Rosey Magical Migraines

I was six years old. I loved riding my bike on the sidewalk in front of our house. It was a giant rectangle with grass in the middle and houses with gardens along the outside. Big Air Force jets and helicopters flew over all the time.

One day a training wheel on my bike broke so my parents took the other one off. They said it was time for me to learn how to ride on two wheels anyway. I felt scared.

“How do I keep my balance with my feet on the petals?” I asked. “I can’t feel the ground.”

They told me they’d be there, running beside me, helping me with the balance until I figured it out.

I put my feet on the petals. I felt the push and heard the feet running. I pushed on the petals and they started moving. I moved my hips like I was running, and the handlebars wobbled back and forth. Everything went by so fast that I couldn’t see where I was going. My hair flew in my face. The tires were so skinny and wobbly. The front wheel turned as my hands shook.

We slowed down and stopped, unsure how it happened.

We started again. I worked on riding a two-wheeler every day that week. In the morning I practiced with my Mom. At night, with my Dad. We’d go out back where the cars park. The street was wide and made a big circle. I wobbled until I found my balance. I rode fast and far back there. It was better than the sidewalk in front of the house.

Saturday my Grandparents came.  I couldn’t wait to show them! I grabbed my Grandma and Grandpa’s hands, dragging them out front.

I sat on the bike.

Put my feet on the petals.

I nodded, grinning.

Dad began to run. I started to petal.

They all cheered. I was flying. My hair blew in the wind. The sidewalk felt different than the black driveway. I started going faster. It was a little scary.

‘Why is the road so close to the sidewalk?’ I wondered. ‘I’m going to crash into the road. A car will hit me and I will go

SPLAT!!’

‘I will never ride my bike again.’ I whispered. ‘What do I do?’

I heard yelling:

“Turn!”

“Stop!”

“Use the break!”

Nearing the canyon of road, I felt the handlebars wobble. The wheel looked for a direction.

‘Grass or rosebushes?’

The bike stopped at the edge,

I flew over the handlebars, landing upside down in a rosebush.

Everyone was running and yelling. They picked me up as a cloud of questions barraged me. They carried me home picking out rose thorns before bathing me in Bactine and bandaging the bleeding wounds.

That’s what happened with writing and me.

For the first time in five years, words flowed. I had posts scheduled beyond the immediate day. Canvases and sewing projects were planned and completed on a predictable schedule.We got along great.

I felt quite on top of things.

Then the Central Valley February blooms began.

I forgot to calculate allergy season and the joys it stirs up for Migraines and Asthma. This visit from the Magical Migraines stayed for three weeks. Some were a full Migraine, but I’ve learned from previous visits that they also like to form a Cluster. Never enough for me to really know what’s going on, but enough to not really be able to fully function. No pain, but confusion, blurred vision, sensitivity to light, trouble talking, extreme fatigue, balance issues, pins and needles in my muscles, lack of appetite, Eeyore type depression, Sensory Overload type anxiety and occasionally shaking hands.

Kind of like mice throwing a house party.

I don’t consider myself a Migraine Sufferer. I have to look at it as a Migraine Lifestyle. I am grateful for this physical inconvenience because one of the lessons is self-care, pacing, and balance.

I have the appropriate medication that I take. I have a long list of foods I avoid; I rest and exercise. I have yoga poses I use when I am able. In openly talking about it, I’ve discovered a whole Migraine Community. This ability to connect with other Migraine Lifestylers and check what their symptoms are is life-giving. I discovered that Migraine anxiety and Migraine depression are their own thing. Losing time isn’t just my imagination. Often when I can’t talk, I can play charades in public with another Migraine person. Not only do I get what I need, but we have fun doing it.  It helps to see the difference in managing Chronic Illness.

I love the Magical Migraine ridiculous experiences. The silly things I say. The self-deprecating things I do and can laugh at.  It is frustrating to lose time, but I’m grateful for the people I have around me who understand.

Just like finding myself upside down in a rosebush after an epic bike ride.

What Is In A Name?

