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Cindy DeBoer

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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

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. 3 Make 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.

Filed Under: Aging, CANCER, COVID-19, Depression, Life Overseas, Lymphangioleiomyomatosis, Suffering, Terminal Illness, Trusting God Tagged With: CHRISTIAN LIFE, COVID-19, DYING, LAM

Ode To A Lumpy Body

February 18, 2022 by Cindy DeBoer 16 Comments


Hairy legs and sun-burnt nose
When at the beach, anything goes.
Unbrushed teeth and happy-hour drinks
This much I know: my breath stinks.
Fish for dinner plus a fruity potion
Diet be damned, I'm at the ocean.
Sand in my bed, and in my salt-fried hair,
Sir, what is the time? Wait. Why do I care??
It's here that I feel no virus, pain, or LAM -
Must be the thick presence, of the great I AM.

.

Just a couple of days ago I slipped into my new bikini and Brenda and I headed out for a walk along the Gulf of Mexico in Puerto Vallarta. We felt so important – staying at a swanky resort where budding American accountants and their wives went to feel more successful than they actually were.

We turned the heads of both the locals and tourists. We heard the comments – the catcalls – and laughed at the power of the female anatomy. Perhaps we did stick out – both young, fresh blondes in our little bikinis. And Brenda is tall – really tall – and her long, lean legs stop somewhere around her neck. I’m not tall, nor would anyone ever describe me as “lean,” but I don’t think people gouge their eyes out when they see me either. Some of our admirers even followed us into the bars at night and tried to dance with us. Our husbands just laughed – knowing they alone held our hearts.

Then a few days passed.

Today I slipped on my Grandma-style black bathing skirt and floppy top – a two-piece ensemble designed to masquerade the wrinkles, bumps and lumps of old ladies. When I finally put down my reading glasses and book on racial reconciliation and headed out for my daily beach walk, I had an indescribable sense of peace. There was no need to “suck it in,” apply lip gloss, or make sure my skin was shiny with tanning oil because nothing I do at this point improves the situation anyway. I don’t turn heads anymore and I’m not mad about it. It’s so much easier and freer these days. But as I watch all the bikini-girls walk on by, I think to myself, “Oh I remember those days. That was just a couple of days ago for me.”

And in between those couple of days this body did a couple of things. It grew five babies in its womb. Three of them made it out alive, two went directly to heaven and we never even knew their gender.

And both the joy and the sadness of each of those babies resulted in wrinkles and a little less “perk” to this body.

This body wiped about a million butts. Between my own babys’ butts, butts at the nursing home, and butts at the hospital, a million could be a bit of an exaggeration, but it’s a ridiculously high number.

And all those many, many nights of getting up with babies coupled with the graveyard shifts at the hospital working in the ICU and caring for precious souls whose actual LIFE hung in the balance just piled on the wrinkles, the eye-bags and overall “sagging.” Some days it was as if I could physically FEEL my body sagging as I drove home from the hospital, bearing the burdens of deep sadness experienced in the ICU.

This body packed up four children and an entire household 11 times. Four of those times were to and from far away countries. This body has slept in tents, in negative five-star hotels, under the stars and on the floor of the Sahara Desert.

And all those achy muscles and bones from asking this body to go above and beyond its normal strain left this body a little more worn and limping. More bumps, more bruises, more sagging.

This body has cried alongside Syrian refugees and widowed Guatemalan women. It’s heard the stories of Jews living in a kibbutz and Moroccans living in shantytowns. It’s befriended the homeless and the helpless, those that have much and those that will never have any. It’s worked tirelessly to bring peace and comfort to the psychologically challenged. And currently, it grieves for Afghanistan and her people, those picking up pieces of their lives after a natural disaster, those affected and infected by COVID, and those who have misplaced their peace because of internet lies. But this body has never given up hope that the shalom of Christ is possible here on earth.

With each new discovery of the world’s many crises, its needs and its sorrows, this body sagged a little further. It sagged even as it considered all the possible ways to help make a difference. Believing change can happen and working hard to BE that change, no doubt, is exhausting.

This body has held the hands of many people as they took their final breaths – patients, close friends, and dear, precious family members. This body – specifically the heart and soul – has suffered more grief and loss than I thought a body could bear.

And I’m quite certain the most wrinkles, the most wear and tear on both the inside and the outside of this body have come from the sorrow. Sorrow, I believe, ages us the most.

Then a new shock sliced me open. This body somehow developed all kinds of holes in its lungs and now this body doesn’t breathe very well anymore. This body sometimes tells me it’s wearing out (like on the hot, humid, Michigan summer days, or when faced with more than 20 stairs) and it doesn’t feel like putting up a fight anymore.

