Refined by Fire

One thing that irks me (and really shouldn't) is when people try to instill hope in me that my chronic pain will get better. I know, deep down in my heart, they are coming from a place of genuine love and concern. They are trying to keep me going. Maybe this new drug or this new doctor really is the answer we've all been praying for. Or maybe it's just the simple statement, "I know you'll find the answer one day." The reason that this unsettles me so greatly is that no one can actually know that. I've already tried so many drugs, treatments, and different doctors, and in all honesty, the pain has just gotten worse. We don't actually know that I am going to find that miracle cure. We don't actually know that the pain will stop. We don't actually know that I am ever going to get better. That is my reality I'm trying to accept. Perhaps what my well-intentioned family and friends do not know, is that hope and I have a highly dysfunctional rel

If two years ago I was asked to write an autobiography of my life thus far, it would have been easy. Before even typing the first word, I would already have a carefully-constructed narrative in my mind about who I am and what my life is about. I would detail the thankless jobs I worked, from sweeping popcorn in dirty movie theaters as a teenager to waitressing my way through college. I would brag about the countless nights spent studying that earned me a college diploma with distinction. I would relive my most vulnerable days as a teacher at an inner-city school that almost broke me (but didn't!). My laundry list of accomplishments would paint a person who believes in hard work and self-discipline. Someone who values literacy and education. A citizen who contributes meaningfully to her community. And when it comes down to it, that last one is all I really wanted to be: a person who was useful. Fast-forward two years, and this goal that I gripped to so tightly suddenly escaped me e

The speakers boomed the organ’s crescendo which, even upon the hundredth time hearing it, still sent chills down my spine. It had been an unspoken rule since my childhood that if you listen to The Phantom of the Opera (Original 1986 London Cast) Soundtrack, it better be on full volume-- and it was mortal sin to talk over the music. My mom and I sat on the couch and listened. The instruments would soften soon and seamlessly transform into the phantom’s seductive anthem: The Music of the Night . My mom’s face gradually transformed from utter exhaustion (after a full day of teaching 4 th grade) to awe. She had tears barely forming in her eyes, and I did too.   “That is what I imagine Heaven is like,” she told me after we made it through All I Ask of You , a sweet and passionate love song that has always been a favorite of ours.   I giggled, imagining hearing the infamous phantom’s maniacal cackle echo as I enter the pearly gates. Yet I knew what she meant. Each part of the soundtra

Four and half years ago, I was a senior in college and had a lukewarm relationship with God. Reliant upon the validation from my boyfriend, I grew comfortable with minimal prayer and involvement at my church near the university. The sermons seemed irrelevant and the supposedly sacred services seemed obsolete. Still, I “went through the motions” because the fading little voice in my head told me to.   I kept somewhat involved with the church by helping staff retreats in the mountains each semester—that helped keep my unsettled conscience at bay. The retreats were fun: Lots of good people, thought-provoking lectures, and feel-good music. I always left the retreats wildly inspired to be a better Christian. I would tell my boyfriend how I wanted to be holier and he would patiently listen. But within a week or so, those desires seemed unimportant and unrealistic. By the following month, I’d be back to my old tepid self. My last retreat, everything changed. I left the mountains w