Last year I could barely muster the desire to do the DPP. I was definitely riding on the energy of all of the awesome Project participants who were eager to get started. This year is different. While my margins for a new project feel insanely minimal, my enthusiasm for a Facebook full of Christmas-y pictures is very high indeed. I. am. ready. I’m ready for Christmas cookies. I’m ready for lights. I’m ready for Jesus—O come, o come, Emmanuel!

This year has been one of the darkest of my entire life and I imagine it’s the same for most of you. Very few of us have considered a pandemic before 2020. We’ve never been so concerned about germs in our lives. I now own masks for almost every season and I’m more concerned about toilet paper than ever before, despite having plenty to take care of my family’s needs. I’m forcing Vitamin D and Vitamin C on my kid at every turn and, oh yeah, forgetting to throw a little Zinc in there, too. I’m missing potluck meals at church like you wouldn’t believe, and I will never ever ever get used to not being able to hug the people I love when I see them in public. We don’t even do fake arm hugs in the air anymore; 2020 has pounded that out of us.

But all is not lost. No, many of us are seeing the light creep in through the cracks in our lives. Joy finds its way in. And in the darkness it might be true that joy is more obvious than ever as well. There is sweetness in a family walk around the block. A back patio fire pit can still bring loved ones together. A waffle outside a restaurant’s doors can taste especially delicious, and supporting local businesses feels like a treat rather than a chore. Saying hello to more neighbors, greeting each other’s dogs. Hanging Christmas lights early to light up the dark nights. Snuggling close to your love for a basement date with cheese and crackers and Netflix isn’t the same as a night on the town but it is GOOD.

This December let’s hold on to the good. Let’s remind ourselves what is beautiful and true and lovely in life, and let’s share it with one another. Happy December, friends!

My cousin passed away yesterday. She would’ve turned 33 this month, and typing about her in the past tense feels utterly surreal.

Paula was born when I was ten years old. I must have been hoping she’d be born on my early December birthday, but she chose to make her arrival in November. She was the first child born to my Uncle Tim and Aunt Jan, both of whom I loved very much, and I was profoundly excited. Though I had loved on dollies my whole life, I never slept with a stuffed animal until someone gave me a small teddy bear for my 10th birthday. I named her Paula. That Paula resides in my closet. My cousin Paula now rests, her spirit is at home with her Lord and Creator.

Paula was vivacious and thoughtful in turns. She had a sense of humor that cracked me up. It was whip smart and hilarious and could touch on any cultural reference. I didn’t always understand the actual punchline, but if Paula was throwing down the joke it was for sure snarky and funny. 

Paula had such an openness to her that children loved her. My daughter Livia especially loved being around Paula because she was so much FUN. I want to text Paula right now, demand that she still lives, that a cruel joke was played yesterday, and then laugh about the dumb moments we shared together. Paula witnessed our dog Shiloh snarfing down a snack from the coffee table only to literally spit it out when my husband Jeremy (his Alpha) came down the stairs. A dog spitting out a goodie? I’ve never seen it happen before and never will again, but it happened when Paula was staying with us for a holiday and it made her and me laugh over and over again. 

Paula introduced me to new music. She was open with me about her struggles and her love for her Savior and desire for a closer walk with Him. Once she knew that chili and cinnamon rolls were a THING here in the Midwest she never got over it, insisting that it was a super nasty combination. She was wrong, but that’s okay. ;) 

Paula carried the intelligence of her dad and the compassion of her mom throughout her 32 years. She loved her family. She loved her pets. She loved her friends and particularly cherished her years playing ultimate frisbee. She loved her church, and she especially loved children. 

Paula, I have loved you since the moment I knew you were a wee person in your mother’s womb and I shall love you into eternity. How grateful I am that I will see you in heaven, in perfect wholeness and at perfect peace. But for now, I miss you like nothing else. You are irreplaceable and one-of-a-kind. No one can take your place in my heart.

