Elise's Story: Strength Through Him

Where do I even start with Elise? I'm so grateful for this girl. When I emailed friends during the summer to let them know I was starting this blog, Elise was the first one to reply back to me and volunteer to share her story. We didn't know each other that well, but she spent two hours on the phone with me talking about everything from Jimmy Fallon to Jesus. She is one of the strongest, most courageous people I know, and I know her story will touch many. Thanks for sharing your heart, Elise. — M

I moved to New York City from Texas about three years ago and fell in love with it. I had visited all throughout high school and knew the city like the back of my hand. I knew it was dirty and messy and hard. I knew what I was getting myself into, but I wanted to invest in this place. I found a great group of friends, really plugged into a church, and I was in a really good spot with the Lord.

I remember thinking that I never wanted this season to end because it was so wonderful. I worked 10-hour days, would go on a 4-mile run after work, and then meet up with friends, no problem. I lived a very New York lifestyle. I was literally living the dream.

And then life changed drastically.

It was April 2013, the first day after a long winter that it hit about 55 degrees. I went to Central Park, laid my towel down in Sheep Meadow, and read. It was wonderful.

After this, I noticed something on my leg, and I honestly thought it was just an ingrown hair. It stayed there for a while, so I assumed it was a spider bite. Almost two months later, that bite was still there. My mom, a nurse, also thought it was a bad spider bite.

By June, though, I felt very sick and very tired all the time. I honestly thought I was burning the candle at both ends. Oh, I'm just doing too much. I need to rest more.

I visited my primary care doctor to test for vitamin D deficiency. The test came back clear. The doctor patted me on my back and sent me away. Each week, new symptoms kept appearing. Every Friday I could tell a difference between my last Friday. I would get numbness and tingling in my hands and feet. The next week I would have trouble walking in a straight line. Sometimes I would walk down the street, veering left and right, like I was walking on a cruise ship. I would have this thing called air hunger—trouble breathing and having a full breath—and that’s when doctors started getting worried.

So I saw a neurologist in Texas, who conducted a bunch of different tests. They thought it was MS for a long time. After four or five months of not knowing what was wrong with me, I began praying I had MS. When my MRI came back clear, I broke down in tears. I simply wanted to know what was going on with me.

Every doctor said I was the picture of health. But fall of 2013 was a blur of different ER and doctor’s visits. A pulmonologist. A cardiologist. A rheumatologist. No one could figure it out. I felt helpless.

At this point, I was angry with The Lord. What is happening to me, God. November rolls around, and I am a hot mess. Tired all the time. I can barely finish a full day of work. Yet I could throw myself onto the subway, put on makeup, and people thought I was okay. A lot of doctors said I must have anxiety or be too busy. I assured them it takes a lot to stress me out. I was always known for having it all-together. But this time, I was falling apart.

I went home to Dallas that Thanksgiving. While riding in the car with my mom at one point, everything went dark. Like a bolt of lightening hit me. I suffered a seizure or a mini stroke. The best of the best doctors in NYC and Texas still didn’t know what was going on. They thought it was psychosomatic.

When I flew back to New York City, I almost passed out on the plane. An ambulance had to get me in the middle of Newark Airport. It was terrifying. That’s when my mom flew up. Our last-stitch effort was to visit an infectious disease expert. I had all these blood tests done, and the doctor said it looked like my body was fighting off something but it was gone now. He sent me to a psychiatrist. My doctors were passing me along to one another because they had no idea what was going on.

“I remember walking around the Upper West Side, taking in the New York City Christmas scene and thinking this was going to be my last Christmas.”

By Christmas, I decided I needed to move back to Texas, attempt to figure out what is going on. I remember walking around the Upper West Side, taking in the New York City Christmas scene and thinking this was going to be my last Christmas. I am really thankful for my 24 years. It’s been a fun ride. Now it’s time to exit this season in peace.

I remember walking and almost thinking I was going to be hit by a car, so it would be quick. It’s such flawed thinking as I look back. But I was so sick. Everything felt so hard, and I didn’t think I could do it anymore.

Once I moved home to Texas, I was determined to get answers. I researched and narrowed down my symptoms to MS and lyme disease—and I already knew it wasn’t MS. I thought of that bug bite I got back in April. And the more I read, the more I learned how lyme disease testing isn’t reliable. The guidelines for testing haven’t been reviewed in years, insurance companies don’t want to pay for it, other companies are lobbying the CDC. There are all sorts of investigations and politics at play. I thought, Whoa I don’t want to do this. What am I getting myself into?

