DYING

Leaky Breasts and Other Hot Messes

April 13, 2023 by Cindy DeBoer 2 Comments

Recently, while at work at the psychiatric hospital, I caught a glimpse of myself in a patient’s bathroom mirror and noticed a large wet spot on my t-shirt just below my left breast. It was an odd location for a spill, but I chalked it up to my clumsiness and threw on a hoodie to conceal the spot. But minutes later, I felt wetness on my right side, too. I snuck away into the bathroom and peered under my sweatshirt. Sure enough, just like a breast-feeding mama who forget to put her nursing pads in place, I had two huge wet spots under both my breasts.

My heart picked up pace and I felt flushed. Something was wrong. Very wrong. Not only can I not even REMEMBER those breast-feeding days, my chemo-riddled body is decidedly void of hormones that might stimulate lactation.

Now, a psych hospital is a dizzying busy place that offers no time to “deal” with such a situation. I pressed on in my work and did my best to feign a “caring nurse.” Honestly, I didn’t care about anybody anymore – I just wanted to know why the heck my boobs were leaking! My t-shirt grew more and more soggy as my shift wore on. I secretly took my pulse, temperature, and blood pressure. All normal. I tried to convince myself I was fine. But as soon as I could steal a minute away, I Googled, “Why are my post-menopausal breasts leaking?” My heart sank as I discovered there’s no reason EVER that old ladies’ boobs should leak. Except cancer.

I don’t know how I made it through those 8 hours at work. I was certain I had cancer and I was certain this was the beginning of my end.

Once home, I shared me news with Paul and told him it had to be cancer. We shared a few somber moments of quiet fear. This wasn’t the first time I’d been certain of pending doom, but this time really did feel ominous.

This is my shirt when I got home from work.

I purposely procrastinated on calling my doctor the next morning. I wanted one last day of living without confirmation of cancer. Grief hung around my neck like a chain of bricks. I cancelled lunch with a friend. I lied to my daughter and said I didn’t have time to talk. I googled some more things which nudged me further off the cliff of despair. By nightfall, full-on hysteria had set in. All I could think of was all the things I’d miss by dying so young: my daughters getting married, meeting our future grandchildren, publishing my book, and family vacations and holidays. And – worst of all – I didn’t want to die before my sweet mother. She’s already lost one daughter way too soon, I didn’t want her to suffer like that again.

Totally exhausted from whipping through ALL five stages of grief – denial, anger, bargaining, depression, acceptance – in less than 24 hours, I decided to decompress with a hot shower. While there, I looked down at my tired breasts and thought, “Man, they sure don’t look sick. It’s so weird that these two things that have served me so well, are going to be the death of me.”

And that’s when I received my shower epiphany. I suddenly wondered if these worn-out breasts weren’t to blame after all. As quickly as I could towel-dry, I ran downstairs to our laundry area and picked up the bra I had worn to work the night before. I grabbed a scissors and without any reserve of destroying a perfectly good $50 bra, I cut into that sucker and the “gentle padding” that lined the cups. My heart sank when the padding was only that: a “barely there” bit of thin foam. However, something prompted me to go full-on surgeon and rip into the center of the foam. Lo and behold – there, at the center of the padding was a little thin plastic case of nothing. It held NOTHING, because the SOMETHING it once held had already leaked out all over me and my t-shirt at work!

That stupid old bra of mine had probably been worn and washed so many times that the little silicone “enhancer” pads had basically cracked – bathing me in silicone juice.

Who thought this was a good idea to hide silicone pouches inside a piece of foam? Definitely a bra made by a dude.

So, it doesn’t look like I’ll be dying today, anyway.

Now, there’s two ways to process this leaky breast ordeal – either I’m an idiot OR… I’m just suffering from some form of PTSD like the rest of the world and will hastily jump to “the sky is falling” when there’s the slightest inkling something is off. I prefer to believe the latter.

It’s true though, isn’t it? Aren’t we all on edge? In no way am I suggesting this is akin to military-service PTSD. Not even close to the same thing. But it is feels to me that we, all humanity, is experiencing many of the symptoms that categorize PTSD. No one is sleeping anymore. When in public, our hearts stop at every loud “pop” or “bang” thinking we’ve just been shot because, well, there’s a good chance we have been. When people cough or sneeze into our personal space we wonder if we’ve caught the next deadly strain of COVID. We turn on the evening news with fear and trepidation wondering what terrible thing a leader has said or done, or what natural disaster has laid claim to unsuspecting regular people, or what new inciting incident will now add to our growing racial divide? It’s like we’re all expecting Freddy Kreuger to walk in on us at any given moment. Every day there is something, isn’t there? Something that adds to our unrest and builds our stress-level.

