The end of the valley

Your Father knows what you need before you ask him. – Matthew 6:8 (NIV)

I’ve reached the end of the valley of wait. Well, this valley, anyway.

Three weeks ago I wrote about a growing fatigue that was slowing me down big time and interfering with every aspect of my life. Yet my lab reports were “normal,” so my doctors told me. But I knew my body—after all, I’ve lived with it for almost 58 years now—and I knew something was wrong, something the lab reports weren’t showing.

As the fatigue and the frustration grew and no answers were on the horizon, I launched an all-out prayer attack. I asked everyone I knew who prayed to pray that the cause would be found, and sooner rather than later. For months my prayer friends interceded for me, asked for updates, and persevered.

While they prayed, I searched for answers: Was I reacting to something I ate or drank? Too much coffee, chocolate, or carbs? I stopped taking the iron supplements when I read that too much iron could be the problem. No matter what I tried, though, nothing worked.

One day while shopping, I picked up a bottle of Vitamin B-12. Ah, the energy vitamin. What would it hurt? I bought the highest potency available. But, not wanting to interfere with the test results, I didn’t start taking the high potency formula until all my lab work was completed.

I noticed a difference the first week. I was afraid to believe this could be the answer, but each day I felt a little better than the day before. A walk to the mailbox and back—a distance of four-tenths of a mile—didn’t wipe me out for the rest of the day. By the time I returned to the doctor for my follow-up appointment to discuss the results of my tests, I had more energy than I’d had in months. Gone were the constant crappy-draggy feeling, the brain fog, the food cravings, the insomnia, and continuous low-grade headache.

The answer turned out to be simple and, by this time, not surprising: a Vitamin B deficiency. Which is why the B-12 made such a difference.

“Continue taking the B-12,” the doctor told me, “as well as B-6, folic acid, and a good B-complex supplement.”

That’s it. No prescription. No scheduling a next appointment. “Call me if you need to,” he said.

When I got home, I researched the B vitamins and their function. I hadn’t realized the vital role they play in the proper functioning of the thyroid gland. I’d believed all along the problem was metabolic, with my underactive thyroid.

I hadn’t known—but God did. After all, He designed these bodies we live in. He created me and knows every intricate detail about me (Psalm 139).

What made me notice that bottle of Vitamin B-12 on the grocery store shelf? What made me decide to spend the money when money is tight and nothing I tried had worked?

You can chalk it up to coincidence, luck, even desperation.

But I chalk it up to the One who knows me better than I know myself.

Why didn’t He drop down His answer from Heaven right away? I don’t know. But I trust Him. His reasons are not for me to understand. He is, after all, God, not me.

The Valley of Wait, I wrote three weeks ago, is where I learn faith, hope, and trust. Where doubts are dealt with, and patience is strengthened. And where I grow closer to God through prayer because I pray more when there’s trouble than when everything’s hunky-dory. I realize my helplessness to help myself and my utter dependence on Him.

That alone is worth the wait.

Dear God, how can I say thanks for the things You have done for me? Things so undeserved, yet You give to prove Your love for me. The voices of a million angels could not express my gratitude. All that I am and ever hope to be, I owe it all to Thee. To You be the glory!* Amen.

* From “My Tribute” by Andrae Crouch, copyright 1971, Lexicon Music, Inc.

In Midian

Many are the plans in the mind of a man, but it is the purpose of the LORD that will be established. – Proverbs 19:21(RSV)

Moses—now there was a man who had it all—prosperity, power, prestige. But this prince of Egypt, thanks to his impulsive nature and nasty temper, became a refugee, fleeing for his life in disgrace and fear. Instead of a palace, the wilderness. No longer the proud prince, but a lowly shepherd. Talk about culture shock.

I wonder, as he tended sheep in the godforsaken desert and on the lonely mountainsides of Midian, did he think he was all washed up? A has-been? That the best part of his life was over? How long did it take him to stop missing the splendor, the hype? Did he feel as though he lost his purpose?

Then, after 40 years, Mission Impossible: “And now the cry of the Israelites has reached me, and I have seen the way the Egyptians are oppressing them. So now, go. I am sending you to Pharaoh to bring my people the Israelites out of Egypt” (Exodus 3:9–10 NIV).

Oh, right. Like that was going to happen. Moses knew Pharaoh. But he didn’t know God. So he hedged. He made more excuses than a kid who doesn’t want to do his homework.

But man cannot argue with God. Well, you can, but you can’t win. For every excuse once-mighty Moses gave, God had an answer.

