I Ain’t Settlin’...

I am soooo torn. As a fat person, the LAST thing I ever wanted was advice from people. I didn’t want to hear that I needed to lose weight. I didn’t want to see what other people were doing to get healthy. I certainly didn’t want to hear that I needed to eat less. But now, as someone who has dropped almost 150 pounds, I so badly want to help others! To tell people how amazing the other side is! You guys, I played tag with my youngest kid on the playground at the park yesterday. Like chased her and ran from her and climbed the rope dome. And I bawled like a baby at one point when she hugged me and told me she was so happy I was playing with her. Tears of happiness that I can play with her now. Tears of sadness and regret as I thought about the last almost 8 years of not being able to play with her. All the time that I’ve lost! 

But, I digress. As I walk through this world and I see all the heavy, hurting, unhealthy people I want to shout from the mountaintops how great this is! How amazing I feel! How I love the feeling of my muscles working. I love the rumble of my stomach that tells me I’m hungry. When I was fatter that didn’t happen. I never got to a hungry phase. I love seeing my thigh muscles bulging under my workout leggings. I love staring at my plate and see how healthy I eat.

Is my journey easy? Not by any means! It’s hard! Every day is a struggle to eat right and exercise. I ate a Reese’s Big Cup yesterday. Don’t even like them. But it was delightful yesterday. And then? I literally stomped my feet and cried when I came home from a long day and a kickboxing class and I still needed 4,000 steps to my step goal for the day. I didn’t care. I was not getting on that treadmill. Every day is a struggle. But I keep moving. One foot in front of the other. Sometimes it’s one step forward and two steps back. But all those steps count!

I just want people to see how worth it the struggle is! I want to help people take care of themselves and get stronger and healthier and live!! But, I hesitate. I remember what it was like to be on the heavy side. I remember the guilt and shame. I remember how offended I would be if someone said something, anything about my weight. So I stay quiet. 

The same goes for the spiritual side. I am a Christian. I have faith in God as my Father and protector. I believe that God sent His one and only Son to suffer and die for my sins. That because of His sacrifice and because I believe in Him, I will be with Him in heaven when my time on earth is through. And it’s hard to me to keep quiet because the blessings that are part of the package deal are amazing and so worth it! The relationship that I have with my Heavenly Father is what gets me through even my darkest days! I cannot imagine going through the life I have gone through without my faith and my Father. 

Is being a Christian easy? Not at all! Once you sign on to being a follower of Christ, the real battles begin. You have signed your name to the Lord’s team roster and Satan wants none of that. He wants to win you over and the battle begins. Fiery darts fly towards you. Trials and tribulations intensify. Satan doesn’t let go easily. You will go through an intense war in your faith walk. Every day can be a struggle. I am in a constant tug of war between the grasp of my Father in Heaven, and the evil and darkness that wishes to drag me under. 

But, again, I want people to see how worth it the struggle is! The spiritual growing pains are all worth it when you know that following your Lord and Savior leads you to eternal redemption. But I hesitate with sharing this part too. So many people are anti-God. They don’t want to hear it. How can I believe that nonsense? What good does your imaginary God do? So I stay quiet. 

But, I can’t stay quiet! On the physical side or the spiritual side! I’m not going to approach you and tell you “You’re unhealthy! You’re overweight! You need help!” Because that wouldn’t do any good at all! If that had happened to me earlier in my weight loss journey, you’d find me in the McDonalds drive through ordering four Big Mac sandwiches and fries with a Diet Coke. I would be hurt and ashamed and sad and angry. But, I can’t stay quiet! Life is so different, so much better, so much richer when you are healthy and eat better and take care of your body. There are so many more things you can do when you take care of yourself. Will it be tough? Yup! But so so worth it! I ain’t settlin’! You shouldn’t either!

