God

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/ jessicaivaska / 12 Comments

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Eighty-three days ago, I had a heart attack.

It’s hard to write about because it’s hard to believe, and even harder to process.

But facts are facts.

The sun rises every morning. It sets every evening. When it rains, things get wet. And almost three months ago I had a heart attack.

I didn’t realize what has happening at the time. It was nothing like they show in movies. I didn’t fall over clutching my chest. It hurt, but I could handle it. Afterall, it was the middle of the night. So I took some Tylenol and tried to sleep.

I didn’t even tell Erik until the next morning. Concern swept over his face. He wondered if I needed to go to the doctor. I waved off his question. The pain was better. I’d just wait and see.

But then I got to thinking.

I still didn’t feel right. Something had happened that morning while I was running. I almost blacked out. I got crazy nauseas. That’s not normal, but because I’ve run five marathons, I know that some runs are hard.

Plus, it was hot — in the 90s, with a humidity factor like a sauna. I told myself that I must have gotten over-heated. The chest pain later that night must have been from that. Yep. Heat exhaustion. Or maybe I was just anemic. The symptoms matched.

I had some routine blood work scheduled for a few weeks out, but I decided to do it early. I sent my doctor a message saying what had happened and asked him to check for anemia when the tests came back. The nurse called the next day.

No anemia. Everything looked great.

Then the Holy Spirit must have nudged me, because before she could hang up I told her what had happened. I said that I still had pain when I exerted myself, but that it was better. I figured I just needed more rest.

If she could have forced me to come in, she would have. But instead she pressed as hard as she could and then made me an appointment for a few hours later.

Fast forward through some more tests and that night I end up at the ER, being told I was going to be staying the night.

And then the next morning, the cardiologist walks in.

“You shouldn’t be here,” he said with a straight face. “You’re too young, too healthy. It doesn’t make sense.”

Great. Then, I’ll just go home.

“You had a heart attack.” Those words came out of his mouth and I would have lost any poker game I’d been trying to play.

“No one told you yet?” he asked.

Nope.

Rushed into more tests and then surgery to have a stent placed to open a blockage, another night in the hospital and the next evening I finally got to go home.

Two nights may not sound like much, but I felt those hours. I know Erik did, too, as he sat next to me in one of those squeaky, vinyl reclining chairs you only find in hospital rooms.

So there it is. I had a heart attack. A mild one, as the doctor told me, but still a heart attack.

What do you do with this type of news?

If you’re like me, you try to figure out whyit happened. But sometimes, there just aren’t answers.

Sometimes you can run 15-20 miles a week, eat healthy, not smoke, not drink much, never set foot in a fast food restaurant, be in your 30s and have a heart attack. And sometimes you just won’t be able to make sense of it except for genetics being at play.

But the thing is, as true as it is, the moving on is hard. My desire to want to control everything leaps to the surface as I figure out how to change my diet, dig into books about how to recover, think about stress management and try to start exercising again.

83 days in, I still don’t feel great. I still have some pain. I’m still tired. I had another test today, I was sure the news would be bad. But the doctor called to say the damage that had been done from the heart attack has reversed itself. My heart is healing.

It’s a strange thing when you brush against your mortality and I’m still not sure what to do with it.

But I’m learning to lean. I’m learning to lean on Jesus. I’m trying to trust that He’s in control. I’m choosing (ok, trying) to believe that He is good. I’m choosing to see my lack of control as something I can grow into, something that God-willing can be a good thing, can give me freedom. What that freedom looks like I don’t know. But I hope to taste it soon.

BEDSIDE MANNER

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Maybe you haven’t been there, but I’m willing to bet you have.

You’re sick, or have had surgery, or delivered a baby, and you need care. You need gentleness. You need reassurance that it’s all going to be ok.

Some doctors are good at it. Others aren’t. In fact, some are terrible. I had a procedure a few years ago and the doctor said she’d call Erik to tell him how it went as soon as I was in recovery.