The clock silently slipped past midnight and revealed a new date on my phone as I caught up on social media before falling asleep. November 14, it read, and I felt the time shift from 25 years as a type 1 diabetic to 26. Twenty-six. Twenty-six years ago I was the same age that my daughter is now. Sixteen. Junior year at Southeast High School. I was doing exactly what I wanted to be doing: singing, acting, joining clubs, spending time with friends, taking challenging courses, and plotting an accolades list that would get me into the college of my choosing. At the time I felt like type 1 diabetes destroyed my world. And to be fair, it did for awhile. I traded a week of school just prior to Thanksgiving break for a week at the hospital, learning about syringes and counting carbs and low blood sugar reactions and the way high blood sugars would cause dramatic complications. I cried a lot. I mean, a lot a lot. Diabetes was not on my to-do list. Back in school I felt like a teetering toddler, getting my bearings and figuring out how to live a new life in a body that didn’t really look any different. I could fit in there. But at the many doctor’s appointments and trainings at Children’s Hospital in Omaha, I was a drippy, angry, sad mess of a teenager that had just been given a giant curveball in life.

Over the past 26 years diabetics and non-diabetics alike have asked the question, “What’s good about diabetes?” That question made me rage. NOTHING, I said for many years. And still, I feel that deep in my soul. Diabetes is a mess-up. It’s a stain, a mistake, a tragic fall within the human body where my very own autoimmune system has betrayed me. In that sense, there is nothing good about the whole shebang.

But here I am, 42 years old. A productive member of the community I live in. A wife. A mom. A woman who has loved other people’s children and who strives to love others well. And you know what I see so clearly today? Type 1 diabetes has made me who I am. 

Okay, so let’s not get dramatic about this. I believe God is sovereign over all things and that he knew T1 would be part of my story. Joni Eareckson Tada in her autobiography Joni refers to our lives as masterpiece paintings on a stretched out canvas, only we can see just a little bit of that canvas at a time. My story is a beautiful one. It is a particular one. And so so so very much of who I am today began with a diagnosis of diabetes on Monday, November 14, 1994. Other than my childhood moves across the country for my dad’s work in hospitals, diabetes was THE thing that began shifting me from someone who expected the world to go her way to someone who empathized deeply with others in pain. 

Diabetes changed me.

For so long I was dead set on putting diabetes last on my to-do list. I ran the race of life and pursued my goals. I married my love at a young age and finished college while he worked through grad school. I proudly earned a teaching degree. I continued a life in ministry, in both paid and unpaid positions, and learned about the way the church is uniquely equipped to serve the body and soul as it follows Christ’s leadership. Meanwhile I was inconvenienced almost constantly by diabetes. I didn’t always have money to deal with the unscheduled ways diabetes wreaks havoc on a life. By forgetting to fill prescriptions early I learned that kind pharmacists can be the most blessed people to walk the face of this earth. I learned that normal people activities like walking the hot pavement of an amusement park in the middle of the summer revealed my abnormal need to consume sugar to avoid passing out. I had to eat when I didn’t want to and skip eating when I was super hungry. All par for the course for a diabetic. I had to drop almost $100 on a vial of insulin as a very poor 23 year old after my prescribed bottle got too hot in the cab of our moving van. I missed a ski trip with my youth group girls in order to visit an ER after puking all night, and I very memorably got diagnosed with diabetes ketoacidosis (DKA) after years of putting diabetes in a low position of importance. DKA will kill a person, and that was the closest I’ve come to death in this race so far. It scared the tar out of my young daughter, and though it wasn’t a turning point in my self care, it was the beginning of the curve towards giving diabetes the attention it needed.

As much as I long to ignore diabetes, I cannot. And now T1 is receiving the attention it deserves from me. Others might do woodworking, or be the DM for Dungeons & Dragons. Some might join knitting clubs and others might run marathons. I do diabetes. And I do a host of other things. You would not believe the strength of the T1 diabetes community! These people are warriors and can do any of the activities I mentioned above. But for all of us, diabetes requires a gigantic portion of our brains. The good news is that I am trying to take great care of myself these days and I treat T1 like a hobby. I’ve learned to stop and eat when my body needs to be fed. For years I stopped and fed my babies first, always sticking to their timetables and doing what their little bodies needed, as moms do. But now it’s me time. I change out my infusion sets every few days. I recharge and tape the CGM on my arm every 7 days. I pause to check my glucose at home, in bed, in the aisles of Target, before I drive. And I put juice boxes and fruit snacks on my Walmart shopping list and then gently remind my kid not to drink the last of the apple juices just in case I need them. She’s polished off the Sprites and Diet Sprites for my sick day regimens, so those will go back on the grocery list next week! 

I take care of myself. And by doing this, I’ve learned that all of us human beings are limited creatures. If I had to pick one word for the year I would pick LIMITED. 

