Pegi Bricker
At the beginning of my multiple sclerosis journey of multiple surprises over 22 years ago, I read more than 50 books, articles and medical journals to educate myself about what my future might look like.
My goal was to take the edge off of my fear. My husband and I have attended many neurological conventions gathering up info on disease-modifying drugs, new research findings, potential participation in clinical trials and hard candies, postie notes and ink pens. All of that reading, consulting and doctor Q&A sessions helped calm my anxious heart.
I felt like I had power because I had a hold on something I could control, my mind and my education. I didn’t consider God during those first formative years; however, I did blame him and question him, and yes, I even tried to educate him about my condition and how I would be such a more effective disciple if he would only see fit to zap me back into good health.
Eventually, I found the role of these question-and-answer sessions reversed. I became the teacher, not only to laymen but to various doctors, nurses and other MSers as they would ask this or say that or tell me things I knew to be inaccurate.
Now, my life is as far from what I predicted and had spoken over me as the east is to the west or the north is to the south. I recently visited my MS specialist at IU. She told me from an MS perspective, I was doing quite well. I conquer with that assessment. Everyone I know who has or has had MS is either wheelchair-bound, blind or dead. I can usually walk, my eyes are clear and well, you know the rest.
I rediscovered Psalms 40, 41 and 42 this morning. Before you continue with my rattling on, it is my hope you will open one of your many Bibles and read these passages for yourself. God’s word truly is alive. Go on. I’m waiting expectantly.
Just in case you have decided to wait to open God’s word, I’ll continue. I talk a lot. My dad talked a lot, too, often parking my mom, brother and me at the end of an aisle with the shopping cart during our weekly grocery shopping visitations. Every Thursday evening, we waited. Every Thursday evening, he visited. Every Thursday evening, I thought, “Dad, let’s go,” wondering why he felt the need to talk to everyone he saw, more often than not leaving them laughing and much happier than before they met.
Guess what? Now, I understand. In many ways, I’m like my daddy. I seem to exist to encourage others by loving them where they are, and it’s my belief this is my spiritual gift.
Perhaps she’s a nervous-looking newbie on the back row at church or a lady scarred, battered, defeated and restless on the front row of chapel Sunday afternoons in the Jackson County Jail, maybe a woman toting two rowdy rugrats in a line going nowhere fast at a thrift store or an elderly lady eating alone at Cracker Barrel.
They all are my targeted audience, and I am theirs for such a time as the Lord orchestrates our divine appointment. I’ve learned and am learning to listen to others and to attempt less taking. I’m truly a work in progress.
Have you read Psalms 40, 41 and 42 yet? Gathering all of these thoughts together is God’s word. The holy spirit is faithful to answer my prayer before I ever open the covers of scripture, a prayer for him to help me see Jesus in every chapter, for him to help me understand the rich meat of each word inspired by him and written by God’s chosen and my prayer to help me remember and live out his word so I can be shiny like Jesus in this last hour of the last day to a lost world.
I love to testify. Every time we have an open mic time of testimony, I can more often than not be found up at the front telling about how good God is to me, how kind, how faithful, how just. Karaoke at its best. I talk about being sick, especially having concluded after 22 years post-diagnosis, that I truly am the clay and the Lord is my potter.
Yes, it is cold, dirty, slimy and confusing as to what in the world God could be planning while I am spinning in his capable hands on his turning potter’s wheel, but see, here’s the point. I am the clay. He is the potter. I can no more mold myself into any clay pot resembling any type of usefulness to him than Peter, Paul or Mary could. I am not God. They were not God. You are not God. We are not God.
The sooner we understand our role as his and not him, the better off we all will be, but oh how I try. And I fail. Well, I take that back, I honestly am hugely successful. I’m successful at making a huge mess of things — a huge mess.
Psalm 40:8-11, “I delight to do your will, O my God; your law is within my heart.” I have proclaimed glad tidings of righteousness in the great congregation: Behold, I will not restrain my lips, O Lord you know. I have not hidden your righteousness within my heart. I have spoken of your faithfulness and your salvation. I have not concealed your loving kindness and your truth from the great congregation. You, O Lord, will not withhold your compassion from me. Your loving, kindness and truth will continually preserve me.
Psalm 41:1-4, How blessed is he who considers the helpless; The Lord will deliver him in a day of trouble. The Lord will protect him and keep him alive, and he shall be called blessed upon the earth; and do not give him over to the desires of his enemies. The Lord will sustain him on his sickbed; in his illness, you restore him to health.
Psalm 42:1-3, As the deer pants for the water brooks, so my soul pants for you, O God. My soul thirsts for God, for the living God; when shall I come and appear before God? My tears have been my food day and night, while they say to me all day long, “Where is your God?”
Psalm 42:7-8, Deep calls to deep at the sound of your waterfalls; all your breakers and your waves have rolled over me. The Lord will command his loving kindness in the daytime; and his song will be with me in the night, a prayer to the God of my life.
I only picked out some highlights from this morning’s feast of God’s word that could have been written by me even though they were written for me. You see, my testimony is crazy sounding. I am thankful I have MS. Yes, I am truly thankful, and that is the biggest of all my life’s multiple surprises.
I’ve not only educated myself about affliction, but I am continuously educating myself about God’s faithfulness with me every wobbly step at a time, every surgery, every painful recovery, every three-hour MRI session, every single raspy breath. He holds me in his righteous right hand, and I am safe, safe being held by my Abba God.
My confidence is The Great I Am’s faithfulness. He is my provision. He is my joy. He is my hope. He has healed my soul, forgiven my sin and redeemed my life. He is my peace. He is my reason. He is my bridegroom whom I look for to returning so very, very soon.
I only want to see you there. Is your lamp full?
Pegi Bricker is a Seymour resident who has lived with multiple sclerosis for 22 years. Send comments to [email protected].