Judah Hill Detour

Driving to town yesterday was so exciting! I was only doing routine errands, and nothing out of the ordinary happened, nevertheless I was almost giddy. We live 18 kilometres south of Peace River, the town where we work, shop & worship. The drive is about 16 kilometres over the flat prairie, then two steep and windy kilometres down Judah Hill into the valley. Last May there was a landslide – the hillside gave way and took a chunk of the highway with it. The road was closed. Now our only way to town was north by southeast – across to the village of Nampa and up to Peace River. Our 18 kilometre jaunt became a 90 kilometre round-trip. Fifteen minutes of relative solitude on the secondary highway became at least half an hour with traffic.

The timing was ironic  - for the almost eight years we’d lived out here on our acreage, Paul taught at and the boys went to school at the francophone school in Falher, 55 kilometres south of us, so they all had a daily 110 kilometre commute. (Before I had children I probably would have considered this child abuse, but my kids loved the bus ride.) In May Paul accepted a position at the Catholic school in Peace River, so we decided to switch everyone to that school system. What a joy to have a much shorter drive, we thought… it turned out to be almost as long.

It was a delight yesterday to turn left onto the highway, after nine months of the longer route to the right. My muscle memory kicked in - I know that road like the back of my hand. I have driven it in all weather conditions imaginable – whiteouts, floods, heat waves and wind storms. I remember driving back and forth to town, pregnant and studying Jewish history, and deciding that if we had another boy I’d like to name him Judah. I remember spinning out on the ice and going into the ditch, five-year-old Sasha squealing “Whee!” the whole time. I remember stopping as a herd of elk crossed the highway single file as I was on my way to the grocery store. In just less than eight years I've driven this route over a thousand times – encountering moose, deer, snowy owls, golden eagles, northern lights and bright canola fields. I am so grateful for this drive.

But as frustrating as it was to reroute the long way, I need to keep it in perspective. So it was a 45 kilometre drive… to what?

45 kilometres to school – my kids have the right to go to school, unlike other children in this world who are forced to work or otherwise denied education. We have the privilege to choose both French and Christian instruction.

45 kilometres to work – my husband has a good, stable job that he loves. While many folks are out of work or working in terrible conditions, we have plenty of opportunities for employment, even the option of government social services to aid us.

45 kilometres to shopping – even in a relatively small northern town I have the choice of four grocery stores that carry product from all over the world. While many people in this world are starving, I can eat mangoes, avocados and coconuts far from their country of origin. We have the option of gluten-free, nut-free, low-fat, oven-ready or take-out.

45 kilometres to church – we are free to attend the church of our choice and freely worship. In other parts of the world believers are persecuted - forced to sneak into secrets churches under the cover of night or even martyred for their faith. Our church has running water, heat and even a new roof. We are not afraid to go to church.

As I drive that 45 kilometres to town I need to keep my eyes peeled for moose, but I will likely not encounter any roadside bombs or snipers along the way. The relatively small amount of additional effort it takes for us to get to our places of work, worship, learning and shopping is nothing to the huge and dangerous effort it is for some of the world to access work, school, church, clean water and food.

So as much as I appreciate my short Judah Hill drive, I also thank God for the detour. We live in a land of plenty, a land of opportunity, a land of choice. And for that I am grateful.

Counting the Days

Health has not been the theme of my past year. Unfortunately I have experienced a lot of illness. Between migraines, irritable bowel syndrome, gastritis and some other undiagnosed issues, I spent much of the last year unwell.  Nausea and vomiting have left me weak and dehydrated. Migraines have sent me to solitary confinement with ice packs and ear plugs. Belching has made me sound ruder and more repellent than a drunken sailor. Bloating has left me with no clothes that fit and feeling six months pregnant. (Looking pregnant has been a mix of amusing and awkward – young people have discreetly wondered and asked someone else if I was pregnant, whereas adults have simply assumed and publicly congratulated me on my growing family. If you don’t know for sure I recommend saying nothing – explaining you are sick rather than expecting really dampens the atmosphere in the room. In those moments I genuinely wished I was expecting - even at almost forty – then I would know what was causing my symptoms and I would be looking forward to the resulting miracle. Morning sickness is preferable to mystery sickness.)