So how do we live peaceably in this world full of turmoil and conflict?

Oh friends, I’m not even talking to any of you anymore. I’m full-on talking to myself now.

I’ve got to take my own medicine. As a psychiatric nurse, I often give my patients advice on how to “wind down” when they are all “wound up.” My best tips include things like deep breathing exercises, reading scripture, go for a walk, talk to a trusted friend or family member, connect with nature, do something kind for someone else.

But my number one piece of advice to my troubled patients in these troubled times and which I’m currently desperate to receive is this:

GIVE YOURSELF GRACE.

It’s okay if we’re not okay. For now, it’s okay to acknowledge we are struggling.

It’s okay if tasks take a little longer than we’d like them to.

It’s okay if we’re forgetting things more often than we used to.

It’s normal if we’re not sleeping as well as before.

It’s okay if we’re not “sprinting” out of the fog, but instead feel more as if we’re crawling.

It’s okay if we feel our faith has been rattled. That’s standard fare for PTSD.

It’s perfectly fine, healthy, and good to be seeing a therapist and we need to put an end to any stigma associated with mental self-care here and now.

COMFORT FROM SCRIPTURE

“Do not be anxious about anything, but in every situation, by prayer and petition, with thanksgiving, present your requests to God. And the peace of God, which transcends all understanding, will guard your hearts and your minds in Christ Jesus.” Philippians 4: 6-7

Amidst such a tumultuous time in history, it’s not going to make sense when we find that peace, friends. It WILL surpass our own understanding as well as that of others. But, it’s that EXACT radical and unexplainable peace that is ours for the taking.

I’m thinking I need this verse tattooed on my forearm or something. I certainly forgot all about it when my bra burst.

We’ve been through a lot, friends. Life has just been A LOT. And there really isn’t any sign on the horizon that things are going to get better this side of heaven. Our only hope going forward is to trust the promises of HE, THE ONLY ONE WHO CAN BE FULLY TRUSTED.

A FINAL GIFT TO YOU

If I can leave you with just one positive thing today, let it be this: Put this song on your favorite listening app and play it over and over and over until it gets stuck in your head like Baby Shark or It’s a Small World:

Andrew Peterson’s: Be Kind To Yourself.

And if you’re looking for a new tattoo, this part of the song, where Jesus is speaking, would make a good one:

You can’t expect to be perfect
It’s a fight you’ve gotta forfeit
You belong to me whatever you do
So lay down your weapon, darling
Take a deep breath
And believe that I love you

Same Kind of Wounds as Me

April 7, 2022 by Cindy DeBoer 20 Comments

I noticed her and those tell-tale marks on her face from far across the room. At the first break of our writer’s conference, I ran over to her, breathless with anticipation.

“Hey, I don’t mean to be weird or anything, but I notice that you have nasal cannula indentations on your cheeks, and I know that means you wear oxygen at night. I usually have those marks on my cheeks, too, but I didn’t have a portable tank to take with me, so I’m sleeping without it here at the conference.”

She didn’t even hesitate. She reached out and lovingly – knowingly – hugged me. We had an instant bond. We chatted non-stop for 20 minutes. We both have debilitating lung diseases for which there is no cure. We were both feeling a bit discouraged at this conference because it was set in the mountains at a high elevation and the campus was very hilly – two things that make people with sucky lungs cringe.

It has been a hard two years for both of us. We were both told by our physicians that COVID would not be kind to us, and we needed to avoid it if at all possible. We both felt isolated, lonely, bored, and angry after two years of this COVID nightmare. We shared sadness about strained relationships. We admitted feeling unloved, devalued, and discarded when people we loved diminished the devastation of COVID and refused to take precautions on our behalf.

The tears flowed uncontrollably and I think I made a blubbering scene for onlookers.

As two people with lung diseases amidst the worst pandemic in the modern world, we both also suffered from PTSD and I know, for me, I desperately NEEDED her. But here’s the thing: I didn’t know how much I needed her. I had open, oozing, un-attended wounds and didn’t realize it until she walked in the room. Seeing her just made me acknowledge I am hurt. I am suffering and I need someone who gets me.

