Maybe It's Miraculous

(This piece was written as an origin narrative for my English Comp class, and I've decided to share it with you. I hope it can encourage you.)

The day my papaw was diagnosed with ALS was one of the scariest days of my life. In my mind, the memory is still fresh. I can clearly recall the details of the day it happened: my mother receiving the phone call, watching the pain on her face, and listening as she relayed the horrible news to my three younger brothers and myself. It troubled me greatly to hear that my papaw would not be around much longer, and I couldn’t imagine a life without him. But, little did I know, this awful situation would become something greater than I could possible imagine. Through this hardship, I would be forced to do something I had never done before: trust explicitly in my God. This horrible event would jumpstart the beginnings of the journey that taught me what it means to truly have faith.

One of the top ALS doctors diagnosed my papaw in November of 2012. It was an unexpected diagnosis, at what was anticipated to be a simple appointment to check on pains in his arm. ALS, which stands for amyotrophic lateral sclerosis, is a disorder that gradually eats away at a person’s muscles. It’s excruciatingly painful, without a known cure, and ends only in death. At his appointment, my papaw was not only diagnosed, but was also told that the disease was already spreading fast throughout his body.

At the time of my papaw’s diagnosis, my grandparents lived in Kansas City, Missouri, which is quite a long drive from where I live. They had moved there only a few years prior, when my papaw received a job at a children’s hospital in Missouri, and began working in their radiology department. This meant we were unable to visit them until a month later at Christmas time. By then, we knew that my papaw only had a little while left with us. At most, he had two to three years, but there was also the possibility that it would only be a few months before he was gone. That meant this Christmas was more important than any Christmas before, as it might be the last Christmas I would ever get to spend with him.

Christmas has always been a huge deal to my family. It’s one of the few times we all get together at once, which makes it an important time for bonding and traditions. My favorite tradition is reading the Christmas story together around the Christmas tree. Until we’ve read it, we can’t open any of the many of presents my mamaw has purchased. And she always goes all out with presents. They can often be found spilling out from under the tree and onto the living room floor Christmas morning. Although my papaw grumbles every year about how my mamaw goes overboard with the festivities, he somehow manages to enjoy it just as much as she does. This particular Christmas, however, my family was determined to make the holiday even more special for my papaw. We decided collectively to give an extra gift to both of my grandparents: a picture of the two of them from when my papaw was healthier, made into canvas wall art.

Both of my grandparents wept when we gave them their present, overwhelmed by both the gift and their situation. I remember feeling helpless as I watched them cry. I had never seen my papaw cry before. He had always been so strong, and even in the worst of times he still had a joke and a smile for me. It felt like a storm cloud had settled in the room, and the reality of losing my papaw began to sink in. My faith in my God was starting to crack at this point, and I remember almost denying to myself that my papaw was going to die. I refused to confront the issue, because I was afraid to face it. Avoiding it worked to pacify me, but only for a while.

It was after Christmas that my family decided my grandparents would move to live near us. By that time, my papaw’s fingers on his right hand had become crippled to the point that he could no longer unfold them. Also, his right arm and right leg were both significantly smaller than their counterparts due to the muscle loss. Not to mention, the excruciating pain that came from just moving them. With the promise of the pain only getting worse, we worried that my mamaw would need help caring for him later on. Therefore, it would be best to move them quickly, before it got too bad.

As my papaw’s condition deteriorated further, my flimsy attempts at burying my pain began to fall apart. I couldn’t tell myself everything was going to be fine when I saw my papaw struggling just to walk each day. I decided I had to do something. I prayed to my God, asking him to heal my papaw, even though I didn’t think it would work. It made me feel marginally better to know that I had asked, but not by much. However, it was better to have some hope in his faithfulness to heal my papaw, than no hope at all.

A few months after we had successfully moved my grandparents, my papaw began attending a men’s bible study at a local church. At the beginning of the study, the leader had everyone stand and introduce themselves. During my papaw’s introduction, he mentioned having just moved. When one of the men became curious as to why, he shared about his ALS. Hearing this, the group of men felt prompted to pray together for my papaw. After the study, somewhere around forty men gathered around him and prayed for his healing. It was after this night that I began to see my prayer realized.

Within only a couple of days after the prayer, the pain my papaw had been feeling had diminished greatly. In a few weeks, his walking had improved and his left hand began to straighten, and it only took a few months more before he begun to uncurl his right hand as well. This convinced him he needed to be retested to find out what was going on with his condition. He was so hopeful for positive results for these tests, but I personally refused to let myself feel hopeful. I was sure I knew what the doctor would say. After all, ALS is incurable.