I felt like the Holy Spirit was telling me, This is my way, walk in it. I had this very clear, quiet sense of knowing what to do next.

I saw a chronic disease doctor in Dallas and told her my whole story. She believed it was lyme disease. By this point, I had lost 10 or 15 pounds in three months. This doctor just looked at me and said, “You’re too young. I will be at your wedding day. I refuse to let this take you.” She prayed for me; she wouldn’t give up on me. She was a godsend.

“The Holy Spirit was telling me, This is my way, walk in it.”

This was when I decided to start long-term antibiotics. In terms of treatment, antibiotics are controversial. My own family was divided about what my next steps in treatment should be. But I knew I had to try antibiotics to survive.

I felt so alone, like I had this mystery disease and no one really knew how to treat it. I felt abandoned in a way. A lot of my friends didn’t know how to handle it, and it’s my fault, too, because I didn’t know how sick I was. I thought I would go to Dallas, fly under the radar, and not let people into this really scary and controversial part of my life. 

But I needed community and joined a women’s group at my church in Dallas. These girls faithfully prayed with me through everything. I kept thinking, God where are you? Yet His hand was in all of this.

My body was too sick to handle the antibiotics, and I went on a natural protocol. That spring was like a spring of my soul; slowly, I started to improve. At the same time, I found myself in the middle of this heated medical debate: Insurance companies like to say lyme disease doesn’t exist, and doctors get in trouble for prescribing long-term antibiotics for a disease that a small percentage of people think don’t exist. 

I thought, Okay, Lord, if I can get even an ounce better, I want to use this energy and this story to speak for those who can’t speak for themselves.

With that in mind, I returned to NYC in May of 2014. I began sharing my story and got involved with the biggest lyme nonprofit in the world. I was really scared about being vulnerable and people thinking I'm crazy. The Lord has been so faithful in that, helping me to use my story to glorify Him and His people, to fight for the rights of the marginalized. 

I’m finding beauty in trusting that my identity is in the Lord. I want to do whatever He’s given me with excellence. I’m used to being a New Yorker, where life revolves around what I do and getting crap done. And as a Texan, the mantra is pull yourself up by your bootstraps and get it together, which is so not the gospel. We women think we’re supposed to have it all together. To be educated, stylish, fit, and have great careers. We value strength and independence and achievement.

I began antibiotic treatment that October. I really wanted to make New York work, to a fault. I am stubborn. Come May of 2015, in the midst of heart palpitations and passing out on the street, I knew I needed to be somewhere else in order to heal. I returned to Texas.

People will tell me that I seem so joyful, so I must feel great. But really it’s because I have a source of joy that’s greater than me—the one constant in life I know I can rely on. Jesus is the same yesterday, today, and forever. Even when friends or family or doctors fail me, I can turn to the one who has never failed me and will never fail me.

This is my portion that has been given to me. I am constantly saying, Okay, Lord, how can I fight this well and with courage?

“I have a source of joy that’s greater than me.”

It’s okay to not be okay. It’s okay to cry and be vulnerable. We don’t have to have it all together. Let’s have grace with ourselves. God has been showing me what I consider to be good and what He considers to be good. I understand now that what really matters is who I am in Him and trusting God with the rest.

With the Lord, there are ups and downs. Like any relationship that is worth fighting for, you are going to have those moments when you’re angry and frustrated. I have felt a lot of anger toward Him. For the longest time, I would just run away. Now I know that instead of disengaging, I have to constantly wrestle with Him. The best people we’ve known throughout history have experienced loss, suffering, and defeat.

Currently I am home in Dallas. Doctors say it could be 6 to 18 months until I’m in remission—or longer. I've realized I can’t do this on my own. I need Him. God is sovereign, and He sees the big picture. He is the one who gives me joy and strength. He has got this.

Follow Elise on her blog and on Instagram. 

The Moment My Eyes Were Opened

She had dark black bruises around both eyes. Her hair hung limply around her face. Her clothes were the indistinguishable black of every other New Yorker. She sat at the foot of the subway steps, with her back against the wall. Her son lie with his head down in her lap. I never saw his face. He was either asleep, or perhaps too tired or sick to sit up. In fact, if you walked by them fast enough, you would not have even known he was there. He was a small lump that could have passed for a rumpled-up blanket. Until you saw his shoes. His little sneakers gave him away.

