Screeches and Squeals

I love my red jeep.  It's old and beat up, but I still love it.  For the last few months it's been making a sound that's progressively getting worse.  I took it to the garage last week where I was confidently told there was nothing wrong with it, but I beg to differ.  The other night I drove into the parking garage under the baseball stadium to have it parked, and the look on the man's face as I handed him the keys said it all.  I know he wanted to ask me "Lady, why are you driving such a beat up car?"  Truthfully, my car sounds like the wheels are going to come off and roll down the highway in front of me.  I just smiled and said "Park it somewhere safe" with a sly grin that he knew was sarcasm begging to dance with reason. 

At first I was embarrassed to drive the car, wondering what people thought as I pulled up to a light with screeches and squeals singing like a rock band.  Then I went into "fix it" mode, trying to figure out what was wrong.  And finally I've settled into an acceptance of a car with a lot of mileage starting to show its age.  I still love my jeep, I'm just learning to accept that it doesn't drive or sound like it used to...and that's OK.

Those of you that know me know that I've struggled for many years with two debilitating autoimmune diseases.  I've seen every kind of doctor you can imagine, tried countless medicines and remedies, and experienced seasons of relative improvement as well as seasons of great physical pain.  Yesterday I visited a massage therapist for some hopeful relief from a few weeks of chronic aches and muscle fatigue. As she was stroking my body she whispered in a concerned voice "You have bruises all over your body."  I could only account for one bruise on my leg (I was hit by a fowl ball during our game against the Texas Rangers...that's a bruise you can't forget!)  She explained that sometimes when the body is experiencing trauma inside, it bruises on the outside.

Physical pain is something I've trained myself to master.  I've taught myself to deal with it much like a mailman that delivers packages.  I put the pain in a box and say to it "You need to sit over there till I'm done with my day."  When I was first diagnosed with a pain disease I took the pain out of the box and played with it all day.  It was my constant companion, and the one I had most of my conversations with.  I got sick of paying it so much attention, so I started putting it in a mental box; not allowing it any play time.  I prayed for healing, I prayed for comfort; and although I believe  God can take it away from my body in an instant, I've learned to live out the meaning of one of the most compelling scriptures I know...  "My grace is sufficient for you, for power is perfected in weakness."   (1 Corinthians 12: 9)

We will never know strength if we don't first know weakness.  We will never know power if we don't understand defeat.  At times I feel like my body is the little engine that could.  Always chugging up a mountain, trying to huff and puff to the top so it can coast down the other side chanting "I think I can, I think I can!"  Wouldn't you know I married a man with the immune system of steel.  I can hardly count the times he's had a cold in 30 years, and here I am "I think I can, I think I can," hoping that this precious body I call home can carry me through all the things I want to do. 

Weakness begs for power to swoop in and help it.  To answer the questions we don't understand, and to strengthen us to live fully in the midst of things we'd never choose, but learn to accept.  So, like my jeep, I may squeak and rattle a bit on the inside, but I still plan to live boldly on the outside.  Even when people look at me like "Lady, why don't you trade that mess in for a newer version or better model?" I know that His grace is perfected in weakness, and that's enough for me.

Blessings!
Gari