I can’t stay quiet about the spiritual side either! I’m not going to come up and thump you over the head with my Bible. Tell you you’re going to hell if you don’t believe. Convince you to join my church. Because that wouldn’t do any good either! If that had happened in some of my lowest times where my faith wavered, I probably would have pushed you away. Been angry. And never stepped foot in a church again. But, I can’t stay quiet! Life is so different, so much better, so much richer when you invite the Lord Jesus Christ into your heart! There are so many plans that our God has for you! There are so many areas of your life that He would like to help and heal. Will it be tough? Yup! But so so worth it! I ain’t settlin’! You shouldn’t either!

So, if you are reading this, and wondering how you start your physical journey to health and wellness, I am not an expert. I am just a person who has struggled and had a hard time with their weight. And right now, things are clicking for me and I am working hard. And I want to help, to show you how much hope there is in working hard and losing weight and making good choices with diet and exercise. I want to share! If you want to talk about it, I’m here!

And if you’re reading this and you’re wondering how you can accept Christ as your Savior, I am not an expert. I am just a sinner who struggled everyday with choices I make in life, but who has asked Jesus to come into my heart and my life and work in me and through me to share His word. And I want to help, to show you how much hope there is in putting your faith in God and knowing that He is with you always. I want to share! If you want to talk about it, I’m here!

Physically or spiritually! I ain’t settlin’! There is a full, amazing, wonderful life out there! And I want to help you experience the best that’s available! Don’t settle!!! Reach out to me! I would love to share my journey with you! It’s hard! But oh so worth it!

It Gets Better...

The night I found out my husband molested a girl, I kicked him out of my home, paced my house for like 40 minutes, then called my parents to come down. I needed them. When they got here, I couldn’t breathe. I couldn’t say the awful words that had just confessed their way into my ears. When I finally said what happened, my daddy grabbed me in a hug, told me he loved me and he’d take care of us, and said, “Well, it can’t get any worse.”

Eighteen days later, the Clallam County Sherriff’s office found his deceased body inside his car up a forest service road. When I went to Sequim to get my suicide note and hear the words from the deputy, on the way to the truck, my daddy hugged me, told me he loved me and he was sorry, and said, “It can’t get any worse.” 

When the plethora of other things that were part of this tangled mess started happening and I was reeling in grief and also trying to get things done and take care of two babies, when dad would hug me, I would lean into his ear and whisper, please stop saying it can’t get any worse, because it just keeps getting worse. 

There a new saying that has morphed its way into my head from my journey. So many people telling me “It gets better.” Better than what? Or even more important, better TO what? Better than my husband dying? Better than having seizures? Better than...not any better than “it can’t get any worse.”

I sat on many therapists’ couches over the last eight years, trying desperately to make myself feel better about the thoughts and feelings in my head. Every week I would come to the couch with a new mental health disorder that I was sure described me. Please tell me I’m not bipolar. I think I’m bipolar. How about ADD. I cannot concentrate or focus for the life of me. Do you suppose it could be schizophrenia? I felt crazy! And I searched for what was wrong with me. I needed a label because then maybe I could get better. I couldn’t get better from just being me. I needed something with a magic pill because this isn’t working for me. 

And then things did get better. Joy and peace came again. Calmness took over. But when you are someone who has been impacted by repetitive trauma, or perhaps even one trauma, the joy and peace never seem pure. I am constantly looking over my shoulder. Searching Facebook for the crisis that is lurking. Jumping when the phone rings thinking something is wrong. Wondering about results of blood tests or scans or someone being sick. Waiting for the other shoe to drop. It gets better? Sometimes, I regret ever asking for a diagnosis because when it finally happened and I saw the words “Post Traumatic Stress Disorder” on one of my benefit statements, I felt my world was ending. That there would never be a better. 

There is a better. I have transformed myself inside and outside, or at least I pretend to. However, that right there! That is the skepticism that fills my mind with worry and stress. That, sure, things are good, but they’re not going to stay good. I can’t maintain joy and peace and happy. I won’t stay ok forever. It’s just a matter of time before I binge on food and gain all of my weight back. Or get pissed and unplug my treadmill forever. It’s only a matter of time before the darkness in my head wins and I am sucked backwards ten steps. 

