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JESUS

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

Filed Under: Aging, CANCER, COVID-19, Depression, Prayer, Suffering, Tattoos, Terminal Illness Tagged With: CANCER, DYING, JESUS, JOY, PTSD

Do You and I Have Blood-Dripping Fangs?

July 21, 2022 by Cindy DeBoer 3 Comments

Paul and I have a Libyan friend who, despite growing up in nearly 100% Muslim Libya and being raised by a devout Muslim family, converted to Christianity as a young adult after learning about Jesus on Christian satellite radio. Our friend, whom I’ll call Mourad, (his life would literally be in jeopardy if his Christianity were revealed) shared with us his account of the first time he ever traveled outside of Libya.

Paris train station

Mourad had been invited to a Christian conference in France to share his experience of life as an “underground” Libyan Christian. He told us he was both thrilled and terrified to leave the comfort and safety of the only home, city, and country he had ever known. After successfully navigating the airport in Paris, Mourad stumbled his way around the city until he found the train station where he’d board a train to his final destination. With an hour to burn, Mourad eyed a coffee/food kiosk and decided to grab a bite to eat.

Concerned the barista wouldn’t understand his French (he had only used online tutorial sites for a few weeks now), Mourad practiced his order while waiting in line: “short black coffee” and a “croissant almondine.” He was so surprised when she understood him! But he was even more surprised when he understood the barista’s response when she brought him the two items, looked at his credit card and said, “I’m sorry. Cash only. Our card machine is broken.” Mourad panicked. He didn’t have any Euros – only Libyan dinars. His eyes darted around the train station hoping to find a hidden ATM. He saw none. He felt his cheeks redden and worried the growing line of people behind him were frustrated. He silently chastised himself for choosing to wear his Libyan jellaba which was a clear indication of his religious affiliation, not to mention his nationality. He was contemplating just walking away when he felt a light tap on his shoulder. Mourad described it this way:

“I turned around and here’s this tiny little lady – maybe 80 or 85 years old. She didn’t even reach my chest. She smelled like roses and coffee and her eyes sparkled when she talked. She smiled at me and said, ‘Let me pay for it. You appear to be new to France and I like to welcome new people. I’ll pay this time and maybe someday you can do the same for someone else.’ I thanked her but then told her I didn’t accept money from strangers. So, she extends her tiny worn hand to me and says, ‘Hi, I’m Elsa Benowitz. Now I am your friend. Now you can let me pay!’ Then she actually winked at me and told me to grab my food and have a good day!

.

I was flabbergasted. I knew immediately she was a Jew. A name like Benowitz can only be Jewish. But as I looked at this sweet, tiny, generous woman before me, my mind pounded like a jackhammer. I couldn’t make any sense of it. My whole life I’d been told that Jews have blood-dripping fangs – that their blood-lust toward Muslims is so profound they will lunge at you. I was told their eyes are so full of evil, you can identify them simply by their glare. Muslims in Libya believe Jews have a certain smell – the smell of blood – and that when they meet Muslims, they will either spit at you, hurt you, or kill you. This sweet woman in front of me was the antithesis of all that. I’m sure she assumed I was Muslim, but she emanated kindness and love. She even shook my hand and paid for my lunch!

.

I’m an educated young man. I’ve graduated from university, have a prestigious career and now I am a Christian. I know how to think logically and rationally and make sound deductions from evidence. I know how ridiculous it must sound that I believed Jews were ‘blood-thirsty pigs’ whose primary goal is to kill Muslims and eliminate the Islamic faith. I know now it is unfathomable that I truly believed Jews had fangs and wanted to suck our blood – but I did. For 25 years, that is all I had been told and I had every reason to believe it based on hearsay. I had never met a Jew. But in that moment, at that little coffee stand in a French train station, my world of beliefs came crashing down. I was forced to reconcile everything I’d been told to what I was seeing before me: a kind, compassionate human being.”

