Goodbye Strawberries

Strawberry season is coming to a close. This is always a bittersweet moment for berry lovers. The promise of new fruits is ahead but the lingering taste of a lush, vibrant and authentic strawberry ripe off the vine is still too fresh in the mind to be forgotten and too wonderful to not be missed.
The ending of the season is most evident in the strawberry fields of local farms. You-Pickers still scour the bushes for healthy, undamaged berries but their haul is always skimpier then at the peak of the season. So many of the ripe fruits have already been discovered by worms and buzzing insects. Others have been broken from their life-giving branch and trampled under the foot of passerbys. The berries that can still be found are prized and precious. They are a well-deserved reward for hard work and diligent searching.
When the last rows of strawberries have been picked over and the bushes produce their last hurrah of tantalizing fruit the farmers will turn over the fields and prepare to plant for next season. Then they will move on to the next crop ready to harvest. Blueberries.
For the berry lovers saying goodbye to the strawberry is certainly sad but it isn't the end. The promise of another berry and another harvest is alive and well. When the strawberry bushes stop producing fruit, the blueberries, raspberries and blackberries come alive in bright colors and delicious flavors. The end of strawberry season isn't the end. It is actually the beginning of berry season.  And then
beyond the berry there are peaches, plums and nectarines to be gathered and enjoyed. Sweet corn, peppers, squash and tomatoes soon reach their peak of perfection. The farm stands, short on strawberries, are full of farm fresh goodness. The year-long preparation of produce is just beginning to be revealed when the strawberries shrivel on the vine.
And so it is with God's goodness. When one blessing falls off the vine and retires for the season another luscious surprise is always fresh for the picking. God never leaves us in need of His holy nourishment. The produce He uses to feed our soul isn't the same in all seasons. He brings new harvests all the time, at their peak of freshness when our hearts will benefit from their mercies the most. But He never leaves us hungry. If we will turn our taste buds away from what has withered on the vine and look to the harvest ahead we will never be in want. Instead we will live in continual anticipation and excitement for the new promised pleasure blossoming in our field.
God doesn't let the strawberries in the farmer's fields or His children's lives bloom forever. He brings them in and out of season. But He is never done planting, harvesting and seeding for the future. He is a diligent and everlasting farmer, our God, and He is busy at work in the field of my life and yours, too. My strawberry season is long gone but I see something new is reaching its peak of perfection. It's time to get my basket and head out into the fields to collect the blessings that are ripe and ready for the harvesting.
Have you taken a good look at your field in recent days? Strawberries may be past their prime but I promise that God is nourishing you with a new treasure in the bushes of His blessings. I hope you're ready to get picking!

Fresh air and freedom

On the top of my left foot is a nasty gash I received courtesy of a mishap with my car door. The incident occurred nearly two weeks ago but the cut isn't healing. It is doing quite the opposite - expanding in size and growing in ugliness. Time heals all wounds unless they are infected, which I'm convinced my foot laceration most certainly is. The low-grade pain, yellow pus and bright red bruising are making for a pathetic story to accompany what I fear may be a life-long scar.
In recent days I've been avoiding eye contact with my cut so I've been wearing socks as much as possible. I've opted for sneakers over sandals to remain in blissful ignorance over the condition of my injury. Then the temperature began to soar out of the eighties and into the nineties and my feet began begging for freedom; but I cringed at the thought of an unwanted face-to-foot encounter, revealing my unsightly wound.
When I finally did remove my sock I took a look at my scar. The ring around the cut was redder than I had remembered. Air hit the open wound and a sharp pain ensued. Immediately I wanted to put my socks back on and forget about the wound. At least the pressure of socks and shoes minimized the pain. But my feet needed relief from the unbearable heat. In a few minutes the acute pain subsided. The cut was still unsightly but at least my toes were cool and free.
A few sock-less hours later the cut on my left foot felt remarkably better. The pain subsided and even the redness was reduced. I was able to look at my scar and refrain from cringing. Something in the freedom and fresh air was helping my foot.
The simple and seemingly inconsequential act of sock removal taught me something about healing. Ignoring a cut or covering up a scar does more harm than good. This lesson is true of physical wounds but even more important for the heart. Burying suffering and hiding from scars doesn't produce restoration and healing for the soul. Scars that aren't given air, light and freedom fester and end up looking worse than a pus-filled laceration.
For the brokenness of a heart that has suffered pain, loss and disappointment to be restored the past hurts must be put out in the open, laid before Christ in unguarded complete surrender. Leave the socks and band-aids at the door. Our scars need the air and freedom that comes from being vulnerable and open in the healing arms of Christ.
As much as my foot needs healing I know that my heart needs it even more desperately. In the hidden places of my spirit I have hidden the pain of suffering from an illness no one can see and few can understand. The tender places of my soul long to be accepted and embraced for who I am, physical limitations and all. In an attempt to shield myself from further pain and discomfort I've done my best to cover up the heart scars inflicted by years of sickness and suffering.
But God wants me to take the sock off. There is healing for my pain and relief from my anguish if only I will give my scars air and let Christ bring them perfect healing. My scars are real and God sees them all. He isn't denying their existence or the suffering that has accompanied them. He knows the depth of my distress and He wants to make me well. He wants to cure what is infecting my spirit and heal what is wounding my soul.
It all starts with giving my heart air to breathe. It is so simple, so seemingly inconsequential that it is a wonder how that little act could make an impact on the state of my soul's well-being. But God is the Great Physician and in His medicine cabinet are the simple things, like air and freedom. The remedy for what ails me and the rejuvenation for my scar is found in the presence of Jesus' liberation. He has bought my healing, now all I need to do is step out into the open and receive His glorious restoration.