She never called.

She didn’t tell us how it went. I was sent home drugged and wondering if it had been a success. It was a minor procedure. Something this doctor does multiple times a week. But for me, it was huge. It was my body. My life. I needed to know all the details, and yet, I got none.

The unknown — combined with the after effects of anesthesia, my body healing, and my sensitive soul — left me in a cloud of despair. I couldn’t shake it.

The pain from the procedure wasn’t that bad, and yet something in me was falling apart. I called to find out how it had gone, and was told, “Fine.” I said I had been extremely emotional and asked if that was normal. The reply I got was, “Well, some people have strange responses to anesthesia.”

That was all.

I was broken, bloody, and felt alone in it. And yet, that’s how all of us are in this world.

Maybe we aren’t literally bleeding every day, but we are broken. There is pain, there is hurt, there is abandonment, rejection, and betrayal.

We don’t merely need procedures and bandages to fix the injuries and sop up the blood. We need someone who will hold our hand while we heal.

We have that. In Jesus.

I forget this far too often. Instead of letting Him hold my hand, I search for someone — or something — else to calm my racing mind. But those brief moments when I am with Him, when I am raw and bare and He is bandaging me tenderly, holding my hand, telling me that I am not alone, those really are the best.

Let’s try to do that more, you and I. Let’s let Jesus be Jesus. Let’s let Him bandage our wounds and clean up the blood, all while holding us and telling us that everything is really, truly going to be ok.

THROW PILLOWS

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I’ve been redecorating lately. Buying fabrics, thinking about color schemes, imagining newly framed photos on the wall.

For some people, this isn’t anything exciting. They redecorate all the time, making sure the current trends are well reflected in their picture-perfect homes. But for me, in this season, it’s a big deal.

When we moved into this house over a year ago, we were thankful to sign a six-month lease. We thought it would just be temporary in every sense of the word. I hated it, but I figured we would soon be moving on. We didn’t buy new furniture or new artwork. We used what we had and called it good. And it has been good. It’s worked. But every time I had a longing to do something different, to make it feel more settled, I told myself it wasn’t worth it.

We’d move soon, so anything we bought now would be a waste of money. The next place will be better. The next place we’ll settle more.

And that’s where I’ve always lived. I’ve always lived for next. Even when my sister went away to college and I moved into the larger bedroom, I didn’t hang any posters. I didn’t repaint the hideous Pepto-Bismol pink walls because I knew, in a few years, it would be my turn to leave.

The same thing happened in college. I’d only be in a room for nine months so why do anything besides hang my clothes, set up my desk and put on clean sheets?

So here I am, years later, and I’ve decided I’m done living for “next.” I want to embrace where God has me today. I want it to reflect us, right where we are, at this moment.

These days are fleeting. That part I’ve always gotten right. But where you go from there, that’s the part in me that’s changing. Because they are fleeting, I want to be present. I want to be right here, right now and I want to be thankful for it. I don’t want to wish it away (although there are things I wish could change), I want to embrace it. I want to make it mine. Make it ours.

I’m learning that even if we only live here another two months, it will be money well spent. And so, while we aren’t buying the new couch I want, we will hang new curtains, and I’ll sew new pillows. We will print those amazing photos that Erik took and we’ll frame them and hang them on our wall. When you walk in our creaky front door, you’ll see beauty. You’ll see us.

I want to make this place ours, and I want to like how it looks. I want to invite people over and not give them caveat. I want to stop making excuses and telling them about the amazing condo we used to live in.

I want to be here, now, because this is where God has me. This is where He has us.

CLOUDS

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Guilt. It’s like winter in Seattle. The grey always hanging around, covering up any light that tries to sneak in. When you try to run from it, putting on layers and turning the heat in the car all the way up, you feel better for a while. But eventually, the chill resurfaces in your bones and you just can’t shake it.

I’ve been living with guilt my whole life. I don’t know where I picked it up, but I want to put it down, bury it and never mourn its death.