So, when things are rocky, my heart quickens, my brain overthinks, and I start preparing for the darkness that will consume me. 

A sudden surge of weird and I’m wondering if I need to start seizure meds again. 

Someone I thought had changed shows their true colors and I realize that it’s no better. Now they’re just not being open and honest...with me. 

Work is hard and I find myself missing the “old JP.” The people. The kids. Even the gross building sometimes. 

It gets better. That’s the piece I need to press into God for. I need to trust that He is taking care of me and my health. I need to trust that He is in charge and that I don’t need to worry about fixing other people. I need to trust that He is even working at work. That, sure, there will never be people to replace Melody or Bonnie or Suzanne or Tess. But that together, with the people that we currently have, we can reinvent ourselves into something even greater. 

It is in the down times, the shoe drop times, that Father God swoops in and shows just how great He is! It is in the times when I am scared and sad and anxious and so down that He fills those spaces and reminds me that He uses it all for good. 

So, right now is a shaky time for me. I’m questioning a lot of different areas, yet I recognize that Satan is in the mix and I need to put my faith in the one who saved me. Who loves me and cares for me and wants me to prosper. 

It gets better. I just have to less cynical and more trusting. It does get better. And I need to trust that it can stay better. 

Dream Again...

The first time my dream died was shortly after my assault. I had been brutally raped at a frat party when really I should have been studying for my Organic Chemistry mid-term exam instead. When the attack stopped what seemed like days later I collected my backpack and walked back to my dorm room. My hands were crushed and bruised from where they stomped on them when I was crawling to get away. My head bloodied from the baseball bat he ambushed me with. My insides were sick with pain and worry. My mid-term was to start the next morning at 8:30 all the way across campus. I didn’t sleep at all. I spent most of my night in the shower trying to soak the blood out of my thick hair. I dragged myself across campus in the morning, grabbed my mid-term test as I entered the room and got to work. My eyes were blurry from crying. My head was throbbing under my cap where I was praying the blood wouldn’t seep through and no one would notice. The girl I always sat next to told me I looked terrible. I lied and said I was just tired. I wrote things down but, with what I’m sure was a wicked concussion, nothing was making sense. 

One week later I walked into Kane Hall and checked my score that was posted. I failed. The worst grade of my life. The first thing I thought about was my mom. What would I tell her? My grade in Organic Chemistry has plummeted to a 1.3. I was an honor student. Above a 3.5 always. I was so ashamed. Ashamed I had been raped. Ashamed I failed my test. So ashamed. I called my mom and told her I had been accused of cheating on my mid-term and failed. I’d rather her think me a cheater than someone stupid enough to get herself raped. 

Medical school was my dream. Pediatric oncology was what I was going to do. But not with a 1.3 in Organic Chemistry. My dream was over. Medical school vaporized right in front of me in a hazy mist. 

So, I pushed everything behind me, reconfigured some things and switched majors into something where Organic Chemistry didn’t matter. Speech-Language Pathology became my new studies and I was on the path to my new dream. I got a job and a truck. Met Brian, got married, had two kids. I was so grateful to my Heavenly Father for blessing me. My first dream didn’t pan out but I was well on the way in my new dream. I understood that I couldn’t fulfill my dream of becoming a doctor because He had a plan for me to meet my husband and have children and love my job with the schools. 

And then Brian killed himself. I was grief-stricken. Shocked. So so angry. God had already denied me one dream. Why was He taking this one away too? I am a faithful person, but if my faith was ever tested it was in that moment right then and there. Why? What had I done to make Him angry? Why couldn’t I have at least one path lead to something I cherished? Why was I being punished? My faith faltered. Wavered. Cracked into a million pieces. I walked on, zombie-like. Existing day to day. Reeling in grief and pain and heartache. I was confused. Now what? I had two little children to take care of alone. I did the best I could to muddle through with the help of my amazing people. I had friends and family drag me from day to day. I had a prayer partner that pushed and pulled and prayed and helped me find my way in the darkness. 