Last year my friend Emily and I led a bible study group through Jen Wilkin’s None Like Him and In His Image. One of the biggest take-homes I got from those books is that God is so very other. He is not like us, no… we are like him, in teeny tiny shining ways. I struggle with my limited nature all the time. It’s a way that I want to be God (instead of being content to just try to be like him). I want to be good at ALL THE THINGS. I want to learn ALL THE THINGS. I admire someone and want to be that part of them I admire. I don’t like having limits and boundaries and things that get in my way. I. am. limited.

Diabetes is one of the things that limits me.

But guess what? If I think about it for more than two seconds I know that you have limits too. We all do. We are all born into limited bodies. We all have limited amounts of time to enjoy each day. We have limited skillsets and limited gifts and when it comes to you I embrace that! I love what YOU bring to the table, but I struggle with being content with my own limitations.

All that being said, I’m coming into my own in my early 40’s. I’m glad I have eyes to see how my limits sometimes chafe me, because in seeing this dilemma, I know it won’t rule over me forever. I’m beginning to value and appreciate my boundaries as a human in the way I value and appreciate others. Case in point: being grateful for diabetes. (Yes, even typing that sentence made me throw up in my mouth a little.) I’m not exactly grateful for the brokenness of it, but I’m grateful for how it has shaped me. I love others better because of type 1 diabetes. I can empathize with others’ plights because of diabetes. I can mourn in your hospital room over the baby who never opened his eyes, I can cry on the phone over your diagnosis, I can pray for you in a different way and tend to your lows and highs because I, too, have been there.

The T1 diabetes diagnosis when I was 16 didn’t reroute my life, it set me on course to be who I was meant to be. And for that I am thankful.

Spring has come to Lincoln, Nebraska.

I delivered a breakfast burrito and coffee this morning to Tina for her birthday. I haven’t seen her in months, though we talk from time to time, so seeing her smile today lit up my heart. Through the passenger side window I sang happy birthday and we squeezed hands—followed by some hand cleaner, of course—and that was it. But I know from Livia’s birthday drive-by last week that right now a smile and a gift means a whole lot. I felt sad and happy all at once driving away.

But spring has come. And I almost missed it! I don’t have many reasons to travel far from home and, to be honest, I get a little panicky considering that I may need to use a bathroom when I’m across town and what then? That sounds dumb to the average person who doesn’t mind popping in a store or restaurant, but alas, I’m not average when it comes to my health and I have reasons to be extra careful and thoughtful right now. Today’s drive let the beauty of spring sink into my soul and it. was. delightful. It was cloudy and raining but I could still feel the trees gently growing over Lincoln’s roads, changing an open sky view to one layered in green. A red bud here and there caught my eye, and there are these little round, white globe-like flowers in shrubs every so often that look like small hydrangeas. Getting out felt glorious.

I found myself talking to God on my drive.

I thought of my pregnant friends and prayed for them. I thought of my friends with new little ones and I prayed for them. I considered a friend who is house-hunting and asked God for the right space for her family. I asked for healing for the grieving and provision for our leaders. I asked for wisdom for myself in coming days. It was like a dam had opened and the space between me and God was clear.

Why was God nearer to me when I was behind the wheel of my Nissan Altima? I considered this because it felt confusing.

God is near to me, always. He is the constant, and I am the variable. And boy is life full of variables right now.

I had a rhythm in my pre-coronavirus life—as did we all—and the rhythm was a pretty healthy one. Livia and I would pray for our days and ask for blessings from God on our drives to school. Only recently did I realize that I hadn’t prayed for my husband’s work in weeks and weeks because, well, because I wasn’t driving Liv to school! My mornings used to be filled with meeting with people, going to appointments, checking off to-do lists, or studying in preparation for bible studies or talks. Of course all of that has gone topsy-turvy now and I find myself with very little reason to drive around town, no ability to be around people, and my goals have changed entirely. I have the same amount of time in a day, only now I fill it with assisting my teen in school work and tending to our house.

So while God is near always, I have changed. But on top of that, I have felt lower—emotionally, mentally, spiritually—than I have in a long time, and I believe that’s due to my extroverted personality. This whole corona situation has been a giant struggle bus for me and though I keep posting memes and notes and talking to people, there’s not a lot that makes things better. Each day is hard, some harder than most. Being inside my house, with the same two (beautiful) people, with the walls staring at me all day long, it’s just not a good setup for me. I am now needing to pay more attention to my mental health, in addition to my physical health. If I don’t actually DO something to lighten up my spirit, I might not ever get out of bed.

