"Do you not know that in a race all the runners run, but only one gets the prize? Run in such a way as to get the prize. Everyone who competes in the games goes into strict training. They do it to get a crown that will not last; but we do it to get a crown that will last forever. Therefore I do not run like a man running aimlessly; I do not fight like a man beating the air. No, I beat my body and make it my slave so that after I have preached to others, I myself will not be disqualified for the prize." 1 Corinthians 9:24-27
This verse is so extreme. Beating my body? Slavery? Yeah, right. I think to myself, Is this really necessary? Do I have to? But, for one reason or another this verse has been resonanting in me quite a lot lately.
Maybe it was the blister my shoe was rubbing on my foot today during my jog that made me feel as if I was beating my body. Or maybe it has been the amount of information that I have forced myself to learn over the past few months. Or perhaps it is something far deeper--
I know that as Paul writes to the church in Corinth that he is speaking of far more than a physical race; he was speaking to more than just blisters and muscle aches and fatigue. He was writing to souls weary from attempts to live holy lives in a demanding culture. He was writing to those who had lost site of the eternal prize and were begining to forfeit a imperishable medal for mere, this-worldly rubbish. Can you relate?
I am finding that if I don't beat my body and make it my slave then I soon become its slave. My desires become selfish and my motives less than desireable. I am exhausted by the war within me and ultimately I lose. I thought I would have this figured out by now. I thought this should be much easier by now, but as the days go by the uphill slope is only getting steeper and the battle more intense.
But beating my body is so difficult and extreme. How can I possibily live that way? How can I possibily deny myself of the things my flesh longs for so deeply? I can barely make myself run an extra step when my feet hurt or get my wretched self out of the bed in the mornings. How will I ever be able to maintain those things engrained in the depths of my being? How will I ever live this holy live and run the race without looking back?
So many questions. I think I have missed the point completely though. Really.
I mean, I am running after a prize. As Paul writes, "I do not run like a man running aimlessly; I do not fight like a man beating the air...." This isn't all for nothing. The athletes that will compete in Beijiing this summer have spent their lives preparing for the races ahead of them--they have not trained because they have to but because they are going after a prize. A name. Fame. They are doing the very thing they love.
How much more is at stake in our lives? This is no run around a track or leap over a stick we are talking about here. This is life. And not only do we have an eternal prize at stake, ultimately our own joy is up for grabs.
Psalm 16:11 says, "You will teach me how to live a holy life. Being with You will fill me with joy unspeakable; at Your right hand I will find pleasure forever." This is a verse I try so passionately to live by because I know that while I push so hard to make my flesh my slave, God supplies joy beyond measure. He lays out the path of life before us and is faithful to show us the way. And He never asks us to walk alone. The icing on the cake--in His hand are pleasures forevermore.
This is precisely where I went wrong. I too quickly forgot the provision of God for me. I forgot that though beating my body sounds pretty intense--He is supplying my needs and filling me with joy that is not found in any of my earthly pursuits. He is filling me with the life found solely in Him--and a joyous life it is indeed.
Monday, April 21, 2008
Friday, April 18, 2008
Everything
You're everything
I could want
That I could need
If I could see
You want me
Could I believe?
'Cause You're perfectly
All I want, and all I need
If I could just feel Your touch
Could I be free?
Why do You shine so?
Can a blind man see?
Why do You call?
Why do You beckon me?
Can the deaf hear the voice of love?
Would You have me come?
Can the cripple run?
Are You the one?
To raise me up
From this grave
Touch my tongue
And then I'll sing
Heal my limbs
Then joyfully I'll run to You
You're everything
I could want and I could need
I can just, feel Your touch
And I can't breathe
And how You shine so
The blind can see
And how You call out
You beckon me
The deaf hear the voice of love
You bid me come
And the cripple run
You're the one
So raise me up
From this grave
You touch my tongue
And then I'll say:
Heal my limbs
And joyfully I'll run to You
You're everything
You're everything
You're everything
You're everything
And I'm alive and I'll sing
And I'm alive and I'm free
And I'm alive and I'll sing
And I'm alive and I'm free....
