2025: This Is My Body Broken For You

I texted a friend recently, explaining that I had contracted shingles, probably because my body is so stressed these days. Once we sorted out her initial inquiries about the situation, she quipped, "You're no longer a forty-one-year-old woman. You are officially sixty-five."

I then asked her if it raised my age even more when I told her that I had recently purchased a bathrobe to wear most of the time because I get so cold—which, being cold isn't technically anything new; it's just the bathrobe.

She responded and jokingly said it reminded her of Cousin Eddie in National Lampoon's Christmas Vacation.

Oh dear. 

(But don't worry, folks, I bear no other resemblance to Cousin Eddie other than wearing a bathrobe, and that includes the fact I'm not standing out on the curb, drinking a beer, smoking a cigar, and emptying the sewage tank of my camper because "the s--- was full." This comparison to Uncle Eddie is highly limited.)

It sure feels like I'm sixty-five these days, though, as my body just can’t seem to figure out how to mind its manners. And when it does, it can't seem to do it for consecutive days. It feels like here in the latter half of 2025, I've had more doctor's appointments post-treatment than I did during the treatment itself. I looked back through my calendar and discovered that I've had at least one doctor's appointment, if not multiple, every week since August 17, minus the week of the national conference for my job and the week of Thanksgiving.

To keep things in perspective for myself, I wrote a quote on my kitchen dry erase board from author and Bible teacher Beth Moore: "It's not that we should be surprised that we get sick, but rather that we spend more than ten consecutive minutes well."

I still get surprised when I get sick, and I get surprised when I'm not well for more than ten consecutive minutes. Yet I shouldn't be, not so long as I walk this planet. The apostle Paul plainly reminds us in 2 Corinthians 5:4, "For while we are still in this tent, we groan, being burdened..." (ESV). While we are in this tent—these bodies—we groan, being burdened by them.

I was so hopeful for treatment to end and to put regular appointments behind me, but alas, that has not happened. Between the ingrown toenail I had removed in September, which didn’t heal properly and caused a cascading effect of muscle issues because I started walking differently to avoid the pain, and an episode of shingles that, thankfully, was very mild, my body just cannot seem to get itself sorted out. Oh, and then I accidentally injured my other big toe toenail, for which I’m now on alert for possibly losing that nail as well. All of this has culminated in me being hyperaware of how hyper-vigilant I am about the slightest symptoms.

"My toe seems redder than normal. Does that mean I have an infection in my bone now?!"

"I slept abnormally long last night and didn’t have much of an appetite when I woke up; something must be wrong!"

"What does that red mosquito-like bump mean? Did some sort of bug bite me in the night?!"

"Why do I feel so crummy? Do I have food poisoning?!"

I could go on and on with examples. All of them irrational, and all of them mentally exhausting. No wonder shingles made a visit. I am stressed about being stressed. I groan and am burdened by this body.

But I suppose a brain tumor that went undetected for years can do that to you, leaving you wondering if the next odd symptom isn’t just an imaginary monster under your bed, but rather one that really is alive and growing. It's been very hard to bring all those thoughts under control because I walk around wondering if there is some other major malady that I'm missing—the next monster coming for me.

Every time I ponder these bodily issues, this physical brokenness, I voice my exasperations to God. I tell him how sick I am of thinking about my body, and then my mind wanders to a picture of Jesus at the Last Supper with his disciples. He offers communion, holding a loaf of bread in his soon-to-be nail-scarred hands, uttering the words, "And when he had given thanks, he brake it, and said, Take, eat: this is my body, which is broken for you: this do in remembrance of me" (1 Corinthians 11:24, KJV).

This is my body, which is broken for you.

Jesus willingly gave up his heavenly glory and perfection to inhabit this planet in a physical body that was weak, smelly, hungry, thirsty, and bloody. His was a physical body that experienced pain the same way ours does. His body, though, would be nailed to a cross, where his shoulders were likely wrenched out of their sockets, his back shredded to resemble hamburger meat, his head mashed with a crown of thorns on it, and hands and feet hammered repeatedly with what was probably the equivalent of railroad spikes. For Jesus to endure what he did on the cross was no small thing. It was sheer agony. And it resulted in his physical death, though blessedly temporary.

