Ten Years Out- Reflections on Hearing Loss

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 2o?!  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-pittying—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. 

Eight years out—a letter to my younger self on that day of diagnosis

Terrified, in shock, unbelieving-not me, disabled? At 2o?!  who will love me now? How can I finish college? What will my life look like now?
Four  small words forever changed my life—“you have hearing loss”.

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-pittying—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.

Eight 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 wont hide your aids under your hair—you’ll again experience the freedom of wearing your hair up—exposing those ears. Eight years out you will be so grateful for loss—for you have gained so much of worth that surpasses your physical hearing. You’ll smile and think of how this was made for you—chosen in love to strengthen, to 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 a scared parent 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!” You'll mentally change "Amazing Grace" to "I once was deaf, but now I hear" understanding why John Newton (a man who went blind) would write those original lyrics because of how physical loss can strengthen the Spirit. 


Eight 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 leap with joy—fulfilling this verse and know it’s true. Eight years from now, today will still bring back a flood of sadness but a bittersweet gratitude—for now you have those sheaves. The harvest of suffering 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. 

A lifetime of wisdom- looking back to look ahead. January 6, 2015

    Over the last few weeks, since passing my certification exam (hurrah!!) I’ve been able to take time to find more balance, more of a healthy rhythm of rest and work. On December 31^st, I took a day to head to Tacoma—exploring new places is something that rejuvenates and refocuses me. I did the cursory reflection of 2014, but I also wanted to look ahead—I knew that after this insanely academic year, I needed to fight for balance. I’m not much of a resolution, more of a thematic thinker when it comes to new seasons and goals. Earlier in the week I had read the book of Philippians and it was one of those sweet times where the words leapt off the page. Paul’s letter was so fitting for this new season of no school and new jobs. I am definitely extroverted, and 2014 was a weird year of focusing on school and work and studying—not much time for authentic relationship building and growing. Paul calls the church to “look not only to your own interests, but also to the interests of others” and to “shine as lights”. This past Sunday I co-led my first girls group for my church, ages 9-13. Each of those girls are so unique and gifted, and I can’t wait to see how they grow—I am humbled to be a part of it.

Another theme in Paul’s letter to the people Phillipi is the that of holding onto  and standing firm in the faith. He calls them to hold fast to the word of life, hold true to what has been obtained, and to stand firm in the Lord. Admittedly, my Bible was pretty dust covered last year—thousands of pages of textbooks and articles filled my reading and calendar. Again, my hope is to find balance this year in my reading habits.

 The last theme that struck me in Paul’s letter, is how he consistently reminds them that it is God who works in them.  He calls them to make their faith your own because He made you His own, rejoice in the Lord always, think about what is true, noble, good, and remember that you can do ALL through Christ who strengthens you, for God supplies every need according to his riches in glory in Christ. 

Those are things I want to center life on this year—remembering that it is God who works in me, to will and to work for His good pleasure. It is often in hindsight that I see how he has worked and brought me to where I am today. In light of that, I’ve also been reading a lot of biographies lately—I am so drawn to learning about others’ lives—what made them tick? What were pivotal situations in their life? Who impacted them and changed them?  

On that note, I recently finished “The Story of My Life” by Helen Keller. Initially, I was embarrassed to admit that—afraid of the “oh that’s cute, of course you would like her—with your hearing loss and all” which is a backhanded dis to an incredible lady. Helen Keller has become somewhat of a punchline in recent years, which is so unfortunate, disrespectful, and does such a disservice to who she was and what she accomplished. She didn’t let her disability, caused by an illness in infancy, shrink her life—she learned to speak, she loved to row and ride horses! What was so remarkable to me was the fact that her writing contains so many visual descriptions—something she partly credits to her teacher, Anne Sullivan, who acted like a visual narrator. In every situation she would describe not just what was spoken; but the manner, the setting, the environment. She went to college, and wrote with a confidence that recognized she was unique and had a voice that needed to be heard.  I was astonished by her acceptance and lack of bitterness in her writing—she obviously did have pains, but as she articulated “…my tongue will not utter the bitter, futile words that rise to my lips, and they fall back into my heart like unshed tears. Silence sits immense upon my soul. Then come hope with a smile and whispers, “There is joy in self-forgetfulness” so I try to make the light in others’ eyes my sun, the music in others’ ears my symphony, the smile on others’ lips my happiness” (p. 142). Helen Keller is a model of living “above the circumstances, not under them”.



There is so much wisdom to be gleaned from the lives before and around me. I hope that this year I continue to grow in my love of God and others.

The shrinking shadows of loss--7 years out

Today marks 7 years since I sat trembling in an ENT room while the doctor calmly, carefully, and as gently as he could changed my life. You have significant hearing loss and need to wear hearing aids.

I could almost hear my world quieting around me as my heart and mind fought the news. NO! Not me, I'm not even OLD yet. I internally screamed in fear, anger, disbelief--why me? why now? As I struggled with the weight of the news and the uncertain future--I couldn't help but feel like my life was over.

In some ways, it was--in the past 7 years a lot about my "pre-hearing aid wearing days" have become memories--swimming without thinking twice, checking the weather before I go for a run, getting anxious in dimly lit rooms or when I have to speak up about wanting captions, praying my alarm is loud enough to wake me but not scare the neighbor's dogs. Even spending nights alone in the house bring a lot of anxiety--because of course we'll be broken into the night I'm keeping watch. None of these were worries until 7 years ago. As the years have added up, I've started to realize those fears have their right place--a balance of realism and rationality have tempered them. After all the practice of them leaping to my mind and snatching my joy--I've learned to accept that they are just my personal tangible reminders that life is fragile, the rest of my body will fail me at some point too--but living in fear of future failures robs me of so much today.

