In high school I helped a classmate perform a monologue about a mother grieving her infant at the child’s gravesite. I can’t remember whether I was a teacher’s assistant for this class or if I was taking it for credit myself, but what I do recall is that instinctively I knew what that mother would feel like. I confidently coached my friend in ways she could improve her monologue because I *felt* the mother’s pain. Was I was a mother who had lost her baby? No! Far from it. But there’s always been this nugget inside me that intuits what others are feelings and feels deeply with them.

I’m going to blame this level of empathy on why I dislike visiting the the ObGyn’s office. 

I am now a grown up with health insurance, a mortgage, a favorite Valvoline, and a much better understanding of what it feels like to lose a little one. And at this point of my life I am well aware of this empathetic soul that I lug around that sometimes makes being around people in pain almost excruciating. I have a hard time turning it off. Empathy is a gift that I cannot wait to hand back to the Lord someday in glory, saying, “Thank you. I’m done with this. It was the weightiest of gifts.”

Walking in the door of the ObGyn’s office is never a simple task for someone who has dealt with infertility and miscarriage. Nope, a thousand different memories flood my senses when I enter the doors and wait for the receptionist to ask for my insurance card. My practitioner has switched offices—and while I’m thankful to never be trapped in that 1970’s era waiting room without windows again, the muscle memory is enough to overwhelm me. I remember every ultrasound, every blood draw, every visit filled with hope, fear, grief, and even mundane moments. It’s all there, but not only is it a space for my memories, it’s a space where other women are walking through their own tales. And I find that mix of stories both compelling and challenging.

I wish there were separate buildings for pregnant and non-pregnant women. Separate waiting rooms perhaps. But I know that wouldn’t solve the problem because some women are pregnant happily while plenty of others are not. There’s the gal who just received a trisomy 13 diagnosis and she looks around marveling that anyone else could be joyfully pregnant right now. There’s the other woman who has no idea how she is going to pay for diapers for this latest “blessing.” There’s the client lying that she has insurance but just forgot the card, who is desperately trying to figure out how she will make ends meet next month, but that’s next month’s problem. And surely there are a thousand different women between utterly joyful and in the worst of spots, many of whom are just running in for a quick checkup on their baby—which truly never is quick—before carrying out other tasks in their days. 

Aside from the obviously pregnant women, the waiting room is filled with everyone else, from 16 year olds who are dealing with pain to octogenarians who are paying someone to check out parts they not only cannot see but also cannot diagnose as healthy or unhealthy. Women. We come in all stripes and all colors and while getting a gynecological exam is the farthest thing from “fun” it is quite necessary to stay well. Mingled in with the baby bumps are women experiencing hot flashes (note: they’re probably carrying their coats), women who’ve found a lump, women who feel 100% fine but aren’t, and women who feel 100% sure they’re not fine but they actually are. 

All stories are found in this cold sterile space.

The nervous laughter while getting a blood draw meets up with stony silence in the hallway where another walks in nervously for a breast exam.

The mother relieved to see her little one via ultrasound lays on the table where another mother was just informed that no heartbeat can be found.

Within these walls there is death and there is life, and there is every shade of existence in between. 

A run into the ObGyn’s office is never ever a clearcut thing for someone like me, someone with the heavy gift of empathy.

This morning I was thinking about mercy meals. For those of you unfamiliar with that terminology, it just means meals provided by someone else while you’re mourning or ill or recovering from having a baby. It’s merciful to give them and a mercy to receive them when you’ve got a lot going on—and our church tradition is pretty consistently wonderful at caring for one another with mercy meals.

After life changed some eleven months ago due to Covid 19 showing up in the United States, I couldn’t see how mercy meals would continue. And that was hard as we had loved ones in our church body welcoming new babies, mourning deaths, and dealing with cancer. They needed to be fed, but we were in a position of not knowing how this coronavirus was being transmitted. I think about the several emails I shot off to a doctor friend (and fellow church member) in order to establish good mercy ministry policies in this new era. 

It wasn’t just the church struggling to figure things out. Schools closed completely. Our public library shut their doors and allowed patrons to hang onto their checked out books for months. Videos came out about how to wipe down your groceries. We were leaving packages untouched for three days to let the viral load lessen in case it was on the cardboard boxes. I wasn’t comfortable with dropping off a mercy meal with a side of coronavirus. I remember asking for church members to donate money for a grocery gift card thereby skipping the exchange of viruses along with lasagnas and burritos. But even then it was a poor substitute for showing up at a church member’s door and handing over a 9×13 pan that spoke of love and concern, that spoke of mercy.