And with each labored breath, I feel the work of this entire body doing its thing. Pumping its limited supply of oxygen where it’s needed the most. The work, the strain, the fatigue = more wrinkles, more sagging, more bumps and lumps as I sometimes eat my way out of the despair.

This body has served me well and I sure hope it doesn’t sound like I’m complaining. None of these bodies we inhabit were made to last forever and perhaps my temple expiration date is just a little sooner than others. This body has also lasted much longer than forecasted and the reality of that miracle is not lost on me.

Today, THIS body has earned its wrinkles, its sags and lumps and bumps and proudly walks the beach in the Grandma bathing suit because – OH WOW! – I’m alive!!! I would never want to go back to the woman who wore the bikini. My life is testimony to the beauty of the hard work done by my body.

Let’s celebrate these masterfully made bodies, friends. These are miraculous gifts that – in spite of things like cancer and cerebral palsy and limb difference and high cholesterol – house our heart and soul and allow us to breathe and love and care and serve. We may not have been given the body we wanted, or the body that’s as healthy as we’d like; but if we’re alive, then at least we HAVE a body and whatever it looks like, it’s a freakin’ miracle!

Let’s give God glory for these glorious bodies today, shall we???

Filed Under: Aging, Body Image, CANCER, COVID-19, Depression, Guatemala, Lymphangioleiomyomatosis, Suffering, Terminal Illness, Trusting God Tagged With: BEACH, BODY IMAGE, JOY, LAM, Suffering

Invisibly Dying – A Lament For Those With Chronic Illness

January 15, 2022 by Cindy DeBoer 27 Comments

Our ancient windows are no match for this stiff north wind.
Our curtains tremble – just like me.
Neighbors on both sides are sleeping. I know this for sure.

These urban homes practically touch – holding hands across shared driveways - making daily routines no secret.
But the rest of our quirky neighborhood will keep me company until about 3:30 a.m.
At which time even the college students sleep.

.

Not me.
Sleep is totally foreign to me – like Tajikistan or Uttar Pradesh – places I can’t even imagine.
Once again, I can’t breathe.
Is it the meds? Side effects? A lack of oxygen? Anxiety? COVID?
Tajikistan feels nearer to me than sleep.

.

A serendipitous encounter at the grocery store
And an old friend says I look great – but I know she’s shocked by the bags under my eyes.
So am I. They’re alarmingly large.
Go ahead and stare at my grey eye-barnacles – perhaps I even want you to. Because I’m not okay and sometimes I wish it were more visible.

.

I’ve given in to the fact I can’t keep up with the others.
Of course, I still WANT to run, and sing, and dance, and visit all the countries.
I WANT to clean my own house and cook my own damn meals.
I WANT to go back to work so we have more money to give away.
I WANT to go on every walk my dog thinks is necessary.

.

Those of us invisibly dying wonder how to tell you.
We worry if we tell you how we’re really feeling you’ll judge us for being complain-y.
We worry if we don’t tell you how we’re really feeling you’ll assume we’re fine.
We worry you won’t believe us because our hair isn’t falling out.
We worry you’ll tell us what miracle treatment your neighbor’s cousin’s daughter sought for her own bizarre disease that is nothing like ours.
We worry you’ll weary of our weariness.

.

So those of us invisibly dying pretend we’re fine.
It just works better that way.

.

There’s a good chance my body isn’t dying as fast as my mind.
My body is made of tempered glass – thick and durable, but still, it’s glass and it has plenty of cracks.
My mind is also glass, but the thinnest, most delicate, tenuous kind that cracks with even a nasty look. It shatters easily and often.

.

I tell myself to be strong.
I pray.
I ask God to make me strong.
I ask God to stop the insanity going on in my head.
I don’t know if he’s not listening or if this is just the best he can do, but I still feel insane.

.

I worry that my faith is wavering.
I worry what Jesus thinks about wavering faith.
I worry this is depression.
I worry if I tell someone that, someone else will throw another medication at me, and dear God, for all that is sacred and good, please no more medication. PLEASE!
I worry that I’m not making the most of my limited days – HGTV, Longmire and Ted Lasso stealing days from Bible Studies, serving the poor, volunteering at school, and other wholesome things.
I worry that even if the pandemic doesn’t kill me, it’ll still have zapped all my emotional, spiritual, and intellectual energy anyway and I’ll be useless for whatever years I have left.

.

If you’re invisibly dying, people just really want you to act normal.
Because if something’s invisible, we can choose if we want to believe it or not.
Like faith.
Like time.
Like Venmo.
Like COVID.
Like Jesus.

.