I could want
That I could need
If I could see
You want me
Could I believe?
'Cause You're perfectly
All I want, and all I need
If I could just feel Your touch
Could I be free?
Why do You shine so?
Can a blind man see?
Why do You call?
Why do You beckon me?
Can the deaf hear the voice of love?
Would You have me come?
Can the cripple run?
Are You the one?
To raise me up
From this grave
Touch my tongue
And then I'll sing
Heal my limbs
Then joyfully I'll run to You
You're everything
I could want and I could need
I can just, feel Your touch
And I can't breathe
And how You shine so
The blind can see
And how You call out
You beckon me
The deaf hear the voice of love
You bid me come
And the cripple run
You're the one
So raise me up
From this grave
You touch my tongue
And then I'll say:
Heal my limbs
And joyfully I'll run to You
You're everything
You're everything
You're everything
You're everything
And I'm alive and I'll sing
And I'm alive and I'm free
And I'm alive and I'll sing
And I'm alive and I'm free....
Tuesday, April 15, 2008
Good 'Ole Days
This weekend I experienced both the sunrise and sunset over the crawfish farms of central Louisiana. I realized that I miss the middle-of-nowhere. I miss the slow pace, the good food, the open road, and the amazing friends. I ate crawfish and roasted pig and sat around a campfire and laughed about old times. The weekend was all together perfect and refreshing.
There is something about knowing that people believe in you that keeps you going. There is something about other people letting you know that your dreams are legit and that they know you are doing what you were made to do. The encouraging words come from somewhere deep--from those that know you well. They put everything back in perspective and for a moment cause to world to stop. And in that moment everything makes sense again.
You see, last week was exam week. It was miserable. I worked harder than ever and in the end felt that I had nothing to show for save droopy eyes, a messy apartment, and a growling stomach. My perspective soon became only a number, preferably one over 65 to keep me in the passing zone, and nothing more. But this weekend those I love reminded me that I am doing what I was made to do--I am going to be a physician. I am going to bring hope and healing to the lives of others. What an honor and a privilege! What a perspective.
I am thankful for being able to walk down memory lane with you guys this weekend. Thanks for the laughs, but most of all thanks for the encouragement. I needed it! You are a blessing and I am glad we were able to catch up--I know that God has amazing plans for each of you too and I am excited to see it play out in all our lives. Whether you feel like you're in a rut or at the top of a mountain, hold your head high and know that God is for you and not against you and will see you through.
Tuesday, April 08, 2008
Inadequate
As a girl, my mom took my brother and I to AstroWorld every week during the summer, many times more than once a week. It was there that I learned to pocket my fears & enjoy the drop in my stomach and wind in my face, the thrill of the ride. I have many fond childhood memories running from ride to ride, rain or shine, every week, eating funnel cakes and dip-n-dots, and checking out all the other “interesting” folks. Now, AstroWord is no more than an empty field of grass and only old photographs and my young memories remain.
The part of the neighborhood still standing--what we affectionately came to call “The World’s Worst McDonald’s.” Yes, that’s right. After a long day of riding rides and basking in the sun, we often enjoyed dinner at a sub-par McDonald’s. My grandpa always said, “Ya just give ‘em $20 and tell ‘em, ‘Just give me whatever you’re gonna get me anyway.’” About the only thing they were quick to do was mess up the order. “Um, I’d like a Big Mac and a root beer.” “Okay, ma’am, here is your salad and ice cream cone.”
For the last few months, I have lived just a stone throw from that grassy field and the remaining McDonald’s. Occasionally, I drive by and laugh about the good ‘ole summer days I spent there as a child. And, occasionally, I take a stroll down memory lane and attempt to grab a nutritious bite to eat there. I am happy, or maybe terrified, to say that some things never change.
