God

MY LIFE IN ORCHIDS

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There are three orchids sitting on the windowsill in my office. Each one was a gift. 

One given as a housewarming welcome. 

One given as an encouragement for surgery. 

One given by a friend moving away who wanted her plant to continue to live. 

Right now, all three are blooming. Bursting forth in various shades of dark violet, magenta, and white. Their flowers a splash of hope against the rain that’s falling from a grey sky outside. 

But as I look at those orchids I see more than flowers, or even hope. I see my life. 

I went to Hawaii for the first time when I was in middle school. The warm air, balmy breezes, swaying palm trees and turquoise waters captured my soul. Orchid leis were everywhere; their monkey-face flowers strung through to make necklaces. I don’t remember if I got one on that trip or if it was years later when one was lifted over my head, given with a kiss on the cheek. 

For years we returned and the orchids were always there to greet us, no matter what island we landed on. 

The ocean called to me more than the vibrant blossoms, but they were always a part of the experience. A part of all the trips I took to the place I loved. 

The day of my college graduation, my dad surprised me with an orchid lei. Its flowers were the same bright magenta that now adorns my windowsill. Leis are a big deal in Hawaii. They mark special occasions. Moments of note. Celebrations to remember. And even though we weren’t Hawaiian, or anywhere near Hawaii, my dad wanted me to have a touch of the place we all loved, a reminder of all the beauty and color that exists in the world. 

Fast forward a few years and I’m in my mid-twenties, walking home from the bus stop on a drizzly Seattle day. Just as I get to the hill, I look up and see Erik walking towards me. In his hands he held two things. A bottle of 7-up and a bouquet of orchids. 

“You always feel queasy when it’s a rainy day and you can’t see out the bus window,” he said, handing me the soda. 

How did he know that? I hadn’t even realized it. We hadn’t even been dating that long! 

Next, he handed me the orchids. 

“These are for you,” he said. 

As I remember it, there was no reason. No anniversary or birthday to celebrate. Those “just because” orchids were the first flowers he ever gave me. Even though we hadn’t said  “I love you,” yet, they made me feel special and, well, loved. 

A little less than a year later, “I love yous” already said countless times, I got on a plane to Maui with my parents and sister, but without him. We scheduled a phone date for the same time every day, and each day I pestered him with the same question, “Are you coming?” 

His response was always Socratic: “Did you buy me a plane ticket?” “Did you want me to come?” “Did you talk to my boss and get the time off for me?”

Little did I know that he and my parents had planned to surprise me so he could propose on the beach. A few days later, he arrived, fresh off the plane. Shocked and delighted to see him, it took me a while to understand his mission for being there. Finally, he talked me into going for a walk on the beach, where he proposed. 

I didn’t say yes once. I said yes three, maybe four times. 

Overjoyed, we celebrated at a nearby restaurant – the Sea House – each plate and cocktail glass garnished with, you guessed it, orchids. 

When I designed our wedding invitations, I made sure there were orchids on them. After all, they were part of our story, even if only a small part. The bouquet I carried down the isle also had orchids. Orchids that Erik scoured the Seattle-area for after our original order was lost. 

At the time, neither of us knew that years later, we’d move to Oahu and be greeted by people who would become some of our best friends with more orchid leis. 

Birthdays. Anniversaries. Special occasions, the orchids would show up. We’d find wild ones on hikes and nearly every grocery store sold different versions of the potted flowers. I tried growing them several of the places we lived. Orchids are supposed to thrive in Hawaii, right? Mine always died. But even though I wasn’t growing them myself, orchids were a part of our life in Hawaii. 

Then we moved back to Washington and in with my parents. Somehow my mom has mastered the art of growing orchids and almost always seemed to have some in bloom. Yellow. White. Purple. We had left Hawaii, but the orchids still surrounded me, surrounded us. 

The day we moved into the house we live in now, some friends brought over the first orchid I mentioned. The housewarming one. How fitting, I thought, but was leery that I wouldn’t be able to keep it alive. Over three year later, it’s still happily growing alongside the other two. 