But in more ways than I can count, my loss has given me riches. It has allowed me to enter into the suffering of those around me--I actually DO know what it's like to be given a diagnosis that changes everything--one you certainly didn't ask for. I'm grateful that this allows me to understand the turmoil of loss in the families I work with--the complexity of mourning what was or what wont ever be, but yet still wanting the world to know how blessed you are by what you DO have. I know how hard it can be to ask for help--to not what to be labeled as helpless, different, or less. But as time has gone on, I've learned to bite the bullet and speak up, to share, to invite others in--for our sufferings, just like our joys, are most influential and inspiring when they're shared. Ive recognized the tendency of my own heart to want to prove I'm self-sufficient--but in reality none of us live in a vacuum. Every expert was once a beginner.

So today, seven years into this journey--the shadows are still there, but now they're almost like old friends. Each one specifically pricks my heart in a way that I need it to be. I need to be reminded that my body will fail and die. I need to remember that the real inadequacy is the inability to ask for help, not the strength to admit it. The relational fears of being alone--in this journey and in life--still creep up late at night--but then I'm encouraged by the memories of friends who now simply put on the captions, let me sit in the front seat, or ask if I can hear. Every fear is an opportunity for my faith to grow--for me to trust that God leads me beside still waters, He restores my soul. These shadows are gifts.
After all, shadows can't exist without light.

“I will give you treasures of darkness”

                Today, I’ve studied and written—two staples of this season of preparation. I woke up looking back and look at what I lack—not a fun place to be. It’s easy for my simple life to feel hollow when I compare it to the weddings, babies, and careers around me. Every so often, I read back through my blog, reminiscing on what I’ve been inspired to write about in the past. Often, this leads to appreciation for this day and season as I look back with fresh perspective.

                One theme from today’s perusing was how each season has blessings and burdens—that often are only appreciated in hindsight. From my time in Kenya, to transitioning home, to the whirlwind of school—each adventure stretched and strengthened me in many ways. In the midst of each season, even in this one, I tend to focus on what I wish I had or what I seem to be missing. But when I look back, I can see how each season’s “lack” was a lesson—preparing me for this day and circumstance; and that encourages me today. A verse from Isaiah sums up this idea when God tells the Israelites that  “I will give you the treasures of darkness and the hoards in secret places, that you may know that it is I, the LORD, the God of Israel, who call you by your name” (Isaiah 45:3).

               Exactly, as I look to where I’ve been—past jobs, colleges, Kenya—I can see how each step was pivotal and the lessons were treasure. At the time they seemed like darkness-why did I lose my hearing, wait to go back to school, have the privilege of working in Kibera? But in hindsight I can see why. The banes are blessings—treasures out of darkness that remind me that my life is purposed. So the things I sometimes see as banes —studying, singleness, an open social calendar—are actually blessings. They remind me that God has called me—he knows heart, my secret places, and is purposeful in how he’s purposed my circumstances. There are always treasures in darkness.

When a Diagnosis Re-directs your Dreams—January 31, 2014

                I’ll never forget sitting in that doctor’s chair, my head spinning as I strained to hear the kind man in the blindingly white coat speak the words that changed my life forever—you have degenerative hearing loss. Those words changed everything. It was a pivotal moment in my life that was the end of the beginning. It was the end of a relatively “care-free” life, the end of feeling normal, facing rainy days and swimming outings without anxiety. The end of throwing my hair in a ponytail without a thought, of noticing how quiet my world is when I sleep without aids, the end of life as I knew it.

                Oh, but that day was also the beginning…

                It was the day I began to understand that life is frail, fleeting, that my body will fail. It was the beginning of accepting disability as a part of me not something that dis-ables me from life. It was the beginning of asking for help, of being an advocate for myself. It was the beginning of a new normal—one that has ended up a lot less scary than I imagined.

                That Thursday afternoon I thought a lot of my life was ending—would I have to leave Trinity Western to afford the hearing aids I would need? Would I be able to keep studying psychology—how practical is that when I wouldn’t be able to hear my clients? Who would want to date, much less marry me now—now that I for sure have less and no one seemed to want me before? Where can I go from here? What about my dreams?

                But what I’ve come to realize over the last six years is that the afternoon diagnosis wasn’t when my dreams died—it was when they were refined. I still studied psychology and two years later graduated with an honors degree. I may have dropped the Spanish minor, but I ended up with a Human Services certificate—which was the primary way the path from psychologist turned to behavior analysis—and working with children with disabilities. At the time it sure felt like the end of the world—but so many beginnings start that way. The dead leaf is pushed off to make room for the bud.

                Tonight, in the midst of my second quarter of graduate school—with 6 year anniversary of hearing aids falling on Super bowl Sunday (Go Hawks!)—I read this story and was reminded of and prompted to write about my own. What felt like the end my dream of helping others by listening was actually the beginning of discovering my passion and my mission. My dull ears allowed me to hear so many things—the encouragement of others, the reality of disability and the ability to thrive within it, and the voice of my Father who calls me and comforts me in the midst of storms and strife.

                My hearing loss may have ended life as I knew it—but the life I love now was actually made possible through it—I’m not puking rainbows and saying life is easy and beautiful with hearing loss—it’s often scary and difficult—but a life worth living is one that has valleys and mountains.  I love that I can relate to the families I work with, that I can “turn my ears off” to annoying sounds, that I can sleep like a rock. So, what seems like the end can actually be the start of a beautiful beginning.

Forward in ‘14

Forward: adverb- onward so as to make progress. Synonyms-onward, moving ahead

Adjective-relating to or concerned with the future.