My first visit in over 5 years was a late night craving for some ice cream. I recounted my childhood memories and my grandpa’s saying to my partner-in-crime as we pulled up to the drive-thru and ordered our ice cream. “Sorry, ma’am, we ain’t got no ice cream.” “Um, I’ll take a diet coke.” “We ain’t got that neither.” “An apple pie?” “Uhhh, we only got cherry.”
We drove away empty-handed and laughing until we ached.
A few days ago I made another visit with another buddy to the famed McDonald’s. I recounted the stories and memories once again. We uneventfully placed our orders in the drive-thru, and to our pleasant surprise everything we ordered was available. My friend handed over her credit card and the cashier proceeded to swipe it and hand it back. This happened about 3 or 4 times before it dawned on him that something wasn’t quite right—back and forth with the credit card. He calls over his buddy, “Dominque, what up yo wit’ the thing?” They turn the credit card machine upside-down, backwards, and sideways. No luck. “Pedro, man, come see, dude.” Pedro tries his magic. No luck. The 3 look at each other at a loss. Then the original cashier says, “O yeah, dude, it ain’t working. I put the sign on ‘da drive thru a few minutes ago. I forget. It broke. Cash only.”
We dig for change holding back the laughter of the ever-so-faithful MickeyD’s. Our meal was a little chilly by the time we got home, but the trip was worth the laughs.
The place is faithfully deplorable. Completely inadequate. Specializing in messing-up. What a reputation.
Sometimes I wonder if my apples don’t fall far from that tree. Sometimes I wonder if I will ever get everything in life right. Sometimes I wonder if I am good enough. And more and more I am coming to the realization that I am not and never will be. You see, no matter how many times they swiped that credit card it was never going to work—the machine was broken. And I am finding that no matter how hard I try, I still don’t always measure up to who others expect me to be or even who I expect myself to be and much less who God expects me to be. I am broken. Even worse—I live in a broken world, and when one broken vessel knocks into other, you tend to just get a lot of broken pieces.
I am becoming more and more accepting of my inadequacy. I strive to pull myself together and grow more and more into the woman God wants me to be, but at the end of the days when the pieces crumble in my hands I find grace in the hands of a gentle God who wants all my inadequate pieces. I am reminded of the Scripture in Jeremiah 2:13, “…they have forgotten Me, the fountain of living waters, and hewed out cisterns for themselves, broken cisterns that can hold no water.” Too often I am striving too much only to find that these cisterns I build are laughable. Too often I don’t stop to simply, “Be still and know that He is God.”
I know that I will never measure up. But I also know a God who can move mountains, and surely can move my imperfect self out of the way. He is adequate. And in Him, I find grace and a fountain of living water that doesn’t need a cistern—whole or not—to hold it’s refreshing streams of life.
He is faithful and--I am sure--never runs out of ice cream when you need it....
The part of the neighborhood still standing--what we affectionately came to call “The World’s Worst McDonald’s.” Yes, that’s right. After a long day of riding rides and basking in the sun, we often enjoyed dinner at a sub-par McDonald’s. My grandpa always said, “Ya just give ‘em $20 and tell ‘em, ‘Just give me whatever you’re gonna get me anyway.’” About the only thing they were quick to do was mess up the order. “Um, I’d like a Big Mac and a root beer.” “Okay, ma’am, here is your salad and ice cream cone.”
For the last few months, I have lived just a stone throw from that grassy field and the remaining McDonald’s. Occasionally, I drive by and laugh about the good ‘ole summer days I spent there as a child. And, occasionally, I take a stroll down memory lane and attempt to grab a nutritious bite to eat there. I am happy, or maybe terrified, to say that some things never change.