In July of 2014, my papaw was retested with the same tests that had been done for his diagnosis. It was to everyone’s amazement when the doctor pronounced him greatly improved. My mother, who was there, tells me that the doctor’s face was amazing to watch, as he told my papaw that the only signs of the disease were in the fingers on his right hand. The doctor was baffled at this. He told my papaw that there was no explanation for what was happening to him, and that the disease only progresses one way: downhill. However, the tests clearly showed that the ALS had been there, it just wasn’t now. He was healing.

I was skeptical at first about what my grandparents claimed was a ‘miraculous healing’, refusing to get my hopes up. Surely, this was a fluke, and he would just get worse again. But when he continued to improve over the rest of the year, even regaining all the muscle he had lost, I began to realize what was really happening. Somehow, my God heard my prayer, and the prayer of all those men at the bible study, and he healed my papaw of a disease that had no known cure.

I had always been told as a child that my God was there, that he listened to prayers, and that he could heal, but I had never really seen it in my own life, nor had I truly believed it. But after all of this, I really began to have faith. Faith in a God whom I couldn’t see, and sometimes didn’t really follow after very well, but who still cared enough about me and my family to heal my papaw, and listen to my prayer.

The dictionary says that faith is “belief that is not based on proof”. That has been very true for me. Some might choose to take this event and say it was a medical miracle, or perhaps chance, but I choose to believe in faith. And seeing this, seeing my God at work, gave me so much faith. Nowadays, when hardships happen, I find myself not even flinching. The faith I gained from this experience stays with me to this day, reminding me that my God really does care, and that, like I’ve always been told, he really does have the whole world in his hands.

The NaNoWriMo Experience

This year I decided to take a leap of faith and participate in something called National Novel Writing Month, or NaNoWriMo, that consists of writing 50,000 words for a novel from November 1st to the 30th. The only writing I've ever really done is blogging and school papers, but I've had a story playing around in my head for around five or six years, and I figured it was about time to get it out.

The story I wrote is called "The Tapestries that Covered the Stairs" (a working title), and is based on a dream I had a while back. The dream was more of a nightmare to start out with, but was one of those dreams where I told myself I wouldn't be scared anymore, and so I wasn't. But when I woke up in the morning, and recalled this crazy dream, I found that while the circumstances in it hadn't made much sense, the atmosphere had been quite amazing. It was creepy, dark, detailed, and decadent, and I knew that I wanted to do something with it. I played around with drawing it out, or having my mom write a story on it (my mom actually is a very talented writer), or maybe even making a short story about it, but none of that seemed to do it justice. So it sat untouched in the back of my mind for years. Until this month, that is.

The decision to try out NaNoWriMo was completely last minute. I'd watched a fellow blogger, Hedgefairy Tales, participate for a few years, and I'd always thought it was interesting but not something I'd ever participate in. But a few weeks before November began I stumbled across the NaNoWriMo website for the first time, and it awoke an interest in me. I browsed the site for a few minutes, before I decided to take the plunge.

I've been writing much more in these past months than I ever have, what with starting college and all, and I felt a bit more prepared for something like this. But I honestly thought that the story I had in my mind would only be about half of the 50,000 word count, and I prepared myself to not meet the goal, and only get a little bit of writing done. I had very little idea of just what I was getting into though, and I read through all of the emails that the NaNoWriMo people sent me very carefully, as if they were my syllabus for the month.

As I began to write, I was pleasantly surprised at how quickly the words came to me. They seemed to flow out of me naturally, and in no time at all I had my first chapter written and a storyline established in my head. The word count still seemed like an impossible goal, but I was having fun writing, so who really cared about that?

But as I continued to write, this simple story grew and changed.

I started out with one character who had actually been in my dream, and her father. I named her Emile, gave her a back story for my own reference, and decided that those would be my only characters, just like in the dream. I began writing with that notion in mind.

But then I found John. He wrote himself into my story so smoothly as a plot device, but he decided to stay when I discovered all the possibilities he could bring. So then I had two main characters, and I decided that would be it. I continued writing, and I tweaked my plot slightly to fit him in.

But, surprise surprise, I found another main character on the way. Eileen wrote herself in as well, and just like John, she was supposed to be a plot device. She charmed me enough, though, that I kept her around as a main character as well.

After that I wrote in a few more characters that I hadn't planned, but I managed to stick with my three main characters.

The story took a change in genre as well. The original feel of it, simplistic and psychological horror, began to change into a complex psychological horror story coupled with a mystery. As it stands right now, it reminds me of something one of my favorite authors, Frank Peretti, would write, coupled with one of my favorite books, Rebecca by Daphne Du Maurier. I'm quite happy with it so far.

I ended up reaching the 50,000 word count goal in the end, and I've still have quite a lot more story left to write. But I've learned so much this month about writing, and perseverance.

I've taken time out of my busy schedule everyday, and written sometimes a little, and sometimes a lot. But I wrote something every day, and I managed to not get stuck with any serious writers block (miraculously).