This morning, a simple drive and goal elevated me. I’ve felt fairly lonely in my extroverted struggles, but there it is: a change of environment and a reason to get out the door did wonders for me. Not only was I encouraged to see the beauty of spring in Lincoln, but I felt God’s sweetness and closeness in a way that has eluded me for weeks.

I am so blessed with a safe home to stay in right now, and I feel grateful that I am not working outside the home at all. My days with Livia and Jeremy are good ones. But they’ve also been very hard. It’s okay to feel both of these truths all at once.

Nothing is normal. Lots of things are normal.

That’s the weirdness of our current situation, isn’t it?

I just told Livia that she could do school in bed. I percolated a giant pot of coffee, made her an iced coffee, and hand-delivered it to her bedside. Certain she was taking longer to wake up because today is a school day, I decided to sweeten the deal. You want to do school in bed? She was down for that, and is now tucked away into what seems like a claustrophobic situation to me: pink curtains pulled closed, dark room cluttered with, well, all her belongings scattered on the floor, shelves, and closet floor, with her Chromebook on her lap.

It seems to me that such concessions are exactly the way I want to be treated at this time. A drink made with love, an understanding of the way I feel joy, and goals padded with grace.

Earlier I sat on the back deck, cool breezes crossing my face, and I listened to birds singing. It’s been a struggle for me to open my bible right now, but today I had it open to Hebrews 11. I’d read a little about faith, then look up and watch the newly-sprouting leaves sway in the wind, watch robins hop around the yard, smile at preschoolers following their moms on the bike path. Has there ever been a time like this? The slow pace? The worry? The future spreading before us that seems confusing?

My pre-corona life was a tidier mix of goals + freedom and I liked it that way. It was like a well-made bed—something I love to study and re-create in my own life. I like tidy hospital corners (thanks to my nurse parents). I like a soft and fluffy comforter on top. I like neatly stacked pillows—with matching pillowcases—tucked against the headboard. And if a chunky hand-knit blanket lands on top of the whole thing, all the better. Purposeful. Welcoming. I like a well-made bed.

To carry on with the metaphor, coronavirus came on in and royally effed up my bed.

It’s like COVID-19 decided I could still have the bed frame, but the headboard would be replaced by the scratchy wall, stucco. And sure, the mattress is present but it’s haphazardly thrown onto the frame, and oh, here, you can use the old sheets, you know the ones used for drop cloths for painting, as your bedding. We’ll top it off with the picnic blanket from the trunk of the car—complete with some dog hair, grass from the last outing, and perhaps a tick or two for companionship. And here’s the flattest and most stained pillow you’ve forgotten in the back of your closet. No pillowcase. Now, get comfy and sleep!

That’s what coronavirus feels like to me. A scratchy, paint-marked, glass-clipping, slightly smelly bed. I can still lay down and I’m more than welcomed to sleep, but it’s not right, not normal.

The weird thing is that I really like listening to the birds. I’ve had time to watch clouds float past and to really cherish this season of winter changing to spring. With one kid almost 16, I’ve had some freedom to slow down and for that I’m grateful.

But I don’t like the bed I’ve been given.

Not one bit.

In a few weeks I’m teaching a passage of scripture to a group of women, and honestly, prepping for my time with them has been a joy. Not an easy joy. More like a hard-earned, thoughtful, considerate, butt-in-my-office-chair-for-hours kind of joy. It’s the kind of learning and re-learning, assessing my language choices, returning to sources and then double-checking my references type of thing. More simply: it’s teaching.

God bless the teachers. They need it. WE need it.

Teaching is an enormous privilege, and as I prepare for an hour’s worth of teaching on Hebrews 10, I’m reminded of the many ways God has brought me to this point. I think of my training to become an educator. How many hours of classwork was spent on pedagogy, childhood development, professionalism, and dreams of my future classrooms? Not a moment of that was wasted—though I kind of wish someone could’ve informed me that I’d head back to working in the church and not so much towards middle schools. I think of the many many learning experiences in biblical knowledge… from scripture memory as a kid, to training at Horn Creek camps in high school, from some profoundly important teaching at Covenant College to my courses at Covenant Seminary… it comes flooding back at the moment I need it.