James 1:2-4 says, “Consider it pure joy, my brothers and sisters, whenever you face trials of many kinds, because you know that the testing of your faith produces perseverance. Let perseverance finish its work so that you can be mature and complete, not lacking anything.” 

Yeah. 

Right. 

Pure joy? Being attacked was supposed be be joyful? Hearing a cop tell my mother-in-law that they found my husband’s body was joy? This was not joy. Joy was flirting with the cute frat boy on the couch and hearing someone say nice things to me. Joy was my wedding day. Joy was our last date before he died. Those things are joy!

My assault was not joy. That was fear. Terror. Searing pain. Stitches in my head. Not joy. Brian’s death was confusion. Grief. A hole in my heart. Silence as I worried what I was going to tell my girls. Not joy. 

I am 20 years past my assault. Next week, in fact. I can see through the pain to twenty years later from where I’m standing. And I consider it all joy! If I hadn’t been assaulted my entire life would be different. Maybe not in Bremerton. For sure not in the schools. Maybe no kids. My beautiful girls would be but another dream. 

I’m almost eight years past Brian’s suicide. I can see through the pain to eight years later from where I’m standing. And I consider it all joy! If Brian hadn’t died we would not be strong, resilient ladies. We wouldn’t have found how amazing our friends and family are. We wouldn’t know the joy of being a family of three. 

As hard as it is, consider it all joy! More hard times are to come. I can guarantee that. I’m hoping they’re not rape and suicide caliber, but hard times will happen. And my prayer is that I can sooner see that it is all joy! Why? Because my mighty Savior has a plan for my life. My steps are mapped out. My tears are numbered. He knows the number of hairs on my head. And there is a plan. My plan included an assault. My plan include my husband killing himself. My plan included being stripped down to my core so that my God could raise me up!

We went to a concert a couple days ago. Matthew West performed his song “Dream Again” and about halfway through. I found myself bawling. Ugly crying. Because as I sat there watching the lyric video and listening to the words, I got this vision of me with my grown children standing by my side and I’m in a white dress. Me? Get married again? My protective answer is “NO WAY!” Why would I want to do that? I love being single! I love doing what I want. I love not answering to anyone. I’m safe. I’m protected. I’ll just hunker down and ride out my life in isolated safety. 

But in the words of that song, my heart gave me permission to dream again. Maybe someday I will find a man who loves me. A man who doesn’t want to hurt me physically or emotionally or psychologically. A man who will love my girls and be a dad for them. My heart gave me permission to dream again. 

I consider it all joy! Whichever path God has for me, I consider it all joy. 

Who Are You?

This post has been brewing for a while. It’s been bobbing in and out of my head for some time and I would shove it away, feeling too vulnerable to write it, let alone post it. 

I am a people pleaser. I care what others think about me. And try as I might to push that aside, to not care, those thoughts sit in the front of my mind. 

When I was younger, I wanted to please my parents and my teachers. Every good grade I earned was another reassurance, in my head, that my parents would love me. Every not so good grade was, in my head, a disappointment to my teachers. 

Over the years, I don’t know how gaining weight tied into my identity, but it did. I think it had something to do with the way I felt like I could never live up to anyone else’s standards, so I started building a wall, a wall of fat, around myself. I fed my emotions. I fed my feelings about myself. I fed my stress and anxiety and depression. I fed the worry and heartache. It became a point where I didn’t have any idea who I was anymore. I would look in the mirror and it would be my beautiful, blue eyes but wrapped in a face I didn’t recognize. Who was I? Who had I become? What was my identity?