It was a really weird, harrowing, uncertain time. 

We all adjusted when we learned that we could exchange items without great fear of virus transfer.

We quit wiping down groceries (thank goodness because that was an extensive process). The library opened up—though they still quarantine books for three days—and yesterday I learned I could stay in the library for up to two hours. We now take our delivered boxes into the house immediately, though I am mindful to wash my hands after handling mail. And we deliver mercy meals to church members’ houses again.

The act of feeding someone is the most basic and helpful act of all, I believe, as everyone needs to eat. When we’ve been through a rough time, delegating the task of finding food to a friend or family member has kept us afloat. I’m so so glad that, in this still very strange time, we can now walk up to someone’s door and hand over a bunch of hamburgers or a rotisserie chicken to keep them going for another day. A face is a wonderful thing to see, however briefly, when you’re going through a hardship. Being loved, knowing others are willing to sustain your family, is priceless.

I’d say that Covid has robbed many of us of many things. But one thing the darkness brings with it? The contrasting gorgeousness of light. Even a teeny tiny bit of goodness shines in the darkest of days. For that I am grateful.

This morning I reached for the glass with the embossed emblem on it and smiled at its origin: Bubba Gump Shrimp Co at Universal Studios. Never has a simple glass—free with a specific meal that night—been so lovingly cared for as this one when we wrapped it in our clothes and hauled it back to Nebraska in our suitcases. It’s classier than it has any right to be, coming from this franchise of shrimp-y deliciousness. I laugh now remembering how Liv declared the restaurant’s shrimp the best in the world, this just a day or two after eating what was truly the best shrimp—fresh and incredible—off the Gulf Coast near Indian Rocks Beach. The seafood there! Oh. my. goodness. It was amazing. I can remember every meal I’ve had near the coast where I ate fresh seafood and I dream about it later (Port Townsend, Dungeness, San Francisco, Panama City Beach, St. Simon’s Island, and yes, the small towns just west of Tampa Bay). Bubba Gump Shrimp Co was—and is—a fun franchise, but it’s not the best. And that’s okay because I hold those memories of Universal Studies close to my heart.

Universal is no slacker when it comes to marketing. The very presence of their ads sent to my inbox illuminates my soul on these cloudy midwestern winter days. I click on the link and open up a page to a new hotel they’re sharing with the world. I read about the amenities and how close this place is to parks and then I flip over to Trip Adviser to see what average joes have to say about their travels. Am I going to Orlando anytime soon? Probably not. But you never know when an opportunity will arise for two 40-something best friends from Nebraska to find themselves on a magical getaway. Do we talk about a moms trip to the Magic Kingdom? About leaving our children behind and experiencing the joy of it on our own? Yes and yes. Ha! 

The trip to Florida that Jeremy, Livia, and I embarked on three years ago still sings in my heart a bit. That Florida sunshine in the middle of February. Did it know that this was the land of my birth? That somehow my soul is infused with its golden rays and the smell of the ocean and the sounds of waves crashing on the beach? Perhaps. We had days and days of new adventures together. Even our airport jaunts—catching our connecting flight to Orlando from the Phoenix airport due to a massive storm that altered our flight route a bit—even that was more fun together. We ate in airport restaurants, taking our time and enjoying the meals because, like a turtle, we had everything we needed right there in that space. No one was left behind. We rented our car in the middle of the night, found our not-so-great motel in the middle of the night, crashed on its two crappy mattresses and slept like the dead in the middle of the night. I moved into Liv’s bed at a random hour, abandoning Jeremy’s side while he tossed and turned, surprising my kid with cuddles the next morning. We stuffed ourselves with what was inexplicably an amazing breakfast at a close-by Denny’s, all of us drinking coffee and feeling the freedom of a new day.

I think of our drive across Florida, at the marvel that anyone could find themselves living in a state so narrow that one could easily enjoy TWO oceans in one day. Who lives like this? Are they aware of the luxury of the sea at their disposal? Jeremy, in the driver’s seat, me with a plugged-in iPhone navigating, and Liv in the back munching on whatever gas station treats we picked up as soon our Denny’s-stuffed tummies allowed. And then the Gulf of Mexico as it appeared in front of us, the splendor of it that brought tears to my eyes. Liv was the first on the beach, and she, the granddaughter of Claudia the Island Girl, took to it as though she was born and raised in such a space. Her eyes never stopped scanning the sand, her hands never quit picking up shells and seaweed, her smile and greetings never failing to engage the older women on their beach walks as they meandered past her. Liv was in her element. 