Mourad shared that story with us nearly 10 years after it occurred, yet he still choked back the tears as he recalled the moment his heart was forever changed toward Jewish people by simply encountering one elderly Jewish woman.

I think this story serves as a powerful reminder for those of us who strictly adhere to a narrative that we’ve only been told – something we’ve never questioned, explored, or researched. Sometimes, without even meaning to, we end up on a path that we did not choose but others put us on.

For way too long now, major news outlets – Fox News, CNN, MSNBC, all of them! – have been telling us what to think and believe about those who disagree with us. They spend more time telling us how “evil” the other side is than they do telling us the news. If you don’t believe me, take just 15 minutes during primetime to watch the channel that is opposite of what you usually watch. Within minutes, you will be cringing because the narrative insists “the other side” (which is talking about YOUR side) is hateful, deceitful, heartless, and selfish and whose goal is to destroy America and destroy “the other.” Sound familiar? Cable news may not be suggesting “the other side” has fangs and will suck your blood, but it’s not too far off.

Maybe – just maybe – we need to think (critically) for ourselves and draw our own informed conclusions about people, issues and problems and not listen to a group of people who make money from building a viewership.

When our kids were young, we always told them to think for themselves and to not decide how they felt about someone until after they’ve had personal experience. Kids are notorious for telling other kids how to think and act: “Don’t play with Susan. She’s mean.” “Don’t sign up for that teacher. She isn’t fair.” “You’re gonna hate that coach, he plays favorites.” We’d often remind our kids that the perceptions of others DO NOT HAVE TO BECOME YOURS. We would say, “Decide for yourself how you feel about these people.”

I bet you’ve told your kids the same thing.

“When I was a child, I spoke like a child, I thought like a child, I reasoned like a child. When I became a man, I put aside childish things.” 1 Corinthians 13:11

So why do we find ourselves today conforming to a culture of hate and divisiveness based on what news sources are peddling? Even now as adults, we are listening to voices that insist they have the corner on the truth – these “kids” on the playground of life who are saying, “Listen to me! I know what you should feel and think!” I cannot imagine I’m making a revolutionary statement here, but I feel I need to say it: NO media outlet has the corner on truth. None.

I know this because of personal experiences that refute the narrative of hate that BOTH sides are trying to propagate. The only thing I can know FOR CERTAIN comes from what I’ve actually experienced. And in my experience, it has been unanimously true that whenever I have met someone who is unlike myself – whether that be in religion, politics, socioeconomic status, ethnicity, or sexuality – it altered my previous belief and feelings that had only been “handed” to me from someone else.

God became BIGGER to Mourad the day he saw Jews as actual image bearers of the one true God and I think the same awareness is available to all of us when we meet and engage with others who are not mirror images of ourselves.

May we all be a little more like Mourad.

Filed Under: Finding truth, France, Muslims, Prayer, Trusting God Tagged With: JESUS, TRUST, WISDOM

It’s Time To Turn In Our Shoelaces

June 9, 2022 by Cindy DeBoer 7 Comments

I am a psychiatric nurse at a mental hospital.

The single most important objective at the hospital – one that every single employee can tell you verbatim – is to keep people safe when they are at risk to harm themselves or others. We offer many other helpful services beyond that one objective; but primarily, we keep individuals safe from self-harm or suicide and we keep the society safe by removing those who could potentially harm others (dangerous psychosis, homicide, aggression, uncontrolled substance abuse, etc.)

There are two primary ways a psychiatric hospital keeps patients safe. First of all, we have what is called, “checks” where every single patient has a staff member lay eyes on them a minimum of 5 times an hour to “check” that they are okay and not exhibiting any dangerous behaviors.

Secondly, in addition to “checks,” a psychiatric hospital keeps the environment as safe as possible with things like: beds nailed to the floor, heavy, solid chairs and tables that cannot be broken or thrown, unbreakable windows, etc. But most importantly, keeping every patient safe requires psychiatric hospitals to have a list of contraband items which are prohibited in the hospital. Contraband includes obvious things: knives, cigarettes, lighters, drugs and alcohol. But it also includes less obvious items: pens, mirrors, belts, any clothing item with a string, notebooks with wire binding, and shoelaces. Basically, it’s anything that could be used to harm themselves or others or that could be used in a suicide attempt.