                Periodically, since 2005, I’ve attempted to begin each year with a theme, a word, rather than an “I will do it!” resolution, it’s more of a mindset, an aim, a direction. The last week, as I’ve relished in the break from work and school, I’ve begrudgingly looked ahead to the next quarter—I can be a perfectionist with school and the fact that last quarter’s busy schedule put me through the wringer as far as focus and diligence goes with really studying, not just finishing things—I was discouraged.

Sometimes, looking back is a lesson, sometimes it turns you into a pillar of salt.

In the midst of wallowing in “I wish I had…” I realized I had a choice—I needed to look forward. I made a study plan, and devoted the rest of the week to relaxing—reading books I wanted to, for FUN! There are seasons in life for a reason—we need the trees without leaves to make room for new growth, the time of growth leads to the harvest. As I look head to 2014—I want to move forward. Yes, there are the concrete things in front of me—graduate school, the board exam, looking for a job to start the BCBA career. But I also want to live in light of this last year—the growth, the regrets, the good memories—but in a way that is onward, progressing, moving ahead—forward. I can’t change where I’ve been, the hours I didn’t study, the words I wish I didn’t say—but I can allow those things to propel me to a healthy concern for the future.

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Strive for progress, not perfection. In education, exercise, relationships. As life as slowed down the last couple of weeks, I’ve realized there are things that I would like to change—go to bed and get up earlier, listen more to others, ask questions, take constructive criticism with more humility, pretend to like black coffee, to name a few. Each of those are progressive—not destinations—well, the coffee one is debatable. But anyway, I want to remember the last year—the blessing of jobs I loved with kids and staff I will never forget, road trips with windstorms, moving on from just missing Kenya like a “has been” to letting that drive me in my decisions today and to make future plans, was financially able to buy my own hearing aids (since no insurance company covers the cost—but that’s for another post…), spontaneous trips to Portland, and likewise—the ways I was shown that the world is such a small place. I can see how I’ve moved forward—starting grad school, exercising regularly again, admitting what I would like to change, and putting that blasted cellphone/ipad down to actually engage in life.

Most recently, the idea of moving forward was shown by the fact that the 6 year anniversary of finding out about my hearing loss came and went—it wasn’t until half way through the day that I remembered—and I’m so grateful. Last year, I rightfully celebrated—that while this has shaped my life it in no way ended it. This December 27^th demonstrated that I have moved forward—hearing loss is a part of my life—it has changed my routines and my outlook, and rightly so; but over the last 6 years I’ve moved forward from the everyday fear.

As I “move forward in ‘14” I pray that I continue to look ahead, to strive for progress and not perfection, and to take each day one step at a time.

Permission to rest.

Well today marks 3 full weeks of being sick on and (only 3ish days) off. With being out of the house working/in class/driving 12 hours a day 4 days a week (and a full day of work Fridays), I am spent. I am THAT person going to bed early and waking (confession, I wrote "working" the first time--a sleepy and busy "Freudian slip") up tired. I've hit a wall.

I can't do it all. I can't plow through this year, and life in general, full speed ahead, all the time. I'm not wired to. We're meant to find a balance of work and rest. I have to make rest a priority even when duty calls. Sometimes the most productive thing you can do is set your pencil down--or if you're like me--pencil in, rest.

Ironically enough, like I wrote previously, it is in bodily sickness my soul is refreshed. Today, in the morning fog of stuffiness caused by laying down all night (yes, from roughly 9:30 pm on) I found myself praying in gratitude.

I surprised myself by being grateful for being sick--for the reminder to slow down, to rest and reflect on this season of school and work. I am thankful that through sickness I have permission to rest--to remind myself that my body is weak, that it will fail me, that someday more than just my ears will lose their abilities--not in a morbid but in a meaningful--today matters way.

I'm also beyond grateful for the upcoming long weekend--praying that I'll heed these words and rest one full day. The weight of the world is not on my shoulders. This is one year, one set of classes, one weekend. REST.

Speaking in the Light What You Hear Whispered in the Darkness

What I tell you in the dark, say in the light, and what you hear whispered, proclaim on the housetops- Matthew 10:27

I’m about to get real honest, okay, as in- heart on my sleeve, soul bared, no pretense. My heart is messy. It is deceitful and easily deceived. It is fearful, anxious, and, much like any facebook profile- only wants the good, the lovely, the things worthy of recognition and applause to make it to the light. But the truth is—its full of darkness, hidden hurts and buried beliefs. Ironically, it’s the hidden parts that drive my heart. The stuff I try to mask is what shapes my outer life whether I like it or not. The old wounds fester and are manifest in the things I get angry and anxious about today.  Shrek knew what he was talking about when he says that “ogres [and I would add humans] are like onions, [we] have layers”.

This past week, Thursday evening to be exact—some old lies and fears just couldn’t be buried anymore. My anxiety about my hearing loss, upcoming busy school year, and intense fear of parts of my heart on those and other issues finally bubbled to the surface. I couldn’t mask them anymore. In the midst of celebrating one of my favorite little boy’s birthdays I found myself feeling quite alone and anxious. This stuff needed to get talked out, ASAP.

A couple of hours later, as I settled into the couch cushions, my arms folded defensively, my dad asked with care and gentle insistence—what’s at the bottom of this? As tears trickled and then freely flowed, I found courage to speak what had been hidden for years, a decade—literally. Through my sobs the roots of so much anxiety, fear and ultimately—lies that had become personal truths, were exposed. It was in speaking what had been whispered to me and what I had then internalized, for so many years that the power of those lies was lost and I discovered that what I feared wasn’t a tenth of bad as I imagined it was. Speaking what was hidden didn’t cause the people who love me most to disown me, shame me, or surprise them so much that they didn’t know who I was anymore. Clarity and freedom from fear came with confession.

