Remember the Magi

Between today and the 6th of January, Christians everywhere will mark their doorways with the signs 20 + C + M + B + 16.  Caspar, Melchior, Balthasar, the traditional names of three mad kings who went away and were never the same.  Don't take my word for it.  Hear it from T.S. Eliot:

I love this poem for its brutal honesty.  Cause sometimes searching for God isn't all angels-on-high and rocks crying out.  It's hard work.  It's uncomfortable.  It means tears and sleepless nights.  It means traveling in the wilderness (waste land).  We think of the wise men following the star like a lighthouse in a storm, but Scripture doesn't say anything about the star leading the way.  They tell Herod, "We saw his star when it rose. . ."  The next thing we hear in Matthew,

After they had heard the king, they went on their way, and the star they had seen when it rose went ahead of them until it stopped over the place where the child was.  When they saw the star, they were overjoyed.  (NIV)

The magi saw the star as a summons, not a safety net.  They embarked on an arduous journey knowing neither when nor where the destination.  There is no mention of the star until it appears again over Bethlehem.  Between those two times, they made their way in darkness.

Remembering that they had seen the star, believing it, that's the epiphany.  That is faith.

He's my husband. Not my partner.

Something I noticed living in the UK is that people refer to John as my partner.  It's the polite and politically correct thing to do, even though our rings are displayed for everyone to see.  Er, that's the whole point of the rings, actually.  ;)

No jumping on the bandwagon; I won't be an offended American, and I'm really not.  I just know that for me, whenever I refer to John, I will call him my husband.  And for John, he will call me his wife.  That's not a political stance.  It's a fact.

My husband is not my partner.  A partner implies someone you go into business with; in the broader sense, someone who works together with you for a common purpose.  The other performer in a two-person act.  It implies a kind of synchronicity and harmony that, let's be realistic, is missing in many, many marriages--some of the time, if not most of the time.

There were lots of times in our going-on-six years that my husband and I were not in harmony.  We did not work together.  In fact, we were at odds with each other, in very painful ways.  We each had our own interests in mind.  We had different "business plans," and it almost ruined us.

We've worked really hard to come out the other side, and our work is not done.  If we were merely partners, though, we would have parted ways a long time ago.  Cue hackneyed excuses: It's not working out.  We have different visions for the future.  We're two different people.  This arrangement is no longer productive.  Checkmark the carefully contrived phrase "conscious uncoupling."

But, thank God (and some times, in my weakness, I do the opposite), I didn't enter into a partnership.  Marriage isn't a contract, it's a covenant.  More specifically, it's a sacrament.  If my husband were my partner, we wouldn't be partners.  I'm going to take a guess and say that's so for the longest lasting and most successful marriages.  So no, it's not offensive for people to refer to John as my partner.  It's just inaccurate.

In other words,

"Marriage is a duel to the death which no man of honor should decline." -- G.K. Chesterton

∆∆∆

Curious about the Catholic stance on divorce and annulments?  Try here, here, and here.

For further reading:

• The Battle that Is Marriage at Better than Eden
• Marriage Is a Kind of Death at Carrots for Michaelmas

5 Things Flannery O'Connor Taught Me About Chronic Illness

Or any illness.  Or just life.  I've been working with fibromyalgia for a while, but only recently have I known about it.  That's prompted some serious reflection about how I go about daily life; and, what is more, how my attitude can make or break the day.

Here are five things I learned about handling my chronic illness, from my muse Flannery.

1 // Keep doing what you're doing

When she was diagnosed with Lupus, Mary Flannery, the up-and-coming young author with a bright publishing future ahead of her, didn't stop writing.  It seems like a given, but I can't tell you how many times my thought processing has circled back around to "what am I going to do now?"   And the answer, after much wailing and gnashing of teeth, has eventually come back to me clear as a bell: "Just keep doing what you're doing."

There may be days that I can't do it, or that I have to slow down, and projects will be delayed, and plans will be held off.  But if it's not a full stop period, I can keep doing what I'm doing; it'll just look a little different.