All three have been blooming for months. And that’s the thing about orchids. When still connected to the stem, each flower can last for weeks, if not months. Their blooms on display far longer than any other flower I know of. 

I don’t know how these three plants are thriving in my office in Washington, far from their native lands, but I’m glad they are. I’m thankful for their blessing that reminds me that you never know what will be around the corner. But God-willing, there will always be beauty … and maybe an orchid…to remind you that life is good, beauty is worth celebrating, and things can thrive in unexpected places. 

LOVE AND A LAPTOP

/ jessicaivaska / 4 Comments

Erik bought me a new laptop. It’s still in the box, sitting on top of the armoire in my office. 

I haven’t even taken it out of the cardboard yet.

Part of that is practical. Erik will help me set it up and he’s been busy with work all week. I’m telling myself I want to keep it pristine until I actually start using it. But that’s not the whole story. 

Hiding behind that practicality is the fact that I don’t think I deserve a new computer. If I keep it in the box, I don’t have to face some of the realities of life right now. One of the biggest ones is the loss of my job. 

I loved the writing job I had, but it ended a little over six months ago. My computer has been a reminder of the 15 years I did that work, and now, the new laptop is sitting here, ready to be opened, reminding me that the season is over. 

I want to open it. 

I want to use it. 

I want this computer to mark a new season of my life. 

But I don’t know what that will look like yet, and because I don’t know, I don’t feel ready to step into it. Especially because right now, I can’t “pay back” the cost of the laptop with my next paycheck because I don’t know when my next paycheck will come. 

Never mind the money was already in the account. 

Never mind that I’m the one who earned it at my last job. 

Never mind that my current laptop is six years old — ancient in technology terms. 

I still feel the pressure to make the cost worthwhile. To somehow prove that I’m worth it. 

And that gets to the heart of it, doesn’t it? The reality is, I’m afraid I’m not worth it. Not only of the new laptop, but of the love Erik has for me. So I keep trying to do things that prove my worth. 

See? I can earn the money back. 

See? I can grow a garden so we have food. 

See? I can cook a good meal.

See? You made a good choice marrying me. 

It’s not that I don’t like gifts. I do. But I accept them much more easily when they are small and don’t cost too much. 

A surprise matcha late? Sure!

Extra vegetable seedings? Absolutely! 

Clothes you don’t want anymore? Yes, please! 

But a laptop? That wasn’t cheap. That was a sacrifice. I’m not sure I’m worth it. 

As I thought about it, I began to wonder, how often do I say the same thing to God? 

How often do I try to pay back the gift of salvation? 

How often do I attempt to earn the love I’m already given? 

Why do I feel like when I’m given a gift I need to figure out a payment plan? 

I think it comes down to a quote from the late author and spiritual director, Judy Cannato, that I’ve been pondering for weeks. Here it is:

“Everywhere the Holy One is shouting and whispering, ‘Let me love you.’ And all that is asked of us is to receive. In reality, that is our life’s work. Nothing more, and certainly nothing less.”

I could have easily missed those four sentences. They were in a forward from my uncle, sandwiched between morning spam emails all wanting something from me. 

Money. 

Time. 

Attention. 

But my uncle’s email didn’t want anything from me — it was offering me something. So, I read it. Then I read it again. And again. Now, this idea of simply accepting love has lodged itself in my brain, like a worm in an apple. I can’t get it out, and even if I do, there will be a trail left that can never be erased. 

I have spent so much of my life trying to be worthy of the gifts other people give me. Of their time. Attention. Love. 

But what if, instead of trying to make myself worthy, I let myself be loved? What if I open the new laptop, ask Erik to set it up, and focus on being grateful that God loves me enough to have given me a man who encourages me at every turn? 

Oh what grace! Make no mistake, it is grace. I’ve attended churches that have talked about grace my entire life, but it’s still a struggle for me. Not only when it comes to things like laptops, but ultimately, to the love of God. 