It was this woman’s eyes that struck me. Those espresso-colored eyes with their awful bruises underneath. They glanced up at me with a look of utter exhaustion, as if even the slow movement of her eyeballs up toward me was painful. She didn’t have to speak to me—this look said more than her words ever could. She was despondent, hurt, defeated.

I stepped to her side, out of the continual flow of foot traffic up and down the subway stairs. I reached into my purse to pull out my wallet. I handed her a $5 bill and for a split second, her eyes lit up with the recognition that someone saw her. Someone stopped.

“God bless you. God bless you. God bless you,” she said to me.

I touched her hand. I nodded and gave her a small smile as I fought back tears.

I stepped away and walked up the stairs, ascending into a gorgeous fall evening in one of the wealthiest neighborhoods in all of the city. No sooner did my feet hit the sidewalk before the tears came. Hot, wet crocodile tears streaming down my face.

I wept. I wept for this woman. For her son. For all the broken, the lost, the hungry. And for a few blocks, I couldn’t stop.

Streams of people continued all around me. I am sure someone saw me crying, but I let the tears flow freely. I realized I normally wouldn’t have even seen this woman, but on this night, she was put in my path. On this night, I had gotten off the subway at a different stop than my usual. I had planned to walk the rest of the way home while talking on the phone to my best friend.

As I began walking and dialed my friend’s number, the tears were still coming. I had a hard time catching my breath as I explained to her what had happened.

It’s okay; they’re good tears. Well, no, they’re really not good, but I’m okay. I’m sad.

There’s such brokenness in this world, Em. People are hurting. It is so hard, and I don’t know what to do.

A five-dollar bill created such a look of relief in this woman’s face. With five dollars, she and her son could each ride the subway one way. Or they could go to the McDonald’s down the street and buy two McDoubles, two sodas, and Chicken McNuggets off the Dollar Menu. But that’s it. Transportation or food. One or the other.

“Bear one another’s burdens, and so fulfill the law of Christ.”
— Galatians 6:2

And yet she looked at me like I had given her the world.

Please hear me: This post is not my way of urging you to donate money, or to donate more money. This is not me patting myself on the back for helping this woman. This is me confessing how little I do to help. I don’t stop for each homeless person. I don’t volunteer at a shelter. I don’t often pray for them. I didn’t even understand the importance of tithing until recently. I am a good person, but I know I can do better. We can all do better.

Once I walked away from this woman, I immediately regretted not doing something more. Why didn’t I offer to take her to a women’s shelter, or take her to eat a real meal? I didn’t even tell her I would pray for her, or that she has a Father who loves her very much. Because when I looked in her eyes, all I could do was cry. Seeing my fellow human being in such a state really shook me.

It's so easy for me to complain about my life. I grumble about not feeling fulfilled in my career. I worry about my future and my finances. I stress about my social life and freelance work and finding time to fit it all in. Meanwhile the crestfallen and hopeless are literally lying at my feet.

It hurts to see a person in such brokenness because we are not meant to live like that. We weren’t designed for suffering. But we live in a fallen world, and suffering thrives.

“He raises up the poor from the dust, He lifts the needy from the ash heap to make them sit with princes and inherit a seat of honor. For the pillars of the earth are the Lord’s, and on them He has set the world.”
— 1 Samuel 2:8

My hope rests in the new earth, a time when suffering will be no more, when peace and joy will reign throughout. I am so very grateful to our God who provides that and who has adopted us into His kingdom.

But while I’m still here, on this earth and in New York City, what can I do?

There are almost 60,000 homeless people in NYC alone. It’s overwhelming. I pray that the Lord would open my eyes to one person who I can help. To put one person in front of me. One person who I can have a relationship with, who I can pray for, and who I can extend more than a $5 bill.

Maybe this woman is my person.

In that moment, my eyes were opened. If I see her again, I will talk to her. I will let her know that she is not alone. I will do what I can to get her and her son to safety. Most importantly, I will pray. Whether I see her again or not, she is still out there, still wounded and hurting.

Father, protect her and her son. I pray that you provide food for them to eat and a safe, warm place to rest their heads. I pray they would know you and find hope in you. And Father, I ask that you cultivate a heart of gratitude in me. Help me respond to the plight of others around me in however you enable me to do so. Help me to take action. Make us a city of doers, Lord. A city that believes in spreading kindness and humanity toward our fellow neighbors. Give us your strength to fight for our brothers and sisters, God. Make us more like Your Son, and help us remember His love and His mercy knows no bounds. Thy will be done. I pray all these things through Jesus Christ. Amen.