My hands feel numb, stiff, swollen, and cold as ice as I write. This new symptom of Multiple Sclerosis flared last year, and it would seem to enjoy the dance between seasons and temperature fluctuation. Each time I pray it will fade once the next season fully emerges, and so far, it has.
The reality is my hands are not swollen; the rings on my finger are proof of that, nor are they generally ice cold; I can feel their actual temperature as my hands touch my face. Instead, it is the impact of neurological damage, my brain believing something to be true that is not, in fact, reality. Yet, the pain, the cold, and the stiffness feel very real, and it takes an intentional effort to make my hands work as I need them.
When I was first diagnosed with Multiple Sclerosis, I understood that it might impact my mobility at some point. Often those with MS are pictured with canes, walkers, or wheelchairs, but I never once thought of the possibility of losing function in my hands. And while, for now, the interruption to my hands comes and goes, it may worsen or remain permanently at some point.
Every time I begin to grieve the potential loss of my ability to do things, to be useful, I remember my grandmother. And then I remember that my identity, my impact, is not in what I do but rather in who I am and who I am becoming.
My grandmother had macular degeneration and began to lose her vision, yet instead of giving up, she learned by touch how to do things like operate the washing machine and continued showing up for life. She aged, and her body and mind began to fail her, but she didn’t let that keep her hidden. She continued to find ways to learn and grow as a person. Her appetite disappeared, and still, she showed up at the dining room table to be around people for her meals. She didn’t always remember your name, but she always remembered to be kind.
My grandmother did a lot with her life. She was a wife and mother of four, a working mom when that title was the exception, not the norm. She had volunteered, started community programs, and carried titles and achievements to make most proud. Yet for the on-looker, her life might have seemed small, and at the end of her life, it was not what she had done that people remembered. Instead, the stories shared were about how she loved and was generous and kind to the very end of her days.
The stories remembered and retold about my grandmother are of who she was and how she made others feel seen and loved. Even long after she could see well with her eyes or hear well with her ears, she watched and listened to the beautiful rhythms of nature. She noticed and cared about the beautiful rhythms of people’s hearts.
I have come to believe it is essential to acknowledge the grief we carry over our life unexpected. But I do not wish to live in that grief. When I remember my grandmother, allowing myself to drown in misery and self-pity feels nearly impossible. Her example reminds me that I have a choice in this unexpected life of chronic illness, and her story inspires me to choose hope.
Our bodies might eventually fail us, and life may take an unexpected turn or two, yet God’s work in and through us rests not on what we can do but on who we are and who we are becoming in him. As we live with great love for God and others, our story continues to do a great work well beyond our physical capacity. And friends, I pray that leaves you with great hope for our unknown tomorrows.
Your story is beautiful without a body that works as you wish it would or the life you feel you should have already achieved.
“You have the God of the universe in your corner,
Mary Marantz,
believing in you and what you are capable of in him.”
Slow Growth Equals Strong Roots
