When the Journey Gets Tough

It’s easy to get caught up in our every day struggle. Likewise, it’s easy to understand that sometimes we get so stuck that we forget that— even in our most difficult moments— it’s not about us. Francis Chan wrote in his book Crazy Love, “If life were stable, I’d never need God’s help. I am thankful for the unknowns and that I don’t have control, because it makes me run to God.”  That’s such a tough pill to swallow because most of us like to know where we are headed, how we will get there, and what difficulties we will face. Those of us who deal with anxiety especially worry about all the major and minute details of our circumstances. However, if we knew every detail of where our life was headed and the struggles we would face, perhaps we would not be so keen to face them head on. Still , God reminds us that in all of this we should always turn to Him— that through him we have strength and that we will ultimately be blessed. Often times we get so comfortable or confident in our own abilities that God has to give us a “gentle” reminder that we need him.  Paul wrote in 2 Corinthians 12 that God allowed him to experience difficulty to keep him from becoming conceited. It isn’t that God wants us to suffer, rather, just like I often give my students challenging assignments and questions,  I want them to recognize that they do not yet know it all, that there is still much to learn, and that in that learning process there is growth. Our experiences, no matter how difficult, are an opportunity for maturity. God promises us this: “My grace is sufficient for you, for my power is made perfect in weakness.” He is there to teach, guide, mentor, and help grow us. As a teacher, I would never throw a challenge at my students without building them up, guiding, and supporting them. With even more reason, it is in those overwhelming moments where He is the most near to teach us what we may not yet understand, to guide us exactly where we need to  

My Act of Faith

I didn’t always wrap, and honestly, I hadn’t really ever planned to. It was something I observed with admiration—the kind of thing you appreciate but could never see yourself actually imitating. It wasn’t until early last year that I considered doing it at all.

Much like with other lifestyle changes I have made in recent months, my psoriasis has been a catalyst for many (at first uncomfortable) changes. Last year I suffered a serious flare internally and externally—internally, the effects made doctors think I was at risk for cancer (again) while externally my face, arms, legs, torso, and scalp were covered in psoriasis lesions. I could not escape it, and the worst part was that the more I tried different medications to stop the spread and ease the flare, the more I realized my hair was thinning and falling out. 

To say that I cried is an understatement. I cannot count how many times I wept and bawled with my husband because I felt like I would lose all my hair. It seemed every time I looked into a mirror or took a picture from the top of my head, I could see the thinness grow. My hair had gotten so frail and weak that I felt like it was just a matter of time before I lost all of it. I felt ugly, weak, and powerless to do anything to stop it.  A few friends mentioned wigs, but honestly I didn’t really like the idea. And I honestly couldn’t imagine throwing on another piece of hair on missing hair. So, after weeks of feeling hopeless, I remembered hair wrapping.

I was hesitant, but also had very few options that made me feel comfortable. And so, with lots of fear and apprehension, I dragged my husband to the nearest Burlington to buy my first two scarves. 

At first, I was really nervous to wear anything out of the house. It wasn’t only that I struggled to wrestle the scarves into something presentable, I just felt like I would get questioned, stared at, judged, and I felt absolutely ill equipped to explainanything at the time. 

It was a slow process that took practice, lots of love, and much, much spiritual reflection. I had to understand why I was so afraid of wrapping and what I was really holding on to (my pride included).

I realized that I was more afraid of wrapping simply because I was mortified of what others would say. I hadn’t ever wrapped before, so I didn’t feel ready for all the questions. But this was something so trivial, I later realized. After all, I was the one who had to battle with my condition, not anybody else. I alone knew the extent and the depth of how it affected me, and by that same token, I knew that wrapping was a way that I could focus more on healing and less on my appearance. 

As time went on and I became braver about wearing my wraps in public, my perspective on the whole of my situation changed. Not only was I able to learn about the rich and beautiful Jewish culture, but I also found an avenue to share my healing story with others who were dealing with chronic life diseases. That too, also found a way to evolve into a spiritual reminder for me—it was a real and tangible cover over my life, a reminder that no matter where I went, God’s love would cover me. In the middle of joy, He was there. In the middle of pain and flares, he was there. In the good and the bad, it was a testament of His presence over and within me. It is a crown that reminds me to stand tall even in what I may not yet understand. 

Today, as I look at my collection of scarves, I am reminded that I am just a small thread in a tapestry larger than myself. And while there are still days that are incredibly difficult, uncertain, and terrifying, I am comforted in knowing that this too, is part of the process. As I tie my scarves, the trouble, the wrestling in place, the pulling, tugging of seams, the small tears and rips, remind me that even though I may be flawed, even that is used to create something beautiful. My sickness, anxiety, depression and all the things that inevitably come with chronic diseases are still there, but every day I wrap is my unyielding act of faith, hope, humility, and healing. 

Today I am..

Today I am broken. Today I am pieces like shattered glass or broken pottery. Fragments too small to piece together without losing part of me.

Today I am a vessel drifting on an river heading somewhere unknown. I am the captain of the unamed and the lost. I am the listless sails, the silence of the wind blowing through the reeds. I need something I cannot seem to find.

Today I am the notes drifting from solemn songs: I am the harmonies barely audible, the infinitesimally small reverberation in a chest that can hardly breathe. Today I dance on my grave and let it sweep me off my feet; the quiet simmering blood unaware of the loneliness, the vastness of an empty mind.
Today anxiety whispered my name and said "come with me." Today she dressed herself in
of what ifs and alluring silence-- and I, willing followed like a motherless child.

Today I lost-- my sensibility is an unstrung kite running without direction. Today I screamed but all I heard was silence in the auditorium of my chest. I prayed but forgot to whom and why and for what. Today I was an island enveloped in mist; I was sand pulled helplessly from shore. I was pencil too faded to be read, the dust of bricks falling from these broken walls. Today I lost myself somewhere. Today I forgot that these fault lines unleash chaos.  I crawled because that's all I could do to keep from falling.

I've spent my whole life patching holes with words too frail to stitch together. Time binds my hands quietly until I can no longer tear myself away from its embrace. Why do the things I hate come so naturally? This constant companion that sings me to sleep.

Today I let you see me-- a broken promise, an apology overused, a breath caught in my lungs unreleased. I'm sorry. And while apologies will never suffice nor heal either heart, it's the truest word on my lips today. This feeble note, this seemingly empty phrase is my love letter to you-- reminding you that I am not alright, but I will be. Today I may have lost, but tomorrow....
Tomorrow is a new day.
And tomorrow...
Tomorrow I'll be alright.