My identity was always wrapped up in what I happened to be experiencing at the time. I was an honor student. A volleyball player. A graduate. An assault victim. A pre-med student. A Master’s degree recipient. A speech therapist. A wife. A mom. A widow. But my identity was also always what I looked like. I was fat. I was buried in layers and layers of fat. That’s who I was and when I was that person I was safe and secure and in a bubble of blubber. If people didn’t like me, it was because I was fat. No other reason. I could blame my rotund figure for not being accepted or enough or loved. 

So fast forward to today. I am struggling. I am losing weight and in the best shape of my life and I am afraid. My identity has always been as a fat person. Who am I? I am Tammy Duncan, obese woman. Don’t get me wrong, I’m still here. I’m still fat. Still obese. But I’m the thinnest I have ever been in my adult life. 217.8 was what the scale said this past Saturday on my weigh in day. I have never weighed this in all of my adult life. I don’t know when I last weighed this, but it was before I was a sophomore in high school when I weighed in at 240 pounds. Still obese at 217.8 and 5’9 inches tall. But I am slowly losing my identity as the number falls lower. And it is terrifying to me.

I blamed 220. Blamed my assault. Blamed my husband killing himself. But I surpassed that weight and my heart is still terrified. I have crept down 0.4 pounds a week for a few weeks, slamming on the weight loss brakes, unsure of who I am anymore. In a time where I should be rejoicing. In a time when I’m hearing from people that I look great.  I’m scared because I am becoming not fat. I am losing the thing that has protected me for a long time. I am becoming someone I don’t recognize in the mirror anymore. My identity is slowly shrinking away. 

And the what ifs flood into my head. What if I find out it wasn’t the fat that kept people from liking me? What if I can’t maintain this and I just end up where I started? What if I find out that I don’t like myself at any weight? What if...

Losing weight is a lot of head work. I often find myself doing things I never thought I would do: trying new healthy foods, running instead of eating, making better choices throughout my day. I often smile and think, “Who is this?” And then the “real Tammy” comes out and I snap and binge eat two Big Macs and a large fry without even thinking. It’s a daily struggle. As is the struggle of figuring out who I am really. 

But if I stop and think and pray, I know my true identity. It doesn’t matter what my friends think or what my family thinks or what strangers think. It doesn’t even matter what I think. My identity is in Jesus Christ! John 1:12 says, “ But as many as received Him, to them He gave the right to become children of God, to those who believe in His name.” I am His. My identity is in Him. I am His child and that is all that matters. I don’t have to please Him or make Him happy or do everything perfectly. He loves me so much that He gave His one and only Son. My identity is as His precious child, His princess, His chosen daughter. And that is all the reassurance that I need. 

Who am I? I am a beautiful work in progress. I am working on me mind, body, and soul, and all I need to know is that He is my Father, He loves me, and I am His creation. So I keep walking the path He has for me, knowing that He has me in His loving arms always. 

I don’t have to hide. I don’t have to be fat or skinny. I don’t have to work so hard. I just have to be me, love Him, and trust in His path and His plan. Who am I? I am His!

Love One Another Right Now...

Everyone is writing and talking about the recent shooting in a Florida high school this past week.  In one way or another. Shootings. Teachers. Gun control. AR-15s. Strategies. Ideas. Regulations. Other countries and their gun laws. All topics have been covered. With very polarizing viewpoints. I was going to remain silent. This wasn’t a topic I wanted to comment on, but after the conversations I shared with Emerson on our walk today, I decided a post was warranted. 

When I walked through my school after the shooting happened, I just wanted to teach. I wanted to hug my babies and work on speech and forget what had happened and just teach. But before I could get to my kids, I walked through the hallways, and played scenarios out in my head. Where would I shove students if someone were to enter the hallway with a gun? What I would do if we were in my office, where I have to open the door to lock it? If the glass that fills in my whole door would be shot out completely or splinter or fragment? How much time would trying to drag a filing cabinet in front of my door save?

