Broken Ballerina

Written October 31, 2014

It's been 17 years... and that's a really long time when you're only 34. Half of my life. I've always been a 'date person'... It seems that birthdays and anniversaries are permanently etched in my mind... even the bad ones.
It was Halloween 1997... I was a 17 year old ballerina. I say 'ballerina' so boldly because that was all I wanted to do... all I COULD do. "Wouldn't you just love to teach someday?!" someone would ask me occasionally...  "Umm... NO!" ...was my immediate thought. "That's what 'broken ballerinas' do... you know... when they're old... and can't dance anymore." Of course, as a timid 17 year old, I would never say that... I would just passively smile instead.
But I truly and deeply LOVED the art of ballet. I was not a natural performer... but I could literally take hours of classes a day. Hours... the bloodier the inside of my point shoes... the better.

Well... that Halloween day changed everything for me. That was the day that my back 'went out'. At first I wasn't too worried... because, "I'm a young, healthy ballerina, of course". My biggest worry was missing a few rehearsals for our upcoming Christmas performance.

However, weeks and months of chiropractor, doctor and physical therapy appointments would reveal a serious problem. Two cracked vertebrae, severe spinal stenosis and two herniated and torn discs. After multiple epidural injections with absolutely no relief...we tried to fix the tears in my disc first. A painful (and experimental) test had to be done to see if I was a good candidate for this new IDET procedure. They would put a needle into my discs and pump it full of liquid... to see if my torn discs would leak and to decide if patching them was a good idea. Of course I had to be awake for the procedure in order to give them feedback... and could not be numb... so they could distinguish exactly where my pain was coming from.

IT WAS HORRIBLE. I can go back to that operating room and the pain I felt that day in a split second... it's still so vivid to me. I remember tears streaming down my face even though I was trying not to cry. It was quite traumatic. In fact I believe they aren't even allowed to do these procedures anymore. The only 'plus side' of this whole rigmarole is that I can now endure natural childbirth without even blinking an eye... unless there are hemorrhoids involved, which in that case... please just knock me out...

I digress... apologies all around.

Years pass... and every new attempt to 'fix me' goes down the drain. I was a broken ballerina. Very broken. I resorted to an army load of narcotics, anti-depressants, valium, ambien and vodka to ease the pain.

At a doctor appointment one dreary, February day... with a homemade red velvet cake in tote (for one of the nurses)... I laid across the floor in the waiting room with tears streaming down into my ears... unable to get up on my own... My doctor scheduled a spinal fusion for the following day.

After a week in the hospital, I was sent home with 2 rods and 6 screws holding my back together. I wish that was the end of the story, but after months of 'not recovering'... we realized that my body was rejecting the material they put in. So back in for a second spinal fusion. This time they would fillet me like a fish... one surgeon would take everything out of my back and replace them with new titanium rods and screws... and another surgeon would flip the operating table over and access my vertebra through my stomach. After a dash or two of cadaver bone... they stitched me up and let me simmer.

The second surgery went much better than the first. People that came to visit me at the hospital observed that I didn't look as 'gray and pitiful' the second time around. I took that as quite the compliment.

The sweet, fragrant blossom on this tightly pruned plant that is my life... is that my back is stable and has not deteriorated further... the thorns, on the other hand, are many. My pain is the same. Some days I can tolerate the constant pain fairly well... and other times, I can hardly take a deep breath without my back seizing up.

I remember wondering... " how long will I have to deal with this before God heals me?"

The woman that touched the hem of Jesus' garment suffered for 12 years before being healed. "I could never make it that long!" , I remember thinking. Yet here I am, 17 years later. Still praying... and waiting. Jesus healed people miraculously and instantaneously when he encountered them... why hasn't he done that for me? I know I have at least a mustard seed's worth of faith... that's all it takes, right?
I've seen people healed before my eyes... I believe he can and will do that for me one day... but the hoping and waiting can feel like quick sand. Despair and hopelessness swallowing me up with just one step in the wrong direction.

I read Romans 5 yesterday. One of my favorite verses is tucked into this chapter of scripture. Something about rejoicing in our sufferings... because  suffering produces perseverance, and perseverance produces character, and character produces hope... and hope does not disappoint.

BULL$H#!... I used to think (and I may have even screamed it at times). How on earth can suffering bring about hope?! I wrestled with these words for YEARS... but recently these words have wrapped around me like a warm blanket, instead of the sandpaper they used to feel like.

What's the difference? For me... 'hope' was the defining term. Hope in what? Hope that my surgery would be successful? Hope to dance like I used to? Hope for a comfortable life without pain?