I didn’t know how deep my wounds were until we started talking and shared all kinds of bottled-up emotions.

Later that day, I mused how my view on those nasal cannula indentations had changed. I’m no longer embarrassed by them. I’m glad I have them so that others who are oxygen-dependent can recognize me as someone who shares their wounds. I also mused that it would be kind of nice if people wore baseball caps emblazoned with a logo of the wounds they carry to help us all identify one another. I’d like the people with the following wounds to wear identifying ball caps so I could find them more easily:

Not loved all that well by my daddy.
Spent our kids’ college funds and our retirement funds on living overseas because we refused to raise support just to live like Jesus, for Jesus’ sake.
Gains weight even if I swallow my own spit.

It is through the sharing of our pain and truly being known and understood in that pain, that we can begin to find healing.

And what about you, my friends? What wounds are you carrying that no one can see? Who is it that you need to meet just to feel that you are not so alone in your woundedness? Therefore, what kind of logos would you want to see on someone’s ball cap that would make you want to run to them, hug them, and say, “YES! Me, too! Me, too!”

Ball caps that said:

Abused as a child. No one knows.
My spouse is cheating on me.
I drink my troubles away. Every day.
We want a child, but can’t get pregnant.
My business partner takes advantage of my hard work ethic.
I don’t think I love my husband anymore.
I don’t have any friends.
I’m six months pregnant and just found out our baby has Down’s Syndrome.
I secretly dream about running away from it all.
I’m depressed and have fleeting thoughts of suicide.
I have a prodigal child.
Had an abortion in high school that no one knows about.
I have cancer and I don’t feel like fighting it anymore.

Finding someone with the same kind of wounds is good, life-giving, and necessary. It’s also biblical:

“Bear one another’s burdens, and thereby fulfill the law of Christ.” Galations 6:2

“A new commandment I give to you, that you love one another: just as I have loved you, you also are to love one another.” John 13:34

“Be completely humble and gentle; be patient, bearing with one another in love. ³Make every effort to keep the unity of the Spirit through the bond of peace.” Ephesians 4: 2,3

“Do not withhold good from those to whom it is due, when it is in your power to act.” Proverbs 3:27

So here’s the deal, fellow sufferers – unless we get real with one another and share our woundedness, NO ONE WILL EVER KNOW and the healing that is available to us, through Christ and his people, won’t be known in its fullest form.

Unless we have nasal cannula marks on our faces or choose to wear a baseball cap with a bold logo, NO ONE KNOWS OUR WOUNDS.

So, may you, by the grace of God, find the strength to share your wounds with a few trusted souls. May you find that the sharing of your wounds exposes those hurts and pains to the light where the light can chase away the darkness. May you find some inner peace as you let out that which has always been bottled in. May you know that the God of all creation created other individuals WITH YOUR SAME WOUNDS to be there for you when you are feeling alone – you need only to reach out to them.

Don’t be ashamed of your nasal cannula indentations. They may be the very thing somebody needs to see today to bring about their healing.

Thanksgiving Eve Sucks

November 25, 2021 by Cindy DeBoer 33 Comments

Sometimes holidays conjure up more pain and despair than joy and celebration. That’s true for me, anyway, on the day before Thanksgiving. It was 2013 and with the table set, the turkey stuffed, and pies complete, my husband and I spent the day before Thanksgiving driving to Ann Arbor to meet with a pulmonology specialist. She confirmed what we had already feared: I have Lymphangioleiomyomatosis (LAM) – a very rare, progressive, degenerative, and debilitating lung disease.

I despise the day before Thanksgiving.

And, in true fashion, this year hasn’t let me down. Although our refrigerator is packed with a 16 lb. turkey, every vegetable known to man, multiple pies, and drinks of every color, I cancelled the festivities for tomorrow because I (of all people who should know better) have had a significant exposure to COVID. While for the last two years I’ve done everything in my power to stay COVID free (which my doctor warned me would “not go well” for me), that little corona boogie man found me anyway.

I want to moan, whine, and throw apples at squirrels. I’d like to take about 10 Melatonin, crawl in bed and wake up on New Year’s Day. I feel like eating all the pies and using the gravy as a chaser. I don’t feel like being thankful for anything or anyone. And I sit here quarantined for 10 days just wondering if every little sniffle is the onset of the illness that will take me out, the very LAST last thing I feel like doing is creating a “Thankful” list.

