Out of the Ashes

Yesterday, and last week in Indiana, it occurred to me, during the worship time, what incredible things God has done. I mean, it's unbelievable sometimes that we've made it together, let alone...sharing in something so intimate and beautiful as Leading Worship??? Well...let me tell you, it wasn't always that way. Not even close! Yesterday, I was sharing our story with a woman at church and it just fell out of my mouth...as things seem to do often, especially when I'm excited...

Her: Were you guys in a band or something.

me: no I didn't even sing before God changed my life.

Her; Wow! That's incredible!

me: Oh, you don't know the half of it. I mean, if God could change a "Jerry Springer Person" like myself, He can do anything!"

Now let me explain and please don't send me hate mail or anything. I'm not saying there's anything wrong with people who appear on the Jerry Springer show. All I'm saying is that, in the mindset of my pre-Christ years, you could have easily found me comfortably on his or any talk show selling out my family or fighting and defending myself. I mean who wouldn't find satisfaction temporarily, anyway, to have a whole audience agreeing with your opinion and YOUR side of an argument?

Anyway, I was thinking this morning about how it all did start. Sharing our lives and our faith in this way.

and I guess, next to becoming Christians, the biggest change in this direction actually came from what seemed at the time to be a horrible crisis. But, then again I think somewhere in the meaning of the word crisis, it means to 'turn-around'. A crisis brings change...one way or another. Good or bad, I guess it's the way you look at it. Anyway, I thought I'd share ours...

Part 1

“You can rise!
Out of the ash you can rise!
When the morning will break in your life,
And what looked like your heart's demise
Turned out to be a blessing in disguise!”

words from song “Blessing in Disguise” – Margaret Becker

Yep, me and Naomi Judd…we got the dreaded…Hep C. At least that’s what I thought. Of course, now I know that I'm merely one of millions who've been infected with the Hepatitis C virus. Though I'm perfectly aware that I've probably dabbled with every less noble way to get infected, it would seem that a likely cause is the couple of transfusions, on two separate occasions, I was given in the 80’s. They've since found that some of the blood they handed out back then was not so clean as they thought. But, the way I figure it, at the time, I needed the blood to get through the immediate crisis. So, who knows which is worse?

My dream of owning my own hair salon had come true. It was a precious little dollhouse-looking place, which only a year before had been a run down sort of shed or garage structure where locals in our tiny beach-town hung out. "The Bass Hole" sold worms and fish hooks. Now it sold hairspray and shampoo, had cute little turquoise shutters, a white french door, beautiful peach tile floors, mirrors and plumbling. "The BeachComber" was an unexpected and growing success, even with its horrible location of fifteen miles from anywhere. I loved it...not once did anyone complain about the Christian music playing softly in the background, at least to my face. My clients became more friends than customers and we enjoyed some deep and personal conversations. God had given me the gift of hairdressing. I was using it for Him. Seemed to me, that this would/could/should go on forever. However, I'd soon find out that God's ways are not even close to our ways.

At some point, it occurred to me, that, in complete contrast to my usual energy and enthusiasm, I began to experience extreme, and crushing..almost nauseating fatigue. Honestly, things became increasingly more desperate each day as I soon found it difficult to get out of bed in the morning. Seeking medical help began a journey of frustrating appointments and tests and discouragements, that to me, made dealing with the actual disease somehow more appealing. Test after test, showing nothing, led to one of the most despairing times of my life…and this after knowing joy and purpose like I’ve never known since becoming a Christian just a few short years earlier. With the vague "fatigue" syptoms and no sign of anything specific and textbook, doctors eventually concluded that it was ‘clinical depression.' (Is there a difference between ‘clinical’ and regular depression btw?) Angry and finding their diagnosis humiliating, I refused to believe it.
“I’m the least depressed person I know”, I argued with our regular family physician. “If I’m depressed, it’s because I don’t feel well”, I appealed. The negative results of blood tests seemed to confirm his findings and added to my frustration. It was so frustrating to communicate to him how this non-specific thing was devestating my life and only made him seem more satisfied with his diagnosis. Growing wearier each day, despair and dread loomed larger than life itself. The energy and motivation I once took for granted had disappeared and in its place was a self-absorbed whiny baby who just wanted somebody, somewhere to understand what was happening to my life.

