I had been so ready for the year to begin. The beginning of school had always been a source of excitement for me, and this year was no different. And yes, I’m aware of how nerdy that makes me sound. And I’m even more aware of how cliche that last sentence made me sound. I was like one of those boxers, bouncing on the balls of my feet, ready to punch this year out of the ring. Junior year, whoa! I had my familiar sports, my new classes, the threat of the ACT, upperclassman status…I was PUMPED! I started cross country practice a week before classes began during the stickiest of Indian summers. The heat had seeped into every pore of my skin and felt like it was heating me from the inside…like an oven set to high deep within my torso. It was getting so beastly hot (mind you, I hail from Minnesota, land of snow and ice for about six months of the year, so even a little heat goes a long way -- you think I’m joking? Laura Ingalls Wilder didn’t entitle one of her books about living in Minnesota "The Long Winter" for no reason) that we had started having practices in the morning before school just to beat the heat of the afternoon sun. Even after every precaution our coaches took in order to keep us athletes healthy, I left every practice feeling inexplicably exhausted and ill. I slogged through the school day, and homework each night was a struggle, as heatwaves of exhaustion and an always knocking nausea consumed me. I remember describing once to my friend that I just wanted to cry and throw up all of the time. The last straw had been after our first meet of the season. I had to run precisely one and a half miles less than usual and yet as soon as I crossed the finish line, I threw up and passed out. It took me about an hour to reach coherency again. I was told by my coach that I could not return to practice until I had another physical. And I never did return.

I was diagnosed with exercise intolerance. I know that sounds like I was allergic to exercise or something. I promise you, it’s not that. It’s a condition where when a certain point is reached (a point that healthy people can push past) while exercising where the body starts to shut down on itself. Long story short, no sports and more tests to come as the exercise intolerance was only a symptom, a mere shadow of something more menacing to the body, an autoimmune disease that was not identified until a year later. Even after stopping sports, the pain was an ever-constant leech, sucking my energy and enthusiasm. It seemed to feed on the fact that I thought I was going crazy. I grew depressed and anxious. I felt increasingly despairing about my body and my value. I didn’t believe I was worth anything. I started shoving my finger down my tired throat after meals that were barely enough to sustain me in the first place. I dug sharp objects (scissors, paper clips, butter knives, anything) into the soft skin on the inside of my forearms. I distinctly remember carving the word “worthless” there one night and the next day a friend stopping me and asking what that was on my arm. When I replied that I was fine, she said words that have stuck with me till this day: “You didn’t seem like that kind of person.” What kind of person was I? Who was I? For the majority of the months to follow, the answer to those questions were again and again “worthless” and “a burden.” There were times I wished I was dead and when I couldn’t bring myself to make even that happen, “coward” was added to the pile of insults I hurled at my own heart, smothering it in dark smoke that choked the very words to express any of this to people who might've known how to listen. But someone was listening. He was listening the entire time. And He spoke too. And there came a point where I finally listened in return.

He spoke the loudest to me in the simplicity of a children’s sermon. I had been teaching Sunday school to first graders. They were learning the attributes of God in concordance with a single letter of the alphabet. We were on W for Wisdom. We were talking about Job and his tragic story. A story in which he lost all that he had been certain of. He had lost control. He lost himself. And yet God still had Job where He needed him to be. He toned down Job’s pride and made him realize that the only wisdom one has is wisdom from God and that it was God, not Job, in control. That God, not me, was in control. I did not choose for a disease to take my body for its own, but God chose my soul for Himself and I chose to give it to Him. So who was I? What kind of person was I? I am a child of God and I’m the kind of person who decided, finally, to give control to Him. That whatever came my way, I could rest in God’s wisdom and His plan.

But He wasn’t done yet. Even after I chose to look at my disease as something I could learn from, I was still harboring bitterness towards the friends who had left me during this time of pain and fear. The people I had depended on so much failed me, just as my body had. This confusion built walls. It blocked me out from feeling anything but lonely. “Forgive them, Father for they know not what they do.” I kept repeating the phrase, but I had stopped forgiving and just started hiding. But I couldn’t hide from God. Yet another Gospel verse saved me. “My God, my God, why have You forsaken me?” Christ endured all that we deserved so that we did not have to fear enduring it ever for all eternity. Christ endured total isolation from God. Thus we don’t have to. I realized then that I need never fear loneliness because I am never alone. Not only did God have me where He needed me to be, He just had me. Period. And He’d never let go.

And He hasn’t. Even now. Even here. God is working His plan for me. It's not always easy to remember that. In fact, most of the time it's not -- I am constantly having to be reminded that He’s in control and that I am not alone. I still feel anxious and lonely from time to time, but God has taken my life and shown me that those feelings are lies and that the truth lies with Him. And only with Him. And for that, I am grateful.