Which is exactly why I must.

Before Ann Voskamp bestowed on us the beautiful posture of thanksgiving, our very own Jesus Christ had made it quite clear this wasn’t to be an optional thing (Psalm 100: 4,5; Ephesians 5: 18-20; Colossians 2: 6,7; I Thessalonians 5: 16-18 – just to name a few). To be honest, I don’t always like to do all the things Jesus told us to do and sometimes I get grumpy about it. But in this moment, in this debacle, in this wretched season of COVID, I don’t know what else to do or where else I’d go. I will choose thankfulness simply because He told us to be thankful not FOR all things, but IN all things. I will be thankful because he is God and I am not.

I am thankful that:

I’m still alive. Cliché, I know. But when I was diagnosed 8 years ago today, all the literature said that women with LAM would live, on average, 10 years. Since that time, a chemo-like medication has been approved to treat LAM and while it’s not a cure, it does slow down the progression. Additionally, most recent research reveals that while some women do succumb to LAM after just a few years, others can live as many as 20 to 25 years with the disease. Still, every year, on this day, I am reminded that I am one of the fortunate ones. I am still alive.

Mom jeans came back in style this year. I mean, seriously, who wouldn’t prefer “A” over “B”???

My grocery store is diverse. There’s a new grocery store in our neighborhood that has found the magical blend where all people from both ends of the socioeconomic spectrum feel “at home” and catered to. I often shop alongside destitute and homeless people because the store offers the cheapest bread, eggs, and staples anywhere around. The atmosphere is welcoming and quaint, not stuffy like high-end grocery stores can be. Plus, it is within walking distance from most of the poorest sections in town. But at the SAME TIME, whenever I’m there, I will also see high-ranking business folks who work just up the street. These people, who likely have 7-figure incomes, come to this store for the local flare and pricier items: the fresh homemade Italian bread, the sushi prepared on site, the signature blend coffees, and the huge selection of organic produce. I truly believe all of us feel known and accepted there. For the first time in my life, I love to get groceries. It’s a grocery-store miracle.

I live in a neighborhood where I encounter the homeless every day. That may seem like a weird thing to be thankful for – because DANG how I wish homelessness wasn’t even a thing! But Jesus did say: “The poor you will always have with you.” (Matthew 26:11), and while I’d like to argue that point with him (“But WHY, Jesus??? Why can’t we fix poverty and eliminate homelessness and hunger??? Wouldn’t that be better???), what I have come to believe is that the poor are maybe in our lives because WE need THEM. I think maybe the plan behind the homeless in our face every day is so that the comfortable ones (me) get uncomfortable. And if that IS God’s plan, I think it is a good one.

I don’t own a gun. Several weeks back, on an extremely hot and muggy evening, I left our upstairs bedroom to go sleep on the couch on the main floor. The air-conditioning just doesn’t reach the second floor in our century old home, and no one wants to see a cranky menopausal woman after a long, sweaty night without sleep. Instead, I fell fast asleep on the couch. Somewhere around 3:00 in the morning, I awoke to the sound of someone fidgeting with our door locks. We don’t live in the best neighborhood. I’d been warned that nighttime burglars in our neighborhood often look for purses set out on kitchen tables that they can just grab and go. In a milli-second I glanced at our dining table and saw my purse sitting out in the open. The burglar would have to walk right past me to get it. In the second milli-second I scanned my reach for something to use as a weapon. My choices were a book, a remote control, and an empty Diet Coke. This was not looking good. With my third milli-second I said a prayer: “Lord, see you soon!” because I was certain I was going to die. The door burst open, my heart stopped beating even before I saw the burglar. A short black shadow entered the room and I steeled myself for the bullet. The person was so short, in fact, I thought, “My God! Is this a child about to murder me?” – but my eyes wouldn’t focus in the dark. In a very NEXT milli-second I remembered my youngest daughter was short. Very short. She had moved out several months prior, but still had a key. She had fumbled at the door because it was so dark out and she was hysterical. About a half hour earlier she had learned that a dear friend of hers had been killed in a tragic car accident only an hour after he had left her apartment. She was one of the last people to see him alive. She fell apart with the news and needed support, so she drove directly to her mom. If I had had a gun, I totally would have taken it with me to sleep on the couch – that’s logical in our neighborhood. If I had had a gun, I have no doubt in my mind I would have killed my daughter.