I found myself on my hands and knees this morning, digging through a seminary notebook for just the right answer to fill a question I had in my mind. I didn’t find it, therefore there’s a gaping hole until I can scratch that particular itch. But even as this knowledge comes flowing back through my mind, I’m aware that at some point in this process I will have to put my pen down. Or really, I’ll have to step back from the keyboard. I’ll have to submit the discussion questions. I’ll have to quit editing, quit questioning whether I’ve prepared enough, quit imagining all the things that I won’t get to say and I’ll have to commit. I’ll have to trust I’ve done the work and I’ll have to relinquish all I have and all I do to the work of the Holy Spirit.

“Faith is being sure of what you hope for and certain of what you do not see.”

That’s my own translation of Hebrews 11:1 apparently. I haven’t seen the verse printed that way anywhere, but as a kid who grew up in the church and has spent her life there, this is the version that stuck. So there it is.

My hope is in Christ. I teach knowing that I am not enough to enlighten someone else’s mind, but the One who is will be at work. Throughout this process—and during each other time where I’m teaching God’s word—I trust all I do to the Holy Spirit. He alone has the power to enlighten, and he will be working perfectly where I’m working imperfectly. Having faith means taking a leap of sorts. It’s moving from a place of surety in one’s self to a place of surety in God and the work he is doing all the time. I’m trusting that “he who began a good work in you will be faithful to complete it” (Phil 1:6). To God be the glory.

I knew she wasn’t pursuing chemotherapy, but I prayed many times for miraculous healing. Due to my own issues, I was not particularly hopeful, but I asked God for it nonetheless. When her health took a turn for the worse I felt desperate to talk with her face-to-face. I couldn’t stand to ask questions without some nuance to my voice and without being able to look into her eyes. I finally found Karen near the front doors of church and grabbed her before she left the building. I can’t even recall exactly what I asked. It wasn’t, “so you’re going to die?!” But the understanding was the same: she was not pursuing treatment this time. I looked in her eyes and understood we were going to lose her.

I took my cues from Karen, and though I felt despondent over this news, I did not fall apart. She was not falling apart—she was living! The information sat sadly in my soul, however. This spark of a woman—not easily bowled over by life’s problems or problem people—wouldn’t last much longer.

Something strange happens with a terrible cancer diagnosis, a terrible cancer fight, and it’s that you have something of a deadline. Either the one bearing cancer will die or the cancer will die—only one emerges from the battle.

In our small group from church we’ve had two beloved women dealing with cancer at the same time. One was dealt a first-time diagnosis and the other, Karen, was facing it for the third time. We buckled down in our basement on Tuesday nights, never knowing whether the evening would bring tears, great fears, or simply deep sharing as usual. It was hard. There were nights that were difficult with an intensity I’ve rarely felt, nights where we prayed and cried and laid hands on each other and prayed again and carried these cancer fears to the Lord, not knowing what the outcome would be. At times it showed great bravery to even show up. And yet we still laughed downstairs on the comfy basement couches, with candles burning, hot coffee warming our hands. We prayed together. And in the midst of cancer, we rejoiced together too as we witnessed the pregnant, growing bellies of two of our number. New life emerged and we celebrated. Other lives struggled. And one life slowly began to be extinguished.

It was only at the very end that Karen’s great internal light diminished. That woman had one of the toughest, most tenacious spirits I’ve seen. She’s the greeter. The weeder of the garden. The drink maker and server. The one with suggestions and solutions. The one riding her bike to my house far south. The one working even as she grew sicker. The one climbing mountains with zero body fat. The one praying for her girls’ trip with her daughter. The one expressing devotion to her man, after all they’ve come through. She was a fire, burning bright and hot with boldness. And then she was no more.

Back when I finally looked in her eyes for understanding that her death was coming, I wanted to say something to her and never took the chance to do it. I wanted to tell her to wait for me. I wanted to let her know that I’d be coming after her and that I was a little nervous about death and would she wait and watch for me when I arrived in glory? I never asked. Never told her that I felt reassured knowing she’d be there with a smile when I showed up. It seemed silly because I understand the truth, and that is that the comfort of seeing Jesus will quell all anxieties that day. I won’t be nervous anymore. And yet, Karen. Karen will indeed be there, and I look forward to seeing her wink at me—just like the very last interaction I had with her—when I at last set foot in heaven.

