Tag Archives: questions

My Guilty Secret (and Great Struggle)

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I have written little of seizures lately.

This is because I’ve been trying not to think of them.

Here’s what I’m trying not to think about: We’ve seen no seizures since Tarica came home from the hospital.

Before you break out the party hats, let me tell you this is the worst possible timing.

Back in November, Tarica was seizing three to seven times a day. The seizures swallowed her life and vitality with the same ravenous appetite displayed by the wolves that lived under my bed when I was six. Brain surgery is a drastic measure, but we agreed to move ahead, bolstered by the continual seizing. She could not live like this.

The seizures continued, and with each one, I felt reassured that we were doing the right thing. When the seizures slowed down around the beginning of the year, I began questioning the wisdom of brain surgery, the wisdom of our choice. Mid-January, Tarica had a severe seizure that felt like God’s answer to my questions.

Yes, brain surgery was better than this guarded half-life she lived.

In the weeks prior to her February hospital stay, the seizures quit. My struggle began again.

But she seized at the hospital as if she were on a schedule, and the tests went well, and God was right there in room EP4, and my heart did not fear. Underneath my surface questions, I had such brave, blind faith that Tarica would qualify for brain surgery. We would agree to do the surgery, it would be successful, and we would shut—no, slam!—the door on epilepsy and live seizure-free ever after. I had the story already half-written in my head.

We came home. Tarica was back on her meds, and we waited for the testing results, waited also for the seizures, for something to happen.

Nothing. She has not seized.

And God has never felt so far away.

I told you the doctor called a few weeks ago, and during that conversation I realized Tarica might not ever be healed. I didn’t tell you what she said that opened my eyes to this truth.

She said, “If Tarica isn’t seizing, I don’t recommend you do surgery. Brain surgery is not a preventive measure; it’s a curative measure when seizures cannot be otherwise controlled.”

But if her seizures are under control, shouldn’t I be rejoicing? Isn’t control what we want?

No, no, no. I want her cured. I want her healed. I want her to live without the fear of seizures hanging over her, because while the seizures are controlled right now, they could return at any moment. I want her off medication so she can be my sweet Tari again.

If her seizures can be controlled by medication, why then did God open the doors for Phase One to happen? Why did brain surgery seem like our destination if it wasn’t?

I had hoped and prayed for healing, but it’s worse, I tell you, to live with hope, because disappointment makes the heart sick. That’s not my thought; it’s God’s inspired words in Proverbs 13:12.

There are several possible reasons why she isn’t seizing:

1. She is mysteriously and miraculously healed.

2. The medication is working.

3. God is giving us a reprieve before the seizures return.

4. God is shutting the door on brain surgery.

I didn’t want to tell you about this, because it feels like I began telling a story and suddenly forgot the punchline. It feels like we began a journey and along the way forgot our destination.

Now what?

We have an appointment next month in which we will discuss at length the test results and their official recommendation on what to do. If she still isn’t seizing, I doubt they will recommend surgery. Perhaps God knows this to be a good thing, but to me it feels like a lost opportunity for healing. Perhaps God has something better for us, but it’s hard to see that through my tears.

I want her healed. I don’t know if I ever wanted something as badly as this. If I did, I can’t think of it.

We’ve been praying that God would make our decision clear. Maybe this is His answer.

It’s not the answer I wanted.

Whatever the answer is, I pray it will be the best one for our daughter.

Even if it hurts me.

Better Than the Best Gift

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When I started writing my first post about gifts, I did not intend to launch myself into a full-blown Bible study. But since I believe the Bible is the ultimate authority, I ended up reading all the verses that included a form of the word gift, as well as various chapters for context.

What I read led me to the conclusion that I am not being selfish when I find joy in using a gift or talent to serve others. God expects me to use what He has given me. However, a gift in one area does not excuse neglect in another area when I have an opportunity to serve in a less talented way.

That was clumsily worded. An example will work better: I need to show warm hospitality even though I feel neither skilled nor comfortable with it.

But then, in my reading, I found 1 Corinthians 12:31: “But covet earnestly the best gifts….”

Covet? Was that what I was doing when I eyeballed my pastor’s wife’s beautifully laid table? And it was okay?