As I ponder my own body and its many moments of illness, I have to ask myself: Am I willing to echo the words Jesus said at the Last Supper in return, offering my brokenness back to God the Father? Am I willing to give thanks for all that I have, broken body and all, and say back to him, This is my body broken for you? Am I willing to give my body back to him as he gave his for me?

I will readily admit that that it’s annoying and frustrating that my body doesn’t function as I wish it would, and I will readily admit that I cannot answer those questions with any form of a resounding yes.

I wish I could do pistol squats again at the gym; right now, it's a little more of a squirt gun squat.

I wish I could swing sixty-pound kettlebells like I used to, even if I know such a movement serves no functional purpose in daily living.

I wish I could lift the laundry detergent up on the shelf with my left arm without wincing in pain. Perhaps my haphazard decision to buy Cheer detergent last time is a subtle nudge from the Holy Spirit.

I wish my left toenail would heal so I didn’t have to prop myself against the wall to put a dumb cast cover on it before I shower to keep moisture and dirty water off it.

I wish I could figure out how to get off the floor without contorting myself into some sort of performer at Cirque du Soleil to avoid banging my toe, making it worse.

I wish I could put my left sock (just my left!) on without needing to practically fold myself in half and hope the sock catches on at least one toe.

I wish I didn’t have to remember to take meds and supplements at 7:00 am, 8:00 am, 11:00 am, 2:00 pm, 8:00 pm, and 9:00 pm. (The one at 7:00 am, 2:00 pm, and 9:00 pm is thankfully short-lived, as it’s for shingles. The one at 11:00 am can’t be within two hours either way of other supplements, and only on Mondays, Wednesdays, and Fridays. Oh, and the one at 8:00 am and 8:00 pm can swing an hour either way. I need reminders for the reminders.)

I wish, I wish, I wish.

We are all wishing there were something different about our bodies. Perhaps more beautiful, less broken. Perhaps more mindful, less medicated. Perhaps more disciplined, less distracted. Perhaps more perfect, less painful.

We could all probably agree that we would gladly give up the groaning we have over our physical bodies or the bodies of our loved ones.

But would any of us willingly step to the front of the line of dysfunctional bodies and tell God he can do whatever he pleases with our bodies in accordance with his will? Would we volunteer and say, "Take mine. If you wound it, then you wound it. If you maim it, you maim it. If you break it, you break it. Whatever you desire for my body, Lord, do it." Would we be like Job, the ancient sufferer who lost all, including his own health, yet still proclaims, "Though he slay me, yet will I trust in him" (Job 13:15, KJV)?

Though God slays our bodies—perhaps even unto death itself—will we trust in him?

I haven't been able to answer that question for myself as of yet, at least not in a way that is total surrender to God, as I truly would love to be consistently well and free of ailments and odd symptoms, and of course, cancer-free. Yet this is where we live while on Planet Earth, stuck between the tension of bodies that are imperfect, sick, and maimed, and bodies that will one day be made whole for all eternity. Paul went on to say in 2 Corinthians 5:4, "For while we are still in this tent, we groan, being burdened—not that we would be unclothed, but that we would be further clothed, so that what is mortal may be swallowed up by life."

The day will come when our broken bodies will be made whole, and not only will they be well for more than ten consecutive minutes, they will be gloriously well for all eternity. The mortal will be swallowed up in life everlasting and attempting to be a Cirque du Soleil performer just to get socks on and stand upright will be a thing of the past. 

Leaving and Staying

Before I bought my grandmother's house in 2022, I had moved four times in five years. When I moved into the house, I had no plans of buying it, but over time one of the chief reasons I decided to buy was because I was sick of putting my life in boxes and asking friends and family to help me haul things around the city. I had moved in September 2017, June 2019, December 2020, and then finally into my grandmother's house in December 2021. I joked with my parents shortly after I formally purchased the house in June 2022 that they could just bury me in the backyard someday because I was never moving again.