This should not be how I have to walk through my school. So today, some days have passed, and Emerson and I went on a walk to the park. On our way back there was a man walking on the opposite side of the street. He looked disheveled and dirty. He was flailing his arms and swearing loudly to himself. Emerson grabbed for my hand, tucked in a little closer, and asked, “Mommy, what would we do if he tried to hurt us?” I looked down into her eyes and asked her why she was thinking that. She replied, “That man killed all those kids! At school! It just makes me think about people sometimes.”

It should make us think. It should make all of us think. So, the whole almost seven miles we walked she asked questions and we talked out scenarios that included yelling for help and screaming and running. Fighting back if we needed to. Whatever we needed to stay safe and alive. And we continue to think. I’m currently staring at the man sitting in the McDonald’s play place alone. I have matched all the kids here to the other adults in the play place. He doesn’t have a kid in here. And I worry about his intentions. The homeless man standing on the street corner, looking suspicious. I worry about leaving this place and what he might do. I think about sitting in my office with a teacher friend this week, talking about how I am thankful that I have a window so close to the ground. That I could shove kids out the window and tell them to run as fast as they could to the hospital. 

It saddens me that we live in a society where we have to think about these things. We shouldn’t have to.  But we do. So I will run scenarios through my head at work. And there won’t be a group I serve for a while where I don’t silently pray over them for safety, and then work through my head what I would do with them. Where I would hide them. Could I get to my door fast enough. How I can shield them with my body and my desk. And I run through scenarios with Emerson too. If you hear gun shots at school, run. Run as fast and as far as you can to help. Gah. It breaks my heart!

But, I have faith. I have a solid foundation in Father God and I know that I am protected no matter what! Does that mean I won’t die at the hand of a crazed gunman? Not at all. It just means that I am not worried about dying at the hand of a crazed gunman. If a shooter walked into my office and pulled the trigger, I would give my dying breath to save the babies in my care. But I would also know where I was heading next. I have faith. And when I die, whether that be in my office at school, or in 80 years in my sleep, I am going to heaven. I get to go and love for eternity with my Savior Jesus Christ. 

So, my advice to Emerson? Run! Yell! Scream! Fight back! But the most important part of our lesson: DON’T LIVE IN FEAR!! Just live! And love each other! And know that our Father has this! He has you! He has those babies that lost their lives this week. 

Isaiah 41:10 Fear not, for I am with you; Be not dismayed, for I am your God. I will strengthen you, Yes, I will help you, I will uphold you with My righteous right hand.’

Fear not! I just want to teach. So, that’s just what I’m going to do. I going to teach my kids (at work and at home) love. Teach them hope. Teach them resiliency. Teach them to fear not! And pray over each and every one of them. My prayer will be that God protects them at school, and at home, and in all areas of their life. And my other prayer is that God will walk them through this life. That someone will notice if they are losing their way. That they will get the help they need. That they won’t become someone who does horrible, awful things. Because both sides of this coin need prayers. The victims and their families need prayers for sure. And the shooter and his family need prayers also. 

I just want to teach...so that’s what I will do...

You Make Me Brave...

Recently I shared a post that my friend and prayer partner Melody wrote. If you didn’t get a chance to read it, you should. It was a beautiful testimony and first-hand account of grief. How grief works. How it feels. The rawness of her words are the perfect description of how this wicked game plays out. She, still working through her year of firsts, spoke of the sudden stings, the loneliness even when you are with people, the fog of the first few months lifting and the coldness of your reality as you start to try and figure out just how you’re going to let life happen after losing the one you love. Grief is the hardest work one will ever go through. And when you see or hear someone going through grief, it digs up the twinges of your own personal hell as you also try and make sense of the feelings that are happening for them. 

I would like to piggyback a bit on her writings. Grief is awful. People who haven’t been there would really like there to be a timeline. A point where the person grieving looks around and proclaims, “OK, I’m done!” Being someone who is grieving, I would like for that to happen too. Melody and I often have conversations where I get brave enough to share with her about something I’m feeling and I get so angry. “Why is this happening again? Why is this coming up? I should be done!” 