Today, several days later—I can’t help but think that I could have been freed from this so much earlier if I had been willing to share instead of hide my hurts. Burying fears only makes them worse, and the longer you hold it in the more you will want to burst.

But you see, that’s what the enemy wants. He was us to be fearful, tangled in roots that seem like truths but only thrive as long as they are hidden. Jesus intentionally tells us to speak what is in the darkness. Today, my heart is healing. It will take time to renew this sinful mind and hurt heart. But as I intentionally speak what so desperately wants to be hidden in darkness—I will continue to heal and walk in the light.

Turning “Oh NO!” to “Oh…no.” June 25, 2013

Last night I stayed up way too late. I was refreshed and on the “high” that only a good walk near a beautiful sunset with one of my dearest friends can bring. I was also still quite nostalgic—thankful for a skype chat with the one person who understands both places I served in Kenya. Well after 1 am I was attempting to quiet my mind—which, truthfully, was racing partly due to an extra dose of caffeine that afternoon as I drank in the smell and appreciated the sound of a “Kenyan downpour” that hit Seattle.

In the midst of futilely trying to process and still my mind—my ear made a slight, suctiony, pop! (This may be TMI, but for those of us who wear hearing aids, our ears can tend to produce excess wax that gets and remains somewhat liquidy while having them in and for a little while afterwards…gross but true. Tell your friends, knowledge is (gross) power.) My first sleepy thought was “OH NO! My nerve cells just died, I’m going to be deaf in the morning and won’t be able to get/afford cochlear implants”. Yeah, my mind went to the “worst case” scenario at 1am. No bueno.

Thankfully, my next epiphany was much less dramatic and actually grounded— “Oh. no.” The ‘Oh’ was brought on by the realization of the liquidy wax making the same sound as I cleaned out my ear—and, much more importantly, was the result of the rational thought that it’s 1 am, I “cant party like I used to”, and my mind is going down roads its shouldn’t because its exhausted, not because those thoughts are rooted in truth. Then, there was the resolved, “No.” No ,it’s 1am. I am not going to freak out, get discouraged, feel worthless, focus on my DISability because I am tired. NO. I am going to relax, choose to have hope, rest, and to be grateful for the hearing I do have. Glass half full, if you wish.

After waking up this morning I was humbled and relieved by how the” Oh NO!” turned into the “oh, no.”  This morning I am grateful for perspective, for the ability to “gird up my mind” and “not go there”. I am thankful for a God-given grace of a sound mind and a quiet heart.

The Tunnel Vision of Fear—May 23, 2013

                This morning was day three of an aid that wouldn’t turn on until I changed the battery and “turned it on and off, on and off” a bajillion times. Then it would quietly sputter to life and after a few more rounds of “turning it on and off” would be back to full volume. Just in time for me to be late to work. In these frantic mornings my mind turned from panicked prayers to frantic fear. In my groggy and frustrated state I went from the immediate, “I’m going to have to call in sick if I can’t get this aid to work” to the future fears “I won’t be able to go to grad school, because I’ll have to drain my savings to pay for my hearing aids…” (since insurance, even disability insurance, doesn’t cover it) to scenarios of me locked in a basement typing my life away and being useless to society since I couldn’t sustain a job, get insurance, or hear—ridiculous. Fear is a vicious animal that plays hulk in my heart and suffocates my soul. It is the thing that disables me. Yes, my hearing loss is severe. I do rely on machines daily. Yes, I miss many things and have to say “what” more than the lazy teenager. But the thing that really stops me in my tracks, derails my days, and cripples me is the fear. Fears that are often rooted in real things-I do need my aids to function, soon I will have to shell out the $7,000 grand for new aids, but they take on a life of their own and rob me of today’s hope, joy, and provision.

 Fear tries to make me forget I have a choice. It momentarily convinces me that the things I am terrified of are “just around the corner” and that there’s “nothing, I can do”. It tugs at my prideful heart and tells me that I only have value when I am independently functioning well and isolates me by coddling my stubborn independence saying “YOU have to figure this out, ALONE”. Fear tries to intimidate me into an isolated existence that believes people around me simply see me as a burden.

Later today, I read a blog post where the author articulated “I think most of our "I bet they think they're better than me" assumptions have nothing to do with them and everything to do with us.  And no one can make us feel crappy about the way we parent, what we eat, how we tend to our marriage, where we shop, how we spend our money or what kind of person we are--no one but ourselves” (Kelle Hampton).

Personally, this translated to how I feel about my loss and how others perceive it—that I’m less than them because of it –like a “not yet a girl, not yet a woman” sort of separation—“not quite disabled, not quite able”. That somehow I “miss the mark” on worthiness because of what I lack—hulk smashing my sense of worth, value, contributing-ableness to the world around me.

But what really stuck me today—was the underlying fear that I look on the former “pre-hearing-loss-me” as “better” or “more worthy” the personal reality that I feel less worthy. No one has told me that—sure, there was the customer service lady that hung up on me, the people who yell about 2 feet from my face—awkward and embarrassing attempts to “help” or my favorite—speaking in slo-mo as if that will help me understand them—but in our politically correct culture—no one would TELL me I’m less. No one, but me. Granted, the fact that there is no insurance help unless you’re profoundly deaf makes me feel like society doesn’t care, sees my need as not worthy of attention, but it’s my choice to internalize it.  