This is a radical change from how I spent virtually all of my college and young adult years. It was then that I did the bulk of my traveling and leaving. If my memory serves me correctly, before I left for college, I had been on a plane precisely two times—to and from Alaska with my parents and grandmother in the summer of 2002. But during and after college, I lived to be on the go. I dreaded the thought of being in one place for too long. I was terrified of getting ‘stuck.’ So, I just stayed in perpetual motion, the restlessness a raging force in my life: Missouri, Russia, San Diego, North Carolina, Kenya (twice!), Guatemala. And, of course, I picked up friends from these places along the way, who were also coming from other parts of the country, so then I’d go back to visit them, or we’d meet up somewhere. Missouri was the longest stint, living out there six out of seven years while I finished both undergrad and grad school. It was an interesting sensation when I watched the movie Up In the Air—which was filmed primarily in the St. Louis airport and was the airport I flew in and out of while I lived in Missouri—and essentially knew which terminal almost all the airport scenes were filmed.

Then it seemed that when I hit my thirties, I discovered a figurative set of brakes, or at least how to pump them. Life slowed down, and the restless tug grew quieter and quieter. The last time I went overseas was when I was twenty-nine. The desire to leave the country seemingly vanished, and I set my sights on more domestic longings. I was thirty-one when I went to Jackson Hole for the first time in 2015. And then I went again, and again, and again. Once I discovered Jackson, I had little interest in going elsewhere. There were still a few places I would go on vacation to with family, but by and large, Jackson ruled the roost for me.

Now, in my forties, I prefer to just leave my life car in park altogether, especially after these last two years. I feel Nate Bargatze's clip on how he moved through the first half of his life deep in my bones because it's so on point. It reflects all too well my own progression from my twenties to my thirties and now my forties. For those in their fifties and beyond, feel free to to extend Nate's observations and weigh in on what the possibilities could be for my future decades.

As I've been looking back on each of these decades recently and all the moving I did, I am often reminded of how the Israelites moved about after they came out of slavery in Egypt. I recently started attending a new church over the last several months, and it has already become dear to me in a very short amount of time. The pastor decided over three years ago to preach through the entirety of the Bible, verse by verse, beginning with Genesis 1. He just reached the fourth book of the Bible, Numbers, when I arrived in October.

The book of Numbers follows the Hebrew people in the days and months immediately following their freedom from Egypt and slavery. They have crossed the Red Sea and are now in the desert. God is giving them the purity laws, explaining to them the ways in which they are to conduct themselves as his chosen people. He’s also explaining to them how to lay out their camp according to the tribes, with the tabernacle at the center of all they do. He chooses a cloud to indicate his presence, which is perpetually present, serving as an indicator of God's continual presence with his people. If the cloud moved, the people of God were to move. It didn’t matter how long or short they had been in camp; they moved when God moved.

Think about this: over one million people were living in tents, and all their worldly possessions with them, including their livestock. Every time they moved, they had to pack their clothes, gather their herds, families, and all that they had plundered from the Egyptians (with God's permission!), pull up tent stakes, pack up the tents, and move. And then, when they arrived at wherever it was God intended they should go, they did everything in reverse order. Sometimes they moved multiple times within a week; sometimes, maybe once a year. But they did this countless times—for forty years. Packing, leaving, unpacking, staying. Packing, leaving, unpacking, staying. Wash, rinse, repeat, over and over and over again. Numbers 9:18, 22-23 explains:

At the command of the Lord the people of Israel set out, and at the command of the Lord they camped. As long as the cloud rested over the tabernacle, they remained in camp. Whether it was two days, or a month, or a longer time that the cloud continued over the tabernacle, abiding there, the people of Israel remained in camp and did not set out; but when it lifted, they set out. At the command of the Lord they camped, and at the command of the Lord they set out. They kept the charge of the Lord at the command of the Lord by Moses.

I can’t fathom that kind of nomadic lifestyle. What if they didn’t want to move? What if they liked that particular piece of ground? What if someone in their family physically didn’t feel well and traveling was difficult?

