Blessings Abound

Have you ever stopped to consider how often the blessings of God grace your life? How everything, even the simplest of things, has been touched by His hand?

Have you stopped to study the intricacy of a single bloom?

Or stood silently in awe as a great egret took flight?

Or marveled at the glow of the approaching sunset? God can even take LA’s pollution and make it beautiful.

These are but a few outward examples of His love for us. For He also gave us friendship and love, laughter and tears, compassion and forgiveness.

The blessings in my own life are too numerous to count. All day long, I praise His Holy Name for giving me glimpses of heaven.

All of this, I witness and find joy in, not in spite of my pain and illness, but because of it. For through my struggles, He has taught me much, and I am ever grateful.

Where can you find blessings today?

Love,

Jenni and Ken

Please Forgive

I’ve had a bit of a health set back. Not too big, but enough of one. It is taking me longer to recover from my normal rounds of treatment. Four or five days has stretched to six or seven days at a time when I am incapable of doing much at all. This past week I spent four days in bed because of my pain, and then I forced myself to be a little active and ended up back in bed again.

Having a chronic illness, complete with pain 24/7, is a full-time job. After I complete the must-do chores, such as tending to the bills and reordering our prescriptions, I plumb run out of steam.

So, please forgive the lapses in my writing. If my better days outnumbered the bad ones, I would be writing more often. You are all so wonderful for hanging in there with me. Thank you.

Love,

Jenni and Ken

The Poppy and The Pod

I wrote the following in the wee hours of this morning, before all the pain and exhaustion from such a busy weekend caught up to me. Before the natural high wore off, allowing all that pain to return, as I emotionally let down my guard.

Please read it as a prayer and a dedication I am making into my new life. I have been struggling with where God wants me, what He wants me to do with my life. Through months or searching and prayer, I may be getting close to His dream for me. And as you know, His dreams for us don’t always line up with our own. His dreams eclipse ours, outshine ours unlike nothing we could ever have imagined.

Thank you for being my readers. May God bless you as He has blessed me.

Love, Jenni Lynn

 

THE POPPY AND THE POD

October 15, 2012

Yesterday I found myself back within my element. Talking with even more likeminded people. Listening. Learning. Absorbing. Stretching. Growing.

I found myself back at Wordstock. The Oregon Convention Center. On the escalators, beneath the giant poppies. I stopped to study these gigantic glass ornaments. They catch the backlight and come aglow. My eyes shift toward the top of the escalator. A large alien-looking green pod sits alone. Closed to the outside world. Heavy and dull. Frightening in its obscurity.

Within this space, this element of mine, I stretch my bubble. I poke it in all directions. I open my eyes to all the possibilities. The learning. The conversations. And then I act. Like a real person. A real woman. A real writer. A real illustrator. A person of good, strong character. I act and feel how I have always believed normal people act and feel every day.

Within this space, this element of mine, I am the poppy, unfurling my colors before the sun. I am no longer the pod, so full of potential but ever frozen in time.

I have no excuses for my past. I will no longer rely on qualifying statements about my efforts.

 

This is me. Living within my joy.

Head held high. Smile broad and bright.

Eagerness pouring from my every cell.

And love.

Compassion.

Courage.

 

This is me. Having the courage to step out in faith.

Trusting God has my back.

My front.

My every footfall.

 

This is me. Meeting the real me.

Enjoying the discovery process.

Seeking only His opinion of me.

Desiring to live up to His vision of me.

 

This is me. Living in love.

Loving God. Loving myself. Finally loving myself.

Trusting His love won’t abandon me.

His truths won’t fade away or change.

 

This is me. Living in trust.

Humbled to be chosen.

Accepting forgiveness when I fail.

Relaxing into the ocean of His truth.

Closing my eyes and allowing His miracles to wash over me.

 

This is me, Lord.

The me you made me to be.

 

Coffee in one hand, cheese-covered guilt in the other. Candy wrappers stuffed hastily in my pocket. You know this about me, and yet you still love me. You still have compassion and not pity for me. You still want glorious things of me and for me. Nothing I do can make you stop loving me. No matter how much I act out or feel like a failure. Nothing.