I’m pretty sure I would not prefer to be visibly dying.
To those who are, my heart bleeds for you.
I don’t know which is worse - the flippant sympathy of others who can obviously see you’re dying or being treated normally when you’re not normal.

.

But my lungs have holes in them and today I hear an audible wheeze that doesn’t even make sense to the doctors. And now I’m worried that this is the sound of oxygen leaking out when it should be going to my brain because nobody with a well-oxygenated brain would write such a sad diatribe. I regret it even as I write it.

.

But I do sometimes act like a person with not enough oxygen to the brain.
I yell too easily.
And hurt people.
And forget things.
Like appointments -
And promises.
And ideas.
And that which I want to forget, I can’t.
I can’t forget the reoccurring dream where I'm not wearing a  shirt or bra in public and even though I plead with everyone in sight, no one has anything I can cover up with. 
The relevance of that dream to this post is not lost on me. 

.

I don’t care anyway. I’m invisibly dying.

.

I want to be the strong Christian who writes lovely things about faith and courage and strength and the way God always swoops in and saves the day.
I want to be the one people remember as always positive and encouraging.
And now I worry that I’ve just blown that.

.

Invisible is the worst thing to be.
I’d never choose it as my super power.
I’d choose flying for sure – so I could fly off to every country in the world and meet ALL the people from all the continents and learn all their languages, eat all their foods, study all their cultural practices and religions.

.

How can I show you, oh loves, that I’m still me?
How can you know that as I invisibly slip from this failing shell, I still want to laugh?
How do I tell you I ache, without you feeling sorry for me?
How do I let you into my darkness without darkening your world?
How do I let your light in without letting my darkness seep out?
Will we ever get this right?
Will I exhaust all my relationships with my exhaustion?
Will I run out of energy to find peace and wholeness before my days run out?
Will there be an actual heaven waiting for me that will make sense of all of this?

.

Will I be visible in heaven?

.

The more I come to terms with dying invisibly
The more I’m sure I see my invisible God.
What I used to only see dimly – as if looking through a thick glass*
Is now starting to take shape – the slightest imagery of something I've always known but just couldn't see - now new and afresh. Real.
And I don’t hate it.

.

Maybe today I seem visibly shaken.
Tomorrow, most likely, I’ll seem to have it all together again.
And that’s just how it goes when you’re invisibly dying.
*1 Corinthians 13:12

Filed Under: Contentment, COVID-19, Depression, Lymphangioleiomyomatosis, Prayer, Suffering, Terminal Illness, Trusting God Tagged With: Chronic Illness, COVID19, LAM

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

What I Always Thought Was Right Is Wrong

November 5, 2021 by Cindy DeBoer 21 Comments

I have a friend who was raised in an atheist home surrounded by her atheist family, friends, and community. When she was in high school, she did a semester abroad and ended up on the other side of the Atlantic – in a CHRISTIAN home!

My friend recalls how as time went on and the host family shared the love and knowledge of Jesus Christ, her whole atheistic worldview came crashing down. But as much as Christianity was making sense, and as much as she wanted to accept it as truth, she had one major obstacle: accepting Christianity as ultimate truth would mean that everything she had been told, everything she had read (and she was a voracious reader and owned MANY heady books proving the validity of atheism), and every person she had always trusted, were actually wrong.

To fully accept Christianity, my friend had to first acknowledge she had been misled and the very people she desperately wanted to believe (including loving parents!), she really couldn’t anymore. It was a big leap for a teenager, but she did it and was then able to accept Jesus as her Lord and Savior.

On the flip side, one of the most heralded evangelical Christian authors of our day, Philip Yancey, recently gifted the world with his memoir, Where the Light Fell, where he portrays life growing up in a fundamentalist southern Baptist church in the 60’s. Even though his parents were missionaries and raised Philip in the church, he now describes his upbringing as “toxic.” Yancey says it wasn’t until he became a young adult that he came to understand just how racist, hypocritical, verbally abusive, and unloving his upbringing had been. Yancey describes needing to completely dismantle the Christianity of his childhood in order to truly fall in love with Jesus and accept him as his loving, forgiving, and inclusive Savior.

What he always thought was right was actually wrong.

Both conversion accounts – my friend’s and Philip Yancey’s – are SO compelling and pertinent for our day and age. It seems that today, more than ever, deception is rampant and the great deceiver has figured out how to lead us into destruction by confusing the heck out of us when it comes to which figures in authority we should be listening to.

And one thing we ALL KNOW is true: God is never the author of confusion.

In our very divided nation, some of us who believe we are trusting the right voices and are absorbing truth are most certainly listening to deception (which has to be true because we can’t ALL be right). Somehow, some of us have chosen to trust people and voices that we shouldn’t and have shut out the voices we need.

