When All is Well, and It Hurts.

I feel better than I have felt in eight years.

Please don't miss the gravity of this simple statement.

I am at the closest place to remission I have ever been in the eight years I have lived with autoimmune disease, and it is a simultaneously sacred and scary place.

Since graduating from my master's program in May I have been thoroughly soaking up the wonder of being well. My husband and in-laws generously gave me an inflatable standup paddleboard as my graduation gift, something I have lusted after for years, and I've since spent most of my free days paddling on open waters, dwelling in the sun and fresh air and capacity of an unencumbered body.

I have been experiencing a season of nearly unparalleled freedom, and I have embraced it with my entire heart.

Embracing the joy of today comes with a willingness to accept the grief of tomorrow. Because of some life decisions my husband and I are making, I know this season of wellness could end in a couple months. This season of wellness is quite possibly limited. For several weeks I have chosen to dwell in the joy of what is rather than the impending anguish of what is to come. There is wisdom there, and I am proud I have allowed myself the space to dwell in the present. And yet, as I drove across town last night, I remembered the soft tap of my soul and the Lord: "you need space for sadness, too." Praying, the question I knew I needed to sit with was, "What do you need to grieve?"

What do you need to grieve?

I can't say I completely know the answer to my question. Through attending to my story through the tool of the Enneagram, I know I need to grieve several places where I historically felt unseen and misunderstood, and where my emotional world was invalidated from childhood through the present. I also know I need to grieve some painful experiences from graduate school.

But, today as I stepped on the bathroom scale for the first time in a month and realized I had lost ten pounds, I stopped. The ten pounds in many senses does not matter, but what it symbolizes does. Ten pounds symbolizes activity, life, movement, and change--an effortless physical freedom I have not known since I was a 21 year old.

For a moment I danced my naked body, rejoicing at what I saw in the mirror: stronger legs and arms, tone where tone has been lacking, the curve and shape of my former self. I danced to the thrilling reward of days in sunshine with a moving body and an uninhibited heart. 

But plans. Planning means choosing the substance of our days. And in the late summer and early fall, that means choosing the probability of a smaller, more holistically-arduous existence. This is a hard concept to relate with or without details (some of which I, frankly, am just not ready to share). Outside of being me, it is easy for others to simply think that since I cannot know what the future holds, I should only hold out hope for it being better than I imagine. But I do know my body, and I do know how, like a well-oiled machine, my body needs particular ingredients in order to thrive. Take one of those ingredients away for even a week, and it screams in pain and refuses to move without great struggle. Thus, I hold out hope for the potentiality of a better future than I can imagine, and I live in the reality of knowing impending pain is both possible and probable. 

I will not borrow trouble, but I also will listen to the voice of the Lord telling me to attend to the grief in my heart. I will hope. I will thrive. I will glide across the lakes of Colorado with joy illuminating my very presence. And I will bring stillness to my heart, strengthening my soul for whatever lies ahead. 

When all is well, and it hurts, I simply have to be present to it all. The joy of my season in life right now is so expansive it almost physically hurts at times. And the sorrow of now in relation to where I have been and where I might be headed hurts as well. But if there is anything the past eight years of dwelling with God in sickness has taught me, it is that joy and sorrow are necessary friends. One cannot survive without the other, and I will accommodate them both.