Like the flood rushing down from the mountains with the spring rains, no dam can hold back or cut off your love. It will wash over me. Drown me in peace and grace. Fill my lungs with righteousness. Only you can love me like this.

Nothing. And only you. Unconditional love at its finest. It is you or nothingness. And no matter how difficult it has been to grasp your depth of love, I cannot begin to fathom nothingness. I pray I never have to.

Teach me, Lord. Teach me speak. Teach me your ways. Put the correct words in my mouth and lead me to the correct actions. Make me aware of you, always. Do not count me among the Israelites who asked never to see your face or hear your voice ever again. Teach me speak, as only you can. I long to hear your voice, feel your presence. Your nearness.

Let me rise and do great things in your name, but keep me humble so that I may stay in your presence and not let conceit destroy me.

There is a brisk clip to my gait as I carry out these joys. These promises you’ve given me. I no longer feel like a fake. No longer on the fringe of life and love. No longer self-marginalized. You’ve instilled confidence in my heart.

I turn my flush petals to your brightness, seeking and accepting your warmth and love. Thank you. Thank you seems inadequate. I love you. Even my love seems inadequate compared to yours.

I am yours. I am your poppy.

No longer the pod.

 

My life comes aglow only with your illumination.

I live to carry out your desires.

I live to ring your quiet bell of grace.

 

I long to hear the trumpets that signal all hope.

Amen.

Love, Jenni Lynn

OUCH! Thanks!

We have had a few beautiful days here in Oregon, surprising when you consider how wet our spring has been. In fact, today, my “office” is outside, under a bright blue sky. There’s only a few wispy clouds overhead, and a slight breeze. What makes it all the more wonderful out here in my backyard is that it is peacefully quiet, and I am grateful for the respite from all the noise of dogs barking and equipment running next door.

I can hear the breeze rustling the leaves of the neighbor’s maple. I can hear a distant crow, and another returning the call from the other direction.

These are the kind of days I am thankful for, and rightly so.

Yesterday, however, was another matter altogether, with a whole range of odd things I am thankful for.

Yesterday was free fishing day at Battleground Lake in Washington; so we headed north in search of adventure—and we got more than  we bargained for.

I’ve not been feeling well, as I have spent the last two weeks with a nasty cold and the cough still refuses to let go. Even so, my energy was higher than normal and I was raring to go, despite my usual levels of pain.

As we began searching for the optimum fishing site, we started our walk around the lake. This site had too many submerged logs. That site had too many overhead trees with lines already caught in them. And all the good sites were taken. So we kept trudging along, despite the fact that I had wrenched my left knee first thing that morning and despite the fact that many spots along the trail were muddy, some even having standing water still from the recent rains.

We stopped at one possible site, and as Ken eyed the logs and overhead trees wearily, something told me that I would have to continue walking with my painful knee. He did allow a short rest, though, which I was very thankful for. While there, I opened my big camera backpack (which I had consciously made the decision to burden myself with because of the quality pictures I can get with my DSLR compared to our other cameras). Turning on my camera, I discovered that the battery was stone cold dead. Not even a flicker of power remained, and I thought that I had recently charged the silly thing. I was upset, frustrated to say the least, but I packed my camera back into it’s case and flung the backpack back on. Luckily I had taken Ken’s little camera along, so I removed it from my other bag and placed it in my coat pocket. I will get back to my camera situation in a bit.

Humph. Okay, so we moved on, passing a few more unavailable or unworthy sites until we spotted the perfect spot. It was wide open, with no visible logs, and the trees were sufficiently high above. Ken had beat  me down to the water’s edge, and as I followed, tackle box in  one hand, camp chair in the other (and remember the heavy backpack too) . . .

. . . I slid. My left knee began to hyperextend. I took a quick step and my right knee began to hyperextend as well, as I went careening down the muddy slope.