So many moments of this trip still continue to bring me joy. From the leis in our Orlando hotel as we entered its doors to the water taxi that took us to the amusement park. From the first sighting of Hogwarts (aaaa!) to the flights on broomsticks and motorcycles. From the doors of the Hello Kitty store to the sweet French bakery with the chocolate croissants. From the air-conditioned Tonight Show waiting area (“ew, PUPPIES”) to the odd-yet-entertaining Shrek experience. From the fast passes that allowed us to take the short lines to the service that delivered our souvenirs straight back to our hotel room on property  which felt ridiculously bougie—and I had no problem at all being bougie for two seconds—to meeting King Kong and Spiderman in some wild rides. We had a blast. Our times of fun were not without trouble and discomfort. Our feet ached. That one lunch was nasty. We were pulled aside too many times and there’s that yet-unwritten complaint about how they handle people with disabilities (oh dear goodness was that surprising and exasperating). We learned our kid, so adventurous years before at Disneyland, really doesn’t like rides and we had to work through that. We figured out how to still enjoy rides solo. That early early early morning Uber drive to the airport with the guy and his really interesting music choices—he hadn’t been to bed yet and we were just starting our day, meeting in the middle. That overeager TSA agent who barked at my husband rudely and pissed me off. All that was part of the trip, too. And all of that became memories that our little family could tell, stories that we will re-tell with laughter in coming years. 

We are not a frequently-vacationing family. Two-thirds of us are happily, delightfully, contentedly hobbits and prefer to stay at home. They ENJOY home. I fancy myself a worldly adventurer and yet I, too, when flying away from my comfortable bed and full pantry wonder why I would ever leave. But these times where we’ve gotten away and enjoyed the travels together? They are priceless. And they are enough to still fill my spirit years later on a cloud-laden day in January in quiet Lincoln, Nebraska. 

What 43 year old Rebecca would tell Newlywed Rebecca about the holidays:

Hello there!

Do you remember crying for no reason during the month of December as a kid? Well, hang in there cuz those feelings won’t really go away. You will feel both love and struggle when the holidays roll around—but don’t worry, you’ll soon realize that’s pretty normal and it’s okay. Your personality will want to decorate beautifully and host with great warmth and prepare all the yummy seasonal cookies and dishes to share. You’ll also want to donate to every charity under the sun, you’ll feel badly when you pass those Salvation Army bell ringers without putting something in the bucket, and you will **never** want to be pressured to buy a generic gift from a box store. So basically, if you want to enjoy the gift-giving process, start early, girlfriend. But that other stuff? Let’s talk.

You won’t be able to do it all. Truly, no one can. So pick what you love doing the most and enjoy the heck out it. If you want to host, make sure guests bring something to share because you will not be happy if you have to clean to host, prepare ALL the food, and then entertain everyone during the event. Internally you will refer to this as “The Rebecca Show” and you will wonder why you killed yourself so everyone else could have a good time. You are an extrovert and will put on a song and dance in the moment, so just stop before you start and enjoy a few small moments instead. Quit making Christmas cookies because you don’t like them anyhow. Do it for your kid but not because you think it’s the right way to live in the month of December. Don’t sign up for a cookie exchange with anyone—it’s not your thing, let it go. And when you have a little bit of expendable income, go buy a variety of treats from a local bakery. The two things you really should nail down are these: 1) figure out what charities you and Jeremy want to donate to and 2) figure out who you’d like to serve this month. Playing Santa to a family in need or making treat plates for church elders or college kids will be one of your very favorite things to do. Make sure you have energy reserved for such things.

Note that you do not have a lifelong commitment to Christmas decor. You don’t have to keep something that someone gave you or passed down to you. (Marie Kondo will help you figure this out.) However, what may appear to be a ratty Christmas tree in Year 2 could turn out to be a very sweet and sentimental and adored tree in Year 22. Life is weird like that. Buy new decor items on sale right after Christmas, give away what doesn’t bring you joy anymore, and move on with your life. Some of the most cherished pieces in your home will be made by your daughter’s small hands–and other homemade items will be saved but never put up again. That’s okay, too.