Every time I admit a new patient to the hospital and I explain contraband, they usually say to me, “But I’m not a risk. I won’t do anything dangerous with these shoelaces. I promise. I’m safe.”

I tell them, “I know it doesn’t seem fair that everyone must turn in their shoelaces. But the primary objective of this hospital is that everyone here is safe. And because this unit operates in community – where you will share meals, group activities, the lounge area and in some cases, even sleeping quarters, the only way to assure everyone is safe is to make sure no one has access to potentially dangerous items.”

When I explain this to my patients, they typically understand. They realize they chose (in most cases) to come and they don’t want to be responsible for their personal contraband getting in the hands of someone who might do harm with it.

Now, there are exceptions to the shoelace rule. Sometimes, a patient who is not a high-suicide risk needs good shoes for balance, or has diabetic foot ulcers, or achy feet. In those cases, the doctor makes an exception. Sometimes the doctor says, “You have proven a need for shoelaces. You have a sound mind and you will either keep these shoelaces on your being or make sure they are locked up when not in use so that they never end up in the hands of anyone else. You can keep your shoelaces.”

“BUT WE’RE NOT SICK LIKE YOUR PATIENTS!”

I believe America can learn a lot from my psychiatric hospital.

Some might think it’s absurd to compare a psychiatric floor at a mental hospital with America. But the two are more similar than you might think. Both are communities in the truest sense. I think our denial of this truth is at the core of this gun issue.

One of America’s most unique distinctions is our elevation of the self and our “free to be me” mindset. We call these liberties. For the most part, we do not elevate the preservation of the family, the necessity of community, and our God-given role in society as much as other civilizations do. We’re fiercely independent and proud of it.

This is what makes it so much harder for us to wrap our minds around our responsibilities to the WHOLE, not just the self. No matter who we are and where we live, we are part of something bigger. We are a part of a community and the way we choose to live our lives most definitely affects the lives of those around us. Community members make decisions every day that affect those around them: How/when/where we drive, smoke, drink and do drugs; how we vote; what we buy (affecting availability for others. Think: toilet paper and baby formula); using restraint (think: running naked through a mall, a peeping Tom, or shooting firecrackers onto the property of a veteran); going to public places or events while sick with a communicable illness; and how (or if) we take care of our garbage, our elderly, and our parks. Even things as mundane as the way we treat the grocery store clerk, the children playing in the street, and the pizza delivery boy ALL MATTER because we live in community.

We’re hearing a lot about blaming mental illness to the gun violence problem in America. Of course, this is true. Mentally stable people don’t go shoot 19 children and two teachers in a school classroom. But what is also true is that never before in the history of America have we been so saturated with mentally unstable people. We’ve never been sicker and wearier. From wars, violence, famine, drought, abuse, COVID, sex-trafficking, and extremist views pushing us farther apart from one another – to some extent, we are all “cracking up.” We’re a hurting, angry, broken, and confused people, and things are only going to get worse (the Bible tells us so). In hospital terms, we’d say, “The acuity is very high.”

This translates to an unprecedented number of people looking for the “shoelaces.” Of course, shoelaces don’t kill people, people kill people. But when shoelaces are so prevalent in a community that is not well, people will die.

An inconvenient truth for gun supporters (those holding firm to a position of little to no restrictions) is that in America, 6 out of 10 deaths from guns are deaths from suicide, NOT homicide. (click here). We’re experiencing the tragic and unnecessary loss of life at a dizzying pace and guns are the method of choice to get the job done.

So when these pro-gun adherents suggest solutions like, “arm the teachers,” or “more good guys with guns,” or “increase school security,” or “one entrance” – these things don’t do squat to solve the bigger problem with guns: suicide.