We’ve had sunny days in November!!!

Some friends don’t give up on the chronically ill. I’ve not been a good friend to my friends, I know that full well. I don’t have the energy to go out for coffee/lunch like I once did, or hang out at the beach together, and I’m certainly not baking anyone cinnamon rolls anymore. I sometimes even look at my phone, consider a text or call, but don’t – because the phone looks like it weighs about 300 pounds. Somehow, some way, a few of my friends have stuck with me in all of this. I’ve heard it said that those who suffer from chronic illness are the loneliest people anywhere. I believe it. But God has given me the gift of a few good friends and they have made all the difference.

God made Olipop. If you’ve never heard of this heavenly healthy beverage, let it suffice to say that the Diet Coke in my fridge is afraid. Very afraid.

Some people never give up on a neighborhood. Our lovely, fragile, diverse, and economically challenged neighborhood is breaking, bursting and, as always, crying out for help. Paul and I were utterly blown away when we moved to the city by the amount of people relentlessly doing the hard, thankless, and tiring work of community care through neighborhood ministries. These brave and devoted few are bringing the shalom of Jesus to a worn-out world and we are so privileged to journey with them.

I’ve been given a baby to love. I’m so thankful that a neighborhood couple who needed a little help with childcare thought of me. It’s no secret that COVID has forced me to quit my job as an RN, has kept Paul and I from many of the things we enjoy, and has even wreaked havoc on my mental stability. I didn’t even realize how much a baby brings HOPE and JOY and LIFE into a bleak existence, but it’s true: a baby changes everything! (Even my shitty attitude)

Please, share with me some of the things you’re most thankful for this year. I’d love to hear them and God gets the glory!!!

Old Is The New Hot

September 17, 2021 by Cindy DeBoer 35 Comments

In this culture where beauty, youth, and tight buttocks are valued more than oceanfront property and where ageism has moved from theory to fact, it is no wonder we fight aging with the tenacity of an NFL middle linebacker. Our culture tells us our best years are behind us once we hit 50 and we might as well start shopping for our headstone and buy the ham on buns for the “after” party.

But I beg to differ.

I turn 55 today. And because my daughter loves me so much she gave me this card:

And she couldn’t be more spot on. Because “hot” is defined as someone who’s got it going on. Someone who turns heads when they walk in the room (even if it’s because her skirt is tucked into her spanx). Someone who knows who they are, likes it, and holds their head high.

THIS LIST, my friends, showcases why we 50-something women are simply the hottest. We got it going on, girls. Yes, we do. Our 50’s truly are the BEST:

Our eyesight diminishes. Yes, at first blush, that may seem like a negative – but it’s also true for all our friends and siblings at this age – which is our saving grace. After spending an entire day out recently visiting multiple places and people, I came home and checked my face in the mirror (after bedecking my READING GLASSES!) and discovered I looked like a freakin’ clown – my eyeliner was lopsided on my left eye and practically extended out to my ear on the right eye, my lipstick was bleeding into all my lip wrinkles, my blush looked like war paint painted on by a four year old, and my foundation made a brown line at my jaw line! But I just shrugged my shoulders and had a good belly laugh! Afterall, I had only been around others who were even older than me that day – so I’m sure they never noticed!

Dusting becomes optional. One unbearably hot summer night in 1991 after our church softball game (does anybody play church softball anymore??? Those holy ball field events should be resurrected to help save America) we were invited to a couples’ home at the spur of the moment because they had a swimming pool. I remember sitting in their family room after the swim and noticing thick, thick dust on everything. I could have written my name on the coffee table, the TV, and the windowsills. I was 25 years old and thought that woman must be such a lazy slug of an old lady (she was 50-something at the time) and I was all kinds of ignorant judge-y toward her. Now that I’ve turned 50-something, I have the utmost respect for that woman. She was just mentoring me and showing me and how to live my best life. These days, you can come to my house anytime you want – even unannounced! – and I will be happy to “mentor” you, too!

We become a GRANDPARENT!!! I’m pretty sure this is the coolest thing about our 50’s. COVID hasn’t let me have much time with my grandbaby. But I’ll tell you what – she is good, she is kind, and she is IMPORTANT. She’s already speaking 4 languages fluently, searching for a cure for LAM, and solving our refugee crisis and she’s barely five months old. She’s already the best child that ever walked this planet and she’s not even walking yet.