Early morning tunnel vision tells me that my loss is all there is. That I’m just as broken as my dern aid, sputtering through life and not quite functioning where I should be, and that I might as well throw in the towel. Tunnel vision steals my strengths, my abilities, my value and worth.

But, if I keep going, there’s a light at the end of that tunnel. There’s the light of perspective, of people who DO care, of the hope of help when I humbly ask for it—the reminder that no one is independent—we all “get by with a little help from our friends”.

As this day closes I am grateful for grace. I am out of today’s tunnel. I realized that I had been one-sided in my perspective of what “stewarding my hearing-loss well” looked like (to throw out some-christianese). I thought it meant I had to have joy all the time, had to “grin and bear ii” and just “make lemonade” out of this disability I hate, and certainly didn’t ask for. But tonight I grasped the truth that the other, equal, aspect of stewarding is being real. It’s admitting that suffering sucks—and in that honesty there is freedom. The sharing of my woundedness is my window to the world. It isn’t something I have to hide or sweep under the rug. I don’t have to always be happy and show that I have hope—I have to be honest. I have to be honest when it hurts, when I need help, when I am grieving and angry. Suffering connects me to people and to my Savior—who is even more upset about loss, tornados, starving children—than I am. Thank goodness there’s a light at the end of the tunnel.

Treasures of Darkness 27 December 2012

                Today is significant. Not simply in light of “every day matters”, but because it is a personal marker. December 27, 2007 was the day my acknowledged journey with hearing loss began. A scared twenty year old feebly attempting to find security and identity while fighting the tail of a tornado that unforeseen disability brings. Thankfully, I didn’t stay a terrified twenty year old—in five years I’ve grown into an acceptance and hope-choosing 25 year old. There are so many treasures in the darkness of disability.

                I have had time for my eyes to adjust to the room I was thrust into—and it’s not as scary as it used to be. The things I used to blindly bump up against, flinch, and scream at—hearing aids, audiology tests, captions, and loud rooms of muddled sounds—well, they’ve stuck around enough to become familiar friends. Just like flaws in furniture or imperfect architecture. I acknowledge them with a stubborn smile and a nod of triumph. Similarly, my eyes can now see that the room filled with dark obstacles and seemingly broken dreams, was actually full of treasure. Oh, its taken time and work; and I know there’s so much more to be uncovered, dusted off, cleansed—but I can now approach those unknowns with confidence. As I began to move in this dark room, I discovered that it was really about growth, not a shattering of dreams but I refining of them.

                Thankfully and blessedly I have the same amount of hearing as I did five years ago—but even more importantly—I’ve grown. I have learned so much as I’ve unpacked the room of disability—that asking for help is a sign of strength, not weakness. I found my voice in this darkness, and it’s enabled me to speak for the voiceless and to share joy and pain. I hope I’ve become more compassionate and accepting—knowing that with our various abilities we all want to be loved, to experience and give joy, to be celebrated.

                To close, these five years in the room of disability have been so full of treasure in the darkness. I give thanks for them today and look forward to the next five years. There is so much more to be found—I don’t want to miss it.

Isaiah 45:3—I will give you treasures of darkness, that you may know it is I who call you by name.

A Lot Can Change in 5 Years

              5 years ago today I was in a very different place. I had 5 semesters of college ahead of me, was living in Canada, had blonde hair, and felt like I had “my whole life ahead of me”. Most impactful, however, was that 5 years ago today, my world was forever changed—an appointment at a ENT confirmed my parents suspicions and slapped the denial out of my head—in the muffled sound I had grown accustomed to, I was told I had genetic bilateral hearing loss.

                Five years ago today I was scared, lonely, blurry-eyed, and terrified of the life ahead of me. I was terrified of becoming a burden, an invalid, a pitied member of society. I blubbered my way through a blood test where the friendly technician attempted to ease my apparent fear of needles when really I was just trying to grasp the reality of the last half hour.

                Five years ago today—I sat on Alki beach with my Bible, journal, and a pen in hand. I made a choice. I made a choice to have hope in loss, to choose life. I chose to continue to walk and to see this as an opportunity, not a sentence. Through the tears I wrote a prayer—a prayer for hope, for clarity, for security, and a plea for healing.  I didn’t want to have hearing loss, to have to get hearing aids, to have my life rocked when it seemed like things were falling into place. No, I liked my normal life and the plans I had, thank you very much, so if we could just rewind and get back to that, that would be great, thanks God. I finally closed my journal, stared out at the Puget Sound that reminded me of my nature, my size, the lack of control I have, I stood up, and began to walk quite feebly into a future I didn’t want but I knew I had to embrace—whatever that was supposed to look like.

                Boy, what a difference 5 years can make!

                Today, I am back in Seattle, I graduated university, I am planning on a Master’s program next fall, I have brown hair and bangs, and I just had my world changed again—by living in Kenya for 3 months. Today I know that I do have “my whole life ahead of me” and its not as scary as I thought it would be 5 years ago. I know that my hearing loss doesn’t define me, it shapes me. It has shaped me into a person who is more humble, compassionate, and understanding—asking for help is a hard fight—and this is all by God’s grace.

                Today I sit at home, still with my journal, Bible, and pen. Today I still choose to have hope in this loss, and I am thankful for the clarity that the past 5 years have brought in, and hopefully through me. Today I am thankful for my aids, and so thankful that I haven’t been healed yet—because I know it is still teaching me. Today I have a new normal, and good plans, and I’m so thankful for the future God chose for me—one that includes hearing loss.

                Today, I celebrate, rather than despair. I celebrate where I’ve been and where I’m going. I know that the next five years will continue to be ones of change, more events that rock my world, but I can look forward in hope as I look back and remember. 5 years makes a difference—and that’s a really blessed thing.