Today she is free of cancer, sin, heartache, and tears and she stands in glory. I miss my sister but I will see her again. To God be the glory.

Note: this piece was written the evening of Karen’s memorial service in early November 2019. I sat on it for months before sharing it first with Kevin. I wanted his permission to share these thoughts publicly. I could’ve kept this to myself, but why? For what reason? No, instead I’ll post this as I miss my friend and I’ll enjoy remembering the special person she was. I’ve posted two images that feel so VERY Karen to me. First, she was always taking care of us at church events in a behind-the-scenes manner. You can’t even see her face, and she would’ve been fine with that. In the second shot she’s there, in this special group of women who truly loved one another, and she’s cheering on the bride-to-be. Again, a very Karen thing to do.

I am a fan of a good ballad song. I am a belter of show tunes. The louder, the better, in my opinion. The generation just behind me lovesloveloves their low-key music. They love it moody, soulful lyrics, with a giant dose of nonchalance and a whole lot of easy listening. MEL-LOW.

I am 1000% not that girl.

The other night—I can’t recall why exactly—I got started on 80’s ballads while I was doing dishes. I pulled out my cute bluetooth speaker, turned it up to 11, and serenaded the house—and probably the bike path along our backyard. By the time Jeremy’s D&D guys were arriving I was really into it. I was self-concious enough to control my moves, which were already mortifying my 15 year old, but I couldn’t stop/wouldn’t stop with the ballads. They were joy to my soul.

Zephaniah 3:17 has something to say about God’s love for us and I’m pretty sure it’s saying that God is jamming out over YOU with the passion of an 80’s rock ballad.

The LORD your God is in your midst,
a mighty one who will save;
he will rejoice over you with gladness;
he will quiet you by his love;
he will exult over you with loud singing.

Exult is a weird word. Thanks for that, ESV (English Standard Version, a translation of the bible). It means to be highly elated or jubilant. Think along the lines of the Huskers scoring a winning field goal or you getting that job or being at the best concert with the best friends. Lots of energy. Lots of joy. Lots of high fives.

But wait, there’s something here for the emo among us. If the thought of God 80’s-rock-ballading you is terrifying and unsettling, read the few lines ahead of that. God has GLADNESS for you. Over you. In you. He also stills your ever-moving, ever-wandering, ever-anxious soul. “He quiets you by his love.”

Not every moment is a Broadway-belter. In fact, those moments are rather rare, even for me. In between those times are miles and miles of indecision and confusion. And Zephaniah 3:17 is saying that the very God of the universe will save me. He actually rejoices over me. He quiets me. And yes, he looks at me and breaks out in song over his incredible love for me.

Do you believe that? Do I believe that? How would my world look different if I remembered that the God who created mountains and oceans and all the creatures in them, the planets and stars and all of the cosmos, also really really liked me a lot. He likes me more than my husband, more than my mom and dad, more than my best friend on the best day of our lives. He is here with me and saves me from my troubles. He is here with me and rejoices over me. He settles my heart and then riles it up again but with his profound love and EXUBERANCE over me.

What in the world? Truly, we Christians are either right or we’re absolutely crazy. There’s no in-between here. As for me and my house, we will serve the Lord.

I get a little weird every December. A bit itchy. Out of sorts. For sure seasonal depression is a giant contributor to my mood, but it doesn’t entirely explain why I feel like my soul is wearing ill-fitting, scratchy clothes. The month contains two rather large celebrations on the Tredway Family Calendar: my birthday and Jesus’s. And there are so many traditions—which I love—and lights and delicious foods and smells. It’s almost sensory overload, but most of the time I’m down for that kind of fun.

No, the weirdness is connected to the church and to the celebration of the Advent season. We spend a lot of time counting down the days until Jesus is born. Every year, every single year this is our tradition. I finally put my finger on the weirdness of it this year and it’s that we’re all pretending, to a certain degree. We are REMEMBERING something. Something big. Something earth-shattering and life-defining. The world was marked when God became man. Marked with a giant indelible marker, all creation shifted. My discomfort with the month is the same discomfort that kept leading my mind to considering Easter in the middle of the all the red and green plaid and the scent of evergreen. Christians, we live out Christmas and Easter EVERY SINGLE DAY.

The birth of God as a man is celebrated in our spirits every single day.

The death and resurrection of God as a man is celebrated within us every single day.