But wait. What are the best gifts? Who gets to decide? Was making cute food one of them?

I read the previous verses. Nowhere did it say which gifts are the best.

Was I then supposed to covet those gifts I thought were the best?

Dissatisfied, I looked up covet in the original Greek. I’m no Greek scholar, but it appears to mean “to have warmth of feeling for or against,” such as desire or envy. In a word, covet.

That wasn’t helpful.

I looked up gifts in the Greek. Perhaps it was originally a different word. Perhaps the gifts I’m supposed to covet are different from the gifts mentioned throughout chapter 12.

Nope. Same gifts.

Now what?

Distractedly, I read the rest of verse 31, the last verse in the chapter: “and yet shew I unto you a more excellent way.”

What did that mean? I lifted my eyes to scan for a more excellent way in the earlier part of chapter 12. Not there.

Wait. Chapter 12. That meant the next chapter is 13. And 1 Corinthians 13 is….

I shot to my feet and started pacing—the more excellent way was—of course, why had I not made the connection before?—found in the chapter following 12.

…the love chapter.

So, this verse was saying “Go ahead and desire the best gifts, but there is a much better way than wishing you had other gifts.”

Love is the more excellent way.

The first three verses of chapter 13 started making more sense than they ever had before.

“Though I speak with the tongues of men and of angels….”

“Though I have the gift of prophecy….”

“And though I bestow all my goods to feed the poor….”

Without love, gifts are nothing.

The value of my gift is measured by my love.

All this was galloping around in my brain as I paced back and forth, when Cheryl’s comment on the first post on gifts came in. I sat down to read it. She mentioned being afraid of rejection.

I shot out of my chair again. It was like that thunderstruck incident back in November, except this time, it happened at home.

Why did I fear rejection? Why did I feel threatened by the talents belonging to others? Why did I wish to assume gifts that weren’t mine? Why did I even worry about gifts in the first place?

Not because I had been rejected in the past. Not because I have super-talented friends. Not because my self-esteem is low. Not because I am insecure and neurotic.

It was because I lacked love.

The words of 1 John 4:18 marched through my head: “There is no fear in love; but perfect love casteth out fear: because fear hath torment. He that feareth is not made perfect in love.” (emphasis mine)

If I love people, I am not afraid of serving them to the best of my ability, whether or not I am gifted. If I love people, I will rejoice to see them using their gifts, even if those gifts overshadow mine.

When I love, it stops being about me and my gifts and my secret fear that I’m not measuring up to some unknown ideal.

When I love, I will serve without fear.

And what are gifts but extra special ways God allows us to show love?

Foolish, foolish, foolish, to think that this whole gift thing was about me.

Gifts are called gifts not because they are given to me but because I am to give them to others.

With a fearless love.

Having Then Gifts Differing

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The other week, my pastor’s wife invited me and three other ladies over for a birthday lunch. No, it wasn’t my birthday or theirs or hers. She had decided to host several themed lunches this winter and invite several ladies from church each time as a birthday gift for us.

This lunch had a garden theme—or perhaps, considering the fact that it was February and had been February for about five months, the theme was really Hope. She made the most darling little toadstools out of hard-boiled eggs, cherry tomatoes, and dots of cream cheese, and nestled as they were next to the pile of greens on each plate, I half expected a fairy to peep out and wave at me. (Although…I don’t think fairies live at her house. Fairies like a little dust. When they’re in the area, they throw parties at my house.) The broccoli soup was delicious, and the fresh fruit salad was amazing, and the decorated table nearly fooled me into believing it was green, not white, outside. (If I were a real blogger, I’d have a picture of it, but I’m not, so I don’t.)

I had expected it would be lovely, and I had braced myself for it.

See, I don’t have her gift.

Just for the record, I do not resent her ability to lay a table that looks like it belongs in a magazine and create food that’s almost too cute to eat.

But there was a time when I might have.

I would rather go to the dentist than a Tupperware party, and I’d rather be a dentist than host any kind of party. I’ll do birthday parties, but only under duress (almost-eight-year-olds can create much duress). There is no way I’d volunteer to do what my pastor’s wife did. It boggles my mind that she actually enjoys it.