Sometimes these things really do seem to happen in slow motion. I made the conscious decision to not let my knees blow out backwards, and I forcefully buckled them forward instead. This sent me face first down the rest of the hill, covering my front with mud. But I saved my knees, and I was very thankful for that.

As my head came down, I really expected that I would be eating mud, along with wearing it. But no. My head hit a downed tree. Is it too odd to be thankful for hitting my head? I bet you are thinking I have a concussion and that I am delirious. Nope.The log was just big enough to stop me from hitting the mud but not big enough to cause too much of a headache. It was about six inches in diameter. Besides, Ken says I have such a hard head, that’s really what saved me. I have had a concussion before (and I never want to go there again), and so I am very, very thankful for that particular log, for it saved me from a face full of mud and also from another hellish concussion.

I am also thankful that my big camera had had a dead battery, because if it had not, then it would surely have been hanging around my neck and would have been crushed and destroyed by the mud as I fell.

At first I cried. Tears poured and mingled with the mud beneath me. Ken came running and tried to help me, with his one good arm. I stayed down a few minutes, to mentally assess the predicament I found myself in.

When I finally got the nerve to get up, not wanting to know the true extent of my injuries and not wanting to experience the inevitable pain, I used the chair to pull up onto.

I pulled just about every muscle on my left side and a few on my right. I was in a miserable state, and still am today.

Next, I pouted. I got mad at Ken for “making” me walk halfway around the lake to go fishing. I was mad that his arm was in a sling and that I had had to go along at all, to be his helper. (I really did want to go along. I was just mad.)

Then it dawned on me. I had no right to be mad at him for something I allowed to happen. I could not fault him for my mistake. If I had not wanted to go (at all) I should have refused at the onset. If I had not been willing to walk so far around the lake trail, I should have been more assertive about the pain I was already experiencing in my left knee. I had had many opportunities to say, “stop.”

I immediately stopped being mad and made the decision to make the best of the situation. I was going to have to get back eventually, but I might as well have fun now. So I took two pain pills, which thankfully I had remembered to throw into my bag, and I proceeded to fish.

Before proceeding, however, I prayed. Lord, I don’t know how we will make it home today. If I cannot drive, then what? Lord, just get me back to the dock, and once there, we will figure things out. And then, Lord, help me to get up the hill and back to the Jeep. If I can get to the Jeep, we have a chance. Then finally, Lord, we’ve made it this far, please help me be able to work the clutch so that I may get us home.

I caught two blue gills, which made me the master fisherperson of the day. Ken didn’t manage to catch anything, but then again, he was having trouble being one-armed.

My two little fishies were too small to keep, so we released them.

Our friend who was floating about on the lake actually caught like a bazillion (not really) blue gills. We left before he did, so he was not able to give us any of his catch, and I guess I am thankful for that because otherwise I would have had to clean fish last night. Whew, narrowly escaped that chore.

Ken was a bit upset that we didn’t have anything to show for all our efforts that day. So I told him what I have many times before. I have had to fish for my supper (literally) and I have fished just for the fun of it. I much prefer fishing without the pressures and stresses of having to come home with dinner. For me, the true purpose of fishing is the relaxation, the quiet surroundings, and the peacefulness of God’s natural landscape.

Our day ended on a good note, with fresh strawberry smoothies from Burgerville.

It was a very painful day, but God carried me every step of the journey, from drying my tears and releasing me from blaming Ken, to each physical step, then mile home. And I am very thankful He watches over me, always.

To Resolve or Not Resolve

 

As we near the end of another year, the same old question arises: Should I make New Year’s Resolutions?

For the past (at least) five years, I have refused to put my inadequacies and my hope-inspired solutions on paper just to fulfill a silly ritual. And yet, somewhere around the beginning of each year, even though they aren’t written down, I start a new diet and I attempt a new exercise program and I make all sorts of promises to improve my life that I cannot seem to keep.

But is that not the standard? We all make grand resolutions and promises, and very few of us actually carry them through.