Longing and loving December 8, 2012

   This has been a heavy and full week….I was SO blessed to be entrusted to watch my Pastor’s kids for several days and that experience was so fun—it also taught me a lot about myself and just how precious children are. But, in the midst of playing “soccer mom” I was also burdened by the weight of processing—my hearinglossiversary is the 27^th…that will be 5 years since I discovered I have bilateral genetic hearing loss…and the reminder of that, as well as seeing first-hand how it will affect my parenting/sleeping habits…. is always bittersweet. Yes, painful because I am still able to look back and remember life before hearing aids…but also so sweet—I have grown so much because of my loss, not simply in spite of it—and I think this year I want to celebrate that—to celebrate that God uses hard things to humble, He hurts to heal. That my life changed inexplicably 5 years ago—but it hasn’t been as horrible as I thought it would be—in fact, it has brought a lot of hope. I have hope that I can persevere, that I can adapt, that I can ask for help and it doesn’t mean I’m helpless.  Additionally, this week was weighty because grieving, like ogres, is like onions…lots of layers  some of which choose to expose themselves very much like onions—causing you to tear up randomly while sipping a seasonal latte at Starbucks.

                With all that said—the rest of this post will be more of a list; my personal Pollyanna “glad game”. But I also want to remember the things I am longing for….not forgetting all the things I love.


Longing: fire pit bbq’s and laughter with old friends, movie nights, the smell of fresh Kenya rain, monkeys crossing my path, having to watch my step on a “sidewalk”, children calling out “how are you?!”, walking everywhere, street side markets, volleyball nights, acoustic worship, sleeping under a mosquito net, being able to call getting groceries exercise because of carrying them the 15 minute walk back, badminton, tree house Bible study and reading time, communal dinners, Masai markets, crossing the street like frogger, hiking up my skirt to leap over a puddle, greeting everyone with handshakes, mendazi, chapatti, instant community, the sound of a good Kenyan downpour, living within walking distance of all my friends, beautiful vases by dusty roads, red dirt, Habeshas, pizza-flavored bagel chips, …

 

Loving: holiday decorations, cinnamon scented—everything, evening drives peppered with Christmas lights, reading The Best Christmas Pageant Ever and sharing it with kids, gingerbread lattes and cookies, Acoustic Christmas Music, Advent Carols at church, re-reading the Anne of Green Gables series, holiday movies, skype, finding and re-reading old letters,  crisp air, chunky scarves, surprising sunny days, children’s honesty and joy…

Hope is Vulnerable July 17, 2012

What a difference a week makes. Last Tuesday I was up country, as they say here, cold, in the middle of a huge culture shock, and unsure of what the rest of my time in Kenya would look like. Today, I am back in Nairobi, encouraged and hopeful for what the next 5ish weeks will bring after a wonderful weekend safari and clear direction. Even though last week was one of the toughest of my life, I am so grateful for it. I know it taught me things about myself that I never would have learned, or may have taken a lot longer to learn. I can say with renewed faith and vigor that while a man plans his way in his heart, it is God who directs His steps.

Monday, before the decision was final that our placement was changing, I had a conversation with God that was a proverbial “wrestling match”, like Jacob had. I had a sense of fear about the possibility of returning to the difficult situation, but it was more of a vague foreboding than specific spots of fear. As I related this to God, he revealed the heart issue: vulnerability. I realized that what made the last week so challenging was that I was vulnerable in ways I never had been before…being a minority, not knowing the language, culture, being cold for a long period, and being disconnected from our “social networks”. Not to mention the constant vulnerability that my hearing loss brings. In his steady, encouraging and convicting voice, He touched that place in my heart that is terrified to be vulnerable. He admonished my fear and comforted me with his love—his perfect love that casts out the fear of vulnerability because it reminds me of his sufficiency, patience, and sovereignty. He is the great physician and he hurts to heal, like Lewis relates. It hurt to realize that I still harbor fear about vulnerability; in being here, in the possibility of losing my hearing, in relationships. But it was also refreshing because I know that working through this is part of my journey here. A direct example of this was how God provided what I needed when I was vulnerable; the friendship and conversations with Jennie, the call to my parents, the warm cup of coffee, and the friendship of one of the teachers there.  I know that this journey is not finished…I am sure that this will continue to be confronted in my time in Nairobi and beyond. But I know he is faithful and this is painful but purposeful.

Today, as I sat in the tree house, my new favorite quiet time spot, I looked around and watched all the beautiful birds as they fluttered from branch to branch, and was reminded of the truth that God provides for and takes care of the sparrows, and how much more will he do so for me. Furthermore, I was convicted that I need to have hope and trust Jesus in all things; knowing that last week will be a reminder of his provision in uncertainty and in vulnerability. Hope is vulnerable. Hope puts your dreams, desires, and plans out there in the hands of God and entrusts that He is faithful. I want to hope in all areas of life as I trust Him—his timing, his plans, his daily provision within the place I am and the people around me, where I am today and the people I am interacting with are no accident- they are divinely appointed.  My prayer is for humility and joy in vulnerability—trusting the Savior who provides.

What do You want to do with These Dull Ears? August 30, 2011

            Jesus, what do you want to do with my dull ears? How are you using this hard thing for good, right now? I know it will have a ‘future weight of glory’, but it really doesn’t feel ‘light or momentary’, it seems downright mammoth and millennial. What can I grasp tonight as the fears taunt, overwhelm, and I futilely try to prepare for a “what-if” future of fulfilled fears. In my feeble flesh, help me to see your promises now, in the land of the living. Help me to hope—I cannot without You. The darkness of doubt, not of You, necessarily, is more disabling than the deafness.