But.

Even knowing I wouldn’t enjoy doing it, I still struggle with feeling inadequate and clumsy and uncreative when I see what wonders can be wrought with a flowerpot and some ordinary brownies.

I end up holding an internal dialogue that goes something like this:

You should do something like this, Stephanie.

You know you’d be miserable every minute of it.

But it’s so lovely.

And exhausting.

I could just Google a party theme and copy the ideas I find.

The only thing you’d enjoy about hosting a party would be the research.

But it’s such a beautiful way to make friends feel special.

And why—exactly why—do you think you need to do it?

Because…because…she’s doing it?

Here’s the truth: Intellectually, I know we all have different gifts, and this variety is a blessing, not a curse. Emotionally, however, I feel intimidated when other women use gifts I do not have, and make a success of it.

I also worry. When I see people being blessed by someone’s gift of hospitality or conversation or thoughtfulness, I worry that I’m being selfish. I’d rather write 10,000 words than host a party. Shouldn’t I be looking for more extroverted ways to serve other people, even if I am not an extrovert?

Here’s the trouble: I have this mindset that enjoyment = selfishness. If I enjoy doing something, then I am probably being selfish when I do it. If I love writing and dislike throwing a party, then I should be having that party because my dislike makes it the least selfish.

Perhaps this mindset stems from the bred-in-the-bone teaching that the Christian life is one of self-denial. We give up our own desires for another’s sake. We sacrifice, we give, we serve.

If I take self-denial far enough, it means that anything that gives me joy should be exorcised from my life. Self-denial taken far enough puts me in a hair shirt, in a bed of nails, on a diet of water and butterless bread.*

Which is perfectly ridiculous. While God expects me to suffer for Christ’s sake, He doesn’t expect me to suffer for suffering’s sake. He gave us “richly all things to enjoy.” A Christian’s life is characterized by joy in serving God and others.

My pastor’s wife said she had so much fun planning those parties. Would I say she was wrong to find joy in using her gift to bless us? Of course not.

So what is the matter with me? Why do I think I need to suffer in order to bless others? Maybe I can minister to others in my own way and be grateful I can do it with joy.

Gifts—also known as talents—are abilities and skills we are able to do well. Most of the time, if we can do something well, we enjoy doing it. It seems to me that God designed us to find joy in the gifts He gave us.

Not that I can refuse to serve just because I’m not good at something. When the signup sheet appears, I need to put my name down to host the evangelist for a meal. When guests come, we welcome them and gladly, because if our roles were switched, I’d want a warm welcome and willing host. I can do many things outside my comfort zone, and I find blessings in the doing every time.

But the idea that it’s selfish to enjoy using a particular gift? I can’t find any evidence that it’s more spiritual to deny myself the joy of using my God-given talents. In fact, Jesus condemned the servant who buried his talent.

So if my pastor’s wife wants to have fun hosting another party, she is welcome to invite me. Who I am to rob her of joy? Besides, I like her parties, because I like her.

And she doesn’t rob me of my joy, because she allows me to write about it afterwards.

* * *

*There is also the self-denial of fasting, when we deprive ourselves of physical comforts in order to draw closer to God or seek His will or intercede on someone’s behalf. That’s another subject entirely.

** The title comes from Romans 12:6: “Having then gifts differing according to the grace that is given to us….” (I love that grace is involved.) The verses that follow say we need to use the gifts we are given.

And when I keep reading, I bump into verse 13: “…given to hospitality.” In its context, this is an instruction to all Christians, not just those with a gift for hospitality.

Oops. I have work to do. Literally. The evangelist is coming for supper tomorrow night.

But what does it mean in 1 Corinthians 12:31? Covet earnestly the best gifts?

I need to do some more thinking and studying and writing.

But not now. I have food to make and floors to wash.

Is Being a Good Mom Good Enough?

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The alarm clock glowed midnight when I crawled into bed after being up for some time with a needy child. I burrowed into the covers, seeking comfort, seeking sleep.

My husband rolled over. “Thanks for being a good mom,” he said, his voice foggy with sleep.