Just like letting yourself be loved, at its core, grace sounds simple. The most common definition I’ve heard is that grace is unmerited favor. It’s goodness and generosity given to you even though you didn’t “earn” it and can’t pay it back, and that gets to the heart of it. Erik doesn’t expect me to pay back the cost of my new computer. He’d laugh at me if I even tried. He knows that it will be a blessing for me and he wants me to have it. He wants me to delight in it. He knows it’s a tool that will help me to do whatever job I get next. 

Grace. 

Grace. 

Grace. 

The grace of God isn’t something He expects us to pay back. There’s no way we ever can. He knows that, but He gives it to us anyway. In His mercy, kindness, and love He wants to bless us. He delights in it. And He wants to equip us to do the work He is calling us to do. 

 But how often do I — do you — leave the grace of God in a box on the shelf thinking that if I work hard enough, then I can enjoy it? 

What would it look like to live in the fullness of the gifts I’ve already received? 

To live in the love that has already been poured out? 

To live as a chosen, ransomed daughter of the God of the universe?

To live in freedom from the chains of death?  

To live fully forgiven, fully loved, fully redeemed? 

Maybe this new laptop is just the start. Not of a new “work” life, but of my life’s work. Letting myself be loved. 

If Judy Cannato was right, and I think she was, it’s your work, too. 

REFUGE

/ jessicaivaska / 6 Comments

There are a few sections of our yard that are overgrown. As weird as that may sound, it’s intentional. We want to have pockets that are all natural, even if that means they look a little crazy. Those natural patches provide a refuge for the things we want to welcome into our yard. 

Birds. 

Frogs. 

Pollinators. 

Squirrels. 

The occasional rabbit. 

We love all these little guys. Seeing them each day makes us smile, and so, because we want them to visit us — and feel safe enough even make their home here — we leave a few sections wild and untouched. 

But a few weeks ago, we had an unexpected visitor. 

A disheveled, long-haired, Siamese (or at least part Siamese) cat. 

We recognized it as the neighbors’, who live kitty corner. They have two cats and both have visited our yard on occasion. While we have nothing against cats, we tend to shoe them away, hollering things like. . .

“Go home.”

“You don’t live here.”

“Leave the birds and the squirrels alone.”

“This isn’t your yard.”

It often works. At least for the other cat. But this one, this one just stares back at us and lays his head back down and closes his blue eyes. We can walk all the way up to it and it doesn’t flinch. 

I admit, at first, I was annoyed. After all, he had decided to make my flower bed into his preferred nap spot.  He didn’t care that he was crushing the irises I planted from blub last fall. Didn’t care that he was knocking the blooms over, destroying the beauty I had tried to manicure. 

A few days went by and Mr. Cat kept coming back to the same spot. He’d be there when we went to bed and sometimes when we woke up. That’s when we got worried. Maybe he was sick. 

Erik walked over to the neighbors and asked them about it. They said he does his own thing and for a while slept in our other neighbor’s shed. Huh. Ok. But then we told them that he’s been letting us get close and pet him and they got worried. That’s not like him. He usually runs away from people. 

Uh oh. 

So they came and gingerly scooped the cat out of a shady spot on our lawn and took him to the vet for a check-up. Apparently he was fine, because the next day, the cat was back. 

It’s been weeks now and nearly every day, we find Mr. Cat snoozing somewhere in our yard. Usually, he’s curled up somewhere against the side of the house. Yesterday, he was tucked between branches under a bush. 

Now, I don’t look for the cat to shoe it away. I look for the cat to see where he is. I’ve realized that for him, our yard is a safe and quiet space. A place he can rest. A refuge. And as much as I wasn’t thrilled about it at first, as I’ve thought more about it, I’ve been able to recognize we all need that. 

We all need a safe, quiet space to curl up in. 

We need a place where we can let go. 

A place that doesn’t demand anything from us. 

For Mr. Cat, that’s our yard. 

For a lot of people, that’s the church. Or at least it should be. 

The church should be a place that makes space for anyone and everyone. Even if they look a little rough around the edges. Even if you wouldn’t pick them to be your best friend. Even if they sometimes drive you a little crazy. Even if you think they’re freaks.