Seven years have gone by since Brian killed himself. But there are still moments that sting. Still moments where I am surrounded by people and feel so very alone. Yesterday was a good example of that. The girls and I had the best day celebrating Valentines. We got our nails done. We went to a movie with my folks and Sherri. We went and got Chinese food - our favorite! And yet, through all the happy moments, I still felt so very sad and so very alone. 

It started yesterday morning as I watched all of my friends’ little girls getting dressed and getting their hair done and getting all made up to attend the daddy-daughter dance. Last year when I shared with a friend my sadness, they told me I was being silly. That of course my girls could attend. My daddy m, their Pa, would love to take them if I asked him. That wasn’t the point. My heart hurts that my girls will never get a dance with their dad. Not at these dances. Not at their weddings. Never. My heart hurts for them. And I grieve. 

And as I hugged Sherri and hugged my parents and thanked them for the best Valentines ever, my heart was sad. Brian spoiled me always on Valentines. Yellow roses. Always yellow roses. And cards. And stuffed bears. And as much as I love the new traditions and the new things that we do to fill the holidays, it still doesn’t take away the fact that I don’t have the person I picked to spend my life with. My heart hurts knowing that he is missing life and all that it has to offer. He is missing our journey and our walk. He’s missing taking his little girls to the dance. He’s missing movies and dinners out and fun-filled days. Sadness. And anger. And loneliness in a room full of people. 

And then a reminder from Father God. This week was filled with the joyous news that I don’t have a kidney tumor. That I have been healed. And the song that I have been listening to obsessively is called “You Make Me Brave.” I was given the verse Habakkuk 3:19 “The Lord God is my strength, my bravery. He will walk me through places of trouble and suffering.” This reminds me that God makes me brave. 

I have been through hell and back several times on my life path. I have more than enough reasons to grieve. To be sad. To want to run away and never come back. To stay in bed all day and never come out of the house. But time and time again, Father God showers me with His blessings. He takes the yuck in my life and transforms in before my very eyes. He takes my hard days and turns them into sunshine-filled moments. Seeing the messages in my messes, He makes me brave. He makes me see that through every struggle, there is a testimony waiting to be told. And even though there are hard times, I can look to Him and see that the victory is already mine. I don’t have to be afraid because I know that He os right beside me, through every trial and tribulation. And He will lead me to the end where I will look back and see the footprints in the sand, the moments when He carried me through. 

He teaches me to trust Him fully, with every aspect of my life. He makes me brave. And if you can see the message in my mess, please know there’s a message in your mess too! Fall into His arms, trust Him, and let Him make you brave too! The Lord God is YOUR strength, YOUR bravery. He will walk YOU through places of trouble and suffering. He makes you brave...He makes me brave. In all of life’s trials. In grief. In sadness. In loneliness. In pain and suffering. He makes me brave. And He can make you brave too. 

Gone, Gone, Gone...

Negative CT of the kidney. No renal mass. 

I have read the report 1,000 times. No renal mass. No tumor. It’s not there. There is nothing abnormal about my CT scan. Everything looks great. No renal mass. 

October was when I was on the phone with my prayer partner, Melody, opening my results from my ultrasound. And my heart immediately sank as I read that my gallbladder was normal, but they had found a tumor on my kidney. The wind was sucked from my sails. As hard as I tried, I couldn’t stop the wave of fear that rushed over me. A tumor? I have spent the last few years losing very important people to tumors. How could this be happening? My first reaction was to hide. Run away. Not tell anyone and just suck it up. Melody convinced me otherwise. I needed prayers. I needed my warriors to rise up and pray for me. I needed my God to hear the voices of my people crying out to Him for complete healing. 