My first visit in over 5 years was a late night craving for some ice cream. I recounted my childhood memories and my grandpa’s saying to my partner-in-crime as we pulled up to the drive-thru and ordered our ice cream. “Sorry, ma’am, we ain’t got no ice cream.” “Um, I’ll take a diet coke.” “We ain’t got that neither.” “An apple pie?” “Uhhh, we only got cherry.”
We drove away empty-handed and laughing until we ached.
A few days ago I made another visit with another buddy to the famed McDonald’s. I recounted the stories and memories once again. We uneventfully placed our orders in the drive-thru, and to our pleasant surprise everything we ordered was available. My friend handed over her credit card and the cashier proceeded to swipe it and hand it back. This happened about 3 or 4 times before it dawned on him that something wasn’t quite right—back and forth with the credit card. He calls over his buddy, “Dominque, what up yo wit’ the thing?” They turn the credit card machine upside-down, backwards, and sideways. No luck. “Pedro, man, come see, dude.” Pedro tries his magic. No luck. The 3 look at each other at a loss. Then the original cashier says, “O yeah, dude, it ain’t working. I put the sign on ‘da drive thru a few minutes ago. I forget. It broke. Cash only.”
We dig for change holding back the laughter of the ever-so-faithful MickeyD’s. Our meal was a little chilly by the time we got home, but the trip was worth the laughs.
The place is faithfully deplorable. Completely inadequate. Specializing in messing-up. What a reputation.
Sometimes I wonder if my apples don’t fall far from that tree. Sometimes I wonder if I will ever get everything in life right. Sometimes I wonder if I am good enough. And more and more I am coming to the realization that I am not and never will be. You see, no matter how many times they swiped that credit card it was never going to work—the machine was broken. And I am finding that no matter how hard I try, I still don’t always measure up to who others expect me to be or even who I expect myself to be and much less who God expects me to be. I am broken. Even worse—I live in a broken world, and when one broken vessel knocks into other, you tend to just get a lot of broken pieces.
I am becoming more and more accepting of my inadequacy. I strive to pull myself together and grow more and more into the woman God wants me to be, but at the end of the days when the pieces crumble in my hands I find grace in the hands of a gentle God who wants all my inadequate pieces. I am reminded of the Scripture in Jeremiah 2:13, “…they have forgotten Me, the fountain of living waters, and hewed out cisterns for themselves, broken cisterns that can hold no water.” Too often I am striving too much only to find that these cisterns I build are laughable. Too often I don’t stop to simply, “Be still and know that He is God.”
I know that I will never measure up. But I also know a God who can move mountains, and surely can move my imperfect self out of the way. He is adequate. And in Him, I find grace and a fountain of living water that doesn’t need a cistern—whole or not—to hold it’s refreshing streams of life.
He is faithful and--I am sure--never runs out of ice cream when you need it....
Sunday, April 06, 2008
Audrey Caroline
Tomorrow at 4 pm, a baby girl named Audrey Caroline will enter this world. Audrey has polycystic kidneys and congenital heart defects--she is not expected to live. For nearly 9 months her mom has carried her and loved her despite her prognosis. I have been keeping up with her journey to this point and have been amazed. I could try to re-tell the story but I think it is most beautiful from her mother's eyes. I love how she continues to remember the truth that God is the same yesterday, today, and forever. I love how she knows He is near and in control. I love how she is real, raw, and heartfelt. My heart truly aches for her and her family, but is encouraged by her faith despite the unfathomable pain. On the eve of Audrey Caroline's arrival, here are Angie's thoughts--
"He"
When I was about 4 years old, I was hospitalized for several days because I battled with overwhelming anxiety. I remember the hospital room, the way I would watch out the door when it was open to see who was coming. They made me draw pictures and ran all kinds of tests. I saw a child psychologist as well, and the best part was that my parents took me out to dinner afterward and I felt very fancy. At the time I didn't understand that something was wrong with me or that I was different from other kids. My stomach hurt all of the time. I used to make my father walk me around the house before bedtime to make sure that the stove was turned off, the front door was locked, and that my baby sister was breathing in her crib. I would worry for hours about things that could happen to my family, to my house, to myself. I vividly remember asking my dad what he would do in the event that someone broke into our house and tried to hurt us. Did he have some kind of plan? Was he strong enough to overtake a burglar if he needed to?