It makes me sad to think about how many people don’t feel welcome in the church. They think they have to look a certain way, act a certain way, wear certain clothes. On one hand, I get it. Church is often a place where we bring our best selves because it’s a small way that we can honor God. 

But on the other hand, I don’t think that God really cares that much what we’re wearing or what we look like. I think he’s just glad we’ve taken the risk to step into new terriority. And I think He wants us to find safety, refuge, and love there. 

The only way that happens is if we stop chasing away the people we don’t want and make room for everyone. 

Even the ones that don’t look like us. 

Even the ones who say the wrong the at the wrong time. 

Even the ones who haven’t showered in a week. 

Even the ones who think differently than we do. 

What would happen if instead of trying to protect their own space, Christian churches threw their doors wide open and welcomed anyone – and everyone – who needed refuge. 

What if we greeted them warmly?

What if we got them a cup of coffee? 

What if we made them feel safe and welcome? 

What if they curled up and decided to stay? 

I think that’s the life – and the gospel – that Jesus invites His followers to live out. He knows it’s not easy. He knows we are all about self-protection. He knows we want to keep things neat, tidy, and pretty. But He also knows that if we look carefully enough, we’ll see ourselves in every person we encounter. Because no matter how we look, at our core, all of us, are  the “least of these.” 

Is it easy? No. 

Is it worth it? You tell me. 

SUMMER IS COMING

/ jessicaivaska / 2 Comments

Monday the rain was back. Yes, it’s only May. Yes, summer isn’t officially here yet, but we all know I’m impatient and my impatience has grown over the last several weeks. Why? Teaser days. 

You know what I’m talking about, right?

Those days in spring when the sky is bright blue, the sun is out, and it stretches into the upper 70s. Those are the teaser days and we’ve had a few of them in this last month. But today, as I zipped up a winter coat to brave the 40-something morning air for a walk, I had to face the facts. No matter how much I want it to be, It’s just not quite time for my Birkenstock sandals yet. I wore them this weekend, and it was wonderful. My toes happily stretched, feeling the fresh air and sunbeams as I walked though a patch of grass.  

At the time, I was grateful for the summer-like weather. I still am. But I’ll also admit, at the time, all I wanted was more. 

I wanted the days of 70+ weather to arrive and settle in. 

I wanted to pack away my sweaters, vests, and coats. 

I wanted to be done with winter. 

But yesterday, as drizzle continued to fall and I was forced to zip up before stepping outside, God whispered to me. 

“Those days were just a taste, Jess. It’s coming. But it’s not here yet.” 

That’s when I realized that in many ways, every day of this life is a taste of what’s to come. 

A taste of heaven. 

Of eternity. 

Of the goodness and beauty of God.

Of things yet to come.

Is it a perfect analogy? No, but God still used it to remind me that when I feel trapped in the slog of winter, summer – His summer, the summer He bled and died for – is coming. 

He sends us glimpses of it. Tastes of it. Teaser days, if you will, to give us glimpses of the day when things will be reconciled and fully redeemed in Christ. 

We’re not there yet. But He promises it’s coming. And those sunbeams breaking through the clouds remind me of that. 

May they remind you, too. 

LIFE CYCLE LESSONS

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The garden is in. 

The  tomato plants I started tenderly in January are in their permanent homes. 

The kale, broccoli, and lettuce have been transplanted, too. 

Much to my surprise, almost everything I started from seed has survived. 

But that doesn’t mean it’s producing yet. For that, I’ve got to wait longer. As I wait, I can’t help but tuck a few more seeds into the open spaces. And because Erik and I would love to grow even more of our own food, I’ve started another round of carrots. 

And those carrots take their sweet, sweet time. For me, that means it takes about 2 weeks of consistent watering before the first hint of growth even begins to pop through the starter mix. The glimpse of green is so small I do a double take. I get onto my hands and knees, my face inches away from the soil. 

Did they? Did they? 

Yes!

A sprout, thin as a blade of grass, has started stretching towards the light. A few days later, the sprout is taller and no longer alone. It’s brothers and sisters joined it. Now there are 11 sprouts . . . no . . .13!