Guilt has chased after me, clung to my clothes like bonfire smoke and tried to stifle me in big and small ways. The big ways are debilitating, but the little ways. . .Those are the ones that eat away at your soul.

I should have worked out today.
I need to clean.
My to-do list is so long and I’ll I’m doing is sitting here.
I could love my husband better.
We don’t have kids. Should we have already had kids?
I’d weigh less (and look better) if I hadn’t eaten that cookie.

The list goes on and on. I’m drowning in things I could have done different, should do different, or promise myself I’ll do different tomorrow.

Yet, when I stop running from the guilt, and let it catch me, I can pick it up and turn it over in my hand. That’s when I see the truth: My guilt is always about what I want to look like to other people.

I want “them” to look at me and love me. I want “them” to think I’m great. Most often, it’s a far darker desire: I want “them” to not be ashamed to know me.

So when I stop running, when I give myself time to examine the clouds that chase me, I realize that fretting over all the things the world tells me to do will never feed my soul.

And if it comes down to feeding my soul, guilt will never do that. Only the God who created me can. You see, this, right here, this is where I believe that many in our wonderful faith tradition have gotten stuck. We tell ourselves that our guilt is from God.

But, my friend, I don’t believe that guilt is from God. Guilt nags at you even after you’ve been forgiven. God tells you that if you accept His grace, you are washed clean, period.

Guilt claws at your back, telling you that today wasn’t good enough, but tomorrow could be. God tells you that in him you’re already good enough.

Guilt wounds. God heals.

But conviction, conviction is holy. Conviction doesn’t tear apart your soul. Conviction feeds it. Why? Because while guilt separates, conviction draws you in.

This is where some may say that I’m just mincing words. But I’m not. For me, they are completely and utterly distinct. Or at least I want them to be.

Using two different words lets me examine my feelings and see where they are coming from. It lets me assign different answers to each question I ask.

Are the clouds clawing at my soul, or is God pursuing my heart?

You see, when you define it differently, you get to have a different answer. You get to throw away the guilt and keep the conviction. You get to ask God for help. You get invite Him in, and ask Him to help clean you up, rather than push Him away because you feel too dirty. And that, that’s the stuff that will feed your soul. Instead of clinging to you, it will free you.

I don’t know about you, but I want that freedom.

 

BUILD IT

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I’ve been thinking about Noah lately. Noah from the book of Genesis. I like to think I could be like him, but when push comes to shove, I’m not sure I’m strong enough.

How about you? Could you be Noah?

God called him to do something utterly and completely crazy.

We teach it to children with a bit of a sing-song lilt, focusing on the happy ending when most of the story isn’t happy at all.

God tells Noah He’s going to flood the earth to destroy all of humanity. All of it. Except Noah’s family if he follows God’s call.

That call? To build a boat. A giant boat. A boat that was about 450 feet long.

I can see Noah’s neighbors laughing at him behind their hands. Rolling their eyes at the religious fanatic they dismissed as crazy.

But does having a call make your crazy? Sometimes I think it’s the most sane thing in the world. That we all have a call, a unique task – something we have to build. It takes bravery and faith to do it, especially when it’s something as outrageous as building an ark.

Some say that before the flood it had never rained on the earth. I don’t know if that’s true or not, but if it is, that only adds to the ridiculousness of Noah’s task.

I wonder if Noah ever had second thoughts. If he considered never nailing those first few cypress boards together. Or if he wanted to quit halfway thorough.

The truth is, it doesn’t matter. Noah did build the ark, and because of that, you and I are here today. We come from his line. God used him to rescue all of humanity.

Noah’s crazy task had a purpose. No matter what anyone else thought, he fulfilled his call.

I want to be like Noah. I want to have a direct call from God and faithfully put in the effort to complete it. But I think I care too much what people think. I want to fit in and only stand out for good reasons. For accolades. Not because I’m weird, or crazy, but because everyone wants to be like me.

