Earlier this year I felt the need to start reading through the Bible chronologically (i.e. in the order that the events actually occurred, which may or may not be the order in which the books are placed in the actual Bible). Therefore, after getting through Genesis 11:10, I flipped to the middle of my Bible and began reading through Job. Now I began this whole process in January, and actually started reading Job at the beginning of February, long before I had any clue about what was going to happen with me medically.
Well, as I have been saying continuously throughout this whole thing: Jehovah Jireh. The Lord provides. Today I reached the final few chapters of Job, when God finally comes out and provides Job with clarity. Not necessarily the clarity that Job thought he wanted, but absolutely the clarity that he needed. God explained in magnificent, poetic language just how beyond Job’s comprehension His infinite wisdom and understanding are. At the end, Job was satisfied, not because he had answers to the age-old question of why suffering exists, but because he had learned what it meant to fellowship with God in suffering.
I’ve been here at the hospital in Baltimore for the past 21 hours. Late last night, as I was still sitting in the ER admittance area, I was told some of the worst possible news I could be told: my MRIs look normal, better even than before. Now you’d think I would be happy and relieved by this conclusion, but what it means is that we have absolutely no clue what is causing my reoccurring symptoms. We’re back at square one. And square one means weeks and months of re-explaining my symptoms to countless nurses, physician assistants, residents, and specialists. I’m already beyond exhausted. I don’t know how to explain my pain in a way that these medical professional can comprehend and fit within a specific box.
It’s not burning or sharp pain. It’s not tingling or numb. It’s not really aching. It’s just extreme hypersensitivity. To everything. My mom got here today and simply laid her hand on my leg at one point in a gesture of comfort, and I jerked away in pain. Just lying on this bed, my legs will sometimes start shaking because it feels like my nerves are going crazy. Like they’re on hyperdrive.
These are the types of things which I say to the medical staff, and they never seem satisfied. They want me to explain it more, or differently. Just like nine years ago, it doesn’t seem to make sense to them because the pain doesn’t seem to fit within their strict categories of types of pain.
Well, what can I say: I’ve never been one for fitting within predefined boxes.
But getting back to the point: when I heard the news that nothing was wrong, that the MRIs were essentially clear, I just broke down sobbing. I can handle it when I know what to expect, when I know the war path. If it’s that my Chiari decompression surgery wasn’t complete enough or needs to be redone for whatever reason, fine. Do it again. Take some more skull out. Make it better. If it’s that my syrinxes are acting up and need to be shunted: fine. Shunt away. But when you tell me that neurosurgery sees nothing wrong with me and we’re starting over: that, I can’t process. That sends me over the edge.
I spent the rest of the night alternating between sobbing and just staring blankly at the wall, trying not to think about what this all meant.
But I’m coming to realize that, no matter how scary, no matter how overwhelming, God is in control. I know Him. I know His providence and His grace and His love. As the title of this blog (and my next tattoo) references, I know that even in my darkest hour, even when I feel totally alone and abandoned, God is here, hovering over me, protecting me, sheltering me. I will rest in His shadow. Because the Lord will provide. Just like the lesson that Job learned, there’s no point in asking why if you know who God is.
And just as the book of Job ends with Job restored, not because of his personal repentance or righteousness, but because of the Lord’s graciousness, I know that no matter what happens in my life, God will write the last chapter. And it will be beyond anything I could ever imagine. I can’t even begin to describe my elation.
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