May 2019: As my mom and I left Children’s the other day, we overheard two women discussing their travel plans. One woman was preparing to go to Monte Carlo, and the other woman was planning to go to another PGA tournament site. As they innocently conversed with one another, I wanted to scream. I, too, had travel plans. In just two weeks I was supposed to board a plane and fly to the only place I want to visit: Boston. But I had to cancel my plans. Instead of spending six days with my favorite people in my favorite place, I would spend my vacation days enduring scans and tests.
After I officially canceled my trip, I sat outside and stared at this pond. I’ve always enjoyed gazing at water because I can see it flow back and forth. Even the smallest ripples remind me that life is still moving. This pond, however, appeared to be still. The water looked exactly as I felt: stagnant.
Then I put on my glasses. I just needed to look through the right lenses in order to see the water flowing ever so slightly. Those little ripples reminded me that even in the midst of suffering, God is not stagnant. He is still at work, even if I can’t see what he’s doing. Perhaps I need to view this season of suffering through particular lenses as well.
After 23 years with this defect and its complications, I still struggle to continuously see through the lenses of faith and trust. During the toughest moments, these lenses are occasionally thrown to the ground and replaced by bitterness or worry. The lenses of faith and trust remain on the floor until I remember I can’t see clearly without them. I can’t cope with the canceled plans and painful complications unless I have faith that God is still at work. So I put on the lenses of faith and trust, and I let them be my sight.
People occasionally ask how I deal with all of this. Honestly, I don’t have a very descriptive answer. I just try to remember where I put my symbolic glasses.