Never had I felt so alone. I have to say though, the worst thing about this horrible experience was that the very faith that I had professed to every client who sat in my chair was now ringing empty down in my own soul. Prayers seemed to echo in a blasted deafening silence. My husband and children were losing their patience with me. They wanted the old me back, but every day, that person sunk further from reach. Desperately seeking understanding and finding none, I finally resigned myself to the facts. It felt as if I'd been pushed to a breaking point I didn't think possible "ok, OK...uncle..." I felt like crying. Like it or not, I was depressed. It was absolutely depressing.

Yup, I was THAT desparate for help that I paid some stranger to listen and after struggling through psychiatric treatment, anti-depressants, and more bouts with extreme fatigue, I mercifully began to have some gastro-intestinal problems. I say ‘mercifully’ because it was with those problems that it was discovered, through routine blood work that I had Hepatitis C. A liver biopsy, revealed that the disease was Chronic-active. What does that mean? That the Hepatitis C virus, which had invaded my blood, possibly through one of those transfusions, was aggressively attacking my liver. It had caused some pretty impressive damage and left untreated, would probably lead to Cirrhosis and the eventual need of a liver transplant. Relief that I was not some middle aged pre-menopausal, crazy woman was short-lived when I realized the treatment for Hepatitis C. (don't let this scare you, though...I hear it's much better now)

But, at the time, the treatment was three self-administered injections of Intron-A Interferon per week, for six months was the standard protocol. The side effects of Interferon consisted of two pages of possibilities. From redness and swelling at the injection site to severe flu-like symptoms to of course, death. I figured I’d probably fall somewhere in between, so I was willing to take the chance and began to dream of regaining my old life. This was it! God would restore my old life and my . It made perfect sense.

Meanwhile, a group from church meeting in our home on Friday evenings and from that I was asked to join the worship team. Maybe they just felt sorry for me, but, however it came about, I found joy in that like you would not believe. Little did I know at the time that leading praise and worship would be just one of the first sweet gifts (and begin one of the major changes) that would help sustain me in one of the very darkest times in my life. God would begin to change life as I knew it in a way I had never imagined possible, through a circumstance that I would have never suspected.

The first injection was a nightmare! Violent chills, extremely high fever and the horrible splitting headache. Even my skin hurt to touch it, but within twenty-four hours, I began to feel better...just in time to re-inject. The side effects were diminishing, but fearing a reoccurrence, I contacted a doctor, just to alleviate some of my apprehension and was assured that it would be much milder, if anything the next time. It was true. The next time wasn’t as bad, and after taking off of work for the weekend, I returned to my salon. Two months in, however, I'd lost weight, grown very weak and deathly ill. It was becoming more and more impossible to maintain treatments along with working. I quit the treatments after the second horrible headache that lasted whole agonizing week and almost immediately regained my old stamina and energy. I felt like myself for the first time in years and nothing could keep me down. I totally ignored thoughts that there may be consequences of stopping treatment, and went forward, full steam ahead into new marketing strategies for my salon, and new ideas for reaching the lost. A few months later, as I tackled a rugged camping trip, volunteering for Compassion International, the bottom of my energy dropped out once again. This time, though, I knew something was terribly wrong. Returning home, I was discouraged with the terrible results of medical tests. They showed an aggressive relapse in the virus, which had probably been due to cutting the treatment short. I was forced to face the situation more realistically.

At this point, treatments were no longer optional. My immediate future now included a much higher strength of Interferon for a greater length of time. To say I was discouraged was an understatement. There was no getting around it, if I was going to fight this new attack on my liver, I would have to readjust my life. Knowing what I’d experienced the first time, it would be impossible to keep the salon. As I sat packing everything everything I'd dreamed of, I began to prepare for the second round.