Independence Day

Happy July Fourth! Today is the day where Americans celebrate the founding of our nation and the declaration that we are free. We celebrate by eating 155 million hot dogs and blowing up 250 million pounds of fireworks. God bless America!
But this July Fourth I woke up feeling anything but festive. Digestive distress hit me like a firecracker. With pain and discomfort gripping my gut the last thing I wanted to do was join in my family's annual beach festivities. On the day's agenda was a picnic and evening bonfire but the war being waged in my stomach was threatening to keep me home.
All morning long my gut and heart played tug-of-war. The pull of my stomach told me to curl up, lay on the couch and forgo the picnic. But my heart wouldn't let go of its grip. With all its might my spirit doubled down and refused to let go. Deeper than the pit of my stomach was the desire of my heart to be part of my family. Stronger than the pain in my stomach was the yearning for freedom from the tyranny of my body's distress.
In those moments of indecision, wavering between surrender and seizing my freedom, I remembered what today is all about. The image of our Founding Father's risking their lives to sign their names to the Declaration of Independence flashed through my mind. They faced unimaginable hardship yet they took the hard road that they believed would lead to ultimate victory. When faced with submitting to tyranny or fighting for freedom they chose the harder road. The history that followed that decision leading all the way to today is proof that their choice was worth the cost.
In the spirit of the courage and bravery displayed on July 4, 1776 and the countless men and women who have fought to maintain the freedom declared on that day, I went to the beach and enjoyed a family picnic. I claimed victory over my stomach's tyranny. I pressed on and declared freedom from my body. I celebrated independence from my physical limitations.
Tomorrow there will not be a parade nor a picnic, but I don't need the world's festivities to claim my independence. God has made me free and given me a three hundred and sixty-five day a year reason to celebrate. He has freed my soul, freed my nation and freed my body. I am blessed with that independence that has broken the bondage of a malfunctioning body and crushed spirit. Because of the freedom I have in Jesus Christ I can claim victory over my gut, victory over MS and victory over my ailing body. I am not under the dictatorship of the physical body.  I am freed and redeemed by the blood of the lamb and the sacrifice of my Savior.
As a citizen of the everlasting Kingdom of God every day is worthy of a July Fourth celebration because I am eternally, everlastingly free.