I am faithful. I have faith. But I will also admit that my faith wavers. I struggle with things sometimes. And after months of praying for Tom’s lung tumor to shrink, and him being taken from us anyways, and then seven solid months of prayer and intercession for Clay’s brain tumor only to lose him too, I will admit that I struggled with trusting in Him. Every time my very faithful partner prayed for the tumor in my kidney, my heart jerked a little, reeling from the stabbing feeling of hopelessness. Aching inside for the ones that I showered prayers and faith over and not understanding why my prayers were not answered.

But God kept telling me to have faith. So I would pray for Him to bolster me up and help the doubt leave me. That I would have faith that my God is mighty and can do anything. So as Melody would pray for my kidney and pray that the tumor would be removed, I would gently place my hand on my back and silently weep tears of hope. Tears of trust in the One who could take the tumor away. And I would ask for prayers from anyone who would ask. Tell them what the status of things were. Ask for exactly what I wanted.

When my scan was scheduled I would be more specific. I would tell people to at least pray that the tumor wouldn’t grow anymore. That it was benign. But that ultimately I wanted prayers for the tumor to be gone. To go away and not be something I had to deal with. 

My CT scan was yesterday. I had a wave of panic right before I went back to the room and then a wave of prayer. I had asked for prayers. And they came when I needed them. The scan was quick. Easy. Filled with peace. The journey home was the same. 

And then I had to wait. My follow-up appointment was scheduled for the 27th of February. One more month of waiting and wondering and praying. 

Then, today, an email from my doctor came in. “Great news! Negative CT of the kidney. No renal mass.” It took a few seconds for it to register. No renal mass. I kept reading, trying to allow time for my brain to catch up to my eyes. No renal mass. The tumor is gone? I read down further. The report talked about the ultrasound that showed the tumor. “Renal mass on outside ultrasound.” The ultrasound I had looked at in October, proving that a tumor was actually really there.  And then my eyes darted back up to the top “Negative CT of the kidney. No renal mass.” The tumor is gone!

Tears flooded the afternoon. And more tears every time I think about it. Complete beautiful healing. The tumor is gone. And more tears. And I share my news and more tears. And I write this and more tears. I am so grateful for all the people in my life. Thankful for the friends and family that prayed and encouraged and praised alongside me. And immensely thankful for my almighty and powerful God in Heaven, that used His mighty hand and removed the tumor from my kidney. Thank you, Jesus, for your many blessings. 

A huge leap of victory today! A step of faith and the testimony I now get to share with others! The tumor is gone! And my faith is bolstered and my trust in Heavenly Father is multiplied and I hope yours is too!

But I cannot, you cannot, be complacent. For the enemy is lurking right around the corner, waiting to find the crack in the facade. In my head, the celebration of praise and thankfulness to Father God rolls on. But in my heart, the ache of my loved ones I have lost. What I would do to trade a tiny benign kidney tumor for a lung tumor or a brain tumor. Satan pulls at my heart, whispering lies to me about my faith and my prayers. How weak they are. How I wasn’t faithful enough to save Tom or to save Clay. And I close my eyes, and push them below me and declare Satan to get under my feet. Because he wants to steal my joy and my faith and my hope. But He cannot. Not today. Not tomorrow. Not ever. 

I don’t know why my tumor was healed but so many others suffer and die from their ailments. I don’t have an explanation for those differences. I do know it has nothing to do with the amount of faith or how hard you pray or whether you go to church. It has to do with God’s plans for His people. God’s plan for Tom was to take a good and faithful servent to join Him in Heaven. God’s plan for Clay was to use his sickness to strengthen Him in His faith and to bring hope and love and peace and faith to those around Him. And to have him join the angels in heaven. 

My plan? I don’t know what my plan is quite yet. I believe that God is going to use me for His greater good. I believe that God has walked with me through this life to bring faith and hope to others. I believe that I have gone through things to be able to be a testimony to others, and to share God’s love and mercy and grace with those around me. And one of the best parts of all that? I now get to do it tumor-free! No renal mass. Now excuse me while I go and read the report a million more times. And spend my evening praising my God and giving thanks for He is so good!