We finally feel liberated enough to not wear any makeup at all when going to public spaces where actual people may see us. We know that we will scare people and we know they will talk about us, but we care about THAT as much as we care about the 973^rd TikTok video our kids want to show us.

We know things. Important things that all the younger girls only wish they knew. Things like:
- Never wash a chenille throw blanket
- Never dump rice down the garbage disposal
- Maybelline works just as well as Estee Lauder
- It’s okay to let go of friendships that are exhausting.
- The deli makes delicious food and if you serve it in your own bowls, no one has to know.
- Unless you enjoy bladder infections, never hold your pee in
- Never waste money on a strapless bra. Simply tucking down your straps works just as well
- It’s so much quicker to run out and buy new miniblinds than to clean old ones

Road rage seems to just disappear. With so much more time on our hands, we just don’t seem as frazzled. We’re not running 18 children in 23 directions for the 47^th day in a row and somehow we’re just more relaxed now. I now love driving and I now drive the actual speed limit and let other cars merge in politely instead of zipping past all the doggone slow drivers and flipping them off for making me late for the really, really, really important awards banquet of the sport for which my child spent her life learning only to sit the bench all year.

We can now walk in our basements. The 50’s mean we finally have enough time to get around to sorting all those kids’ memory boxes and 30 plus years of “I’ll-get-to-it-someday” stuff. School art class “masterpieces,” little league trophies, Halloween costumes, birthday cards, special-moment baby clothes, the wedding dress, the wedding invitations, napkins, and programs (why, oh why???), and the china you always thought you’d need but never used – it is time, my friends – to say good-bye. Our 50’s are for dealing with basements. Not a moment before. Young mommas and anyone below 50, don’t you DARE take a precious moment from those precious years to dig through the boxes of “stuff.” You will have PLENTY of time for that when the last baby packs up her suitcase and moves out.

We get a to get a dog again. This is definitely a blessing, but also a significant marker of the “downhill phase” of life. Upon getting married, most of us get a dog to see if we can take care of living things. If it works out alright, we decide to have children. Now, the children are gone and we’re pretty sure we screwed them all up, so we console ourselves by getting a dog again because dogs have pea-brains and don’t need therapy when they get older.

We find Jesus. We may have known him our whole lives, but there’s something about our 50’s that unveils a whole new dimension to our spiritual life. God comes to us bigger, better, more loving, more inclusive, more merciful and gracious and more everything in our 50’s. I’m betting this continues on from here to the end. Perhaps it just takes living 50+ years to NEED a Savior to be all those things in order to experience him in all those ways.

To me, Jesus has been the very best part of my 50’s. Both now and forevermore. Amen.

“Wisdom belongs to the aged and understanding to the old.” Job 12:12

Lessons from the brain dead

July 18, 2019 by Cindy DeBoer 14 Comments

I was absent from one of the most transformative events in my life. It happened to my husband while in Guatemala but left an indelible print on me and I’ve never been the same since.

Back in the day when we believed visiting Guatemala regularly would bring lasting change to the country, we often included orphanage visits as part of our “missions” week. (Anecdotally, our views on short term mission trips and their purpose and product have morphed significantly since those early days. For deeper probing, here are a few resources: Relevant Magazine, The Poor Will be Glad and When Helping Hurts)

On this particular visit, Paul and his fellow well-intentioned travelers decided to stop at a new orphanage that was home for children with special needs. No one in the group could have anticipated what they were about to see.

He described the place to me as a small home made up of three adjoining rooms. The first and last rooms were filled with beds for the children – the middle room served as their dining room, lounge and play room. The place was lit too brightly by flickering overhead fluorescent lights and smelled of urine and vomit. The staff barely noticed yet another American “tourist” group stopping in; so with lack of direction, the group migrated to the playroom hoping to play with the kids.

Paul held back. He described some kind of supernatural power drawing him to the sleeping quarters made up of rows of beds and cribs.

He heard her before he saw her. Her shallow, slow breathing rattled and gurgled with every breath. Next, he smelled her. It was a hideous combination of bad breath, urine, and body odor. Although the crib was abnormally large, Paul expected to find an infant. It was, after all, a crib.