So, to resolve or not resolve? Maybe if my list is simpler than usual. And maybe it should be on paper this year. Maybe if I strive only for those things I know are doable, at this moment. The things that will make me happy. Maybe my list should be thus:

1.  I will love myself more this year.

2.  I will be kind to myself this year.

3.  I will smell the roses more often.

4.  I will smile more often.

5.  I will forgive myself when I make mistakes.

6.  I will forgive others their mistakes.

May your life blossom in this coming year, and may you know peace, if even just in your tiny corner of the world.

Blessings and love,

Jenni Lynn

Survival Tactics For Humans

 

Sometimes the best revenge when someone has hurt you is to simply live a good life. Sometimes if the hurts cut too deeply, you must live your good life without them. Sometimes if you find yourself surrounded by unsafe people (please read Safe People by Townsend and Cloud if you want information on this subject), you must assess why that is so, what your part in those issues is, and you must make changes to make your environment safe. Lashing out accomplishes nothing and damages everyone concerned. Even if your own words don’t “come back to bite you in the butt,” as the saying goes, your own words can still hurt you in lost time, lost happiness, lost relationships.

It is best to turn the other cheek. Jesus is the perfect example of turning the other cheek. But this does not mean that He allowed the offenders to strike another blow. He chose to surround Himself with safe people and He chose to live His life as an example for others.

Turning the other cheek means you move on without taking revenge. Without charging an eye for your own swollen and blackened eye. Having such a negative attitude only leads to more hurt, more strife, more pain. Therefore, it is best to lead a good life without sinking low.

Whether those who have offended you ever know of your new-found freedom through living your own good life is inconsequential. Just as forgiveness is for your own heart and not for the benefit of the person you are forgiving, happiness is for your own sake. I have given myself the grace to live my life as best I can, though sometimes my depression still rears its ugly head. I am only human.

I strive always for forgiveness, goodness, and mercy in my heart. I surround myself with good people, loved ones who build me up rather than tear me down. I strive to give and do for others whenever I can, though my illness tends to hold me back from all I want to do. God has forgiven me my inabilities and my failings in my darkest hours, in my weakest moments, in my illness. I strive to give myself enough grace to heal my heart, soul, and body instead of hating myself for all that I am not and cannot do.

I am a survivor. I survive. I am alive. And God loves me even though, or maybe because, I am human.

The Best Anti-Depressant

. . . is being proactive.

For years, I have suffered at the hands of my depression and anxiety. For years, I have let those evils run my life. For years, I have wallowed in self-pity, allowing my past to continue to haunt me. For years, I have contemplated suicide, knowing in my messed-up brain that the world would be better off without me.
For years, I was stupid. Allowing my past and my emotions to rule my present and my future is stupid.

Sometimes I hate myself for allowing this waste of my life. It is worse than suicide because I have to be here and still know how much of my life is gone, wasted. But I cannot hate myself forever. I am only human, after all, and if I allow others their mistakes and I forgive them, why not myself?

A couple years ago, I hit rock bottom. I thought I had already been there several times before, but this time was the worst. I found myself newly diagnosed with a devastating illness. I lost my job because of that illness. I was thrust into motherlessness when my mother suddenly passed away from a pulmonary embolism. I further became an orphan when my entire birth family shunned me because they could not accept my illness. They preferred to call me a hypochondriac and lazy. I lost my home because of my illness, medical bills, and joblessness. If it weren’t for the love of my dear husband, I would have been destitute, alone, and dead on the street.

I came to a decision in the wake of all that tragedy.

I had to love myself as much as Ken loves me. As much as Jesus loves me. I had to fight for myself as much as Ken was willing to fight for me. As much as Jesus fought and died for me.

I came to the decision that, even with the love and support of Ken and Jesus and my son, I was ultimately the one who had to save me.

I had to be proactive.

But I did not know how. I did not know what to do.

I took a few classes at church. At first, my life crumbled further into the abyss as my searchings opened old wounds. I was forced into reliving my past every night in my nightmares.

Then things started to even out. My emotional life started to improve even though I still suffered greatly in my physical life.

