words.

Ever since I was a little girl, I've loved to write. 

I'd fill up notebook after notebook - probably hundreds - with stories and lists. 

As I got older, I gradually moved on to blogging. (Mostly on Tumblr... don't judge!) Fiction isn't as much fun for me as it used to be. I'd rather channel my love of writing into talking about the struggles (and joys) of living with chronic illness and disability, as well as bearing testimony of my Savior. 

More recently, even the joy of blogging has faded. Things that have happened in my life have been too personal to share with all my friends, let alone hundreds of strangers on the internet. 

Lately, most of my writing has been in the form of emails to my friends who are serving as Mormon missionaries. (The only people who still communicate with emails, right?) It's not exactly an art, but it's all I've felt like doing. 

I've been feeling weirdly guilty about neglecting my blogs. Blogging has been such an awesome force in my life. Through blogging, I connected with people who share my faith while I was living in a place where nobody around me did. I've met some awesome friends through my blogs, and I've seen other people discover the gospel and be baptized after reading believers' blogs. 

The problem isn't that I have nothing to say. The problem is that the things I care deeply about seem too heavy to be written: progressive and debilitating chronic illnesses, domestic and child abuse within the church (both my particular church and Christianity at large), political issues related to being disabled, foster care and adoption... all important topics. 

I believe in being real. I've never been one to gloss things over. (We're not counting my mantra of "I'm okay!" when I'm clearly not, because, well, I may be in horrible pain, but I'm okay.) Acknowledging the not-so-pretty things in life is important because it's only when we face our demons that we're able to fight them. 

My goal in writing, and life in general, is to glorify God. My patriarchal blessing says I'm able to use my gift of communication to relieve the hearts of others who are struggling in life and help them see the path back to their Father in Heaven. I take that ability and responsibility seriously, and I want to always use all possible mediums to do just that. I'm no missionary and I don't want to preach, but I do want to make sure that the things I say, do, and write fulfill a higher purpose. 

I know there are ways to approach those heavy topics in ways that enlighten, benefit, and uplift. I've seen others do it, and I admire them. Allowing your misery to become your ministry is a powerful thing and my greatest goal. Until I figure it out for myself, though, I'm content to stay quiet. 

Less of me, more of Him. 

Note to Self {The Day That Changed it All}

Dear Heather,

Your dad said it best. "It feels like this is all a bad dream, doesn't it?"

When you went to the orthopedic doctor for the first time today, you thought it was because one of your legs was shorter than the other. Your pediatrician sent you there because you've been having trouble walking, more than you should be, even with CMT. The new doctor suspected that it might be scoliosis, and had an x-ray of your spine done right there in the office. You went back to your exam room with your parents to wait for the x-ray to be read, and you could hear the doctors discussing it down the hall. The first hint that something was about to go wrong came while your dad was playing with a latex glove.

"Look at that spine!"
"Forget the spine! Look at those hips!"

Back to the x-ray table you went.

The rest of the appointment is a blur. You might remember the details now, but 12 years from now, you won't.

Today you were scheduled for your first major surgery, just a few weeks from now. You'll need at least three surgeries, the doctor said -- one for each displaced hip, and one for your spine. After those surgeries, you'll be able to walk without pain again. Maybe you'll even be able to run, for the first time in your life.

That isn't exactly how it's going to happen. What seems scary now is only scratching the surface of what the next few years will be like. You know this is a big deal, but your fears are about pain and the risks of anesthesia and starting middle school just weeks after hip surgery. The possibility of having to miss school is near the top of your list of concerns.

Things are going to get worse. So much worse. Your life is going to be forever changed, against your will, while you lie unconscious and unaware. You're going to grieve. You'll experience terror, denial, rage, and sorrow. You'll lash out at physical therapists, blame your parents, grow to hate God, and even consider suicide at the tender age of eleven. (I know, you think you're all grown up.)

What I wish you could know, throughout these next months and years of grief, is that after things have gotten as bad as they could possibly get, they're going to get better.

For years, you've stood by the fence during recess and watched other children play. You've dreamed of being able to run, and you imagine it feels like flying. You'll never know what it's like to run... but, thanks to the wheelchair you fear so much, someday you will feel like you're flying. That wheelchair will feel like shackles at first, but eventually, you'll come to see it as your wings.

Your childhood ended today. I'm sorry for that. But someday, years from now, you're going to find out that your life did not. It's only just beginning. And in eight long, painful years, you'll get a second chance to embrace it.

Thank you for hanging on through the storm. Thank you for surviving, one day at a time, and for retaining the essence of who you are. It's going to feel like a bad dream for a long time, but the best is yet to come.

Love,
Heather