What to Do When It Doesn’t Get Better or Easier

Walking around these walls
I thought by now they'd fall
But You have never failed me yet
Waiting for change to come
Knowing the battle's won
For You have never failed me yet

^{“Do It Again” by Elevation Worship 2016}

You know that moment you hear a song and suddenly tears push their way up through a place you didn’t know you were ignoring?

Busyness can feign wholeness. Click To Tweet

I can’t possibly ignore that my body is ill. It reminds me every second of every day. But what I have ignored lately is my feelings about it. Busying myself with all the things, pushing through with work. No time to mull over how I feel about my body. Besides, it seems noble to quiet such thoughts, right?

After so long of this, the heart gets pushed down, too, silenced into submission. Once we are busy and productive, no longer conscious of the angst, we assume if we don’t “feel” it, we’re better. But busyness can feign wholeness.

Don’t be fooled. The heart has a way of crying out from beneath the surface of the fictional story we tell ourselves.

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Why? The lingering aftereffects of covid are overpowering the steroids to the point I feel injected with a powerful sleep drug, unable to control when or how long I sleep, during the day or night. For six weeks now. This came on the heels of many hefty, back to back physical afflictions.

Frustration is high. It is difficult to get work done nodding off throughout the day. All of my writing checklists, to-do lists, wishlists, and “other” lists are getting l o n g e r. I feel so behind. To the point I believe I’m failing.

Every day I think, tomorrow will be better. It will get easier. Surely, tomorrow will turn a corner.

But what do you do when it doesn’t get better, or easier?

I’m going to shoot straight with you. I have sat at my computer multiple times trying to explain what all and how much has happened without it sounding confusing or overwhelming. I have come to the conclusion there simply isn’t a way. It is too much. It is too much to type, and at times it is too much to experience.

Several years ago I was a picture of health for the most part. Strong. Capable. My energy never ending. I could keep up with the young and run so many circles around the old til they shook their head in disbelief.

One by one, chronic illnesses took all that away. Lab results stamped “severe SIBO” on my papers. It had gone unchecked for a decade, so by the time doctors figured it out, my body was ill 3-4 weeks a month. Yeah, not much time spent well. It took two years to gain some sense of control, but within a year after that, antibiotic treatments wore off.

Then it became fiercely out of control. My body has spiraled ever since. Toxin poisoning, adrenal gland dysfunction (told I was rare, what no patient wants to hear!), and a few major organs under long-sustained distress, including repeat infections. The last two years, I spent more time confined to a bed than I ever imagined.

Next, I was diagnosed with Ulcerative Colitis (UC). Nothing subdued it for long. By this summer all medications failed, landing me in the hospital, in shock from severe dehydration and blood loss. I left unable to walk more than a few feet. Before I could recover even half way, another severe flare hit. Then, covid, with its lingering sleep-drugged effect. On top of that, I’m fighting back to back kidney infections again, supposedly thanks to long term use of steroids to fight the UC.

With every episode I have the same thoughts, the same hope, surely, surely it will get better soon.

That is good in terms of mental health because it keeps me from despairing of life. But there’s a darker side of the flesh acting within me. Jesus knows this, so He comes with a song that will release what I so carefully press down.

The healing art of lament.

I wasn’t acting with mercy or compassion toward myself, nor what my body has been and is going through. Therefore inclined to push harder, do more, expect more than this worn body can give.

We will not get to mercy or compassion until we go through lament. Click To Tweet

One thing Jesus always is, is true. Never false. He is honest when he suffers, and He wants us to be honest, too. Lament is not complaining, whining, griping, or wallowing. It is a truthful telling of what we see and experience in suffering, a cry of sorrow that comes from the depths of what we see.

Until we embrace the truth of what is happening, we cannot be embraced by God in it. (Not because He doesn’t try, but because we don’t let Him.) We can seek our false comforters, but they will fail us. Every time.

Walking around these walls
I thought by now they'd fall
But You have never failed me yet
Waiting for change to come
Knowing the battle's won
For You have never failed me yet

The melody of the song gives voice to what I’ve been suppressing. My heart is broken, and in need of lament:

I’m 46 years old. Our youngest flew the nest when I turned 43. Our oldest daughter gave us twin grandbabies this year. I was supposed to be a hip young grandma (Mia), with bountiful energy, strong and capable. Instead, I’m being pushed around the fair this fall in a wheelchair.

It wasn’t supposed to be like this!

I never thought I’d be sick this long. Each week I just knew it would be temporary. How has it been years? And how long, oh Lord, will it be?

Every day I praise You. Every morning my husband kneels at my bedside to plead for me in prayer. Not a day goes by that I don’t ask for healing, multiple times. And if I find myself in doubt, I confess, “Lord I believe. Help my unbelief!” So I can’t take another person telling me the problem is my faith. They taunt, “You don’t have enough faith.” But You say it only takes faith the size of a tiny mustard seed.

Hear my cry, oh God! Please come for me here. I’m tired. I need You. I need You to speak into this place.

A modern day lament.

Until I lamented, I wasn’t aware I was keeping God at bay. As He moved in closer, per my permission, I could hear Him say,

“Mercy, my girl. Have mercy on yourself. And compassion. You have been through a lot. Be kind and gentle, as I am with you.”

I have felt like my body failed me. Being a survivor of sexual abuse, that often translates to, “something is wrong with me.” Here’s where some of the “push harder, do more, expect more” comes in. Try to fix it. Make it like it’s supposed to be.

In His lovingkindness, God is showing me I can’t treat my body with contempt while expecting healing. Currently, I’m working through Dan Allender’s Healing the Wounded Heart Workbook: The Heartache of Sexual Abuse and the Hope of Transformation, where he teaches kindness toward our story is essential. Yet it is the hardest thing to give myself.

I had to be honest with my feelings and let my heart lament before I could get to mercy and compassion. There, where I hear my Father’s voice, I also begin to feel His comfort. He is rescue. Now, if only I won’t slip away too fast again back to productivity. Oh to stay in His embrace, and come back often.

Our afflictions don’t disqualify us, like they may in the military. They actually qualify us. Because the Kingdom of God doesn’t depend upon our strength, but His in us. So walk the walls. Let your heart tell the true story. Pour out your sorrow and Jesus will come with mercy. Then you can have mercy on you, too.

Feel free to write out a lament and share it in the comments. I’d love to hear from you and learn from each other.

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Title Photo by kiwi thompson on Unsplash, edited by me

Alarm Photo by Miriam Alonso from Pexels, edited by me