We are Christmas and Easter celebrants every time our lungs take a deep breath and every time we blink.

Perhaps this explains my December itchies. It all feels a little off to sing with gusto the Advent songs and then quit singing them on December 25, as though that day ends the party. It feels strange to light a candle of waiting, and another of joy, and yet another of peace, when truly, every day we might light a candle with those names as we mediate on who Jesus was and how his birth, death, and resurrection has perfectly covered our sins.

However I feel in December—which really doesn’t matter much—I don’t want to let go of the sweetness of Christmas or the devastation of Good Friday or the utter and complete joy of Resurrection Sunday. All those events are knocking around in my heart daily. Jesus is with me daily through his Spirit. I carry his birth, death, and resurrection in my spirit because, no matter what month is is, I believe that he is the Son of God and that his sacrifice gives me life. Life forever.

Do I think we should ditch a full month of anticipating the Christ child’s birth? Absolutely not. If anything, I’d advocate for Christians to become way better at remembering. We could probably use more traditions, more attention to the historic church calendar, more singing at the top of our lungs and more wrapping gifts to create memories for our children. If Christmas and Easter actually do live within us, life is worth celebrating indeed.

Diabetes takes up a certain percentage of my brain all the time. However, I’ve had type 1 diabetes for so long now that I have an auto pilot mode. I can be sitting in a group of friends, listening and laughing along with them, pricking my finger for a blood sugar while simultaneously counting carbs and making estimates regarding my activities for the next three hours. That’s what I do ALWAYS. I don’t get a break. I can’t ever stop thinking about what my blood sugar is doing and how food and exercise (yes, laundry is exercise too) will affect my being. So that’s my baseline, all that brain work.

But there are days when the baseline percentage doesn’t even come close to cutting it and then I find myself utterly distracted by diabetes care. Another way to rephrase it is that some days diabetes require much more of my focus.

Sunday was “change” day for my sensor (which usually lasts one week). I woke up, changed the site, and planned for a day of increased calibrations-—a little more attention paid to matching numbers from the sensor to my blood glucose. It also ended up being change day for the infusion set I typically wear in my abdomen. That little cannula delivers insulin from the pump to my fat layer and I have to rotate it every three days. I changed the infusion set around lunchtime and continued on my merry way—-diabetes present but not front and center—-until things went haywire that afternoon.

A really good Sunday afternoon involves coffee and random shopping with a beloved friend. If we can get this time we take it and we make every second count with laughter and conversation. If I could go back to Sunday I’d understand that my CGM, which was refusing to calibrate properly, was taking up a huge percentage of my brain power. At the time I acknowledged that something wasn’t working properly and pushed through our soul-refreshing time anyhow, but I didn’t fully realize how it cluttered my brain and pressed in on our fun time. Usually I can troubleshoot a diabetes issue and in a few hours normalcy will resume. This time I’m looking with more scrutiny and I can see that the last two days have a been a cluster and it affects me.

It’s Tuesday morning now and I feel like I have a minor version of the flu. My head aches. My body is so tired. I feel sluggish and out of sorts and frankly I think I will take a sick day. Because, since Sunday afternoon, nothing has been normal or routine about diabetes in my body. It’s been a bit since diabetes has thrown me this out of whack, but I’ll take in my present reality and remind myself with patience and grace that having a chronic health issue leads to days like this one.

So Sunday night was not really fun. No matter what I tried I couldn’t get my sensor to work properly. I’ve only been relying on a sensor for the past 11 months, so at that point I removed it and resigned myself to poking my fingers for the next 12 hours until I could put a new sensor on in the morning. (Sensor placement isn’t a nighttime activity unless you’re a T1 who doesn’t care about sleeping. Calibrations happen frequently the first 12 hours so you’d get awoken quite often.) The next morning was a brand new day and the new sensor worked and I was back in business. It wasn’t until lunchtime Monday that I questioned how long I had been fighting elevated blood sugars.

Back in business? Not really. My glucoses had been above normal since I changed my infusion set the day before. Again, troubleshooting time. Here’s what that looks like:

PMS elevates sugars. Is is that time of the month?
Stress elevates sugars. Did our weekend travel affect me?
Sickness elevates sugars. Am I coming down with something?
Bad insulin elevates sugars. Was my insulin in the sun while we were driving?
Poor infusion set placement elevates sugars. Did I place it in a scarred spot on my stomach?
Kinked infusion sets elevate sugars. Without x-ray vision I won’t know until I remove the set.