When he peered in, he was quite taken aback by the sight.

Her name was Corinna and she was 10 years old and that crib had been her whole world her entire life. She was born severely handicapped and has never walked, talked, fed herself or even sat upright. She stairs blankly to the left – always to the left because her head is stuck that way. Without provision of physical, recreational or occupational therapy to the residents their bones and muscles and brains just atrophy away day after day.

Corinna was not hooked up to any machine or life-assisting devices. She just existed. Her stiff and contorted body pained Paul to even look. But instead of pulling away, he felt compelled to lean in. He put his head right in front of hers. He stroked her hair, he talked to her, and he prayed for her.

She barely blinked.

A few days later back in Michigan, Paul recounted this experience to me: “Cindy, it was like there was no one there – she was so vacant. And yet, I felt the presence of God with her. All I could think was this: God loves this precious one. She has been bed-ridden her whole life, she has never said a word and never will. She, by all practical purposes, is brain dead. She can do absolutely nothing for herself. She can do absolutely nothing for others – to show appreciation, to show love, to enjoy life, or – especially – to secure her salvation. And yet, God still loves her as much as he loves anybody. God actually sent his son to DIE for Corinna – to give her this life that seems so unlived. God’s love just blew me away as I sat holding Corinna’s hand. The beauty of that moment made me weep with love for her and for what an amazing God we serve.”

* * * * * * * * *

Paul and I tried to take a walk together today, but we had to stop frequently so I could catch my breath. I told him to just do the talking because I’m no longer able to walk and talk at the same time.

My medications are causing me more problems than I care to share. And I’d quit the whole lot of them if I didn’t believe in some weird medical-background-way they’re helping me live longer.

And with each tiny sign of deterioration I feel a little less whole, less human. A little less significant. A little less worthy.

And on my bad days I worry. I worry that I haven’t done enough. I worry that I haven’t said enough or shared enough with my kids. I worry that I didn’t accomplish much or do enough good. I worry that I’ll never finish my book and I’ll never have anything of significance to leave behind. I worry that within a generation or two people will forget me and that my life didn’t matter.

Then I worry that I worry about such stupid stuff.

But today I remembered Corinna. She who lay there in a crib for 10 years and never once actually “did” a single thing. Although she could barely move, she reminds me of how much God loves each and every one of us – his precious creation, made in HIS image – and that he would have died for us even if we were the only one.

I believe Jesus whispered in her ear every single day, “You are my beloved, Corinna. Of you, I am especially pleased.”

And I wonder how is it that I keep returning to my old patterns of fear and doubt and anger and resentment for my sucky lot in life – because, when I remember Corinna, I remember that I, too, am Jesus’ beloved, no matter what I am able to do or not do, say or not say, be or not be.

Yes, Jesus loves me. This I know.

Six Critical Life Lessons Learned from a Hacker

May 9, 2019 by Cindy DeBoer 5 Comments

I was furiously typing away – hoping to complete another chapter of my book in the two hours I’d managed to wrangle free. Suddenly, a warning popped up on my screen, “CAUTION! You have a virus attacking your computer! Stop immediately and call Apple: 555-5555” (the title of this blog should let you know why I’m not sharing the actual number…)

I’ve heard of these scams. I wasn’t born yesterday or over fifty years ago (okay – a tiny white lie with that one…). But I did know enough to be skeptical. I tried to exit out of the pop-up. No luck – it wouldn’t close. I tried to close all my windows and the Apple wheel of death appeared refusing to budge. So I decided to just shut my computer down (my go-to solution for techy issues). But the computer had totally froze and when I hit the off key it started screaming at me – an unearthly, loud and high-pitched alarm. I frantically tried to stop it by pushing every key on the keypad. Nothing. Totally frozen keyboard and a shrieking computer that hurt my ears.

It felt like satan himself was communicating to me from my computer. (Hmmm…. Now there’s a thought!)

