boldness. And then she was no more.

Back when I finally looked in her eyes for understanding that her death was coming, I wanted to say something to her and never took the chance to do it. I wanted to tell her to wait for me. I wanted to let her know that I’d be coming after her and that I was a little nervous about death and would she wait and watch for me when I arrived in glory? I never asked. Never told her that I felt reassured knowing she’d be there with a smile when I showed up. It seemed silly because I understand the truth, and that is that the comfort of seeing Jesus will quell all anxieties that day. I won’t be nervous anymore. And yet, Karen. Karen will indeed be there, and I look forward to seeing her wink at me—just like the very last interaction I had with her—when I at last set foot in heaven.

Today she is free of cancer, sin, heartache, and tears and she stands in glory. I miss my sister but I will see her again. To God be the glory.

Note: this piece was written the evening of Karen’s memorial service in early November 2019. I sat on it for months before sharing it first with Kevin. I wanted his permission to share these thoughts publicly. I could’ve kept this to myself, but why? For what reason? No, instead I’ll post this as I miss my friend and I’ll enjoy remembering the special person she was. I’ve posted two images that feel so VERY Karen to me. First, she was always taking care of us at church events in a behind-the-scenes manner. You can’t even see her face, and she would’ve been fine with that. In the second shot she’s there, in this special group of women who truly loved one another, and she’s cheering on the bride-to-be. Again, a very Karen thing to do.

Flowers from my sweetie
Bringing joy to our home
In more ways than one

I am a fan of a good ballad song. I am a belter of show tunes. The louder, the better, in my opinion. The generation just behind me lovesloveloves their low-key music. They love it moody, soulful lyrics, with a giant dose of nonchalance and a whole lot of easy listening. MEL-LOW.

I am 1000% not that girl.

The other night—I can’t recall why exactly—I got started on 80’s ballads while I was doing dishes. I pulled out my cute bluetooth speaker, turned it up to 11, and serenaded the house—and probably the bike path along our backyard. By the time Jeremy’s D&D guys were arriving I was really into it. I was self-concious enough to control my moves, which were already mortifying my 15 year old, but I couldn’t stop/wouldn’t stop with the ballads. They were joy to my soul.

Zephaniah 3:17 has something to say about God’s love for us and I’m pretty sure it’s saying that God is jamming out over YOU with the passion of an 80’s rock ballad.

The LORD your God is in your midst,
a mighty one who will save;
he will rejoice over you with gladness;
he will quiet you by his love;
he will exult over you with loud singing.

Exult is a weird word. Thanks for that, ESV (English Standard Version, a translation of the bible). It means to be highly elated or jubilant. Think along the lines of the Huskers scoring a winning field goal or you getting that job or being at the best concert with the best friends. Lots of energy. Lots of joy. Lots of high fives.

But wait, there’s something here for the emo among us. If the thought of God 80’s-rock-ballading you is terrifying and unsettling, read the few lines ahead of that. God has GLADNESS for you. Over you. In you. He also stills your ever-moving, ever-wandering, ever-anxious soul. “He quiets you by his love.”

Not every moment is a Broadway-belter. In fact, those moments are rather rare, even for me. In between those times are miles and miles of indecision and confusion. And Zephaniah 3:17 is saying that the very God of the universe will save me. He actually rejoices over me. He quiets me. And yes, he looks at me and breaks out in song over his incredible love for me.

Do you believe that? Do I believe that? How would my world look different if I remembered that the God who created mountains and oceans and all the creatures in them, the planets and stars and all of the cosmos, also really really liked me a lot. He likes me more than my husband, more than my mom and dad, more than my best friend on the best day of our lives. He is here with me and saves me from my troubles. He is here with me and rejoices over me. He settles my heart and then riles it up again but with his profound love and EXUBERANCE over me.

What in the world? Truly, we Christians are either right or we’re absolutely crazy. There’s no in-between here. As for me and my house, we will serve the Lord.

I get a little weird every December. A bit itchy. Out of sorts. For sure seasonal depression is a giant contributor to my mood, but it doesn’t entirely explain why I feel like my soul is wearing ill-fitting, scratchy clothes. The month contains two rather large celebrations on the Tredway Family Calendar: my birthday and Jesus’s. And there are so many traditions—which I love—and lights and delicious foods and smells. It’s almost sensory overload, but most of the time I’m down for that kind of fun.

No, the weirdness is connected to the church and to the celebration of the Advent season. We spend a lot of time counting down the days until Jesus is born. Every year, every single year this is our tradition. I finally put my finger on the weirdness of it this year and it’s that we’re all pretending, to a certain degree. We are REMEMBERING something. Something big. Something earth-shattering and life-defining. The world was marked when God became man. Marked with a giant indelible marker, all creation shifted. My discomfort with the month is the same discomfort that kept leading my mind to considering Easter in the middle of the all the red and green plaid and the scent of evergreen. Christians, we live out Christmas and Easter EVERY SINGLE DAY.

The birth of God as a man is celebrated in our spirits every single day.

The death and resurrection of God as a man is celebrated within us every single day.

We are Christmas and Easter celebrants every time our lungs take a deep breath and every time we blink.

Perhaps this explains my December itchies. It all feels a little off to sing with gusto the Advent songs and then quit singing them on December 25, as though that day ends the party. It feels strange to light a candle of waiting, and another of joy, and yet another of peace, when truly, every day we might light a candle with those names as we mediate on who Jesus was and how his birth, death, and resurrection has perfectly covered our sins.

However I feel in December—which really doesn’t matter much—I don’t want to let go of the sweetness of Christmas or the devastation of Good Friday or the utter and complete joy of Resurrection Sunday. All those events are knocking around in my heart daily. Jesus is with me daily through his Spirit. I carry his birth, death, and resurrection in my spirit because, no matter what month is is, I believe that he is the Son of God and that his sacrifice gives me life. Life forever.

Do I think we should ditch a full month of anticipating the Christ child’s birth? Absolutely not. If anything, I’d advocate for Christians to become way better at remembering. We could probably use more traditions, more attention to the historic church calendar, more singing at the top of our lungs and more wrapping gifts to create memories for our children. If Christmas and Easter actually do live within us, life is worth celebrating indeed.