Besides the obvious suffering a disease and its treatment can cause personally, the effects on the family can be devesating. This would begin some of the most powerful changes in my relationships with my husband and children than I could ever imagine. Strength was my greatest asset. I had always prided myself on my ability to manage everything. Frank would be the first to admit that he had very little input on what it took to run our home. That was my department. How would they deal with the journey we were about to embark, with mom displaying a weakness they’d never seen? With mom needing them? God had brought our marriage miraculously to this point; I could count on my husband being the strength in our family, right? Of course they’d come through, I was sure. After all, I’d done everything for them all these years. Of course they'd magically acquire all the caretaking tools they'd need. However, while I still could, with all my control freak gifts and abilities intact...I had everything in order. Planning it perfectly around chores and every other thing they could need me for, I injected my first round of Interferon on a Sunday afternoon. That way, free from the daily routine, I knew if I needed help, they’d be there. Three hours later, however, I realized my plans weren’t as perfect as I’d initially thought; the first staggering signs of side effects of Intron Interferon would interfere all right, right smack in the middle of the very first game of professional football season!

That’s right, as my body was beginning to scream from chills and nausea, my Frank was screaming at the Redskins fumbling and passing. Experience told me, this would be a long night. I groped my way up the stairs desperate for a bed and to be perfectly honest, maybe a little sympathy. Maybe a little consoling?

My head throbbed and Frank’s enthusiasm over cheering crowds grew louder. I stood in the doorway, wanting him to notice the agony that was beginning to rage in my body.

He noticed. “Oh, hey, hon. Come on in,” he patted the bed beside him.

“This is a great game!” He emphasized. “Redskins are winning! Come watch it with me.”

Now, I have to tell you, I am not a huge football fan...even when I’m not feeling like death is around the corner.

My teeth chattered and I began to tremble, “Would you mind getting me some Tylenol and maybe a drink?”

“Sure,” he said, distracted, but polite. With his eyes glued to the television, he disappeared from the room. Back in a jiffy, he again became mesmerized, mechanically handing me water and some aspirin.

Settling back to the thrill of the game, his response was, let’s just say, a little less polite when I interupted once again.

“I’m freezing, Frank” I said. (Ok, I whined) through violent chills. “Could you please get me the heating pad out of the closet?”

It was only after the nerve of my third request that my husband actually resorted to rolling his eyes with a heavy sigh of total disgust. Minutes later, I began to be alarmed at the increasing and unrelenting side effects. And can you believe it? With total lack of respect for the Redskins, I asked if he would get the instructions out of the box of interferon. “Would you take a look at the list of side effects. I’m wondering if I should call the doctor?” I asked him to read which ones were considered severe.

Obviously at the end of his rope with me, Frank snapped the paper open. “Let’s see,” he began reading sarcastically, unable to hide his annoyance. “How about suicidal? That’s what the directions call severe. Are you feeling suicidal”?

Now I’d had it with his impatience and unmerciful attitude.

“No,” I snapped back. “But how about homicidal, is that on the list? Cause, that’s what I’m feeling right now,” I said, glaring back at him. “Very homicidal!”

In our early years of Christianity, Frank used to say "I'm praying for compassion."

"What??? You think God is gonna just dump compassion in your lap?" I'd answer flippantly. "Any fool knows you only gain compassion by feeling another's pain."

Obviously, those prayers hadn't been answered yet, and if he was going to ever feel some sort of compassion for what I was going through, that was certainly not the way to do it. My wisecracks only served to satisfy his own opinion; I was totally competent to care for myself. But, I wasn't. I've never needed him so desperately! We were certainly one huge dissapointment to each other.

So, there we were, off in the struggle to get through this together, with the tools that we had, and with the baggage that we brought. It was ugly.