His words startled me. He who sleeps through nearly everything awoke to say this? I huffed—in laughter, in surprise, I’m not sure which. “In what way do you mean?” Why do I question every compliment?

“You take care of him.” He sounded exasperated, as if it should have been obvious. In the startled silence that followed, his breathing deepened and slowed.

I blinked at the ceiling, remembering my manners too late. “Thank you,” I said to his oblivious form.

Tired as I was, sleep should have come quickly, but I lay awake, cradling his words to my heart: Thanks for being a good mom.

Life had been topsy-turvy lately. At times, the demands of motherhood overwhelmed me, made me doubt my ability to handle it with grace and patience. Could I do it? Hardly. I failed so often.

Every day, I worried I wasn’t doing enough for my family. I felt guilty when I couldn’t keep after my responsibilities. I lay awake on nights such as these, weary to the bone, and remembered all the times I should have spoken more gently, acted more kindly, smiled more frequently.

But he thought I was a good mom.

Is it enough to be a good mom? And while I was thinking about it, what does a good mom do? Lying in the dark, I held up that last question and scrutinized it.

It wasn’t hard to answer.

  • A good mom follows God and obeys His commands.
  • A good mom respects her husband and seeks to please him.
  • A good mom loves her children and takes care of them.

Christian mothers are required to shoulder these three responsibilities regardless of who they are and where they live. Beyond these three, I could name many other duties and expectations, but they were cultural demands placed upon me because I’m an American Mennonite housewife, not because I’m a mother. These expectations are activities such as housecleaning every spring and fall; canning pickles, jams, and five types of tomato sauces; gardening; baking bread; and keeping every closet, drawer, and cupboard organized. Yes, it would be nice to do all these things, to be efficient and self-sufficient, to be always caught up and kept after—but if I do these things, I am being a good seamstress, gardener, organizer, baker, and housewife. None of these activities mean I’m being a good mom, no matter what my Mennonite culture might otherwise say.

Not that there’s anything wrong with these activities. Many good moms are—for example—excellent gardeners and bakers. But my success as a mother is not dependent upon my ability to raise magnificent vegetables or decorate elaborate birthday cakes. I do not have to excel at everything to be a good mom.

Being a good mom is not complicated, but I tend to make it so. I obsess over the many details of living and play internal comparison games with other mothers’ accomplishments and grow discouraged with my inadequacies. I need to stop it.

You know what my problem is? I don’t want to be a good mom. I want to be a perfect mom. I want to do it right and do it all and do it so that others are impressed with my ability to train my children and keep my house. I want perfection. Being good isn’t good enough.

No wonder I get discouraged.

My pursuit of perfect motherhood is not only impossible, but it is also rooted in pride and must be yanked from my heart. In its place, I need to plant the seeds of humility, service, and contentment.

When I climb into bed each night, I need to ask myself: Did I follow God today? Did I respect my husband? Did I love my children? If I can say yes to these questions, then my day was a success.

I will have been a good mom, and that is good enough.

What Makes a Story Significant?

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I was at Children’s Hospital less than ten hours when our story was put into perspective.

Before Linford left for home that first evening, I ran down to the cafeteria while he stayed with Tarica. As I stepped out of the elevator on the third floor and turned toward the cafeteria, someone spoke behind me.

“I love your dress. Fall colors are my favorite.”

I turned to find an older woman following me. “Thank you,” I said.

“You made it yourself, of course,” she said. It was not a question, and she went on. “I used to sew, too, a long time ago.”

We walked together through the double doors and turned right into a wider corridor, me falling into my customary awkwardness with a stranger. Think, Stephanie. Think of something to say.

But there was no need. She was chatty enough to cover my lost equilibrium.

She told me about her granddaughter here at Children’s. She had a rare type of blood cancer, so rare she was rather a specimen around here, her grandmother said with an odd mix of sadness and pride.

I said I was very sorry to hear that. It must be so hard.

But, she said brightly, the doctors say if she must have cancer, this is the one of the best to have, if that can be said about cancer. Her chance of full recovery is quite high. We are hoping she can go home the end of March.

By this time, we had stopped just outside the cafeteria while the stream flowed around our island of conversation.

“How long has your granddaughter been here?”

“Since August,” she said.