I worried at school. I worried that kids wouldn't like me, that something would happen to my mom while I was away, that my sister would have to eat alone in the cafeteria (I actually broke the rules several times to sneak to the kindergarten side and sit with her until they would catch me and send me back to the second-graders).
I just worried. I never wanted anyone to feel like they weren't "taken care of," and for my entire life, this pattern has remained constant. When we were at Disney World recently, I walked into a little shop that I remembered from childhood. All the stuffed animals were on the same wall that I had pictured them on in my memories. I got so choked up remembering myself as little red-headed girl who stood in front of the Goofy dolls (he was my favorite), tenderly lifting one off the shelf and then feeling the overwhelming guilt that all the other ones would be sad because I hadn't chosen them. I would look at their faces and try to decide which was the most needy so that I could rescue him. I vividly remember walking away with the "chosen" one and starting to cry because all the other ones must have felt abandoned.
I refused to come down the stairs on Christmas morning when I was 5 because I was convinced that Santa didn't find me worthy of toys. I hid under the covers and cried and cried until my dad brought me some red and white pom-poms from under the tree to prove that Santa had come, and that he had remembered me. The feeling that I needed to be the rescuer, that I needed to keep people safe, that I needed to be good enough.
I have never been able to completely shake these emotions. They came with me to college, to graduate school, to marriage, to the delivery room, to the doctor's office. To the ultrasound where I was told that my worst fears had been confirmed. They walk beside me in the daylight and wake me in the night. Fear wraps itself around me and refuses to let go. I can feel my fingers getting numb, my vision getting hazy, my breathing quicken, and I know it is upon me. But I believe now, years later, that this voice has a name, and he lurks in the shadows, waiting to devour. I feel that I have been in the midst of spiritual warfare as I have walked this path, and I have constantly had to silence the enemy with the only word that can. I utter the name of Jesus as I get into bed, as I cry in the night, as I sense the evil that Satan has tempted me to believe. Today he has sought me out. To paint horrific images of tomorrow, to shake me to the core, to tell me that my Lord has no power to intervene now. It is too late.
I have not made it out of bed today because I have so sensed the need to concentrate wholly on what I know to be true, even when I don't feel it. A few hours ago, I talked to God about what I was feeling, and I begged mercy for my doubts. He reminded me gently of a man named Job, whom he loved and knew as a righteous, holy man whose heart was filled with His spirit. He allowed Satan to test Job, to take away what was most precious to him. Job walked through the depths of suffering, more than I can fathom. I opened my Bible to his story, and asked God what it was that He wanted from me today, on the eve of the day where I have been called to anticipate the loss of my sweet daughter. He spoke, as He always does. I wasn't necessarily expecting to hear what He said in that moment, as I wept openly before Him in the profound wake of sadness that surrounds me.
I want you to praise Me.
He didn't ask me to praise Him because He was going to perform a miracle, although He knows that I would. He asked me to praise Him because He will be the same tomorrow regardless of what happens to Audrey. Is that hard for me to wrap my heart around? Yes. Does everything in me want to protest letting someone else be in charge? Yes. It has been my mode of survival since I was born. My parents told me that moments after I was born, I lifted my head off my mother's body and scanned the room. I was probably making sure someone was going to bring me to the right place and that the doctor was well aware of what he needed to be focusing on in that moment.
I have a history of not letting someone else "take care of things." And now I am being called to praise the One who is allowing this season? Who has taken every bit of control from me? Lord, I can't even read a book without a highlighter in my hand. I can't let my children walk too close to the ice-cream man without hovering a foot away (although, in fairness, you would do the same if you met him. Seriously creepy....). Are you serious?