2 // Move home

Go where you're going to have help, where you're going to be most comfortable.  I guess for some people, this isn't even really an option.  So why not own it?  At the very least, you'll get a kick out of observing the natives.

3 // Indulge in what you love

Like raising peacocks.  Or, take a page from my book, and:

• read Flannery
• blog
• look up little known ethnic groups on Wikipedia
• draw up the family trees of imaginary dynasties
• go to Hobby Lobby and not buy anything
• make lists

I highly recommend any of these.

Doing something that you love is fortifying.  I think the self-help books and inspirational blogs have hammered that one home; at least I hope.

4 // Have a sense of humor

Flannery was born with a skewed since of humor all her own, and I think it really helped her through the difficulties in her life.  You'll find her sometimes in her letters express worry or sorrow but never self-pity.  I can only chalk it up to exceptional grace and a sense of humor.

5 // "I can, with one eye squinted, take it all as a blessing."

Amen.

Old at the age of 29

I was officially diagnosed on Monday with {fibromyalgia}.  I can't say I'm surprised, but at the same time . . . it is so alien to think of myself in terms of being ill.  I.  Have.  Fibromyalgia.  I have a chronic illness.  It will never go away, and I will have it for the rest of my life.  I am one of those people you read about in magazines or inspirational lifestyle blogs or who get interviewed on Oprah.

I am old at the age of 29.

At the same time, I don't really believe it.  I'm just sick?  For no reason?  How can I just accept this?  I have two children who need me, one who has autism.  I have so much I want to do and too much to offer.  Why would God make someone with all these potentialities and then hold her back?

Then I think, I should come to terms with the fact my life is going to have to be different than I always hoped it would be.  That I'll have to turn down trips and visits and experiences.  That I'll have to let go of hobbies and vocational aspirations.  It's humbling; and it is good for me to practice surrendering to God's will.  But--

But.

I don't want to lie down and take it first without a fight.  I have to be sure, otherwise what am I giving up?  If it turned out that there was a misdiagnosis, or that I could have done something to ease my symptoms or put them into remission, why would't I attempt that?  That's just asking to grow a secret garden of regret.

So what is the next step?

It's going to be a slow process.  Hours, weeks of logged research, money spent on books and food, and the emotional strain of going after doctors and putting myself out there for ridicule and criticism. It's overwhelming, to say the least.  There's tons of information out there; I'll have to sift through what is genuine and what is fad, what is right for me versus right for other people.  Not looking forward to that.

Here's where I'm starting:

• {70 Ways to Be a Hippie}
• {The Autoimmune Protocol vs. Other Healing Diets}
• {28 Days of AIP}
• {Daily Detox Salad}
• {About the Wahls Protocol}

As you can see, an already intimidating list.  I don't even know where to begin.  Advice?

'Cause I'm too young to feel this old.

#BISsisterhood // Sacrifice

This Lent, as always, has a mind of its own.  I didn't make any set plans, to be honest, because of where I am right now in the season of my life . . . an autumn season, a fading time, a time of rest and reflection.  I've been ill all my life, but didn't know it, because it was my normal.  Now, however, it's become impossible to ignore.

I'm forced to be still, to let go, and to readjust my expectations.  To sacrifice, even.  To put those dreams and wishes--maybe for a time, maybe forever--on the altar, with the fruits of me-ness that I've held onto too long and that have caused me untoward stress when I just can't.

It's appropriate that sacrifice is being imposed, rather than chosen.  That's the thing about Lent.  It comes whether you're ready for it or not.  Change and grace are swift but irresistible, like a tsunami.  And I'm sort of grateful.  Because, in my human weakness, I might not otherwise sacrifice those wishes.

Sapphires on Ash Wednesday

One month as of February 14, 2015.

At one month old, one can already tell his eyes will be blue.  They are dark and deep as sapphires, but so were Afon's before they lightened into something sky-like, and then faded to a greeny-blue gray, like his father's.