I would like to share that turning point with you. This painting and poem came about because of an assignment in one of the church classes I took. Because of my new guiding attitude and the reminders of this artwork, I know I must fight and scratch and claw my way out of the pit of depression.  Sometimes I must still fight every day. Just as I must be proactive in regaining my physical health, I must be proactive in my mental and emotional health.

Thank you for allowing me to share my life with you. Thank you, Renew and Mountain View Christian Church, for helping me know what I must do. Thank you, Pastor Dave, for listening to my broken heart, even when sometimes I just seemed to blubber and rant.

And thank you, Angie, most of all for starting me on my healing journey. Your insights into grief and your compassion for others are immeasurable. I love you, my dearest friend.

RENEWED

I am renewed

I am out of the woods

On top of the mountain

The dove of peace

Has left the olive branch

And taken away the spirochetes

I reach for Jesus

His warmth beckoning

My heart is already there

His gifts rain down around me

Like wildflowers in a field

So many go unnoticed

His greatest worldly gifts

My life, my mind, my body

These renew so that I may

Give my gifts to you.
 

Jennifer Lynn Servantes

October 15, 2009
 

Lemons For Lemonade

This is in honor of Invisible Illness Week. Nearly half of us are affected by an invisible illness, and being invisible, most are unaware of our struggles. I had debated whether or not my blog was worthy of Invisible Illness Week, but then I thought, what better way to boost the morale of other chronically ill people than to show how I am living my life despite my illness.

I was watching the opening ceremony for this weekend’s NASCAR race. The Star Spangled Banner played, and I could only think of this one line: “Gave proof through the night that our flag was still there.” How powerful, that one line in a poem from so long ago. Our flag still flies, no matter how many battles she has been through.

How often do we too easily give up, allowing our flags to fall? How often do we let life get the better of us? How often are we held hostage by the things we complain about, yet do nothing to change? We complain about the high cost of groceries, yet we don’t clip coupons and we certainly don’t plant a single tomato plant in our back yard, in an attempt to fend off those high costs. We complain about our houses being cluttered, yet we don’t lift a finger to rid ourselves of that unnecessary junk. We know we wronged a friend, no matter how inadvertently, but we don’t humble ourselves to mend that much needed relationship. Instead we tell ourselves that they should make the first move.

Forgiveness is a mighty powerful notion. Responsibility is another.

More personally, how often do we let our aches and pains keep us from what we enjoy? There are levels of pain, just as there are variations in the colors of the rainbow. When we are chronically ill, each day proves to be colorful, yet we must carry on. We must take charge of our lives and live each day to its fullest despite the pain. Each day with less pain is incredibly valuable. Notice that I did not say, “with no pain.”

For now, I can only manage to watch NASCAR from my recliner. The thrill of the race pounding within my veins. I’ve been known to be somewhat of a daredevil, back in the day. I fondly remember the days before becoming so ill when, late at night, I raced my Grand Prix down 205, just for the heck of it. My top of the line stereo system fascinated me, as the faster I sped, the louder it got. It is a wonder I never got caught, with my ‘80s rock blasting from my open windows and my blonde hair wildly flying. I miss those days, and I mourn the loss of my Grand Prix. It had to be sacrificed for my medical expenses, like so many of my other favorite possessions.

But it is a new day, even if I have the same old issues with pain and fatigue. My flag still flies.

There is a saying, if given lemons, make lemonade. I could mourn all my losses. My Pontiac. My home of 13 years. My sense of freedom granted me by having my own paycheck. My beautiful bedroom set, with the armoire which I coveted for years before acquiring. At least I can visit it, since I sold it to a friend. All the junk the materialistic me collected over the years. My truck, which is the next thing to go on the auction block. I could mourn all my losses, but in the long run, all these possessions mean nothing. Ten years from now, I may not even remember most of them, though my Pontiac still stings when I think of her.