August. It was now February. That was…that was…too many months to count while she was talking.

“Why are you here at Children’s?” she asked.

Not for much, I wanted to say. Nothing very much at all. “My daughter has epilepsy. She is here for ten days of testing to see if she qualifies for brain surgery.”

Ten days. What are these among so many? (And little did I know our ten would shrink to six.)

We parted with promises to pray for each other and for the children we love—and I have prayed. I pray still. I will not soon forget that woman’s granddaughter.

I distractedly purchased food and returned to the elevators. The woman sharing the elevator with me was also going to the sixth floor. We briefly spoke, she of her daughter who was born ten weeks early in October and has been hospitalized ever since.

First August and now October.

I crawled back to the EMU and crept into Room EP4, where a bright-eyed little lady in a gauze turban smiled at me.

She wasn’t sick. She wasn’t hurting. She wasn’t dying. She was healthy—save for a little matter of haywire electricity in her brain.

I was so ridiculously blessed it was embarrassing. Why did I think I had a story? How could I dare to tell it? So many stories are more significant, more traumatic than ours.

And what if—it was a new thought, or perhaps an old thought with a new slant—what if someone feels her own story is minimized by the telling of my story, as I felt when I compared ten days to six months? True, many families are worse off than we are, but still more families have never needed a children’s hospital. Would my story make someone feel like her story was insignificant?

We shrink from insignificance. We can bear pain and fear and suffering, but if we are made to feel we do not matter, we crumble inside even as we defiantly shore up our walls.

(At least I do. Maybe I’m alone in this.)

On one hand, I found people whose stories surpassed ours in length and breadth and height. On the other, I found those with stories containing less drama and fewer doctors.

Was our story significant enough to be told?

Down in the cafeteria again a few days later, I looked around the crowded space and wondered what these people would say if I asked them for their stories. Hospital staff with badges, parents wearing pink labels, cafeteria workers in uniform—every one of them had a story.

And…and…(I finally realized)…every story mattered, even mine.

Everyone is made in the image of God. Everyone laughs and cries and makes mistakes. Everyone feels fear and anger and disillusionment and wonder and grief.

Every one of these stories is written in the books of God.

They matter. I matter. You matter.

The story I tell is only one out of billions, and significance is never measured in human words.

Why then do I tell it?

I tell our story because I am a writer and I can’t seem to help myself.

But more than that, I tell this story because perhaps it can stand in proxy for all those untold stories. Because there are many mothers who stand by hospital beds living stories that would break your heart. Maybe I can be a tiny voice for them, or a small reminder of those you know with stories a little like mine. Or maybe your story is similar, and the words you find here spark a connection.

Beyond that, there is this: Our stories are unique and special, never the same, but the emotions behind the stories are common to us all. My fear is an echo of your fear, my joy of your joy. You do not have to live a story anything like mine to know what it’s like to hurt and worry and laugh and praise God. You have all that in your story already, and our common emotions create a connection beyond the story itself.

More than anything, however, I tell our story because God is in it, undeserving though we are, and I will not, cannot be silent.

God makes every story significant. Even if it ends in the womb. Even if happens in a quiet, unnoticed corner of the world. Even if you can find no words for your pain. Even if it seems God cannot possibly be in this chapter. Even if nothing more exciting than a flat tire happens in it.

Your story matters because you matter, and most of all to God.

Never, never doubt that.

Defining Epilepsy Terms and Our Situation

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It is my goal to share our adventures with epilepsy by telling it as a story.

I believe in the power of story to change lives and touch hearts. Story is more compelling than bare facts. However, story limits me at times. I can tell you only what actually happened; I cannot invent stuff in order to make a point. Also, a good story will rarely stop halfway through and give a lecture on various facts to educate readers or to remind them of what happened a few weeks ago.

I dislike stories in which the characters talk to each other in order to talk to the reader—you know, when they say things that they both already know and wouldn’t say to each other in real life. If people did this in real life, one of them would say, “Duh. I was there. You don’t have to tell me all about it.”

The writer is doing this to tell or remind the reader of past events. It’s an easy trap for a writer to fall into.

