Record my misery; list my tears on your scroll— are they not in your record? Psalm 56:8 (NIV)

Remember my affliction and roaming, The wormwood and the gall. My soul still remembers And sinks within me. This I recall to my mind, Therefore I have hope. Through the Lord’s mercies we are not consumed, Because His compassions fail not. They are new every morning; Great is Your faithfulness. “The Lord is my portion,” says my soul,“Therefore I hope in Him!” Lamentations 3:19-24 (NKJV)

I set an alarm to go off each evening as a reminder to take my medications. It’s a part of my routine, and I know I have to take each one in order to keep my body from flaring (I know, because I’ve tried - and failed 🙄  -  to reduce or eliminate more than one of my medications on multiple occasions). Once in a while, when my alarm goes off, my stomach drops.

When this happens, I sit still, waiting for my mind to catch up to my emotions. Sometimes, I realize that I’m angry - “Why is this my life? It is absolutely ridiculous that I have to take all of these medications just to live a somewhat ‘normal’ life. It never should have even gotten to this place.” Other times I realize I’m disappointed - “This is not how I pictured my life at 32. I don’t want my son to have to watch me take all these medications. I hope it stays at this, and I won’t have to take any more.” Then, there are some days when I try to gain the courage to just quit it all. “Maybe my body will do better without all of these medications.”

But, every time, regardless of what my emotions are telling me, I take all my pills and continue moving forward with my evening. Most of the time, my feelings are passing and I am able to push them aside, but I certainly don’t forget them. This past week, as I sat staring at my alarm going off, sulking in my own pity, my husband reminded me that my medications are a blessing. He’s right - through a combination of 6 different pills, liquids, and an infusion, I have gotten to a place of little pain and a somewhat normal semblance of life.

I remember being in a condition where I didn’t understand why the doctors couldn’t just give me something to ease my pain. Day after day I was in misery and it seemed like I would never find relief. All I wanted to do was to wake up without pain shooting through my feet when I got out of bed. I imagined what it would be like to do what I wanted to do with my family or friends and not pay the price the next day.

Today, I am practically where I had desperately wanted to be 2 years ago. Yet, I’m still not satisfied. I’m stuck somewhere between “thank God that we have advancements in and access to amazing medical care” and “this is not how I want to live my life.” I love my medications and despise them at the same time. I understand there’s a purpose to where I’m at and what I’m experiencing, but I am desperately seeking a new chapter that involves miraculous physical healing.

I talk a lot about, and I really believe in, finding purpose in our pain; I truly feel that our illnesses, tragedies, trials and tough seasons are instrumental in our growth as humans and as believers of God. But even if all that is factual, does that mean we should be comfortable in our pain? Is it wrong to have moments, or even seasons, of anger, grief, or despair, even if the situation does serve a purpose? I’ve wondered if these feelings are allowed to coincide with hope. I guess I’ve wondered too if hope actually can cause these feelings. Does knowing that God has the power to heal create this emotional conflict between my reality and hope? Does understanding who God is form an unhealthy desperation for better?

When we stand between now and the future, are we supposed to address our current reality or look forward with hope? Are we supposed to only look at the unseen, and then, if so, am I supposed to forget about the seen? Because when I hear my alarm go off, I see 6 medications I need to take for my body that isn’t working the way I know God intended it to. And while I can remain hopeful that it will not always be this way, I still have to keep one foot in today - taking my meds, going to doctor appointments, and making sure I can physically continue walking in my purpose. I guess you could say hope keeps us moving forward, but wisdom keeps us active today. It’s a balancing act; for believers with chronic illness it means having to dig deep both into ourselves and into our relationships with God to figure out the perfect equilibrium. I do believe it’s possible for us to take care of our “momentary troubles” without losing hope - that we can see and address the visible issues, but still remain focused on the invisible thing we hope for.

The Bible says we’re supposed to hope with “patience and composure,” but it can be ridiculously hard when we are in pain and distress and we confidently know there is something better for us. Some, as I see it, have dealt with these difficult feelings by pushing their hope beyond this life; the hope they hold on to doesn’t exist on earth, only in heaven. Personally, I’m not at that point. I know that God can do things my mind can’t even comprehend, and I believe those things can be done here on earth, during my lifetime. Until that happens, all I need to do is figure out how to have hope and remain at peace when my 7:00 PM medication alarm rings.

Stay tuned for part 2 next week…