So Moses spent the next 40 years leading a stubborn, rebellious, cantankerous nation over one million strong through both a physical wilderness and a spiritual one. It was for this that Moses was enshrined in the famous “Hall of Faith” (Hebrews 11). He died a great leader with a fame that endures to this day, a fame he never could have achieved as a prince of Egypt. (Other than King Tut or Cleopatra, do you know the name of even one Egyptian royal?)

But I wonder, as he dealt with the constant complaining, the mercurial temperament of a nation whose loyalty and emotions were as fickle as an ambivalent teenager’s, as he quelled rebellion after rebellion, as he wore himself out settling their petty disputes—did he long for the quiet hillsides of Midian, tending to a flock that was undemanding, whose major flaw wasn’t stubbornness but stupidity?

When he was a proud prince, Moses wasn’t content to rule Egypt; he wanted to rescue the Israelites. Right idea, Moses. Wrong time. Which led him to the wilderness classroom where he learned patience and humility. When God saw he was ready, He called Moses to his destiny, his purpose.

Sometimes we find ourselves in Midian, wondering if we’re all washed up, if somehow we missed God’s purpose for us. Or we wonder if we’re being punished. Or perfected. Oh, Lord, I’ll never be perfect! So I wonder if I’ll spend the rest of my life stuck in Midian, in a wilderness where the only attention I get is from needy sheep.

Yet I can’t handle the pressures Moses experienced when he traded sheep for people. But then, everything that happened in Moses’ life had a purpose: to prepare him for the job God had planned for him all along. Moses wasn’t perfect when God called him—or afterward. He blundered and thundered and made both the Almighty and the Israelites mad.

But he learned in lean times to lean on God. The leaner the time, the harder he leaned. And he learned that where God sends, He also enables and provides.

God hasn’t changed.

If you find yourself in Midian, enjoy the peace and quiet, the absence of strife and chaos. Work with God as He molds you for the job ahead. Then you might wish you were back in Midian.

But, then, it could be your job is Midian.

In that case, take to heart the words of another man who, centuries after Moses, found himself in his own Midian, a jail cell: “I have learned in whatever state I am, to be content” (Philippians 4:11 RSV).

Dear God, if I spend the rest of my life in Midian, help me to be content. Help me to know that You will fulfill Your purpose for me (Psalm 138:8). Amen.

Special-Tea: Exodus 2:1–3:10

MORE TEA:
“For I know the plans I have for you,” declares the LORD, “plans to prosper you and not to harm you, plans to give you hope and a future.” – Jeremiah 29:11 (NIV)

Class reunion

These stones are to be a memorial . . . – Joshua 4:7 (NIV)

When I first walked into the room, I thought I was in the wrong place. These people are too old, I thought. But a familiar face peered into mine. I recognized the grin, the dimples, and the twinkle in her eyes.

“Patty Mihalic!” I exclaimed, surprised that the name came so easily.

Then more familiar faces gathered around me, some identifying themselves, some whose names slipped off my tongue as though 40 years had not passed since we graduated from high school.

Until then, I’d gone to only one class reunion—the twentieth. My reasons for not going were mixed: some practical—I couldn’t afford it—and some prideful—I didn’t look like I did in 1969. And I wanted to go when I’d sold my first book to a royalty publisher—and it rocketed to the bestseller list. I wanted to go when I lost weight. I wanted to go when I could show them!

I wasn’t in with the “in crowd.” In grade school, my classmates made fun of me, and some continued their mockery throughout high school. I didn’t even make the mermaid group, the group of sophomore girls chosen to serve tables at the junior-senior prom (the theme was “Under the Sea” or something like that), an honor reserved only for the prettiest and most popular. And boyfriends? Don’t even go there.

But when the invitation for the fortieth class reunion came, I wanted to go.

I decided to give the 55 classmates who attended a copy of both my books—compilations of my column that I self-published. The morning of the reunion I wrapped 120 books, two per package, in white tissue paper and tied each package with maroon and gold yarn—our school colors. Since I’d decided to wrap them that day, I didn’t have time to run to town. I had to use what I had on hand. All the time I wrapped and tied, I fretted. Would my gift be considered tacky or cheap? Should I have splurged and bought nicer wrapping paper? Did the yarn look stupid?

On the two-hour trip to the resort where the reunion was held, I confess I was a bit concerned about showing up in a rusting Ranger with 114,000 miles. I was a tad embarrassed that I weigh twice as much as I did when most saw me last.

My fretting was all for naught. Nobody saw the Ranger. Nobody looked at me with that “Boy, has she let herself go!” look in their eyes—others had gained weight, too. And when I handed each classmate the wrapped-in-cheap-tissue paper, tied-with-yarn gift, no one smirked.

Funny how our insecurities nag us needlessly, even after a lifetime. But thank God I was able to lay them aside. Perhaps because I realized it really doesn’t matter anymore. I’m happy, content and secure in who and what I am. I know God has a lot to do with that.

