In Christ, I am Filled

Approximately two hundred and eighteen hours ago, Dad and I entered the emergency department of a large medical center in Florida. For the previous four days, I had been experiencing left-sided neuro deficits. (These deficits took precedence over the AVN diagnostic testing needed from last week. Brain trumps bones, it seems.) At the advice of my neurosurgeon, we came for an urgent brain MRI. Concern was mounting that these new symptoms were warning signs of a re-growing abscess.

The tsunami of emotions that filled my heart was intense. It wasn’t just about this hospital visit; they carried the weight of eight years of medical trauma. 

As I sat with Lovie just a few hours before, trying to explain what lay ahead, I sadly realized how well she knew the terrain in front of us. I explained that I needed to go to the hospital and would probably be admitted. We both cried while she snuggled in my lap, her hand resting on my face. “But, Mom, we don’t know for sure. Even if it is your brain again, God will hold our hearts together with a strong threefold cord: You, me, and Jesus. Together we’re strong.”

After my fight with COVID in January 2021, Lovie had asked me to never hide anything about my health from her. Even at six years old, she clearly articulated her need to know what was happening. “If you may die, I want to know, Mommy. I need you to promise me that you, Nanny, and Grandee will always be honest. Even if it’s really bad news.”  I gave her my word, as did my parents, to always keep her “in the know,” giving her age-appropriate details.

Because of this commitment, blunt medical conversations are common. I have learned she does better knowing the possibilities and having a trusted space to verbally process them. (She is so her mother’s daughter!)

This day was no different. We talked about the previous two craniotomies and the significant recovery they required. We talked about other possibilities that it might be. We acknowledged that we didn’t know the future, but we did know the God of the future. We reminded ourselves of times He had been faithful in the past. And because we know God cannot lie or change, we could be confident that He would be faithful to us through this next event. We shared our hearts, our tears mixing and creating a puddle of fear and trust. We reminded each other that God holds our tears. He numbers them, and they are lovingly held in a bottle to one day be exchanged for jewels for His crown.[1]

That afternoon, I registered in the overflowing emergency department, and so began more waiting. I was indeed admitted for a neuro and infection work-up. It’s been almost three months since my last hospital admission, but soon the familiar realities of hospitalization settled in. It’s not just the loss of autonomy that being inpatient brings – but it causes old aches to surface. Like the onslaught of loneliness created when my life changed in the blink of an eye eight years ago.

We’re now on day nine of admission. This morning, I awoke teary, and tears have been on and off throughout the day. I’m weary of being “messed with.” I want my home, my meds, my way. And while I’ve had excellent nursing care, the ever-revolving door is getting to me. My emotions are all jumbled up, and there is little truth filling my mind.

Processing out loud has always been a part of my healing. For years, God had placed two dear friends in my life who would lovingly listen to my mutating emotions and help me file them into truth or lies. But as the years of chronic pain stretched on, I learned a hard reality - sometimes, even the strongest friendships buckle under the weight of never-ending grief.  Within about five months of each other, they both told me that being friends with someone who was chronically ill was too challenging. Simply put, my grief was too much for them to hold. They could no longer walk alongside me and my constant struggles without it affecting their peace and joy. Ultimately, they shared that holding the pain of my life was too much to carry while also pursuing their God-given dreams.

It was then that I discovered more fully the deep cost of the ministry of presence. It was the beginning of a search for how to have a truly give-and-take relationship.  And, more pointedly, to learn how to depend on the Lord when physical relationships dwindled.  The Lord had to show me my value – even the value of bringing the reality of chronic grief to the table where all parties must stare it in the face. I began to learn that while I could not rely on other people to carry my pain fully, so they could not rely on themselves to carry that extra pain.  Both sides must rely on the Lord for the grace to carry a heavy load day after day. 

In a lecture entitled Trauma and Abuse, Dr. Diane Langberg shares, “I see many times how we, the body of Christ, start off well with a crisis. But we do not have staying power. We find it difficult to maintain the connection with chronic crises. And so we abandon those who have no choice about the presence of suffering in their lives. They cannot abandon their suffering and so must endure it alone.” Dr. Langberg continues, “Those in our midst who are suffering are to impact us, slow us down, and receive our attention and care. If you were going to walk with a friend who was carrying a heavy burden and bear that burden with them, you would have to do so at their pace. If you are too fast in your helping, you run the risk of hurting them and of being no help at all. It is God’s call to His church to live these out in flesh and blood.”

Today, the reality of “physical aloneness” glared at me.  I stumbled through this newest bout of grief, trying to process without verbally speaking the jumble of thoughts. 

I must pause here and say that the feeling of loneliness in a chronic griever’s life doesn’t always reflect the reality of family and the body of Christ’s attempts to support.  My dearest Daddy hasn’t left my side.  Sitting in a stiff chair 24-hours a day to be here for me, hold me, and love me.  Others have texted for updates.  My siblings even Doordashed my favorite dinner!  But the reality is that feelings of loneliness and abandonment are part of the chronic griever’s road.  So, I choose to speak candidly.  Those of us whose lives have been changed drastically now watch the merry-go-round of “normal life” while trying to take the tiniest of steps.  So for my readers who are not facing chronic suffering, please don’t let my words offend you.  They are not meant as a condemnation or even a complaint.  They are meant to encourage those who feel like they are the only ones who feel this depth of loneliness.  I write this truth to speak for those who don’t have a platform.  To speak for those who haven’t learned the value of their pain.  I speak the truth for those who can’t.  