I have missed more work, church, meetings, kids’ activities and social events than I care to count. Do I dare to count? How many days have I missed in the past year?

Throwing up: 2-3 days/month = 1 month

Recovery/Dehydration: 2-3 days/month = 1 month

Migraine: 3-4 days/month = 1.5 months

Bloating: 7-8 days/month = 3 months

Nausea: 15 days/month = 6 months (Most of the days I was nauseated I had other symptoms, so let’s factor most of those out.)

Nausea only: 5/month = 2 months

Total: 8.5 months.

That’s about 255 sick days.

Of the 3.5 months remaining I was tired, really tired. It is hard for me to remember the last time I didn’t feel exhausted. Exhaustion is oppressive and depressive. In this disheartening and frustrating condition I have seen 5 doctors, had 4 invasive tests, and so many blood tests that the bruises on my arms sometimes haven’t healed before the next round. I think I have tried varying cocktails of 8 medications. Diagnosis? The theories have been numerous and mostly erroneous.

Why am I writing about this? I hope my motivation is not simply so someone will feel sorry for me. I am questioning and grappling with what is going on. All of these days add up to a lot of time to think about being sick. Time to ponder health and pose questions about illness. I haven’t been asking “Why, God, why?” but rather “What, God, what?” What is causing these symptoms? What is making my body feel so toxic? What can I do to feel better? What should I learn from this?

And I pray for healing – I pray for God to restore and renew my body, to remove the sickness, the fatigue, the depression. It is natural to cry out to God when we are broken and want Him to fix us. What surprises me is how this time had led to an outpouring of gratitude. As I hug the toilet and wait for the next wave of vomiting to begin I thank Him. I thank Him for things I otherwise might not:

            Thank You that this not happening because of cancer and chemo. 

Thank You for Gatorade and Gravol.

Thank You for clean running water and indoor plumbing.

As I lie in my bed in the dark, ice pack on head, I thank Him:

          Thank You that my kids are old enough to feed themselves.

          Thank You for my husband who can cook and clean

          Thank You that it is me who is ill, not my kids.

Eventually the vomiting ceases; the migraine subsides; the bloating decreases. But with it the gratitude dwindles… Just when I should be the most thankful for relief of symptoms and a reprieve from pain I seem to fall into a pattern of complaining, of feeling sorry for myself. I mourn the lost days and resent the pile of dishes, the loads of laundry, the unpaid bills that await my return to the everyday world. But instead of embracing the gift of recovery, instead of rejoicing in my ability to perform ordinary responsibilities, I resent the missed opportunities – all the activities, events and conversations that I could not join in.  The days spent entirely in bed. The days I could barely do anything for my kids. The days I barely talked to my husband. While I dwell on the lost fun, play, worship and work, I overlook the miracles right in front of my eyes - the sunrise, the birdsong, and the laughter of my children.

I don’t know why I find it harder to be positive when I am physically feeling better – I guess I get caught up in being behind. I neglect the present while I grieve the past. I practice grief instead of gratitude. When we find God when we are down and out, we casually cast Him aside when things are looking up. We call for Him in the pit, not on the plain.

Psalm 40.1-3. I waited patiently for the Lord to help me, and he turned to me and heard my cry. He lifted me out of the pit of despair, out of the mud and the mire. He set my feet on solid ground and steadied me as I walked along. He has given me a new song to sing, a hymn of praise to our God. Many will see what he has done and be amazed. They will put their trust in the Lord

Sometimes I don’t wait patiently, but God always hears my cry. He lifts me out of the pit, and as I crawl around and adjust to the Light, He picks me up and steadies my wobbly legs. Now it is my part – I need to sing the new song – the hymn of praise.

Thank You, Father, for your healing, your salvation, your unfailing love. As You lift my spirit, help me lift my praise to You.