The other side of the fence

From my position on the wrong side of the fence my neighbor's yard looked lush and green. And I looked green with envy. My neighbor's yard didn't appear to have a single brown patche...mine had multiplying bald spots. My neighbor's yard looked perfectly pruned, clipped and sculpted in all of the right places. The landscape in my yard was scraggly and sparse.
As I peered through a hole in my fence, giving me a glimpse into the life and lawn of my neighbors, I became discontent with my own yard. It looked so inferior compared to the neighbor's. In the yard next door I assumed they must have superior soil and the perfect balance of shade and sun. I imagined that their yard, full of blooming flowers and healthy shrubs, must attract the most beautiful birds and even butterflies. The fence kept me from seeing the whole picture of my neighbor's yard but I was sure it was a Garden of Eden here on earth. Somehow my neighbor lucked out. Their lot happened to land on the ideal growing conditions. I became convinced that my lot had landed on a patch of infertile soil.
For a long while I just sat at the fence and lamented my land's lack of lush landscape. I squinted through the peep-hole in an attempt to see more of my neighbor's yard. Every flower made me more jealous. I felt gypped. Why had I received the short end of the yardstick? As I watched my neighbor's yard bloom I sunk into a slumped seat against the side of my fence. I saw no point in tending to my own lackluster lawn. Instead I lived in the land of want and desire where the focus was on my less-than lot.
But then one day my neighbor invited me over. I wandered into their yard, the garden oasis I had admired from afar. My neighbor showed me around the property. The peeks and glimpses I had gathered from the peephole came into full view. The yard was magnificent. The hedges were trimmed and pruned. The grass was luscious and freshly mowed in perfect rows. Every rosebush was in full bloom and not a wilted flower could be found. There was even a garden of herbs full of fragrant and vibrant greens.
Then I looked at the soil and surveyed the sun. It looked a lot like mine. The soil wasn't anything special. The sun and shade weren't ideal. How could my neighbor's lawn be so beautiful and full?
And then I saw the shed. I had never noticed it before. I couldn't see the shed from my yard's side of the fence. In that shed were tools, hoses and the evidence of hours worth of labor and love. My neighbor's yard was in full bloom because of what was in that shed. There wasn't anything miraculous about the soil, sun or shade. The miracle was in the shed.
To complete my tour of my neighbor's yard he pointed to the shed that made the yard. He told me how he had built that shed to hold the vast array of tools and supplies he needed to make his yard grow. My neighbor took me into the shed's interior to show me the special equipment used to tend to each flower and nurture each bush. My neighbor seemed more excited about the shed then the yard. The pride and joy he had for the results in his lawn were evidenced in his love of the shed.
I left my neighbor's yard with a lesson in gardening and a truth for life. A lush life doesn't just happen because of luck or good soil. The good life is cultivated in the shed - God' shed.
God has given my life's yard everything it needs to grow lush and bountiful blossoms. I don't need a different set of circumstances or more fertile soil. I have the ideal conditions because I have the foundation of Christ and the indwelling of HIS spirit in my every root and branch. Now all I need to do is get in the shed and tend to my yard. The tools are all there, I just need to use them. The land is perfect for cultivating, I simply need to break out my tools and get to work.
My neighbor didn't get his garden by sitting back and looking through the peephole of life. He didn't have time to stand at the fence. He was too busy pulling out all of the tools and supplies in his shed to make his own lawn a land of glory.
May I be as diligent a gardener as my neighbor.

Seeing orange

I grew up nestled, geographically, between three major NFL teams; the  Buffalo Bills, the Cleveland Browns and The Pittsburgh Steelers. Come Sundays during football seasons the supporters of each team could be easily identified by the color of their clothing. Buffalo supporters wore red or blue. Pittsburgh fans were decked out in black and gold. Cleveland diehards would break out the brown and orange.
Given my lifelong position of sports neutrality I purposely avoided all such colors on game days. My aim has always been to be the Switzerland of football fandom. This is due in part to my family's divided team loyalty. Dad, born and raised outside of Pittsburgh, has been a life long Steelers supporter. My brothers are Cleveland team enthusiasts through and through... along with all of their kids who run the risk of being exiled to a Harry Potter-style closet for a bedroom should they pledge allegiance to any team outside of Cuyahoga county, Ohio.
To keep the peace I've kept away from gold and orange on Sundays. Not that it is any major loss to my wardrobe. I'm not known for sporting sparkly gold and orange was never my color. That all changed this time two years ago. Until the month of June in 2014 I had always associated orange with football, The Browns and, sorry Cleveland, losing. Orange was the color of loyal fans who remained true to their team despite suffering continuous losses and sporadic wins.  But with football season out of sight and out of mind, orange became the color of my life for an entirely different reason.
Orange is the color synonymous with Multiple Sclerosis awareness. Two years ago, when I received my own MS diagnosis I looked at the orange ribbon displayed in support of the disease and saw what I had always seen on the face's of those diehard Cleveland Brown's fans: defeat. All of my research and reading pointed to loss. The best outcome I could hope for was management. I might be able to stay in the game but no one would be placing any bets on my making it to the playoffs, let alone winning the MS equivalent of the Lombardi Trophy. In that defining diagnosis moment, orange took on a meaning more depressing than a losing football season. I looked at orange and saw incurable, inescapable defeat.
This coming month will mark the two year anniversary of my diagnosis and my clouded vision of the color orange. It has been a roller coaster of a couple of years with countless ups and downs. My health still fluctuates, the Browns still haven't made it to the playoffs and orange is still the color of MS awareness. But my view and understanding of orange has changed. It no longer symbolizes defeat and loss. Orange is the color of glory.
In these past two years I have learned that God has given me MS as a match to start a flame of glory for Him. My suffering and my struggle is my own personal light that burns a brilliant orange as a witness to the faithfulness of God. Orange signifies the fire in my soul that has been set ablaze by the indwelling of the Holy Spirit. Orange is the power of God's all consuming fire that envelops me and sustains me. Orange stands for the purpose and plan He has for me in spite of MS.
This football season I won't shy away from wearing orange because it will no longer be a symbol of sports or a city. God has draped my heart and my life in His glory, a bright and shining shade of orange that stands for eternal and everlasting triumph over every foe. Orange is and will forever be the color of God's victorious light in me.