I asked my daughter to quickly access her own device and ask Google if this was a legitimate warning and if I should call the “Rescue” number flashing across my screen. Google isn’t so smart after all: the first thing to appear in her search was an affirmative – Yes, indeed, sometimes Apple will alert you to viruses that are attacking in real time.
So I hurriedly called the number and talked to Rashid. (I know, I know. I know what you’re thinking… the fact that Rashid could barely speak English should have, possibly, been my first clue….) But at first, Rashid was super sweet and helpful. He calmly walked me through the steps necessary to stop the screaming alarm. Then he explained a few more steps that would allow him to interface with my computer, which, he said, was necessary to diagnose the problem. I watched, helplessly, as he navigated the cursor on my screen and moved quickly in and out of windows and in and out of my settings. Then he confirmed my computer had, indeed, been attacked by a wicked virus. The very worst, he said. He pulled up graphs on my screen depicting the damage and just how much of my data had been infiltrated. He said to remove all the infectious material would take about 24 hours and all I had to do was pay $79 and he would fix the whole darn thing.

What a doll, that Rachid.

I may look old and stupid, but I tell you what, once in a while, when the thing is wretchedly stinky, I’m able to smell a rat.

I hung up on Rachid as fast as you can say “India” and slammed my computer shut. I set it in the corner like a bad child and didn’t open it again for 24 hours. The truly honest and genius boy-child at my local computer store fixed everything the next morning in mere minutes. He felt pity for such an old, helpless lady like me to be taken so badly by a hacker that he didn’t even charge me for his services.

Once I calmed down from the debacle, I realized I was actually thankful for everything I learned from Rachid:

1. We are not in control of squat. As I watched Rachid guiding my cursor all over the screen and clicking away to “convince” me of my desperate need of his services, I felt incredibly helpless. I didn’t know if I should trust him or not – all I knew is this: “I have no control anymore.” It reminded me of how often that is true in life. We want to believe we can control things – but when our child rebels and runs away from home, or our best friend betrays our trust, or we lose our job, or we get the “cancer” call, or we lay our parents down for their eternal rest, or we find out we have a stupid lung disease that’s robbing us of steady breathing and a long life – well, all those moments serve to remind us that we don’t control SQUAT. We are wasting our time and energy trying to control that which we were never meant to have reign over.

2. Satan is real. A while ago a well-meaning friend told me I look for satan under every bush. She was suggesting that perhaps I give the enemy of our souls more credence than I should. I don’t know, maybe I do. Sometimes I think I just watched too many horror movies in junior high…

But what I know for sure is this: That old Liar roams to and fro looking for ways to steal our joy and wreck our faith in Christ – but the sooner we recognize his schemes the sooner we can put a stop to it! Don’t be afraid to ascribe evil to he who authors it!

3. We never make good decisions when in the midst of a crisis. When we find ourselves in a crisis, we need to, if possible, BACK AWAY! Give the thing time to simmer down. We need to give ourselves some space to slow our breathing, gain composure, pray, and THEN process the crisis thoughtfully. Only then can we gingerly step forward into finding a solution.

4. Real, authentic, caring help truly does exist in this world. Go seek it.

5. Never think too highly of yourself. I was devastated thinking that while Rachid had access to my computer for those 24 hours he was probably reading and stealing all of my information on my computer. My wise, gentle hubby had to (carefully) remind me that I’m not THAT special. We don’t work for the government, we’re not made of millions, and we’re not famous – so what could a hacker really “steal” from my computer that would matter? A blog on how we renovated a crack house??? The little circular I wrote on how to deal with menopause??? The poem I wrote for my dying dad??? Did I really think some hacker from India would steal my Christian memoir book and somehow get publishers to do what I have been unable to do and publish my book under his pseudonym??? Rachid becomes Rachelle and suddenly he is the next Anne Lamott???

I had to admit, Paul had a point…

6. If you have nothing to hide, it doesn’t matter who looks at your stuff. Without a single incriminating photo, without essays bashing high-profile people, without massive wealth, and without anything to share except the gospel of Jesus Christ, I should have had NO FEAR of someone stealing my content. In fact, I should have HOPED they would!

My prayer for us today is to not fear the hacker – or anything or anyone set on destroying us. May we be a people unafraid or unashamed of someone looking at our computer content or our browsing history. May we recognize those who are bent on causing pain, hurt and chaos in our lives and STEP AWAY from them whenever possible. And may we not think so much of ourselves or our work that our computer carries more importance than it should.

And may we never forget that when a TRUE crisis arises (and they will, brothers and sisters, they ALWAYS do….) help is only a shout away:
“Hear my cry, O God, listen to my prayer; from the end of the earth I call to you when my heart is faint. Lead me to the rock that is higher than I, for you have been my refuge, a strong tower against the enemy.” Psalm 61:1-8