I had a wonderful time. Linda is even more gorgeous than she was back in the day. “She takes the prize,” another classmate said. I agreed, without even a tinge of envy. Cathy’s smile still ignites the sparkle in her eyes. Darlene’s nurturing heart still blankets her words. Jeannie still carries herself with that devil-may-care attitude. Cary’s happy-go-lucky spirit infused the evening with joy. Lulu hasn’t lost a bit of her sweetness, nor Debbie her warmth.

Vivian and I laughed ourselves to tears as we recalled the time I invited the entire third grade class to my house for a birthday party, but didn’t tell my mother because I knew she’d say no.

For nearly 40 years I remembered the hurtful words and actions, the feeling of being invisible, insignificant, unpopular, not pretty. But as we chatted and caught up with each other, I remembered the good times, the notes, the words of encouragement when I needed them.

Our alma mater was torn down nearly 20 years ago. At the reunion, each classmate received a brick from the building, couched in a maroon velvet bag with “MVCHS Class of 1969” embroidered in gold. I put it in my writing room, where it reminds me everyday that the bonds forged in youth cannot, like the building, be torn apart—that my past is as important as my present and my future, for the past has made me what I am today.

And for that, I will be eternally grateful.

Dear God, thank you for the blessings of good memories. Amen.

Special-Tea: Philippians 4:8; 1 Corinthians 13

The valley of wait

But they who wait for the LORD shall renew their strength, they shall mount up with wings like eagles, they shall run and not be weary, they shall walk and not faint. –
Isaiah 40:31


For the past several years I’ve complained to my doctor about an increasing tiredness, insomnia, weight gain and the inability to lose weight and keep it off, no matter what I do.

“It’s my thyroid,” I told him. “I don’t think my medicine is strong enough.”

He’d decreased the dosage twice.

“Your lab work is normal. Lose some weight,” was the usual reply.

Last year he referred me to an endocrinologist, who, after sending me for an ultrasound, diagnosed thyroid nodules.

“Very tiny,” he said. “They may enlarge or disappear altogether. Nothing to worry about.”

He made no change in my medication. Over the past year, however, my symptoms worsened and new ones emerged. By the middle of the summer, the fatigue was interfering with my daily life. I was slowing down, physically and mentally. I won’t list the symptoms here—I don’t have the room.

I had an appointment with the endocrinologist at the beginning of August. Convinced the problem was metabolic, I thought for sure he’d find something. Nada. I listed my growing symptoms, including a low pulse rate when I exercise.

“That’s because you’re in shape,” he said, reading my file. “Now, about your weight . . .”

“My weight is a symptom,” I said.

His answer?

“Your lab work is normal. Lose weight. See you in a year.”

“I’m fed up with doctors who pay more attention to paper than to the patient,” I complained to my husband. “What he should have said was, ‘Your lab work looks normal, yet you’re still having problems. Let’s get to the bottom of this.’ He never tested all the thyroid hormones. Only two. I’m not going to him again.”

Three weeks later I had my yearly physical with my primary care physician. He listened to me—sort of. After ordering more lab work, which included tests for EBV and Lyme disease (he wouldn’t even consider ordering more thyroid tests), and two heart tests, he inferred that he believed they’d all come back normal.

Back to the old “blame it all on weight, depression, and/or aging.”

I wasn’t buying it. I called another endocrinologist, but I couldn’t get in until mid-February. Six months is too long a wait when my symptoms worsen by the day. So I made an appointment with a doctor a friend from church recommended.

At last a doctor who listened! He spent an hour with me, checking me over, asking questions, getting my medical history. He asked questions the other two doctors didn’t. He checked me for water retention; the others didn’t. He ordered more lab work than I’d ever had done at one time, which required 21 tubes of blood.

I still haven’t gotten the results of all the tests. I have 2 1/2 more weeks until my next appointment, but I’m OK with waiting. I know I’ll have an answer.

When problems arise in our lives, we run around from one place to another, searching for answers, but finding none. God is the last resort.

Yet God is the Great Physician, the one who listens, the one with the answer.

Even when God is my first resort, though, more often than not I have to spend time in the Valley of Wait before I get the answer. But I’m OK with that. It’s where I learn faith, hope, and trust. It’s where doubts are dealt with, and patience is strengthened. And I know eventually the answer will come, even though it may not be what I want. God knows best.

Are you in the Valley of Wait? Know that God will do His work His way in His time. Your answer will come, and it will always be for your good. (Romans 8:28)

Dear God, thank you for reminding me every day, in so many ways, that You are always with me, even when I walk through the Valley of Wait. Amen.

Special-Tea: Psalm 27