Finally, you will probably never settle into a fantastic Advent routine and you’re going to have to be okay with that. I’m going to go ahead and suggest something and it’s that Advent is a little overblown in your circles. I’ve written about how Advent is about remembering something that the Christian celebrates every day and it is the truth that Jesus came to earth to save us from our sins. It’s a reality fully connected with the great news of Easter where we serve a risen Savior. This is your daily grace. This is your daily rhythm as a Christian and come what may in December… whether you have enough money or not, whether you are sick this month or not, whether you decorate beautifully or you can’t bear to put up the lights, whether you’re fostering a newborn or grieving your infertility in a month of expectation, JESUS IS RISEN. Your Advent traditions and reflections are just that. They are moments for introspection and while they should be encouraged, they will never achieve the heights of the gospel that you embrace day by day. Instead of being beholden to traditions, try to be present instead and rest in the truth that Jesus adores you and died for you and thinks your life is important.

Merry Christmas, you pretty young thang. God is faithful and will carry you. Your task will be choosing to remain faithful to him through this crazy life of yours.

I long to get away for more time with friends and to see new places and at the same time I cherish this year of late breakfasts of scrambled eggs and hot coffee for my sweet family of three. We’re all here. The gang is all here all the time, and the daily agenda is largely ours to set. Work and school and play and meals and snacks and movies—it’s all happening here.

Will there ever again be a time like this one? I doubt it. Feeling grateful for this strange gift of time together.

After hanging three paper chains and nine new snowflakes I knew I would capture a piece of this activity for today’s image. There’s something lovely and slow about taping little fragments of paper together. There’s something creative and calming in using scissors and paper to make unique snowflakes for our windows. In this world where I am use to rushing—and yes, I’ve been forced into slowing down in 2020—I’m starting to see the peace in sitting still. The word “present” has been coming to mind since March. God is letting me mull on that word. What does it look like when a planner and doer focuses on being present?

Today is my cousin’s funeral. I feel like the absorption of her death is very slow for me and I’m wondering how long it will take before every pore in my body has digested the information. Surely a memorial service is a piece to that puzzle. All of my missing and wondering and confusion is connected to the wrongness of death. It’s okay to hate death. I don’t feel the need to wrap up this post with a bow for anyone, however I do want to say that Paula knew Jesus intimately. She loved him. He loved her and made her and called her to himself. Because of this our goodbye is truly a “see you later.”

Again Jesus spoke to them, saying, “I am the light of the world. Whoever follows me will not walk in darkness but will have the light of life” (John 8:12).

Then Jesus declared, “I am the bread of life. Whoever comes to me will never go hungry, and whoever believes in me will never be thirsty” (John 6:35).

Paula and I talked about our very human struggles when we’d message each other. Neither of us expected a life of ease and yet we both really wrestled with the hardships of this world. We commiserated. We prayed because we knew that the Bread of Life and the Light of Love cared about every detail of our lives. Sometimes our faith was very small indeed, and other times it was great. Now Paula is with her Savior, and someday she and I will both be perfectly restored and will live with him, feasting and banqueting with Christ himself. Amen.

I don’t have a political dog in the fight right now. The election from November sapped me of any energy I have left for such nonsense. I care but I just don’t care as intensely as I did prior to Biden unseating Trump as the leader of our nation.

I say that I don’t have a dog in the fight because the fight is ongoing in my city and try as I might to understand the perspective of the “other” side, I cannot. 

Daily, I put my head down and do a whole lot of garbage that a whole lot of people don’t have to do. I normally do not complain about it and I also don’t give much thought to the fact that I’m kind of a weirdo in all I have to do to keep my body working smoothly.

So forgive me for a moment while I complain loudly.

Today I’m just all out of grace for those with normal, functioning bodies. (Don’t worry, the grace will come back after I rid myself of the venom.) At the start of Covid I figured that everyone had someone in their lives to be careful about and for… Your grandma is elderly so you’re careful for her. Your aunt had breast cancer last year so you’re careful for her. Your brother has type 2 diabetes so you’re careful for him. Your child has asthma so you’re careful for him.