As I’m counting, I notice something. 

A few of the starts are wearing a hat. 

What is that? I peer closer. 

Oh, of course! 

Some of the seed casings are still hanging on. The stems are stretching taller, but the cotyledons are trapped in the husk. Its job is done, but it can’t seem to let go. 

I start to reach forward, then stop. I want to help. If I ever so carefully remove the “hat,” I’ll free the leaves from their straight jacket. They’ll have full access to the light. That’s what they need to grow! 

But because I’ve been trying to slow down more, I sit back and take a few breaths and think. A half-second later I remember a conversation I had with a friend on Sunday. Her family home schools, and this spring they’ve been learning about life cycles. They’ve watched butterflies emerge from silk cocoons and baby chickens break though the shell of eggs. 

“When we saw the first crack in the shell, we cancelled the whole day,” she says. “We all just sat there, watching this tiny beak break its way through. We wanted to help it. Just pull back a tiny piece of the shell, but we didn’t. We had just learned that butterflies need the entire process of breaking out of the cocoon to strengthen their wings. If you slice the cocoon open, or tug it off, attempting to help, the butterfly will always have weaker wings. It might never fly.  . . It’s like God had a plan or something,” she finishes with a glorious flare of sarcasm. 

As I stare at my burdened carrots, I think through the implication of her story. 

If God has purpose in the struggle for butterflies and chickens, He probably has purpose in it for plants, too. 

The next thing you know, I’m picturing an anemic zucchini plant from last year. I’d started it from seed and thought I was helping when I gently pulled the expired seed casing off its brand-new leaves. It never really recovered. The left leaf – the one where the casing had been stuck, stayed misshapen and weirdly yellow, even though it had been freed! The plant eventually grew, but it didn’t flourish the way it should have. At the time, I chalked it up to not being good at growing zucchini. Now I’m realizing it suffered because it didn’t go through its intended struggle. 

It needs the struggle to survive. 

Resistance makes it stronger. 

The right amount of pressure allows it to fully grow into what it was meant to be. 

If it’s true for plants, butterflies, and chickens, it’s probably true for me, too. I guess I need to wrestle through things to become stronger and to be who God intends for me to be. 

Right now, I feel a little like my carrot seedling. Something is weighing me down and I just can’t shake it. 

I want someone to reach down and pull me out of the sadness I feel. 

I want to know that it will all be ok. 

I want to rush to the other side. 

But today, I’m reminded that there is purpose in the process. So, once again, I pull my hands away from my seedling tray. My carrots will undoubtably be stronger from wrestling. I hope I will, too. 

WHAT WOULD IT TAKE?

/ jessicaivaska / 2 Comments

My husband, Erik, and I like to walk together. We don’t go every day, but  more often than not we lace up our shoes and find some ground to cover. 

Sometimes we’ll drive for a “destination” walk. We’ll go to the waterfront in one of the nearby towns or pick a park to hike in. Most days, though, we walk in our neighborhood. It’s a rural area so there are no city sidewalks, and our three-mile route even takes us down a few woodsy trails. If we time it to avoid drop-off and pick-up at the nearby elementary school, we usually don’t see too much traffic. 

However, there is one main road we have to cross. Erik had my hand as we came to the road. As is often the case, I was lazily looking at the plants around, starting at trees and keeping an eye out for bunnies and squirrels.  A car whizzed by us and then Erik gently tugged me out into the street. 

I didn’t even flinch. 

Didn’t stop to look both ways myself.

I simply trusted him. 

The more I thought about it, the more I realized how much I trust him. I know he loves me. I know he won’t lead me into danger. In fact, he points out dog poop just to make sure I don’t step in it. He is always keeping an eye out for me, protecting me. 

I’m so used to it that letting him guide me has become natural. So natural that in situations like crossing a street, I don’t second guess him. But today, as we kept walking our route, I heard God whisper a question straight to my soul.

Can you guess what it was?

“What would it take for you to trust me like that?”

Ouch. 

I’ve had a relationship with God longer than I’ve known Erik and yet I often second-guess His leading. 

“Really, Lord?”