Unlocked and Inviting

The front door to my house is always unlocked. My family takes the "open door policy" quite literally. We don't even own a key to that front door. Maybe I should be keeping that piece of information a bit more guarded. I can only hope a home burglar isn't reading this post and aware of my address. At least if my home is robbed no doors will be beaten down or windows broken to gain entry. The burglar can walk right in. No destruction necessary. This isn't an advertisement for a thief to take advantage of an unsecured residence, just a heads up that if they should so choose our home to rob they can save themselves the hulk-like entrance and just turn the knob.
I've always assumed that the lack of security guarding my family's home is an anomaly. Most people have a key to their front door and I assume most people use that key and its corresponding lock to protect their home from unwanted intruders. I rationalize my family's lack of locks by defending the theory that if a burglar wants in badly enough they will, one way or another, find a way in. That is why I suppose security-savvy individuals invest in alarm systems. If the lock doesn't work the siren can alert authorities before the thief gets away with too much loot. I have another theory about  security system protected homes that assumes the people who live there must have a super fancy TV complete with surround sound or have a stash of gold. Or possibly both TV and gold. Maybe even a TV encrusted with gold at the front of a theater style media room complete with lush leather recliners and state-of-the-art 4K Ultra HD. Whatever that means.
To me a well-guarded house is practically an invitation to break in. It is a challenge. Go ahead, just try to get beyond my obnoxious alarm system and booby trapped windows. We'll see how badly you want my possessions after your ears are assaulted by a deafening air horn playing on repeat. 
I prefer to let the burglars have their way. If you want in, just walk in. Some may call it silly, naive or negligent. But I like to call it Biblical. After all, God doesn't use locks, security systems and noisy alarms to keep people away from what He has that is desirable and good. He does just the opposite. God lets people in right off the streets to come and partake of every beautiful, beneficial blessing He has to offer. He does away with locks and throws away keys. God swings the door to His goodness wide open.
In my heart I know that God is a welcoming God who offers me a place in His theater room complete with the comfiest chair and a bag of freshly popped corn, yet I often behave as if I have to sneak in. I tiptoe around to the windows to try to get at what I believe is God's best. I try prying away at the trap door to shimmy down into the cellar. All the while the front door is open leading to the beautifully decorated and most well-appointed places in God's home. I don't need to dirty myself by climbing through a bush and shrubs to sneak in the back way. God is welcoming me in through the foyer, through the grand entrance, right through the unlocked front door.
Dwelling in the goodness of God's presence is as simple as making the decision to walk through a door. It doesn't take special access or the deceptive skills of a Catch Me if You Can inspired criminal. All it requires is the chutzpah to walk directly up the to the front door and turn the knob.
The only obstacle standing in the way of entering God's safe house is a lack of humility and surrender. Once pride and self-reliance are set aside entering into God's home is as simple as recognizing our desperate need for what He has offer on the other side of His door's threshold. He has peace, rest and contentment available for the taking if only the desiring human heart will stop trying to break in through the window and humbly enter in through the front door.
God hasn't put a lock on His blessings and there isn't a single square foot of His residence off limits. We can come to Him and dwell in His presence the right way - by way of the unlocked doorway. The unlocked door is God's invitation to come and take our heart's residency in the comfort of His presence and His open and inviting home sweet home.