Now, back to today.

“I need to write,” I told myself on day one.  Writing has become a way to process this dōlightful life of simultaneous pain and joy.

But today, staring at the blank Word document for the tenth time, I felt nothing but exhaustion. No poetic words, no deep insights. Just the cold reality of another lonely hospital room. The beep of monitors and loudspeaker hospital codes filled my ears. The never-ending tangle of cords – oh my, the cords! Telemetry leads, BiPAP hoses, IV lines, charging cables, catheter tubes, call buttons, etc. Each one a clear reminder that I’m stuck in the hole of American medicine. 

Stuck because we don’t yet have answers. Why won’t my left foot follow through and step forward? Where is the disconnect from my mind thinking “walk” and my nerves and muscles obeying the command? Why are certain labs elevated?

Just a few minutes prior, I had put all my debating skills to use and pleaded my case to Dad for a discharge! Thankfully, my daddy RN is still able to see beyond the trees in my face and steady my flailing emotions. “We can’t leave just yet,” he whispered. “We need a little more information before I can safely take you home.” He then tenderly held me in his arms as I let out weeks' worth of tears. 

I closed my eyes and tried to logically process all the emotions of the last few weeks.  But, honestly, it’s too much to wade through: the possibilities and implications, the “what ifs” and the “what abouts,” the “maybe” and the “maybe nots.” 

“Lord, I need You to quiet the noise,” I found myself praying. “I’m too tired to sort it all out. I don’t have the emotional strength to take each thought captive.  My heart is a jumbled mess of truth and lies. “Lord,” I breathed, “take the whole lump of them and send them through the truth of Your Word. Then fill my mind to overflowing with You.” 

It was then that I remembered a book my paternal grandmother had given me over twenty years ago. The cover showed a beautiful tea cup filled just to the top – leaving no room for anything else. “God, could You do this for me? Fill me so full of You that I can’t hold anything else?”

In Fill My Cup, Lord, author Emilie Barnes shares the analogy of a beautiful teacup being filled with fragrant liquid. The host skillfully poured from the carafe into the smaller chalice – careful to fill it completely but not overflow. When we learn to live in this “just to the top” state, we begin to experience the fullness of life in Christ. Fullness of fellowship in His suffering. And fullness of fellowship in His joy. 

Paul encouraged the church of Corinth in AD 56, “Now if we are children, then we are heirs—heirs of God and co-heirs with Christ, if indeed we share in his sufferings in order that we may also share in his glory.”[2]

As we learn to live a life filled with Christ – both His suffering and His glory – our lives overflow with Christ each time Satan tries to add a drop of lies. Our responses then naturally overflow with the fruit of the Spirit, shining glory to Christ and His life.

That sounds so simple on paper. It reads so poetically. But living it day in and day out is the greatest struggle of my life.

Right now, there are too many emotions to process. Too many unknowns to unpack. The only thing I can do is lean into Christ and know He is using the heavy load to fill me to overflowing. In His way and time. 

“Lord, I may not know the answers, but I know You are good. I know You will be my sustainer. And even now, as You fill me to the top, I trust You. When I am at my limit, You overflow me with Your grace.  When I’m alone and feel abandoned, You are there – ever ready to fill my cup.”

So tonight, I just plead to be filled.  Filled with reminders of His truth.  So filled that even the tiniest drop of fear causes me to overflow with the truth and presence of my Lord. 

So full that when discouragement tightens around my heart like an anaconda, I can, like the pilgrim traveling to Jerusalem, “lift up my eyes to the hills. From where does my help come? My help comes from the Lord, who made heaven and earth!”[3] 

So full that even with unknowns flashing in front of my eyes with blinding power, I can be confident that, “The Lord is near to the brokenhearted and saves the crushed in spirit.”[4] 

So full of Christ, that even when physical pain threatens to overtake every nerve in my body, I can be confident that, “the Lord my God who goes with me. He will not leave me or forsake me.”[5]

“Oh Father God, pour out all of ‘me’ from my tea cup!  All my plans and ambitions.  Empty me, Lord!  Then fill me with your fragrant life.”

It is then, and only then, that am I able to just rest in His presence.  To rest in His fullness.  To allow the fear, haunting loneliness, unknowns, pain, questions, and distress to be washed out by the priceless liquid of real Truth. 

So whether your cup is filled with your pain or the painful drops of sorrow from another, “I pray that you,” my precious ones, “being rooted and established in love, may have power, together with all the Lord’s holy people, to grasp how wide and long and high and deep is the love of Christ, and to know this love that surpasses knowledge—that you may be filled to the measure of all the fullness of God.”[6]

Learning to be Empty,

[1] See Meditative Musing “Sacred Drops”

[2] Romans 8:17 (NIV)

[3] Psalm 121:1-2 (ESV)

[4] Psalm 34:18 (ESV)

[5] Deuteronomy 31:6 (ESV)

[6] Ephesians 3:17-19 (NIV)