“Are you sure?”

“What if it’s dangerous?”

“What if it’s too hard?”

“What if I get hurt – physically or emotionally?”

I could write a book full of excuses, but when it comes down to it, the truth is, I struggle to trust God’s guidance. 

Maybe it’s because I let fear and anxiety control too much of my life. 

Maybe it’s because I don’t spend enough time in His Word. 

Maybe it’s because I can’t see God or hold His hand like I can Erik’s. 

Maybe it’s all those things – and more.

I’m not sure the “why” actually matters as much as the question itself. 

What would it take for me to trust God implicitly? 

What would it take for you to? 

OUT OF CONTROL 

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I checked the weather forecast. Multiple times. 

It looked like we were done with freezing temperatures – not that we had many this year. I spent a week hardening off the seedlings I’d planted in January. That means I put them outside for longer stretches each day to get them used to the elements before bringing them back in and letting them cozy up again. 

None of them wilted or withered during their lengthening exposures. 

Things were looking good. So I checked again. And again, just to be safe. 

I even looked at the long-range forecast. Nothing below 32 was expected and we were expecting a lot of rain in the coming week. Perfect! I figured the rain could water in the seedlings if I got them in the ground quickly enough. 

Afterall, they were cold-hardy varieties.

Broccoli, cabbage and lettuce. The tomatoes will have to wait a few more months, but these, I told myself, would be fine. 

A grabbed the seed trays, my garden gloves and a trowel. 

As I dug into the freshly fertilized soil with a layer of rich compost on top, I imagined the salads I’d make from the greens. I pictured myself picking tender broccoli and sauteing it for dinner. Perhaps with fresh garlic and a squeeze of lemon. 

My favorite time of year – the time of harvest – was just around the corner. I was sure of it. 

The first few days went well. The forecasted rain watered the seedlings – a kiss from God to help them settle into their new homes. 

I checked them each day and everyone was surviving.

Then, today, I woke up to snow. At least an inch by 7am. 

I could be fretting. I could rush out in my flannel pajamas with plastic sheeting to try to cover my plants. But I’m choosing not to. 

Instead, I’m tucked under a blanket inside, raptured by the beauty of the unexpected snowfall. 

The coating of white on the driveway, lawn, and trees – up to about 2 inches now – is idyllic. The frosting on my world, covering up the debris from a windstorm two nights ago, brings calm. Unexpected  – but often longed for –  peace.  

In that peace is the reminder that I am not in control. God is. 

I could have waited to plant my first seedlings. 

I could have not trusted the weather report.

But the truth is, it doesn’t matter. 

I can do my best – give my garden everything I can to help it flourish – but the growth isn’t up to me. I have no control over the elements. No control over how cold it gets, how much snow will fall, or conversely, how hot and dry the summer might get. 

And while lack of control often infuriates me (I’m guessing I’m not alone in that), today all I’m seeing is beauty. 

I think that’s the lesson I needed today, in this season of my life. 

No matter how much I plan, I’m not in control. The unexpected will happen and as hard as I try, there’s nothing I can do about it. 

This lack of control is both beautiful – because we are in the hands of a loving and gracious God – and terrifying. 

I often try to control things to avoid pain and suffering. I tell myself if I do everything just right, things will go well…or at least not terribly. And while I bear responsibly for my actions and decisions, I have to remember that I am not in control of the outcome. 

Will all the seedlings I planted die? 

Maybe. But even if they do, I still got the January Magic of watching them pop out of the soil for the first time. 

I still got to watch them grow and stretch towards the light. 

I still got to dig into the rich soil and settle the small tangles of roots into the earth.

I still got to dream about their future.

So today, as I watch the flakes continue to fall, I’m choosing to be grateful for those experiences. While I don’t have control over what happens next, I am choosing to rest in the almighty power of the God who holds all things in His nail scarred hands.

I am choosing delight and wonder.

I am choosing to celebrate the beauty of the unexpected. 

I am choosing to be out of control in the best possible way. 

Will you choose that, too? 

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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

/ jessicaivaska / Leave a comment

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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.