I write all of this not only to update you on what I've been up to, but to tell you this: NaNoWriMo is a fantastic experience that you should be a part of. It's a chance to stretch yourself, and to use your imagination in ways you've never used it before. So for everyone who's been teetering on the edge of whether or not to do this, or maybe for those who have never even heard of it, I want to let you know that participating will not be a waste of your time. I think you'll be pleasantly surprised!

And who knows, maybe next year I'll be writing alongside some of my followers and friends?

A Guide to Creating Confidence

I recently gave a speech for my local Toastmaster's on being confident, and I thought I might share the overview of it with you. These are all things I've done to gain confidence, and I hope you find them helpful!

So without further ado, here are some challenges you can give yourself to help gain confidence.

Spend time with yourself.

When you do this, make sure to remove all distractions. You might be surprised when you do this how little you actually do know about yourself. I've found that knowing exactly who you are is an instant way to gain confidence. A few practical ways to do this are:

• Write a list of likes and dislikes, and then define why you like/dislike those things.

Pretty simple, and self explanatory, but very helpful.

• Spend quiet time listening to God.

This one helps you learn more about your spiritual personality, which is also (if you are religious) a big part of who you are.

Step outside of your comfort zone.

Wear, say, or do something that you like, that you wouldn’t normally share with others. This one helps you to realize that what other people think doesn't matter as much as you think it does. Another instant confidence booster.

Say no, and don’t regret it.

Don’t let others pressure you into participating in something you don’t enjoy just because “everyone is doing it”. When you become more comfortable with your decisions, you become more confident. Of course this doesn't mean you can bail on obligations just because you don't like them. Rather what I mean is; don't pile your plate with little stuff you don't enjoy. Learn to say no sometimes. An example for me is that my youth group often plays a lot of games. Sometimes, I don't like those games, and so I don't play. I used to let them guilt trip me into playing, and then I would be miserable. But I learned that when I said "no thanks" every once in a while it was a very freeing thing that brought confidence.

“Don’t settle. Don’t finish bad books. If you don’t like the menu, leave the restaurant. If you’re not on the right path, get off it.” –Chris Brogan

 Stop over-criticizing yourself.

Recognize areas for improvement in yourself, but also recognize that those areas do not define your worth. You are more than the mistakes you make, or the flaws you have. You have things you're good at, and it's okay to focus on those things and love those things about yourself. It's always good to have some self love!

“What you believe about yourself on the inside is what you will manifest on the outside.” -Unknown

Ask God for confidence

This one is more pointed at Christians, but pray for the Lord’s assistance. If you pray he will answer. Just be prepared for the situations that will come your way. He will deliver, whether you're ready or not!

“For you have been my hope, Sovereign Lord, my confidence since my youth.” Psalms 71:5 (NIV)
I hope that was a bit of help to you all! Now go out and be confident!

“Confidence is like a muscle: The more you use it, the stronger it gets.” -Unknown

Fragile

When I was young I never thought of death. Neither did I think of separations, or goodbyes. In fact, such things were completely foreign to me. I'd never known a goodbye to last longer than a week, save a few relatives that I did not know very well, and I'd never tasted death in any close form.

That all changed about 10 years ago.

We'd had a family friend who'd passed away before that point, but I'd been very young so I hadn't fully understood. We'd also lost a cat at that point, but again, I was too young to fully comprehend the meaning of it.

10 years ago my step-great grandmother, Doris, passed away. She had been battling with cancer, lung cancer to be specific, for some time. We all begged her to stop smoking, but she was stubborn. She would scoff at us and say "I'll smoke until the day I die."

And she did.

I don't remember much about how I felt when they told me she'd died, but I don't think I cried. I was just confused. I do remember well when we visited the funeral home. It was dark, and everything was colored in gold and dark burgundies. It was stuffy, outdated, and I hated it. I was bored and I just wanted to play with my cousins whom I saw only a few times a year. When they finally let us into the room where her body was kept, I still didn't cry. I was overwhelmed by the massive amounts of flowers, unknown relatives, and the large casket that loomed ominously at the front of the room. They quickly sat us all down and a heavy man with a beard led us in a few hymns, and said a few words about life after death. After that it was a flurry of relatives trying to reach the casket to pay respects, while simultaneously trying to "catch up" with our family. Somehow I reached the casket quicker than most.

I remember approaching it cautiously, unaware of what I would see. My cousin was openly weeping at this point, along with most of my aunts. However, Doris looked fine. In fact, she looked in death just as she had in life. I was still confused.

I remember touching her cheek, and listening to people around me crying, and something inside of me snapped. I started to weep as well, although I still didn't fully understand. But I understood enough to realize I wouldn't see her again.

I quickly recovered from the tears however, and spent the rest of my time meeting my Great Aunt Chris, who sat with me and assured me that I was not the only one with bad ankles, that there was no need to be insecure about them, and told me funny stories from when she was a child. And although I still didn't understand how fragile life was, I had begun to gain the head knowledge.