In a book, a reader’s questions are more easily answered. If you can’t remember what exactly happened at the beginning, you can flip back and reread it. Here, on this site, it’s a little harder. And some of you have not been here since the beginning.

For these reasons, I’m going to give you some answers to the questions I’ve been receiving, online and off. Here are the facts. Not much story today.

What is a seizure?

The simple answer: haywire electricity in the brain. The complex answer? Uh…I’m sticking with the simple answer.

Everyone has electrical activity in his brain. A seizure is when those electrical signals go crazy.

If someone has a seizure, does that mean it is epilepsy?

Not necessarily. Fever, illness, or head trauma could provoke a seizure. Epilepsy is not diagnosed until someone has had two or more unprovoked seizures.

What kind of seizures does Tarica have?

A quick rundown on seizures: There are two main types of seizures, generalized and partial.

Generalized seizures mean both sides of the brain are involved from the start of the seizure.

Partial seizures begin in a specific area of the brain and remain there.

Complex partial seizure bridge the gap between the two types. They begin in a specific area and spread to involve more of the brain, sometimes becoming secondarily generalized.

The doctors believe Tarica has intractable complex partial seizures. The upcoming tests will reveal additional information.

I can’t define seizures more than this without getting confusing and wordy. Because each brain is unique, it is difficult to group seizures neatly into categories. There is overlap between the types.

What are intractable seizures?

Seizures which cannot be controlled by medication are known as intractable. They are also called “refractory” or “drug resistant.”

What do her seizures look like?

With no warning, she falls over backward. Her muscles are drawn tight, and her face is contorted. For the first part of the seizure, her arms and head twitch convulsively. Then her back arches and the convulsions spread to involve her whole body. Her head will tilt back until it seems it might break off her neck. Her eyes are wide and staring. While she does not wholly lose consciousness, she is not able to communicate or respond during a seizure.

The seizure lasts somewhere between 30-60 seconds. She is exhausted after it is over.

Why did her seizures change?

Back in March of last year, Tarica’s seizures lasted 10 seconds, maybe 20, at the most. Only her left arm and head seemed involved in the seizure. She did not lose her balance, and she did not convulse.

The tail-end of a seizure March 9, 2014

The tail-end of a seizure – March 9, 2014

 

By the end of the year, her seizures had escalated to what we are seeing now. Why? I have no idea. In my research, I’ve stumbled across repeated assertions that seizures do not usually grow worse over time. Why have hers? This is a question I want to ask the epileptologist.

What is an epileptologist?

It is a neurologist who specializes in the treatment of epilepsy, especially involving methods other than medication, such as diet and surgery.

How is Tarica doing now?

She is doing very well. In the two weeks since her big seizure, all of her seizure activity has been confined to nighttime. We are praising the Lord for this break.

The doctors will likely lower her medication dosage to induce more seizures while she is hospitalized.

Didn’t the doctors already find her seizure focus?

First, a definition: A seizure focus is the place in the brain where a seizure begins.

Do you remember the doctor told us back in March that there is a tiny speck of abnormality in her brain which they considered to be the seizure focus? At our appointment in November, the epileptologist told us that he cannot be confident this is the actual origin. They consider her seizure focus to be unknown at this time.

Is she going for brain surgery?

No. She is going for testing to see if she qualifies for brain surgery. She will qualify if the seizure focus can be found, and if that focus is in an operable area. For example, if her seizures originate in an area of her brain essential to her memory, the doctors would not be willing to risk surgery, lest she be altered tragically and irrevocably.

Do you want her to have brain surgery?

Yes. No. Yes. I don’t know. She may qualify, she may not, but either result will be difficult to accept and to process.

More than anything else, I want her to not have seizures. If it takes brain surgery to accomplish that, then so be it. Of course, I’ll take a miracle cure, too. (God, are You listening?)

If she qualifies for brain surgery, we still have to choose to go ahead with it. I don’t look forward to making that choice. If something goes wrong, we could regret it all our lives.

Other than seizures, is Tarica “normal”?

Let me tell you one story.

While traveling on a December night, Tarica said, “Dad, guess how many Christmas lights I counted? It’s in the thirties.”

Linford said, “Thirty-three?”

“No,” she said, “it’s four more than that.”

