I wrote the following post 4 years ago. Tomorrow is year
14. This post has been my most read, by far, on this blog. As I re-read this
today- from the lens of world-wide upheaval of 2020/2021- I was grateful for
the reminder that just because we can’t see past our current circumstances, doesn’t
mean that they wont pass. There will be perspective, hope, healing, and joy.
Not just on the other side of whatever trouble you’re facing, but even in the
MIDST of it. When you pause to breathe, receive help and encouragement from
family and friends. Also, for anyone whose suffering is fresh--I know the ache is real, the grief IS overwhelming, and your feelings of loss/anger/fear, have their place in your circumstances right now. I wrote these words a decade later. But initially, there were many tear-filled days.Please take what you need from this post, or don't read it at all if it's not what you need today. Feel free to reach out in you need an empathetic ear. I know all too well how much it can add to your hurt to have well-meaning friends try to "help you see the bright side" when your world has gone dark. So, may my words from 4 years ago encourage you today.
Ten years ago today, after my mother gently dragged me to a
local ENT doctor, my life changed when he told me I had bilateral degenerative
hearing loss. I was terrified, in shock, unbelieving-not me, disabled? At 20?! who will love me now? How can I finish
college? What will my life look like now?—ran through my mind as the kind, yet
ignorant-of-my-situation nurse who took my blood test told me “not to cry, it’s
just a shot”, if only she knew.
But now, a decade later, I can’t help but reflect on how
many of those questions and fears have drifted away—I finished college and went
back. Disability in one area doesn’t mean you don’t have strong abilities in
others. We are each more than a single label or diagnosis.
If I could go back, I would tell my twenty-year-old-self—I
know you can’t see past this now. It seems to mar your life, to irrevocably
screw up your plans, your dreams. It
seems to shatter every truth you knew about who you are and what you’re capable
of. Later that afternoon, as you sit on the beach, pen in hand, pages rippling
in the forceful wind—you will make a pivotal choice—to turn to, not away from
Jesus in this day of pain and fear. You chose not to get bitter, cynical, or
self-pitying—and by His grace you live that out. Sure, you have moments of
agony and deep fear—but your roots are strong—to him be the glory.
Ten years from now you will be thankful for this day—you
won’t wish it away, dread waking up and putting your aids in, live in constant
fear of losing the rest of your hearing or not having batteries for your aids.
You won’t hide your aids under your hair—you’ll again experience the freedom of
wearing your hair up—exposing those ears, knowing that the people who can’t see
past them don’t deserve your energy anyway. Ten years out, you will be so
grateful for loss—for you have gained so much-perspective, empathy, compassion
for the hurting—that far outweighs any loss of your physical hearing. You’ll
smile to think how this was made for you—chosen in love to strengthen,
EQUIP—not hinder, the life you live. Your eyes will glimmer as your mind fills
with pictures of how this loss is gain—from relating to many scared parents
with a fresh Autism diagnosis, to the way your niece gently pulls back your
hair and in awe and joy exclaims “you got my ears too!”
Ten years from now you will read scriptures like “Those who
sow in tears shall reap with shouts of joy! He who goes out weeping, bearing
the seed for sowing, shall come home with shouts of joy, bringing his sheaves
with him” (Psalm 126) and your heart will smile with an understanding and
joy—fulfilling this verse and knowing its truth. Ten years from now, the once
overwhelmingly painful anniversary will have faded to one of bittersweet
gratitude—for now you have those sheaves—the harvest of suffering that reminds
you pain in this life is birth pains. Trembling 20-year-old-self—this diagnosis
you think is ending your life—is actually the greatest beginning.
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