Roan smiles.  He's been smiling since he was born.  I was in the hospital and I saw it, but I regret not saying anything to someone because I have this unfounded idea that no one will believe me.  They'll say, "It's just gas."  But it wasn't.  His soul was in there.  It was never more clear to me than when he emerged from the dark, warm nothingness with it intact, whole, utterly itself.  A soul that struck me with awe because it was Not Afon's.  Not Mine.  Not Anyone's.

Even now, his smile is a clear response to stimulus; to the sound of my voice or the bright ceiling light.  We joke and say, "He's like a real human being!" and "He's almost a real person!"  But of course there are some who would say that a month ago, he wasn't a real human being, wasn't a real person.  Or at least, that his life didn't merit protection as one.

He was barely two weeks during the March for Life, and I couldn't bear to see all the worthy reporting and testimonies in my social media feeds; and yet, I couldn't bear not to.  I cried tears of joy to see all the souls, especially youth, step out in droves to speak for the tiny and voiceless.  I cried tears of sorrow that they even have to.

I wished to add my voice to the millions but was too emotional and raw at the time.  I wanted to say, "Look!  I brought this child forth amidst much suffering; through sickness that lasted months with no relief and sucked the joy out of me; through sorrow so deep that when I looked up I saw the bottom; in childbirth, through pain that wracked my body and made me wish for death.

"I died and was in the ground and didn't know if I would ever see the light of day again.  I was Osiris, broken and scattered to the four winds.  I was unmade.  And from the ruins, God lifted my son, perfect and immortal, and put me back together again.  Don't be afraid!  It is through such peril and labor and hardships that precious and wonderful things are made."

Things of great value require great sacrifice.  That's the very meaning of worth.

3 Weeks

Roan turned 3 weeks Wednesday morning.  Three weeks feels longer than it is, like a tiny lifetime.  But when I reach back for the memory of pregnancy and extreme discomfort, it's still vivid.  It startles me, as it did the last, the sense of loss and sorrow I feel at not having a baby in me anymore.  But when the baby was there, I wanted nothing more than for him to come out!  Why do we always want the opposite of what we have?

The last three weeks have also brought the threads of my elusive autoimmune illness together.  I hope that we are finally getting somewhere.  In addition to the spells of flu-like body aches in joints and muscles and extreme fatigue, I've had two "attacks" of the gallbladder variety.  I've an ultrasound on Monday to see if that's the case.  The first time it happened, I thought I was having a heart attack and was rushed to the ER.  This pain is as bad as the unfathomably bad contractions I experienced with Roan during labor.  Just different.

Because health and the immune system is sabotaged by stress, I've been more conscious than ever at keeping my anxiety in check.  I've been actively suppressing it, in a healthy way, telling myself mentally to "let it go."  My stress is mainly self-induced.  I get ill, and then I feel like I have to play catch-up, but instead of setting reasonable goals for myself, I make myself feel bad for not being able to accomplish all the things I want to.  I've yet to send out birth announcements.  Afon's birthday is in a few weeks, and I haven't planned anything.  I've thrown myself into a gluten-free diet, desperate to feel better, but haven't been out to the grocery store and am very limited in supplies.  Because of the fist ER C-scan, I can't breastfeed for seven days (three days left!), and have been pumping and making formula.

But I'm very lucky in that I have my parents here to help me.  Roan and I made a nest out of my parents bed--they gave their room to me after surgery because it has a private bathroom.  Afon is looked after so that all I have to do is attend to R.  I have no money whatsoever, but food and clothes and shelter, and so I don't have to worry about what to do with the money I don't have!  (I do need a new purse/diaper bag desperately, but when you can't get it, you just don't!  It's amazing what it doesn't kill you not to have.)

More than anything, I've been trying not to get wrapped up in the should-do's and being present in Roan's infancy.  Afon's infancy was a very sad time for me, and instead of experiencing it, I wasted those precious days feeling sorry for myself and crying and wishing I had a little bit of money so I could hire a baby photographer like those other parents, to capture him as a newborn in a still photo forever instead of living and breathing it.  How silly.

I do feel better this time around, emotionally.  But I could still use all the prayers I can get.