“Thirty-seven?”

“Yup.”

Is she normal? I’ll let you be the judge.

* * *

Do you have any questions? What have you been wondering? Your questions will help me tell this story more clearly.

It’s snowing like crazy, and I’m going nowhere today. Go ahead and ask away.

Why I Need to Stop Trying Harder

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I made some huge mistakes in a relationship recently. I completely blew it, I did, blew it so big and so hard that the explosion covered my head and my face in sticky regret. I will be picking it out of my hair for weeks to come.

In the aftermath, I said, “I will try harder to be the woman I should be.”

But that night I tossed and turned until long after midnight, restless with the knowledge that I had been trying—and look where it got me. Oh, maybe I wasn’t trying as hard as I should have been. I had gotten tired and discouraged and careless. I had said and done things I shouldn’t have.

Did this mean I should try harder? Is that the best way to repair the broken parts of me?

I have spent my life trying harder. Trying to have more faith, more trust, more submission. Trying to be more faithful and loving and joyful. Trying to produce more spiritual fruit. Trying harder to please God and serve others.

But I always end up covered in regret. I mess it up over and over.

What is wrong with me?

Why does the fruit of the Spirit so often dangle tantalizingly out of my reach?

I sat with my Bible and my questions for a long time, carried my questions around as I filled the washer and gave a wheezy little man a nebulizer treatment, went back to my Bible again, and after a while, my questions began to turn into answers. None of the answers are new to me; some of the verses are embarrassingly familiar. But God’s Word takes on new meaning for me in the context of a spiritual struggle.

This fruit that I want, the love, joy, peace, long-suffering, gentleness, goodness, faith, meekness, and temperance that elude me too often? It’s called the fruit of the Spirit. Not the fruit of Stephanie. It is the fruit produced in the life of the believer by the Spirit of God.

I know this. Why do I try to manufacture the fruit by my own power?

“For it is God which worketh in you both to will and to do of his good pleasure” (Philippians 2:13). This verse flies in the face of my frequent declarations: “I will do better.” I cannot do better. “There is none righteous, no, not one” (Romans 3:10). When it comes to spiritual self-improvement—well, there is no such thing as spiritual self-improvement. God is the one who makes me holy and acceptable in His sight.

I know this. Why do I try so hard to improve on my own?

But I’ve got to do something. If I can’t make myself good enough, if I cannot produce the love and joy of a Christian on my own, what should I be doing?

Part of me hates the answer, because it’s so…so humbling. It feels far more honorable to climb the tree after the fruit all by myself. I feel more productive climbing the tree—even if I never find any fruit—because I’m working so hard at it.

This is what I must do: I need to yield. Instead of chasing after fruit, I need to run to God and fall at His feet. I need to surrender, give up my need to be in control of the fruit basket. It’s not my job to produce the fruit, but it is my job to serve the One Who will cultivate a more worthy crop in my heart than any efforts of mine could ever rake together.

Romans 6:21 & 22 says it far better I can: “What fruit had ye then in those things whereof ye are now ashamed? for the end of those things is death. But now being made free from sin, and become servants of God, ye have your fruit unto holiness, and the end everlasting life.” (emphasis mine—and please don’t skim the verses, because they are more important than anything I’m saying here)

Instead of trying to love, I need to learn to know the God of love more fully—and His love will then bloom in my heart.

Instead of trying to grow more faith, I need to draw closer to my Father—and He will water my faith.

Instead of trying to exert more self-control over my unruly heart, I need to yield everything to Christ—and He will prune and shape my heart.

I’ve been trying to fertilize the garden when I should have been cultivating my relationship with the Gardener.

Don’t take me wrong. There are many things to do in the kingdom of God. I can’t sit around with a dreamy smile, waiting for God to make me more long-suffering. Spiritual fruit is produced as I live my life, and the work God gives me is often that which helps me to be more fruitful.

In John 15:4, Jesus said, “Abide in me, and I in you. As the branch cannot bear fruit of itself, except it abide in the vine; no more can ye, except ye abide in me.” (emphasis mine)

I need to stop trying so hard to be a woman of God.

I need, instead, to abide in Christ and let His Spirit produce the fruit I long to see.