As Americans and certainly as Christians, I think it’s absolutely proper to be freaking out over a mass murder of school children by an unstable young man with an assault rifle. I can’t believe the whole country didn’t just stop in its tracks and spend at least a week in pure shock and lament. BUT, IN ADDITION to the lament necessary for mass shootings, let us not forget that those same weapons – those shoelaces, if you will – are ending up in the hands of those who want to take their own lives, too.

“BUT WHAT ABOUT MY FREEDOMS? THIS IS AMERICA!”

After web-surfing for hours searching for the best definition of government and its purposes, I struggled to find one concise purpose. To be honest, I was looking for proof that our constitution primarily protects our safety as a people, not our liberties. But that’s not true. It’s not one or the other, it’s both/and.

The purpose of our Federal Government, as found in the Preamble of the Constitution, is to:

“…establish Justice, ensure domestic Tranquility, provide for the common defense, promote the general Welfare, and secure the blessings of liberty to ourselves and our posterity.”

And James Madison, our 4th president and author of the constitution said:

“[t]he powers reserved to the several States will extend to all the objects which, in the ordinary course of affairs, concern the lives, liberties, and properties of the people, and the internal order, improvement, and prosperity of the State.”

These reserved powers have generally been referred to as police powers, such as those required for public safety, health, and welfare.

I know that those who wish to disagree with me on this will point out the word “liberties” in both the above quotes and insist owning a gun is their American liberties expressed. I agree. But if our “liberties” trumped our safety, both quotes could have been much shorter and simply stopped at: “The government exists to ensure no one is ever told what to do.”

We simply can NOT separate the safety of our people from our liberties. They were never meant to be mutually exclusive.

So when the two polarized viewpoints of gun control insist on making their “thing,” – either safety or liberty – the ONE THING, we run into serious trouble. We’ll never come up with a solution (as is the state of our current affairs.)

I’ll never stop believing that if we could put to rest our political posturing, we could find a solution to the massive amounts of death in country via the use of guns.

“BUT I’M SAFE! WHY SHOULD I GIVE UP MY GUN?”

It may seem a breech to our liberties to have an (even limited) ban on guns simply because some in society are mentally unstable. But the reality is we are IN COMMUNITY together and guns are just rampantly finding their way into the hands of those who wish to do harm to themselves or others. When we understand that we ARE a community, we understand that sometimes rights and privileges (liberties) must be restricted to keep everyone safe (like shoelaces in a psychiatric hospital).

Not everyone should have to give up their guns. Sometimes those in charge (like our doctors) will say, “You have proven that you need your gun. You have a sound mind and you will either have this gun on your being or make sure it is locked up when not in use so that it never ends up in the hands of someone else. You can keep your gun.”

Unless we can accept that this is in no way an infringement on our liberties, but simply putting safety on the same, equal page as liberty, we’ll never be safe.

As things now stand, we have more guns in America than people. (click here)

If my psychiatric hospital allowed for more shoelaces than actual people, we would have dead bodies everywhere. Every day.

Sound familiar?

Filed Under: Depression, Suicide, Trusting God Tagged With: CHRISTIANS, GUNS, JESUS, MENTAL ILLNESS, PRO-LIFE

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”???   
“A”

“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)
She loves me.
Really she does…

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!!!

Filed Under: City Life, Contentment, COVID-19, Depression, Homelessness, Lymphangioleiomyomatosis, Terminal Illness, Trusting God Tagged With: CONTENTMENT, COVID-19, DYING, JESUS, JOY, LAM

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 973rd 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 47th 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

Filed Under: Aging Tagged With: AGING, DYING, JESUS

Lessons from the brain dead

July 18, 2019 by Cindy DeBoer 14 Comments

imagesI 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.

Filed Under: Christian Service, Guatemala, Prayer, Suffering, Uncategorized Tagged With: CONTENTMENT, DYING, JESUS, JOY

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