And then I, gratefully by the way, lived through months of this swirly, confusing, unknown time of Covid-19 sweeping the entire globe and I began to notice that—wait a sec—not everyone is being careful. I have tried to understand the reasons why, but I have yet to really figure it out. Am I asking for a statewide mask mandate? Nope. I think it would be smart, but then again, no dog, remember? Do I think we should lockdown everything and ignore the pain of small businesses? Nope. Absolutely not. Maybe shutting down is the right way to go, but as for me, I’m doing everything in my power to support local business owners. We tip well. We thank them. We patronize their businesses, masked and distanced, happily giving our money to places that might be struggling. We share their names broadly on social media.

No, what I’m annoyed with is how very easy it is for the physically blessed among us to say, “just stay home if you’re not healthy.” I’m over it. 

Just. over. it.

I’m beyond exhausted dealing with the body the good Lord has given me—which functions and dysfunctions in a variety of ways—and then I have this? My neighbors and friends saying that they are fine and they will continue to enjoy their liberties, thankyouverymuch? It’s a giant “screw you” from those who are already doing well and can’t be bothered with the hurting, tired, weak, chronically beleaguered among them.

The truth is that the healthy and young among us can get sick and it’s no thang. Odds are in their favor. Despite the growing death count of Americans, I still gather this feeling of “it hasn’t affected me, so I don’t give a damn.” 

I’m over it. 

What is your life if you really don’t care about others? What are you living for? If your personal liberty is the most important thing in your life I believe you need to take stock of your blessings. If you feel like your thoughts are the wisest and your family is the best, if you can still run and play and all your organs are functioning perfectly, if you have no reason to fear Covid-19, then bully for you.

Your grandma might feel differently about things.

Your neighbor might feel differently about things.

I feel differently about this thing.

I have stupid type 1 diabetes and stupid rheumatoid arthritis and a ridiculously extroverted personality and a little bit of a fighting spirit and a lot of seasonal affective disorder and while I am mentally ready to get past this pandemic already, I have to pay attention.

I cannot hang out with you.

I will not eat in a restaurant.

I will not go to church where people are singing—even masked.

I did not see loved ones for Thanksgiving and will miss them on my birthday.

So whatever you think about politics and viruses and conspiracy theories and small businesses, know that people like me are listening to everything you say and we are tired. 

Have an opinion, sure. But also have some compassion.

---

Edited on 12/7 to add that while I am still worshipping with the saints in my basement each week, singing mightily from home, I am grateful that others can gather together. This is what I feel I need to do to stay healthy. I have no desire to make decisions for everyone else! I want restaurants to thrive. I want people to worship. I want life to go on as best as it possibly can and I recognize that each family has to make their own calls. Besides masking and distancing to keep others healthy, I think there’s a lot of gray room for decision-making. Again, I’m not in a position to decide what’s best for everyone. I’m happily not in charge of such things.

Last year I could barely muster the desire to do the DPP. I was definitely riding on the energy of all of the awesome Project participants who were eager to get started. This year is different. While my margins for a new project feel insanely minimal, my enthusiasm for a Facebook full of Christmas-y pictures is very high indeed. I. am. ready. I’m ready for Christmas cookies. I’m ready for lights. I’m ready for Jesus—O come, o come, Emmanuel!

This year has been one of the darkest of my entire life and I imagine it’s the same for most of you. Very few of us have considered a pandemic before 2020. We’ve never been so concerned about germs in our lives. I now own masks for almost every season and I’m more concerned about toilet paper than ever before, despite having plenty to take care of my family’s needs. I’m forcing Vitamin D and Vitamin C on my kid at every turn and, oh yeah, forgetting to throw a little Zinc in there, too. I’m missing potluck meals at church like you wouldn’t believe, and I will never ever ever get used to not being able to hug the people I love when I see them in public. We don’t even do fake arm hugs in the air anymore; 2020 has pounded that out of us.

But all is not lost. No, many of us are seeing the light creep in through the cracks in our lives. Joy finds its way in. And in the darkness it might be true that joy is more obvious than ever as well. There is sweetness in a family walk around the block. A back patio fire pit can still bring loved ones together. A waffle outside a restaurant’s doors can taste especially delicious, and supporting local businesses feels like a treat rather than a chore. Saying hello to more neighbors, greeting each other’s dogs. Hanging Christmas lights early to light up the dark nights. Snuggling close to your love for a basement date with cheese and crackers and Netflix isn’t the same as a night on the town but it is GOOD.

This December let’s hold on to the good. Let’s remind ourselves what is beautiful and true and lovely in life, and let’s share it with one another. Happy December, friends!