But here’s the thing – that word TRUST is what’s biting us in the butt.

Whether we’ll admit it or not, we are all trusting someone or something. And it’s so important that we step back and analyze the voices we’ve put our trust in. If we say we don’t trust the CDC, NIH, or the AMA, we’re then saying we DO trust the online doctors and social media stories that contradict those medical entities. Whether the recipient of our trust is our school boards, my friend on Facebook, black/white people, immigrants, police officers, evangelicals, Muslims, atheists, Democrats, Republicans, Tucker Carlson, Don Lemmon, my grandmother, your neighbor, ZDogg or Zindaya – if we are listening to ONE person/group and saying, “Yes, I trust you and what you are saying,” we are inevitably choosing to NOT believe in the counter-narrative.

Are the voices we’re listening to SO trustworthy that we’re willing to risk our well-being, our character, our health (or our kids’), relationships, our children’s futures, our nation or our democracy on what they’re telling us?

Let’s be extremely careful before we answer that question with an emphatic “yes.”

Yet many of us will insist this conversation is unnecessary because God alone is to be trusted. And, as is often posited subconsciously by well-meaning Christians, by trusting God alone we’re exempt from deception (we trust God will lead us to the TRUE news sources, the TRUE medical experts, the TRUTH about history, the morality of and intentions of leaders, the values of a political party, etc., etc.). Oh man, what a dangerous, deadly belief!!! Of course, God alone can be fully trusted, but as fallen humans living in this sinful place, we cannot escape deception! It’s Satan’s favorite (and really, his ONLY tool) and he can, and does, target Christians (maybe, even more so). Because we live and breathe and walk on this planet and must interact with other humans every single day, we have no choice but to choose who we will trust and who we will not. There’s no way around it.

As evidenced by several of his previous book titles, Where is God When It Hurts?,or What’s So Amazing About Grace? or Church, Why Bother? or The Question That Never Goes Away: WHY? Philip Yancey reveals something Christians are afraid to admit: it’s NOT a sin to ask questions! We owe it to ourselves and the world to research the sources of our information and ask a LOT of questions. We owe it to ourselves and the world to check references and credentials. We owe it to ourselves and the world to ask if we’ve been stuck in an echo chamber or if we’re really listening to all points of a debate before deciding our position.

Maybe we need to be asking more questions.

If you haven’t seen the film The Social Dilemma yet, I highly recommend it. This poignant film describes how we (internet users) are all recipients of a very carefully curated feed finely tuned to our specific interests, fears, and beliefs. In other words, “they” know what we want to hear and “they” pummel us with it. “They” know exactly what it takes to lead us down the proverbial bunny trail and are experts as doing it. If you’ve ever wondered why THE WHOLE WORLD isn’t up in arms about XYZ because it seems it’s everywhere and evil and going to destroy us, there’s a good chance that you are being fed a whole lot more of XYZ than everyone else. You may have clicked a time or two too many that initiated the bunny trail, but soon, “they” had you pegged for the exact kind of person who will get all fired up about XYZ so “they” pummeled you with it. Your sources are amplifying the thing and making it appear so much bigger, so much worse, so much more dire. It’s no wonder many Americans feel the sky is falling. “They” told us it was.

Who will we trust?

Maybe the voices we’ve been listening to that we’ve been SO VERY SURE we could trust (as with the case of my friend’s family and with Yancey’s parents) are not trusted voices.

Maybe we’ve been so caught up in a political quagmire that we’re not even able to see up from down. Right from wrong. Good from bad.

Maybe we need a healthy purging of our internet feed and instead drive to the border ourselves and ask a bunch of questions. Maybe we need to invite a local epidemiologist, or a school board member, or a law school professor, or a homeless person over for dinner and be the LISTENER, not the speaker. If we’re white, maybe we need to attend a black church for a while and make some new friends. And vice-versa. Maybe we need to ask our long-time family pediatrician what we should do in this current public health crisis. Maybe we need to really concentrate on the reputation of our news sources by asking all kinds of questions about where they get funding, who’s their target audience and why, and what political motivation they might have to bend the news. Maybe we need to study media bias charts (here) and ask ourselves if we’re getting skewed or biased news reporting.

Maybe – MAYBE MORE THAN ANYTHING ELSE – we need to step back and say, “How important is it that I have a STRONG opinion on XYZ and then try to convince others my viewpoint is correct? What if I refocused that energy and instead just try to love others as I would want to be loved?”

What kind of a world would that be?

I don’t know. It’s been too long for me to remember.

Filed Under: COVID-19, Fake News, Trusting God

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