My hands dripped with flour paste for the paper mache sculpture as I listened to Jayson Bradley's sermon What Is Your Name And Why Does It Matter. It is odd to think of one’s own name as a nemesis, but that is how I saw mine.


After my Dad left the Air Force, our transition into civilian life was challenging. Jobs were scarece and we had to move from Utah to California.  In third grade I went to three schools.  I saw myself as a burden. I knew my birth kept my Mom from attaining her degree. The moving and uncertainty was hardest on my Mom. She was pregnant and struggled to keep up with my three year old sister. I often felt in the way.

Once settled, civilian culture in a small town was very different than military life. Everyone was nice, but many found me odd. The friendships that were formed didn't last very long.

In fifth grade I came to a warped conclusion. The big thing in Sunday School the meaning of your name. The Bible said that what your name meant was who you were. Kids with biblical names were the coolest. It was easy to find an encouraging life verse to tack onto a Biblical hero.

My name fell into a gray area. Rebecca was the English spelling of Rebekah, so the coolness factor was minimal. Imagine my disappointment when I looked it up:

Bound

In my frailty it made sense:

Prisoners are bound.
Captives and kidnapped victims are bound.
An anchor is bound to a ship.
Bound was a prison.

My greatest fear confirmed; I was a burden. I was an entanglement. I was an impediment. Tearful cries began. Begging God to show me my secret name written on that white stone. I didn't want to be a burden. I wanted to be a blessing. As I grew up in Wonderland, that flawed reality only solidified.

Still praying that prayer and waiting patiently for an answer into adulthood. Then one day,  reading  the account of Isaac meeting Rebekah my point of view shifted
Isaac was walking in the field, still mourning the loss of his mother. He saw the camels…

Que sappy romantic music


Rebekah covered her face, dismounted the camel and met him. Isaac then took her into his home and he loved her, she comforted him. His grief and loneliness were bound up. She was not a burden to him. She was a gift. She captivated him.

The shift from a negative:bound to a positive: captivating began.

I am interesting.
People are curious about me.
I can help ease a burden.
I can comfort those in difficulty.
I am good at organizing in a crisis.

In reading Fearless Daughters of the Bible, J. Lee Grady points out when God changed Abram and Sari’s name to Abraham and Sarah, he wove in the Hebrew H “breath” sound: the same sound that is part of his own name.

I felt Holy Spirit’s breath seal my name. Rebekah has that same breath sound. How it is spelled is irrelevant. I am identified with Divine Love. That Holy Breath renews my soul. It frees me to grow. It redeems what I thought about myself and grants me vision of how God sees me.

Remembering Veterans

Today is Veteran’s Day or Remembrance Day. 

My Dad is a veteran.

Now it is popular to be one, but when I was a kid it was not. Dad wrestled with shame, like many Vietnam Vets. He felt a little extra-because he was stationed here.

He worked personnel. Many faces passed through his office. Some were on their way over; some on their way home. He would tell me about the guilt over the ones he sent over and the question that nagged-which ones came home.

We were stationed at Kirkland Air Force Base in Albuquerque, New Mexico and Hill Air Force Base in Logan, Utah. My Mom played the chapel organ, my Dad worked at the radio station. I would listen as Dad would talk about the new music coming on the scene; Christian Rock which shared hope, all the while being relevant.

As an observer-grown-ups don’t realize how much kids really catch-I watched his pained face as the black screen with names scrolled after the news. When in the car, listening to the radio, songs quickly changed with the push of a button because of a lyric. One time after work tried to run him down. He was in uniform.

The other kids and I had a secret:

We loved our lives in base housing. The roar of jet engines and helicopters lulled us to sleep. When other kids stopped playing because of a car, something in the air stopped us because we couldn’t hear each other. Everyone was welcome because tomorrow they might live somewhere else. Being lonely was never an option.

We were proud of our Dads for wearing Blue. For giving their time to our country because the country needed them.

It didn't matter to me if he served in a jungle or in an office. In a jungle he would face bullets, mines and enemy lines. Here in the states, he faced media, people and the feeling of being left on the bench.

Each place held scars.

Both missions held dangers.