No...
That's how I would naturally define 'hope' if it were left up to me entirely. But if I believe in the Bible as the inspired word of God... then I should probably figure out how HE defines HOPE. In Romans 5 (and throughout scripture)... the word HOPE is pointing to a 'future glory'. Hope does not reside in the crevices of this earth... or even on the highest mountaintop of this world we call home. God defines hope as a future glory... somewhere else... heaven... our real home.

Now that changed everything for me. Defining hope God's way instead of my own was like stepping into a new world.

My eyes were starting to recognize God as LOVE... instead of some cruel dictator. If God loved me enough to send his son to die in my place... and if all of God's wrath was poured out on Jesus (as the Bible says)... then why would God punish me further by heaping more judgement on me? If God's wrath was satisfied at the cross... then why do I envision him still pouring wrath out on this earth?

Well... to be quite honest... because this world can be a pretty crappy place... and I'm speaking from a place of privilege compared to many. The physical pain that I've encountered doesn't even begin to compare to what so many beautiful souls have had to endure throughout their days on this earth. Genocide, starvation, abuse... and all this happens under the watchful eye of a 'sovereign god'? That just doesn't sound very loving to me. I want absolutely nothing to do with a god that passively sits back as his, supposedly, beloved children groan in agony...

...and so I wrestle. Wrestle with my idea of an all-powerful sovereign who allows such things. I grapple with the things I've believed about god my whole life... and it's in this deep, dark pit that a flicker of hope ignites.

Wait... a flicker of hope... as I contemplate the suffering of this world? I couldn't think of a more surprising place to discover such a thing. Then I press in further to the god that scripture reveals. A God who created us in His image. A God who walked and communed with mankind in the paradise he created for them. A God who gave a choice to his beloved children... instead of dictating over us like a puppet master.

I have been given the choice to believe or not... and there have been plenty of times that my hard heart chose the latter. But the more I chose to believe in and learn about the god of scripture... I grow to know Him more as a dear and loving Father.

A father who loved me enough to punish his own son for the sins of humanity of which I am a part. A father who wants me to long for this 'place of hope'... this heavenly home he is preparing for me. A father who loves me enough to take away the cheap appetizers of this world... so my appetite for heaven can grow. An appetite that reminds me that this world is not my home.

When I watch somebody land a glorious triple pirouette or hold a steady 180 degree developé a la second... my heart wants to kick and scream... "I can do that! Or least I used to do that..." (well... if I'm honest, a solid double). But not the 'I did it once in my socks in the kitchen' kind of double... but the 'I can nail it every time... en pointe... and even hold the balance'... double.

Either way... I can no longer do that.. and it hurts. I used to be a ballerina... but now I'm broken. I used to be an optimistic dreamer... but now my opinions resonate more with that of a cynic. 17 years is a long time to feel the jagged edges of your broken pieces. Jagged edges that rip away the delicate fabrics and facades of this world. Yet through the tears in the dark canvas of this broken world shines a far away light... like the stars in a black sky. Maybe the holes in my portrait of this world allow me to see into a more beautiful world. Yes... it's completely destroying my own masterpiece I've been painting... but I see more and more of HIS glorious masterpiece as my own is ripped away.

I have experienced the presence of God in my darkest moments. The comforting of his Holy Spirit when I literally wanted to die rather than endure another night of pain. I have seen the sweet side of surrendering to a loving father... and the relief of knowing that He has the power to change my heart and he redeems the broken pieces of this world.

I don't pretend to know God's thoughts or ways... they are far above my own... and I've decided I that I simply have to be ok with mystery. The essence of faith. Trusting without seeing. But every time another piece of this world is ripped away, I can see His picture more clearly.

If I had it my way... my painting would put me center stage. Somehow the ballerina in the picture would have a breathtaking arabesque, beautifully arched feet, an effortless smile... and no pain. That ballerina would be perfectly content in the world she perceived. Her own heaven.

But it was never my way...

... and so I wrestle... and think...What if this sovereign god exists? A god that knows our temporary happiness would forfeit our eternal life? A god that has a plan to redeem what is evil in this world so that we don't have to suffer in vain. A god who loves me? If this god of scripture exists... and I believe he does... then it's almost too good to be true. I could never define hope the way he does... hope coming from suffering? Indeed...

Suffering has produced perseverance... and perseverance does produce character... and the more character I acquire, the more I understand the Character of the one who created me... and as I understand Him more... I can't help but hope. This hope springs from knowing Him... and is impossible without Him. How beautiful it is to sit back and watch hope unfold... knowing that I'm not the one painting the picture. I've given up the quest to paint my world the way I see it... and now hope to spend my days trying to see through the brokenness of my world and into his world. I can only imagine His painting getting more clear and glorious with each passing year.