I sat in the silence. I closed my eyes and thought about who He is to me. What He has been to me, in the bitterness and in the joy. I felt like He was beside me, waiting. And in that moment, I felt myself rest. My mind was still. All I know is that without intending to, I smiled. It was the most ridiculous thing you could ever imagine, unless you know what I know. And I hope you do.
He is Lord. Only He. Not me, not Todd, not my doctors, not my parents.
He.
We don't know what tomorrow will look like, how it will be remembered ten years from now. We can't begin to imagine the road that lies ahead of us, but I know that I will remember today as being a day that I trusted Him despite the hurt.
I want you to know, especially if you do not know the Lord, that He is real. This is not a fairy-tale coping mechanism that I rely on when I need to escape from reality. It is not something I do because it's nice to have a place to dress up for on Sunday mornings. It is my fervent prayer that somehow I can manage in this post to find a balance between not alienating people and sharing my heart. It's just that I don't know how people get through things like this without Him. I can barely choose stuffed animals without having a heart attack, and today, because of Christ, I am filled with peace. I pray the same for each of you as you walk through your own life.
One way or another, our daughter will be healed tomorrow. Praise God with me tonight for this truth.
Your prayers, as always, are with me. God has allowed my burden to be shared with so many "strangers" that I am overwhelmed. This little girl has been loved deeply, richly, profoundly by many. Thank you. I know you will be with us tomorrow, and for that we are more grateful than we can express.
My friend Jess will be updating the blog tomorrow as things are progressing so that we can share specific prayer requests. For today, please pray that we will be able to hear truth above fear, and that we will rest in knowing that truth.
With much love and great hope,
Angie
What a real God we have. What a loving Father we have.
"He"
When I was about 4 years old, I was hospitalized for several days because I battled with overwhelming anxiety. I remember the hospital room, the way I would watch out the door when it was open to see who was coming. They made me draw pictures and ran all kinds of tests. I saw a child psychologist as well, and the best part was that my parents took me out to dinner afterward and I felt very fancy. At the time I didn't understand that something was wrong with me or that I was different from other kids. My stomach hurt all of the time. I used to make my father walk me around the house before bedtime to make sure that the stove was turned off, the front door was locked, and that my baby sister was breathing in her crib. I would worry for hours about things that could happen to my family, to my house, to myself. I vividly remember asking my dad what he would do in the event that someone broke into our house and tried to hurt us. Did he have some kind of plan? Was he strong enough to overtake a burglar if he needed to?
I worried at school. I worried that kids wouldn't like me, that something would happen to my mom while I was away, that my sister would have to eat alone in the cafeteria (I actually broke the rules several times to sneak to the kindergarten side and sit with her until they would catch me and send me back to the second-graders).
I just worried. I never wanted anyone to feel like they weren't "taken care of," and for my entire life, this pattern has remained constant. When we were at Disney World recently, I walked into a little shop that I remembered from childhood. All the stuffed animals were on the same wall that I had pictured them on in my memories. I got so choked up remembering myself as little red-headed girl who stood in front of the Goofy dolls (he was my favorite), tenderly lifting one off the shelf and then feeling the overwhelming guilt that all the other ones would be sad because I hadn't chosen them. I would look at their faces and try to decide which was the most needy so that I could rescue him. I vividly remember walking away with the "chosen" one and starting to cry because all the other ones must have felt abandoned.
I refused to come down the stairs on Christmas morning when I was 5 because I was convinced that Santa didn't find me worthy of toys. I hid under the covers and cried and cried until my dad brought me some red and white pom-poms from under the tree to prove that Santa had come, and that he had remembered me. The feeling that I needed to be the rescuer, that I needed to keep people safe, that I needed to be good enough.