My cousin passed away yesterday. She would’ve turned 33 this month, and typing about her in the past tense feels utterly surreal.

Paula was born when I was ten years old. I must have been hoping she’d be born on my early December birthday, but she chose to make her arrival in November. She was the first child born to my Uncle Tim and Aunt Jan, both of whom I loved very much, and I was profoundly excited. Though I had loved on dollies my whole life, I never slept with a stuffed animal until someone gave me a small teddy bear for my 10th birthday. I named her Paula. That Paula resides in my closet. My cousin Paula now rests, her spirit is at home with her Lord and Creator.

Paula was vivacious and thoughtful in turns. She had a sense of humor that cracked me up. It was whip smart and hilarious and could touch on any cultural reference. I didn’t always understand the actual punchline, but if Paula was throwing down the joke it was for sure snarky and funny. 

Paula had such an openness to her that children loved her. My daughter Livia especially loved being around Paula because she was so much FUN. I want to text Paula right now, demand that she still lives, that a cruel joke was played yesterday, and then laugh about the dumb moments we shared together. Paula witnessed our dog Shiloh snarfing down a snack from the coffee table only to literally spit it out when my husband Jeremy (his Alpha) came down the stairs. A dog spitting out a goodie? I’ve never seen it happen before and never will again, but it happened when Paula was staying with us for a holiday and it made her and me laugh over and over again. 

Paula introduced me to new music. She was open with me about her struggles and her love for her Savior and desire for a closer walk with Him. Once she knew that chili and cinnamon rolls were a THING here in the Midwest she never got over it, insisting that it was a super nasty combination. She was wrong, but that’s okay. ;) 

Paula carried the intelligence of her dad and the compassion of her mom throughout her 32 years. She loved her family. She loved her pets. She loved her friends and particularly cherished her years playing ultimate frisbee. She loved her church, and she especially loved children. 

Paula, I have loved you since the moment I knew you were a wee person in your mother’s womb and I shall love you into eternity. How grateful I am that I will see you in heaven, in perfect wholeness and at perfect peace. But for now, I miss you like nothing else. You are irreplaceable and one-of-a-kind. No one can take your place in my heart.

The clock silently slipped past midnight and revealed a new date on my phone as I caught up on social media before falling asleep. November 14, it read, and I felt the time shift from 25 years as a type 1 diabetic to 26. Twenty-six. Twenty-six years ago I was the same age that my daughter is now. Sixteen. Junior year at Southeast High School. I was doing exactly what I wanted to be doing: singing, acting, joining clubs, spending time with friends, taking challenging courses, and plotting an accolades list that would get me into the college of my choosing. At the time I felt like type 1 diabetes destroyed my world. And to be fair, it did for awhile. I traded a week of school just prior to Thanksgiving break for a week at the hospital, learning about syringes and counting carbs and low blood sugar reactions and the way high blood sugars would cause dramatic complications. I cried a lot. I mean, a lot a lot. Diabetes was not on my to-do list. Back in school I felt like a teetering toddler, getting my bearings and figuring out how to live a new life in a body that didn’t really look any different. I could fit in there. But at the many doctor’s appointments and trainings at Children’s Hospital in Omaha, I was a drippy, angry, sad mess of a teenager that had just been given a giant curveball in life.

Over the past 26 years diabetics and non-diabetics alike have asked the question, “What’s good about diabetes?” That question made me rage. NOTHING, I said for many years. And still, I feel that deep in my soul. Diabetes is a mess-up. It’s a stain, a mistake, a tragic fall within the human body where my very own autoimmune system has betrayed me. In that sense, there is nothing good about the whole shebang.

But here I am, 42 years old. A productive member of the community I live in. A wife. A mom. A woman who has loved other people’s children and who strives to love others well. And you know what I see so clearly today? Type 1 diabetes has made me who I am. 

Okay, so let’s not get dramatic about this. I believe God is sovereign over all things and that he knew T1 would be part of my story. Joni Eareckson Tada in her autobiography Joni refers to our lives as masterpiece paintings on a stretched out canvas, only we can see just a little bit of that canvas at a time. My story is a beautiful one. It is a particular one. And so so so very much of who I am today began with a diagnosis of diabetes on Monday, November 14, 1994. Other than my childhood moves across the country for my dad’s work in hospitals, diabetes was THE thing that began shifting me from someone who expected the world to go her way to someone who empathized deeply with others in pain. 

