Feed Your Peace

My phone buzzed, alerting me to text greetings long before I crawled out of bed last Tuesday morning. As coffee brought the world into clarity, an avalanche of birthday greetings began to fill my Facebook page. 

While there's much to debate about the evils of our social media crazed society, by days end, I sure enjoyed being connected to so many. Sweet posts colored my day in a week of medical information overload.

I had three doctor appointments last week. Two on the far side of town. As I mentally prepped, I initially felt sorry for myself. In fact, I even decided that I would be famous by now if I didn't have to spend so much time being a professional patient.  

Between the bronchitis, right foot stress fracture, and droopy mouth episode, I've spent countless time and energy seeking answers for several months now. 

For instance, two weeks after the droopy mouth episode, my primary care doctor read the brain MRI report and told me the white matter spots were benign, not to worry. Days later, I met with a neurologist who suggested they resulted from mini-strokes and suggested I swallow an aspirin a day and go on a statin drug to lower my bad cholesterol that hangs at 118 (which isn't really bad). 

Startled, I fought panic until I realized it made no sense. 

I visited with a genetic doctor two days ago who emphasized that while the radiology report suggested the white matter spots could have resulted from a demyelinating disease (like MS) or vascular issues, it was all speculation, meaning nothing definitive could be ascertained from the report. 

No more statin drug.

I could continue and tell you about the rheumatologist I saw two weeks ago who said I had a "normal" exam. Yet when I stood to walk to my car, my legs were weak and wobbly. I could also tell you that the genetics doctor just said I have "hyper-mobility syndrome" which a rheumatologist should treat. 

It makes my head spin.

So many doctors. So many opinions. One very odd body. 

Kind of like the election.

What to do?

Pause and feed your peace. 

However, to feed it, we must first connect to the reality that the peace that passes understanding is meant to be ours.

Every day. 

No joke.

So after feeling sorry for myself over a week ago, I decided to act like my professional patient status counted for something after all. I'm still not sure what that something is. And I sank some just yesterday and had to swim my way through internal muck. 

But after spending the afternoon with my daughter-in-law, Courtney, and listening as Don and Sam built a work-out box in the basement, the peace was mine again. 

Indulging in marked down steaks, grapefruit LaCroix, mini key lime pies, and left-over birthday cake helped. But the company mattered most. Time with family mattered most.

So as the world continues to churn and bawdy election banter grieves our souls, feed your peace. 

Be intentional. Slow down. Let sunshine warm your frame. 

"For you did not receive a spirit that makes you a slave again to fear, but you received the Spirit of son-ship. And by him we cry, 'Abba, Father.' The Spirit himself testifies with our spirit that we are God's children. Now if we are God's children, then we are heirs - heirs of God and co-heirs with Christ, if indeed we share in his sufferings in order that we may also share in his glory" (Romans 8: 15 - 17 NIV).

So guess what? 

No matter what doctors say or who's elected president, this truth remains...

"I consider that our present sufferings are not worth comparing with the glory that will be revealed in us" (Romans 8: 18 NIV).

And with that, our souls can rest. 



All photos courtesy of pixabay.com