I have never been able to completely shake these emotions. They came with me to college, to graduate school, to marriage, to the delivery room, to the doctor's office. To the ultrasound where I was told that my worst fears had been confirmed. They walk beside me in the daylight and wake me in the night. Fear wraps itself around me and refuses to let go. I can feel my fingers getting numb, my vision getting hazy, my breathing quicken, and I know it is upon me. But I believe now, years later, that this voice has a name, and he lurks in the shadows, waiting to devour. I feel that I have been in the midst of spiritual warfare as I have walked this path, and I have constantly had to silence the enemy with the only word that can. I utter the name of Jesus as I get into bed, as I cry in the night, as I sense the evil that Satan has tempted me to believe. Today he has sought me out. To paint horrific images of tomorrow, to shake me to the core, to tell me that my Lord has no power to intervene now. It is too late.
I have not made it out of bed today because I have so sensed the need to concentrate wholly on what I know to be true, even when I don't feel it. A few hours ago, I talked to God about what I was feeling, and I begged mercy for my doubts. He reminded me gently of a man named Job, whom he loved and knew as a righteous, holy man whose heart was filled with His spirit. He allowed Satan to test Job, to take away what was most precious to him. Job walked through the depths of suffering, more than I can fathom. I opened my Bible to his story, and asked God what it was that He wanted from me today, on the eve of the day where I have been called to anticipate the loss of my sweet daughter. He spoke, as He always does. I wasn't necessarily expecting to hear what He said in that moment, as I wept openly before Him in the profound wake of sadness that surrounds me.
I want you to praise Me.
He didn't ask me to praise Him because He was going to perform a miracle, although He knows that I would. He asked me to praise Him because He will be the same tomorrow regardless of what happens to Audrey. Is that hard for me to wrap my heart around? Yes. Does everything in me want to protest letting someone else be in charge? Yes. It has been my mode of survival since I was born. My parents told me that moments after I was born, I lifted my head off my mother's body and scanned the room. I was probably making sure someone was going to bring me to the right place and that the doctor was well aware of what he needed to be focusing on in that moment.
I have a history of not letting someone else "take care of things." And now I am being called to praise the One who is allowing this season? Who has taken every bit of control from me? Lord, I can't even read a book without a highlighter in my hand. I can't let my children walk too close to the ice-cream man without hovering a foot away (although, in fairness, you would do the same if you met him. Seriously creepy....). Are you serious?
I sat in the silence. I closed my eyes and thought about who He is to me. What He has been to me, in the bitterness and in the joy. I felt like He was beside me, waiting. And in that moment, I felt myself rest. My mind was still. All I know is that without intending to, I smiled. It was the most ridiculous thing you could ever imagine, unless you know what I know. And I hope you do.
He is Lord. Only He. Not me, not Todd, not my doctors, not my parents.
He.
We don't know what tomorrow will look like, how it will be remembered ten years from now. We can't begin to imagine the road that lies ahead of us, but I know that I will remember today as being a day that I trusted Him despite the hurt.
I want you to know, especially if you do not know the Lord, that He is real. This is not a fairy-tale coping mechanism that I rely on when I need to escape from reality. It is not something I do because it's nice to have a place to dress up for on Sunday mornings. It is my fervent prayer that somehow I can manage in this post to find a balance between not alienating people and sharing my heart. It's just that I don't know how people get through things like this without Him. I can barely choose stuffed animals without having a heart attack, and today, because of Christ, I am filled with peace. I pray the same for each of you as you walk through your own life.
One way or another, our daughter will be healed tomorrow. Praise God with me tonight for this truth.
Your prayers, as always, are with me. God has allowed my burden to be shared with so many "strangers" that I am overwhelmed. This little girl has been loved deeply, richly, profoundly by many. Thank you. I know you will be with us tomorrow, and for that we are more grateful than we can express.
My friend Jess will be updating the blog tomorrow as things are progressing so that we can share specific prayer requests. For today, please pray that we will be able to hear truth above fear, and that we will rest in knowing that truth.
With much love and great hope,
Angie
What a real God we have. What a loving Father we have.
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