I’m pretty sure while Noah was building the Ark no one wanted to be him. But once the door closed and the rain started falling in heavy, thick drops, I bet they had second thoughts. At the end of the day, Noah wasn’t crazy. He was a hero. Why? Because he followed his call.

God said build it, and he did.

In that case, I want to be as crazy as Noah. I hope we all can be. I hope we can become more willing to be used for something bigger, and ignore the snickers and stares we get as we live out our callings—whatever it might.

 

 

HUNGRY?

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It’s been grey lately. Like, Seattle grey. Rain keeps falling and everything feels damp, even inside. Combine that with the life’s busyness and it has been weeks since we’ve been to the beach.

I realize that isn’t odd for most people. But when you are a beach girl who lives in Hawaii, it’s more than strange. It’s almost tragic.

When we packed up on Saturday morning, hoping to find a parking spot at a favorite lagoon, it felt long overdue. We watched the clouds as we drove west, silently praying that we’d find sun.

Parking. Check.
Sun. Looked promising.
Blanket out, chairs down, toes in the sand. Done.

And yet, it wasn’t enough. I thought it would be. I love the beach. How when the sun hits your skin in this tropical land it gets all the way to your bones. Warm, hot, a little scorching. Wrinkles and skin cancer be damned. It feels good.

But still, it wasn’t enough.

That day, I knew the water would be brisk. Not for tourists, but for me. After a few years here your blood changes. The fluid in your veins learns the difference between 77 and 80.

I didn’t think it would happen, not to me. That first winter I dove in the water, laughing at the locals on the sidelines who thought it was too cold to swim. And now, while I go in year-round, I can’t stay in as long in the winter before goose bumps overtake my arms and even my liver starts to shiver.

I wasn’t up for snorkeling. I knew I wouldn’t last. But the water pulled me. A blew up my bright pink inner-tube, and walked in up to my ankles. Silver fish flashed as the water licked the shore. I had to take my time. Inch by inch, letting the next part of my body get used to the chill. And then, all at once, I was there. Floating. My legs dangling, my hands paddles to take me to the rocky outcropping where yellow and black convict tang flitted away from my shadow.

That was it. That’s what I needed. In an instant, my soul was filled. The water silenced growing uncertainty about what the future holds.

As Erik and I walked along the shore, I could put words to it.

“I forgot how much the water feeds my soul,” I said to him.

He smiled knowingly and said, “I know.”

He’d been trying to get us to the beach for weeks. My agitation had been growing. My discontented heart now a regular guest at our dinner table.

But the ocean waves washed it away that day. As I dropped onto my towel, sand sticking to the gaps between my toes, everything in the world seemed right. And I realized that’s how good God is. He gives us things in this world that feed our souls. That makes us who we are, make us complete. He gives us people, places, feelings, memories. While some theologians would brush their meaning away in favor of hours spent in Scripture, for me, the beach, the waves, the water are holy.

It’s not the Bible. But it’s time. It’s time in God’s presence, and that is what I needed. That day, only the ocean would do. I couldn’t believe I had forgotten this about myself. Water is woven into the very core of by being.

I grew up with a view of Puget Sound. Every summer, I would have to be drug out of my grandparent’s pool when the sun went down. Fishing with my dad. Ferry rides to see family. Hours going up and down between lane lines in my high school swimming pool. Snorkeling.

I have never been far from water. That’s how God created me.

As we left the beach that afternoon, hungry but completely full, I realized I need to pay better attention. My husband knows. My family knows. Some of my friends even know. Why had I been blind to it? Why had I forgotten this essential part of me? What else feeds my soul that I have forgotten about?

If nothing else, I know that no matter where we live, I need water. I need to get in it. I need to paddle on top of it, kick my feet in it, float in boats on top of it. I need it because it feeds my soul and when I get hungry, I get cranky, and nothing seems right until I’m fed.

The ocean may not be feed your soul. But something does. Find out what it is and chase it, because we’ve all spent too long being hungry.