Diabetes changed me.

For so long I was dead set on putting diabetes last on my to-do list. I ran the race of life and pursued my goals. I married my love at a young age and finished college while he worked through grad school. I proudly earned a teaching degree. I continued a life in ministry, in both paid and unpaid positions, and learned about the way the church is uniquely equipped to serve the body and soul as it follows Christ’s leadership. Meanwhile I was inconvenienced almost constantly by diabetes. I didn’t always have money to deal with the unscheduled ways diabetes wreaks havoc on a life. By forgetting to fill prescriptions early I learned that kind pharmacists can be the most blessed people to walk the face of this earth. I learned that normal people activities like walking the hot pavement of an amusement park in the middle of the summer revealed my abnormal need to consume sugar to avoid passing out. I had to eat when I didn’t want to and skip eating when I was super hungry. All par for the course for a diabetic. I had to drop almost $100 on a vial of insulin as a very poor 23 year old after my prescribed bottle got too hot in the cab of our moving van. I missed a ski trip with my youth group girls in order to visit an ER after puking all night, and I very memorably got diagnosed with diabetes ketoacidosis (DKA) after years of putting diabetes in a low position of importance. DKA will kill a person, and that was the closest I’ve come to death in this race so far. It scared the tar out of my young daughter, and though it wasn’t a turning point in my self care, it was the beginning of the curve towards giving diabetes the attention it needed.

As much as I long to ignore diabetes, I cannot. And now T1 is receiving the attention it deserves from me. Others might do woodworking, or be the DM for Dungeons & Dragons. Some might join knitting clubs and others might run marathons. I do diabetes. And I do a host of other things. You would not believe the strength of the T1 diabetes community! These people are warriors and can do any of the activities I mentioned above. But for all of us, diabetes requires a gigantic portion of our brains. The good news is that I am trying to take great care of myself these days and I treat T1 like a hobby. I’ve learned to stop and eat when my body needs to be fed. For years I stopped and fed my babies first, always sticking to their timetables and doing what their little bodies needed, as moms do. But now it’s me time. I change out my infusion sets every few days. I recharge and tape the CGM on my arm every 7 days. I pause to check my glucose at home, in bed, in the aisles of Target, before I drive. And I put juice boxes and fruit snacks on my Walmart shopping list and then gently remind my kid not to drink the last of the apple juices just in case I need them. She’s polished off the Sprites and Diet Sprites for my sick day regimens, so those will go back on the grocery list next week! 

I take care of myself. And by doing this, I’ve learned that all of us human beings are limited creatures. If I had to pick one word for the year I would pick LIMITED. 

Last year my friend Emily and I led a bible study group through Jen Wilkin’s None Like Him and In His Image. One of the biggest take-homes I got from those books is that God is so very other. He is not like us, no… we are like him, in teeny tiny shining ways. I struggle with my limited nature all the time. It’s a way that I want to be God (instead of being content to just try to be like him). I want to be good at ALL THE THINGS. I want to learn ALL THE THINGS. I admire someone and want to be that part of them I admire. I don’t like having limits and boundaries and things that get in my way. I. am. limited.

Diabetes is one of the things that limits me.

But guess what? If I think about it for more than two seconds I know that you have limits too. We all do. We are all born into limited bodies. We all have limited amounts of time to enjoy each day. We have limited skillsets and limited gifts and when it comes to you I embrace that! I love what YOU bring to the table, but I struggle with being content with my own limitations.

All that being said, I’m coming into my own in my early 40’s. I’m glad I have eyes to see how my limits sometimes chafe me, because in seeing this dilemma, I know it won’t rule over me forever. I’m beginning to value and appreciate my boundaries as a human in the way I value and appreciate others. Case in point: being grateful for diabetes. (Yes, even typing that sentence made me throw up in my mouth a little.) I’m not exactly grateful for the brokenness of it, but I’m grateful for how it has shaped me. I love others better because of type 1 diabetes. I can empathize with others’ plights because of diabetes. I can mourn in your hospital room over the baby who never opened his eyes, I can cry on the phone over your diagnosis, I can pray for you in a different way and tend to your lows and highs because I, too, have been there.

The T1 diabetes diagnosis when I was 16 didn’t reroute my life, it set me on course to be who I was meant to be. And for that I am thankful.