Where are you God?

It’s the Monday after my diagnosis and grief herself has rolled in. She whispers obscenities, strange in my ear. She says all the things that I would never say out loud. I speak life.

But grief, she speaks death, dear one. She speaks endings and loss and chaos and confusion and struggle and strife. She speaks the language of women unseen - not just me myself, but my women - my readers, network of fellow disease warriors and special needs parents, my ancestors, and the community of humans who also walk with and through (and often not far beyond) the lens of pain.

My women know grief.

And she knows them.

As I muddle through a real, tangible diagnosis - the excitement temporarily replaced by frustration and discontent (I am a healer, hear me roar!) - I am brought back to the “brevity of goodness” as the dear Christy Bauman spoke of at our meeting this past weekend.

While it makes all the sense in the world, the brevity of goodness is something I resist often.

Do you do the same?

Do you resist the transient nature of ease?

I think it’s okay that we aren’t always arms-wide-open, loves. As much as we deeply desire to be. As much as our hearts beat to accept and honor. Perhaps, resistance can truly be a great act of self care. Another space to glorify God.

What if when we resist, we expand?

What if when we resist, we shine brighter?

What if when we resist, we heal generations of women who could not (dared not) resist?

There are few experiences here on earth that make me feel as rooted as does resistance.

I resist the urge to call this body my permanent home.

I resist the longing for someone to fix me. I honor and resist.

I resist the option to make this new diagnosis my identity. (Though the label is quite helpful. Really, it is.)

I even resist the thought that my daughter will always struggle with x, y, or z; or that she will be completely healed. I sit in the gray. I sit with the gray.

And yes, I even resist the yearning for this to be the end of the road. That EDS and dysautonomia and melanoma are it - all the hard experiences (beyond parenting our Bliss) that I will ever have.

Sigh.

Just in writing this I feel more solid, whole, here, and holy.

Does resistance do the same for you?

God is here.

God is here.

God is here.

And so are you.

Resist with me?

I’d love to know what you can resist that feels good and sacred, friend.

We’re in this together.