CROW’S FEET CONFESSIONS

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I’ve been looking at my friends faces a lot lately. Looking at their Instagram posts, zooming in on Facebook pictures, looking closely at them when we are talking. I wish I could say it was because I just can’t get enough of them. That they are all so beautiful I have to stare.

There is some truth to that. They are beautiful, and yet, I’m not looking at them in admiration. There are two other reasons—and those reasons are ugly.

1. Comparison
2. Jealousy

I know I am not the first person to compare myself to others. Sadly, I also won’t be the last. I think it’s part of the Fall. I don’t have a specific scripture in mind to back that up, but I know I could make a biblical case for it.

That said, here’s a glimpse inside how I compare—it may or may not be different than how you do. I look at someone I know or admire, and then see how I stack up. Often I do this in things that the world sees as flaws. Now that I’m in my mid-thirties, it’s taken a very specific focus: wrinkles.

Yep, wrinkles.

I have some and I hate them. So if I look at people that I love and admire and see that they have wrinkles too, somehow it quiets the anxiety inside me. Somehow it makes me feel like I’m ok. After all, if women whom I admire and love have wrinkles, then surely, wrinkles are ok. Right? RIGHT?

Once I get to the place of recognizing that amazing, lovely, awe-inspiring women have wrinkles too, that’s when #2 kicks in—jealousy.

Jealousy? “You, Jessica, are jealous of wrinkles?”

Yep. I’ve (mostly) accepted the fact that wrinkles happen, so now I want the best wrinkles I can have. In my opinion, those are the smile lines and crow’s feet. Those little creases that not only show that you’ve lived a few years of life, but that you’ve lived it happily.

Those are not the wrinkles I have. I have the furrowed brow kind. The ones that show that I’ve spent hours and years thinking, wrestling, despairing and, well, frowning.

Just the mere fact of writing that down is causing me anxiety. The next time one of you who reads these sees me, I fear your eyes will go straight to my forehead. And yet, I’m on a journey. A long journey to accept myself in the way that God made me. And part of that is the furrows that show that I think deeply, and fret, and ponder.

Do I wish It was different? Yes, sometimes I do. But in wishing things were different—wishing I was different—I think I’m missing out on what this life is really about. Loving. Not by comparing. Not by putting someone on a pedestal, but by seeing who they really are—people made in God’s own image. People He loves enough to have created and chased after. People He died for. People He still is still chasing after today.

I want to see people that way. I want to see you that way. And really, I want to see myself that way. I want to put aside the comparison and the jealousy and just be. I want to be me, and I want you to be you. I want to not care if my face has wrinkles—or what kind it has—and just be thankful that I get to breathe deeply, feel sun on my face, and live in a world full of beautiful, wrinkled (and non-wrinkled) people who were all made in the image of God.

 

WHAT DOES TRUST LOOK LIKE?

/ jessicaivaska / 6 Comments

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I’m sure you’ve reached that moment in your life. If you haven’t yet, you will. Probably many times. Sorry, but it’s the truth.

It’s the moment when you have to trust. When the ground feels shaky, you feel like you swallowed a boulder and your head is spinning.

That’s the place I’m at today. I’ve been here for a while. If we’re honest, we are here everyday, but the pace of our society and technology lets us keep it at bay. When we keep busy enough we don’t have time to peer into the unknown or look at the roadmap only to see there’s no path marked, just thousands of routes with no direction on which turn to take.

But today, today is quiet. Today I can’t hide behind a “To Do” list or a mountain of work, because God has cleared my plate. Some of you may be thinking, “I’d give anything for a day like that.” Let me tell you, it’s harder than it sounds.

How do you stare a day in the face knowing that nothing you do will really matter? How do you look at an empty calendar and feel purpose? How do you encourage the man who you love that God has a plan when you don’t see it? How do you trust when looking back you see a lot of dead ends?