I think I fully began to understand over the course of the next few Easter Sundays.

You see, Grandma Doris was an amazing cook. She made the best food I'd ever had in my life. To this day there is nothing that will ever compare with her Easter and Christmas dinners. And each year on Easter that side of the family would gather together to eat. All of us, blood relatives and step relatives alike, would eat and visit together on that one day of the year at Grandma Doris' insistence. But after her death, those Easter dinners stopped happening. We mostly had Easter at our own houses from then on.

On one of those Easter Sundays I realized that we would never have a meal like that all together ever again, and I cried.

I still miss those Easter meals. Despite the issues in my family we would take that one day to set them aside and catch up with each other. I miss sitting at their large dining room table, and listening to the adults talk. (I desperately wanted to sit with the adults from a young age, and they would humor me seeing as I have always been mature, as long as I kept relatively quiet.) I miss seeing my step-aunts, and step-cousins. (I suppose Jolie is probably married by now, as she was significantly older than me.) I miss being given one of those awful tasting "soda pop" candy drinks in the plastic bottles. (Grandma Doris always said it was a special treat. And even though it tasted disgusting all of the kids would happily take one.) I miss those delicious biscuits that Mom would only let me eat a few of. (Sometimes others would sneak me an extra one without telling her. In retrospect, I really didn't need that many.)

When I thought of all those things, and that they would never happen again, I began to understand the fragile state of life. At that point, it terrified me. I would avoid thinking about death at all costs. I didn't want to know what happened when you died, or after you died. I didn't want to think about the ways people died. I didn't want anything to do with any of it.

It doesn't frighten me now. (Or at least, it doesn't frighten me as often.) And I don't dwell on the thought much, and if I do it's in a wistful kind of way. More melancholy than sad.

Today, I took a ride in my Great Aunt's red convertible mustang. It's my dream car, and the weather was beautiful, so she took me for a ride to Starbucks for a Frappe. We drove through her neighborhood with the top down looking at the flowering trees, and enjoying the sunshine.

I had just visited with my Great Grandpa (we call him Pap) earlier that day. He's getting older, and he often forgets things. He's crotchety, and has that stubborn Irish streak in him, but I still love him dearly. I often think of him in my mind as a grumpy old teddy bear. Despite the fact that he only lives a few hours away, we hardly ever see him. I had sat at his table and listened to him repeat the same stories two times each (at least). I had watched him show us papers telling of how he would win big money in a giveaway and how he would buy a new truck with that money he was so sure would come in this Wednesday. ("You'll see!" He said. "I'll buy that truck with the money and drive down to see you!".) I had fixed his computer for the thousandth time, because he always seems to lose the bookmarks my Grandpa sets up for him. And he had taken us to the mausoleum where my step-aunts had finally decided to place my Grandma Doris' ashes. And as I looked at the picture of her in her kitchen they had placed in the box, I felt the familiar ache of missing her. She wasn't perfect, but I did love her.

Afterwards, riding in my Aunt's convertible, I realized (not for the first time) that he wouldn't be around much longer. And while my Great Aunts and my Grandma see fit to complain about his forgetfulness, and how he can't manage his money, all I can think about is how few his years left are.

Life is short.

If you have a perfect life, and live to 100, that's still such a short amount of time in the grand scheme of things. But not everyone is blessed to live that long.

A girl in my town died in a car crash a few weeks ago. She was around eighteen.

My Great Aunt Nancy died when she was in her late twenties, early thirties. She was overseas, had just had a baby, and then died suddenly of an asthma attack. I never got to know her.

My real great Grandma, ironically also named Doris, died at age 37 of breast cancer. I never knew her either, and my mom knew her only for a short time.

My friend's mother miscarried a baby boy, even though she was far enough along to have picked a name for him.

We don't have much time on this earth, so my philosophy is this:

Make the most of your time.

Meet as many people as you can, and love as many people as you can. Call that relative you've been meaning to call for ages. Visit that place you've always wanted to go. Learn as much as you can, about life, love, God; anything really. Try that new food. Read that book that's been sitting on your shelf collecting dust. And most importantly, don't waste the opportunities God has given you.

Live out the words of Erma Bombeck. "When I stand before God at the end of my life, I would hope that I would not have a single bit of talent left, and could say, 'I used everything you gave me'."

You only get one chance, so be joyful, soak everything in, forgive and let go, love whomever you can, and don't worry what tomorrow will bring, because tomorrow has enough toubles of it's own. (Mathew 6:34)

I think tomorrow I'll walk in my neighborhood and smell the flowers. Then maybe I'll write those letters to my pen pals I've been putting off. I need to have a long talk with God too. I haven't any time to waste, and neither do you.