            Now, its more, how do You, how can You, use me? Your word tells me my weaknesses make me strong—yet I feel spiritual atrophy and apathy. Help me to choose to trust, choose to hope, choose to worship in my weakness.

            You use these dull ears to draw me to You, to expose my flesh, my selfishness, pride, and self-reliance. The way you use me and my dull ears isn’t defined by what I can see. I may never know the extent of the ‘eternal weight of glory’ this suffering, and others will bring. I can choose joy, you command us to be ‘joyful in hope’. Dash my western framework that joy is an emotion; no, it’s a choice. Joy is a work of You as you change me to will to worship in weeping. May I remember the ways I’m blessed. Thank you for perspective.

            So, Jesus, thank you for turning a self-pitying and short-sighted plea into a fruitful prayer. You use my loss to teach me, to draw me to you in weakness. How you use it to impact my life and others, is up to you.

                        Amen

Tourist time and Language Lessons

In my last update I mentioned that we were going to go to the elephant orphan sanctuary and to see and feed giraffes…it was an amazing experience! I’ll let the pictures tell the story! It was so surreal to pet elephants as young as 6 months old and to watch them eat and drink! Then we were able to see a rhino! It was so much bigger than I thought and I think it needed a bigger space to walk around.

this little guy was about 6 months old

We were able to get right up to the rope and pet them!

This elephant looks so content.

Then the 8 of us piled back into our van to head to see the giraffes! I had seen pictures of friends visiting before but it’s hard to express just how big, beautiful, and soft giraffes are! Every person gets two handfuls of pellets to feed the giraffes and I was the first out of our group to let it kiss me…definitely an experience…and for your information…giraffe’s have very hairy tongues!

 Sunday I was so blessed to be able to go to Nairobi Chapel and to the Maasai market (which was an awesome crash course in bargaining and in tactfully saying no) with Joelle and her two friends. It was another unreal experience and one of the many ways it’s hit me that I’m actually HERE…12 year old self…it happened! In light of that, I’ve continued to be convicted that this time is so short, I have around 50 days left. I don’t want to waste them worrying about the next stage of my time here or about what life back home will look like. Daily, through prayer and reading in 2 Samuel and Proverbs, I’m being called, encouraged, and equipped to live in the moment; in my friendships here and in the daily tasks before me…like Jim Elliot articulates, “wherever you are, be all there. Live to the hilt every situation you believe to be from God” (Shadow of the Almighty).  Last night I was able to spend some time with people from SIM and AIM playing volleyball and having a worship time. It was another amazing way of seeing how diverse the body of Christ is, yet how united we are in Him!

Another big thing this week has been my 3 hour a day language classes. Before starting I was pretty nervous…I wasn’t sure how my hearing loss would affect this short stint in learning conversational kikuyu, a tribal language of Kenya. Gracias a Jesus! My Spanish background has proved to be essential in my comprehension of kikuyu since the verb conjugations are very similar in rule and in look; (drop the first letter add 2 or 3 different ones for tenses, etc). It’s neat to see how God truly does use everything for our good and his glory. Admittedly, I’ve had to “turn the Spanish switch off” since my default is to want to answer my teacher in Spanish. But she has told me I’m a fast learner and that is so encouraging! For our last lesson today we spent a good portion of the time just talking about life and it was so encouraging to hear her say that she believed God was going to use me to encourage people with disabilities! Thank you all for your prayers and encouragement!

Tomorrow we head out to our placement for 5ish weeks, with a break this coming weekend for a safari!  I hope to update once a week while there but internet will be limited.

Please continue to pray for health (for myself and the others who are adjusting to new foods/climates/altitudes) and for language comprehension and retention….I tend to understand it but remembering it….haha. se me fue el avion. J

Thii na wega

(may goodness go with you)

Hope, preparation, how the light gets in.

“How the light gets in.

As I mentioned at the start of this journey it’s a Leonard Cohen lyric. The truth being we’re all broken, we’re all cracked and what so many people see as a fault or a malfunction really is something to be considered useful. I’m not sure how much longer I have left but it appears that the physical and medical signs are all pointing to my end.” –Kristian Anderson

This quote was written right before Kristian died of cancer. I didn’t know this man or his family, but I stumbled upon his blog right after his death last december. His wife recently updated the blog, How the light gets in, about how she and her two boys are doing. Also check out this video he left for his wife…beautiful.

What struck me today was the truth of his words, especially the part that “…we’re all cracked and what so many people see as a fault or malfunction really is something to be considered useful…” Through two sermons yesterday, this truth about my hearing loss was reinstated in my heart. My loss is not an accident, a hindrance to what God’s called me to. It is just as important and BENEFICIAL to what he has for me. I so easily forget this, and slip into the routine of trying to mask it, live over it, of feeling like I’m less or that I have to prove that I can deal with and overcome the loss. Get over it. I forget that nothing is an accident, that this loss wasn’t a divine mistake that I have to suffer through, rather it was divinely appointed. It entered into my life and affects those around me, purposefully. My loss will make things different and interesting in Kenya, especially when it comes to the language, but it’s not an insurmountable obstacle, it’s going to be an asset. It is already forcing me to rely on Jesus as my strength, my confidence; my ears. He promises that his power is made PERFECT IN my weakness, not in spite of it. I was reminded of Paul’s thorn, and struck by the truth that it too was essential to his ministry, it’s still ministering now, two thousand years later, to a 24 year old in the United states. What a profound purpose that thorn had, it was the avenue by which Paul’s contentment and perseverance were displayed. As I head into the final weeks and days of preparation, I want to throw off what hinders; lack of trust, dwelling on the unknowns I can’t control, and the lies that tell me I can’t. The truth is, we’re all cracked, broken in our own ways, and there’s so much beauty in that. There’s beauty in perseverance, in facing the giant with a sling shot and a prayer of faith, in battling thousands with 300 men, in flying across the world to follow a lifelong dream. The light gets in when we persevere in faith, in hope, in the darkness that “is as light” to the One who calls, equips, and sends.