The only answer I can come up with today is this:

Trust is a conversation.

Trust is being willing to be open, vulnerable and honest. Trust is crying with Job and saying to God, “I don’t like what you are doing, but I will not deny you.”

You can’t be real with someone if you don’t trust them. You can’t pour out your heart—and your hurts—if you don’t believe in them. You can’t be vulnerable if you don’t feel safe.

So today I’m choosing to claim my conversations with God, dark as they may be, as a victory because they remind me that I trust Him.

CHICKEN?

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“Are you chicken?” I remember those cutting words from my grade school days. They were always said with a lilt in the voice, a taunting, manipulative question.

There are a lot of things you don’t want to be when you are in 2nd, 3rd, or 4th grade, and chicken is near the top of that list.

Here in Hawaii we have chickens. Lots of chickens. Some are pets and some are used for laying eggs, but most of them just roam the streets. Rag-tag bands of feral chickens can be found in almost every neighborhood.

So the other day, when I came across a chicken and a rooster on my run, I wasn’t shocked. And no, I wasn’t scared either. But, as I got closer, the chicken freaked out. Like royally flipped out. She up and ran.

Now. I’m sorry to say that Ms. Chicken’s timing was terrible. At just that moment, a truck was coming up the street on my right.

I don’t have to tell you the rest. I’ll let you imagine what it sounded like.

Needless to say my entire body flinched and I turned away. But it got me to thinking, in her fear, the chicken went towards something that was more dangerous than what she was afraid of.

I mean, I guess I can be more scary than I realize, but I wasn’t planning to even touch the chicken. I was just going to let her be. Her perception of me was inaccurate, which led to fear, and then unwarranted action that actually caused more harm.

There are things in life we all fear. Cancer. Terrorist attacks. Losing loved ones. And when you are in elementary school the list of things to be afraid of is much longer. It includes monsters, the dark, and your best friend moving away.

But when you dig down deep and look at the roots of your fear—are the things you are afraid of really worth being scared at?

It’s not the fear itself that matters. It’s what you do with it.

Do you get on your knees and cry out to the God of the Universe who is waiting with open arms to listen to every word you say and wipe away every tear you cry?

Or do you pull up your bootstraps, try harder and turn to run from your fear?

When you turn and run, you never know when a truck will come around the corner. But if you take your fears to the One who loves you and created you, you’ll be safe every single time.

So are you chicken? What are you gonna do about it?

ONE OF THOSE DAYS

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Sometimes there are days when all you want to do is get to the end of it. Now, I’m not talking about those ugly, no-good, terrible, very-bad days, but I’m talking about some of those regular, ho-hum days where you just can’t seem to get any traction.

I don’t know about you, but I am not a stranger to those days. They are sometimes frequent and always draining, when no amount of energy can be mustered to pull myself up by my bootstraps and put my nose to the grindstone.

No. Those days are days when, no matter how hard I try to ignore it, I’m confronted with the truth that I am human. I am imperfect and I need Jesus.

Those are the days when I want to crawl in bed and watch Netflix on my phone. That I want to go to bed at noon and try again tomorrow.

But you know what? Even on those days, Jesus loves me. And that’s what I have the hardest time remembering.

I am not what I do.
I am not what I accomplish.
I am not what I look like.
I am not how lazy I feel.
I am not disposable.

No. Even when I am at low points, I am loved.

I am loved because of Him.

He loved me first. Before I ever did anything of note. Before I ever tried to comb my hair or wipe the crumbs from my face.

I am loved because of Him. I needed that reminder today, and I thought you might need it, too. So here it is:

YOU ARE LOVED. Just as you are.

That, my friend, is good news. In fact, it’s such good news it’s hard to wrap your head around, but that doesn’t make it any less true.

You’re loved even if there are piles of dishes in your sink and dirty laundry littering your floor. You are loved if you don’t cross one thing off your to-do list.

You are loved. I forget this often, so I give you permission — actually I beg you — to keep reminding me.