Ticking through that checklist I decided that I’d change my infusion set. It was high time to get those numbers down, I was starting to feel terrible. I didn’t think the insulin had gone bad—and insulin is like liquid gold these days, you don’t want to throw out a good vial—so I marked the box and put it back in the refrigerator to test on another day. I put another infusion set on my stomach, careful to try and get a good spot (which is a crapshoot, but oh well) and within a few hours? RELIEF. My numbers went from sky high to normal and remained there for hours throughout the evening.

Sounds good? Just wait.

My numbers around suppertime were so good and steady that I required very little insulin. Like almost none at times. Every so often the pump would give me the teeniest bit but I didn’t need more until… until I did. My daughter and I went out for pumpkin spice lattes on a cold and rainy night. I paid an exorbitant amount of money for the decaf coffees and a few snacks—and moments later realized they had given us grandes instead of talls. So basically we had vats of sugar. Normally this would elevate my glucoses but I could roll with it. What happened last night was that it completely shocked my system as I had no extra insulin on board.

Also—human error here—I forgot to bolus for the sugar I consumed.

An hour after I crawled in bed I had what I can only call “diabetic thirst.” It’s a thirst level that is unparalleled, unmatched, starvation-thirst. And it’s very familiar to me. I’ve deduced that having high glucoses makes me crave sweetness, too, so what I want in that moment isn’t water—it’s sugar free Powerade. Lucky for me I had picked up some that day (it’s a T1’s BFF on a sick day). I also had a near-crushing headache. Those two symptoms sent up an alert in my brain and I reached for my glucometer. 450. WHAT. I can’t even remember the last time I saw a number that high—it’s been awhile. And to have gone from an 80 glucose to 450 in such a brief amount of time? Well, that’s why I’m feeling like a train hit me today.

I did all the things on my checklist at that point and I did them quickly. Peed on a stick—yup, big ketones staring at me. Dosed a bunch of insulin to bring down the high and to cover what I had consumed. And then, didn’t want to do this one, but I rolled out of bed and began pacing the basement (to get the heart pumping, which will flush the ketones faster and get the insulin working right away) after filling Jeremy in on what my body was facing. He knows how to troubleshoot with me, and also knows how to keep me calm during these high ketone moments (which will send a T1 to the hospital pretty darn fast). I began pounding the sugar-free Powerade and—this is my latest top secret helper in ketone dilemmas—I took half a Xanax. I could write more about the role of meds in treating a chronic illness sufferer’s anxieties, but that would be a post all to itself. Another time perhaps.

After 60 minutes no ketones. Not a trace. I went from a high level of ketones building up in my body due to little insulin on board earlier, to successfully flushing them out. Exhausted I got back in bed and asked Jeremy to wake me in another hour to check my blood sugar. He did. And then he woke me again two hours later to check again. To go from perfect numbers to crazy high numbers—with a giant dose of insulin thrown in—often means one thing: you’ll drop low in the night. Since I don’t want to die and Jeremy still wants me around, having him check on me makes sense. My numbers came down beautifully in the night, but again I found myself in the low insulin swing this morning. This up and down of glucoses, of insulin, is what has left me wiped out. Say nothing of the lack of solid sleep.

Damn you, diabetes. You are a prickly SOB.

I look around me and am amazed that most of the world eats food and never thinks of carb counts. Most of the world can go for a run and not fear death on the other side of it. If I didn’t know better I’d be mad about all this, but here’s what I know: everyone has something hard. I see you guys going through cancer (and Liv and I prayed for you this morning on our school drive). I see y’all with the broken marriages and kids who are hurting inside. I see you guys with depression and you guys with anxiety and you guys with mental illnesses too many and too confusing to name. I see you in the quiet gatherings fighting addictions and I know it’s a daily, moment-by-moment fight as relentless as diabetes. I see you with the existential crises that feel weightier than health issues. I see you with the unfulfilled longings and the daily aches. And I see you, too, my fellow humans who are fighting chronic pain and disabilities you’ll never be free from this side of glory.

This is my story, but it’s not the only hard thing. It’s my hard thing—one of my hard things—and boy am I grateful that it’s not always this hard either. Now if you’ll excuse me I’m off to check my blood sugar and lay around like a slug.