Attitude, not Ability

It's been awhile since I've written. I can't blame busyness; it’s been more out of fear that I’ve dropped the proverbial pen. Fear that I’m not adequate, fear and pride that these measly words don’t reach many and thus have less meaning. Basically a mess of: bogus, debilitating, disheartening, discouragement.

Maybe I got caught up in reading “successful” blogs that reach thousands, get hundreds of comments, and shares and thought; where do I fit? What’s the point? Or even the ugly jealousy of “why theirs not mine?” Today I refocused. What those blogs have is heart, honesty, and perspective—all things I possess. I remembered that I can’t write for an audience. I have to write from my heart, that’s what connects people. Transparency is freeing. I’m adequate and able for MY task at hand, which right now is for YOU, the person reading this, you are my audience, for that I am grateful. I am thankful that my worth is not based on the extent of my outreach. I have to be content where I'm at. My perspective has been fought for, and it’s purposeful. I can’t shrink back from it.

Kenya is less than TWO MONTHS away. It’s easy for me to be future focused; it still seems so far away, but I know it will smack me in the face in fear and joy on June 20^th. I’ve been amazed that encouragement has come at just the right time. In unexpected places—my grandpa is a “retired” pastor, who still works in prison ministry and out of the blue he called me last week saying that his old friends were visiting and that he wanted me to talk to them. I knew he was connected, but I was still shocked to find myself speaking with the FINANCIAL DIRECTOR’S WIFE of SIM, the organization I am going with. Her encouragement and prayer was exactly what I needed. Today I was reminded in the midst of a mental tangent of “what if’s” about my “inabilities” and hearing loss related worries about the trip; that my inabilities don’t define me.  Maybe it was brought on by the anticipation of my annual hearing check-up next week. Today, just like the Israelites, I needed the reminder that my stuff isn’t the underlying or determining factor in my circumstances—my God wills and works for His glory and good pleasure. He hems me in. He makes his power perfect and beautiful in my weakness.

Additionally, I am thankful for the writing of many who have suffered well before me—Joni Eareckson Tada, Kelle Hampton, John Knight, Shanna Groves, and others who show me that attitude is pivotal. Joy is a choice. Disability is an opportunity, not a sentence. Daily I choose whether I worry about losing more hearing, being embarrassed, and missing out; or I choose joy, honesty, accepting that life is hard but there’s hope and humor. I can’t change my hearing ability but I can change my attitude. Today, with the wind in my hair and the sun on my face, I choose gratitude and joy, for where I am and where I’m going.

Four Years Out—Embracing the New Normal

            This Thursday will be four years since I received hearing aids. These four years have flown and drudged by. They’ve been easier and harder than I’ve expected. They’ve been entirely paradoxical. I’ve been fearful, courageous, angry, resigned, and resilient often in the same day or hour. The reality of a “new normal” doesn’t hit you all at once—kind of like adjusting to a new hairstyle—but with lasting implications. Adjusting to life with hearing loss is a process; in fact, the new normal and its definitions change as you grow.

            Today I still have many of the same emotions—fear, complacence, frustration, to name a few, but what has changed is their frequency and intensity. I can’t function without faith and hope. I’ve learned that faith doesn’t mean I don’t have fear; rather, I’m not ruled by it. Unlike this time four years ago, I don’t have weeks gripped by grief, fear of the unknown, or aches due to the mental transition that sensory changes bring. Those times are becoming few and far between and less debilitating. They often come at night or at times of mishearing embarrassment; but I don’t approach them with the same perspective.

            I guess the biggest change with the passing of time has been perspective. Yes, the onset of my loss at 20 years old changed my life, but it didn’t destroy it—it has enriched it. Four years ago I couldn’t have anticipated the good that comes from grief; a God-appointed trial. I have so much more patience than I used to and I’m more of a “glass half full” person than I was. It’s ironic, but I think the things that initially rock your life actually end up grounding you in the long run. Those instances, seasons, illnesses, changes, etc. become pillars of hope; reminding you life does go on. There is hope in the midst of uncertainty,. You will be encouraged, persevere, and adjust.

            If I could go back to myself four years ago, I would weep again, cry out again, be angry, be real. In facing our fears, even embracing the reality of them, there is freedom. I would let myself grieve in light of tremendous grace. I think I’ve learned so much these four years because, by the grace of God, ive been able to be real. Like David eloquently demonstrates, there is a peace in stating your fears and grief—they don’t seem as formidable at the foot of the cross.

            To anyone at the beginning stages of loss of any kind, let yourself be real. There is hope but it’s okay to grieve, to be angry, to hurt. This season is one of change and it will rock you but eventually it will root you. It will help you to see what you really can’t live without, what really matters. Remind yourself of who Jesus is, what He has done, how He works. Surround yourself with true friends who can weep with you and rebuke the debilitating despair when you can’t even see past it. For there to be beauty in brokenness you have to let yourself break. It’s not weak, it’s wise—wise to trust, to feel, to trust that tragedy is encompassing but not ultimate. I pray that four years from now you too will be able to see the good in the grief; not necessarily for what happened, but from the good that does come. There is hope.