Pixie Perfect

I am a twenty-six year old with the thinning head of a hair of an eighty-year-old. To be fair my head was never known to produce thick, luxurious locks but in the past year every strand of my hair has gone from thin to emaciated. The gauntness of my face has met its match. My thin hair is giving my thin body a run for its money in the race of "Which physical feature can survive at the slimmest size/weight/circumference possible." Right now hair is winning.
For the past year I have been trying to avoid the subject of my dwindling hair. I journeyed through the five stages of grief. First I simply denied that the strands were thinning. When my ponytail began struggling to fill even the smallest of elastic hair-ties I ventured out of denial and straight into anger. The lifeless, lank brown strands drawing down my face made me mad at more than my hair. It made me mad at MS for ravaging my body and stripping me of my physical being. MS has taken my weight, damaged my vision, destroyed my neurological signaling and now it was robbing me of my hair. Initially I retaliated by twisting the hair-tie around a few more loops and wearing headbands and hats. Then I had an idea that took me from the stage of anger to the stage of bargaining: mousse.
I introduced a green bottle of sticky mousse to my post-shower routine. I shook up the bottle, placed a dollop on my hands and followed the manufacturer's instructions to achieve maximum volume. After several attempts, more pumps from the bottle and a bigger round brush, the verdict was in. The bargaining tools of the hairstyling trade couldn't remedy my hopeless case of early female pattern thinning.
And so I went onto the next stage of grief, depression. In my case depression took its form in abject sadness. I looked in the mirror and saw emaciated bones framed by scraggly hair. I abandoned the sticky, useless mousse and decided that the next best option was to simply get a haircut and hope a few less dead-ends would help to revive some lift and life to the brown mop on my head. The stage of sadness took me to the door of the walk-in hair salon with the shortest line and cheapest prices. At a loss for a look I asked for a bob, paid for the unflattering cut and style and went home even sadder.
Back home I tried to like the new cut but all I could see was thin hair. All I could see was my thin body and the toll of invisible symptoms and years of chronic illness. When I looked in the mirror I saw so much more than that haircut. I saw what MS was taking from me and it broke my heart.
That was the moment I decided it was time to leave stage four behind and end my journey with grief. I decided to accept my hair. Not the cut - the cut had to go, but the hair...thin as it was... would stay. Either I could get a wig, try on some extensions or I could take drastic measures and cut it off. Can you guess which option won?
A few hours later I was seated in the chair of a new hair stylist at a salon that required more than a ten dollar bill and do-it-yourself hair-dry. I showed her a picture of a pixie cut and put what little hair I had in her hands. Just before she took the shearers to my strands she paused and caught my gaze in the mirror. "Are you sure about this?" she asked.
With a deep breath and complete conviction I answered, "Absolutely." Little did the stylist know that my response was about much more than hair. I could affirm the haircut because it was a confirmation of my heart. Absolutely I will accept what MS has taken from me. Absolutely, yes, I will love my body that has been stripped of weight, muscle and even hair. Yes, absolutely, I will praise God for sustaining me against all odds. I will absolutely live fully and vibrantly in this tiny little body and short pixie cut.
When the cut was complete, the product applied, the style perfected and my chair turned around I was met by a new face in the mirror. She didn't have scraggly hair pulling down her cheekbones. There was life on the face in the mirror. There was lift in the hair that brought light to the eyes. I looked in the mirror and saw me, the inner me that hasn't been ravaged by MS and chronic illness. In the mirror I saw a joyful, radiant, energetic over-comer. I saw who I want to be and who I can still be in spite of MS.
I left the salon with a new hair product, a new style and an appointment to trim it up again in four weeks. But most importantly I left stage five and journeyed into a whole new stage of life: joy.
My new haircut revived my outlook on life. I looked in the mirror and remembered that my every ounce of weight, strand of hair and flaring muscle has been made in God's image and created for His glorious, majestic purposes. I know who I am, my value and worth because I know who I am in Christ. I'm not MS, my symptoms or my weight on the scale. I'm not a head of a hair, a hot flash or a fatigued body. I am a girl on fire for the Lord. I am a great surprise in a small package. God made me perfectly, specially and without flaw. It is because I know the greatness of my creator that I can love this life, this hair and live with a joy that is bigger than any body.