Releasing all these things into the wind allows me to step forward into a life more fitting of my dreams. We cannot travel if overly encumbered. The house, though it broke my heart, I know we could not have maintained it during our travels, even if I didn’t have outrageous medical bills to contend with. We would have had to sell it one way or another. And we have eased ourselves into the sale of our very dependable truck. If we need one in the future, we can rent. Isn’t that why there’s a U-Haul industry?

So, if I can live without all these possessions, the things I just had to have at the time, is there not a way to live with my illness, and still accomplish my goals? Yes, with a shift in perception.

Those who do not suffer pain daily assume we do not have pain when they see us determinedly working towards our dreams and goals. We have a secret, and maybe that is part of the reason we become invisible. We learn to work through our pain. We learn to work through our fatigue. We learn to live despite our ailments, and we put on a good face. We are no different, really, than the marathon runner, who pushes through her pain to finish the race. We just have to push through more often than not.

I no longer envy the marathon runner. I was just not meant to be her, though I used to dream of running as I once had in my teens. I may be slow and no longer able to run, but God will still get me where I am going, one step at a time.

I no longer envy the mountain climber. Denali is just as beautiful to look upon as from. Just to stand in her glorious shadow, I know I will still feel the presence of God, as if I were at the summit. Besides, life is best lived in the valleys. That’s where Jesus walks with us. That is where Jesus carries us after we fall. We learn the lessons in life by getting to the summit (or our goal), rather than from the summit itself. Would you feel the same, having been dropped onto the summit by helicopter, as you would from climbing there yourself?

My adventuresome spirit will still be satisfied despite having Lyme disease. I can enjoy life from the passenger seat of the Raven, allowing my hubby the thrill of determining our course and speed. How I will get my necessary medical treatments while on the road has yet to be determined, but as with all other challenges, I know we will figure this one out, too.

My life may be different than what I had envisioned as a small child, dreaming of being a doctor or a teacher or a dancer. I could never make up my mind, anyway. But my life is mine. It is the only one I have. There must be a reason God gave me these challenges, and therefore, I must do the most I can with what I have been given.

Looking at the lemons, I have lost more than many could bear. Yet as I taste the lemonade, it is wonderfully sweet. I have a husband and a son who are my knights in shining armor when I need them. I have three Pugs and a cat who give me my daily dose of belly laughs and snuggles. I have the freedom to travel, given to me because of my illness rather than in spite of my illness. I have a circle of friends who are willing to rally around me even when I am at my worst. And I have all of you, and because of you, I know I am not alone in my hopes, dreams, and difficulties.

My flag still flies, though a little tattered from many battles. Does yours?

Our grandson with Tinker Belle, Suzie, and Max

Our grandson serenading Julius

How do You Roll?

How do you deal with disappointment? With bad news? With rejection?

Do you cry your eyes out, blubbering in your hubby’s accepting arms until your eyes are swollen and red? Do you replay every detail, searching out every piece of ammo you can use against the other person, even if you have no intention of actually going face-to-face or fist-to-fist with that person? Do you drown your sorrows in your drug of choice, (my choice being food)? Do you attempt to drown out the negative voices in your head with head-banging music? A little Zep until the walls vibrate? Do you search out an activity that is so involved you cannot possibly think of anything else but that activity, like physics puzzles on Kongregate? Or do you listen when your most loving person showers you with positive messages and tells you that the disappointment or bad news or rejection does not matter in the grander scheme of things? We will survive. Our plans will not change.

I did all of the above, and in that order too.

Now that the dust has settled, it does not matter what the bad news was. It is a new morning, a new bright, shiny day. The sun will always set on our troubles and will always rise again. Without the scary darkness and lurking shadows, the bad news doesn’t look so bad. I can deal with it. And Ken is right. Ultimately, it won’t change our plans.

Whether I am well or sick or even sicker, we will still travel. Whether we sell everything or give most of it away, we will still travel. Whether I can do my share or Ken and Trevor have to do most of the work, it will all get done, and without them complaining about my alleged laziness. They know me like no one else does.

All will be well. I will not lash out. I will forgive. I will give my troubles over to God. I will move on.

And that is how I roll.