It didn’t matter if they didn’t want to, didn’t feel well, or were tired. What mattered above all else was the presence of God. They moved when God moved. And if he wasn’t moving, then they weren’t moving either. I wonder what I would have done if I were among the Israelites. Would I have become bitter over what felt like such a grueling exercise in futility and inefficiency? Or would have there have been any part of me that would have appreciated the process or been grateful, beholding the wonder that was the presence of God himself in a cloud? Would I have been asking God why he couldn't just get us to our destination in a single trip? 

There's a lot of things God was teaching the Israelites through the use of the cloud, but one of which was to see that the staying and leaving both mattered, for however long. God was teaching them to be tuned to his presence above all else—above their own preferences, above their own wellbeing, and above their own longings. Because whether staying or going, it meant proximity to the presence of God and it was proof that they were a people marked, sheltered, and protected by God himself. Moses, the leader of this mass of nomadic people, said in Exodus 33:15-16 explained why the presence of God mattered so much, “If your Presence does not go with us, do not send us up from here. How will anyone know that you are pleased with me and with your people unless you go with us? What else will distinguish me and your people from all the other people on the face of the earth?”

Moses was desperately pleading with God to not send them somewhere that God himself would not go with them, for who were the Israelites if Immanuel, which literally translates not just to the "God Who is With Us," but to "the With-Us God", did, in fact, not go with them? What was going to set them apart from everyone else on the face of the earth? It would be meaningless for them to go anywhere that God was not, and Moses inherently knew this. The Promised Land was a meaningless promise if God did not go with them.

I hope God physically doesn't move me again anytime soon, but I want to be where the With-Us God is, attentive to his Holy Spirit and his workings. And I'm not just talking about whether I continue to live in this house or not. It can also mean other spaces and categories. I don't want to be in a job where he isn't. I don't want to be in a friendship where he isn't. I don't want to be in a conversation where he isn't. Yes, I understand that we as believers who live under the power of the New Covenant do not live like the Old Covenant Israelites where God did not dwell in them. I have the power of the Living God in and with me at all times. So, I don't actually need to ask God to be with me like Moses did, but I do still have to be aware of his Holy Spirit. I often pray Galatians 5:25, that I would keep in step with the Spirit. If he moves, I want to move with him. If he's telling me to pull up stakes, then I'm pulling up stakes. If he's telling me to write something specific, then I'm writing something specific. If he's telling me to text a particular person with a particular encouragement, I'm texting. From the big to the small, I want to be where he is. For how else will anyone know that I belong to him? I want to go where the cloud of his presence goes, leaving and staying when he leaves and when he stays.

Who knows what the remainder of my forties look like, but I hope that no matter what decade I'm in that I'm moving wherever the presence of God is, even if I do have to pack up boxes. Again.

Health update

Treatment already feels like it was some sort of dark, distant nightmare, even thought it's only been four months since I took my last chemo pill. I don't know what it is exactly about the latter half of 2025, but it seems like somebody punched the light speed on humanity's collective Millennium Falcon, sending us all hurtling into space with entire galaxies whizzing by like long streams of thin white lines. And it seems as though everyone else has been feeling the same way, not just me.

I had my first post-treatment MRI last week and then met with the neuro-onc immediately after. The tumor is stable and shows no signs of growth, which is the hope for every MRI moving forward. Generally speaking, as soon as treatment was over, I didn't have any lingering symptoms other than some blood count issues. I had been working with a functional medicine nurse and nutritionist prior to treatment ending with the express intent of getting things in place so that my body would rebound well from the hits it took during treatment. And that seems to have happened. All things considered, it's a miracle that I am doing as well as I am neurologically and functionally. 

My next MRI should have been scheduled for February at the standard three month mark, but the doctor felt I was doing so well that we could go ahead and extend the interval out to April, which is good news. I still have a smattering of appointments between now and then, most of which are just routine care and check ins with other specialists. All in all, I am doing well, by the goodness and grace of God!