More Than Words

"They overcame him
      by the blood of the Lamb
      and by the word of their testimony;
   they did not love their lives so much
      as to shrink from death" --Revelation 12:11 NIV

Everyone has a story. I've learned that as I've gotten older. And what I've learned beyond that is that it isn't always apparent what type of story people are living out during the time you brush by them on the street, interact with them in a store or even pray with them on a Sunday morning. But how amazing when you do get to hear them. They can humble, teach, encourage, or all three. All this to say, I just have to tell part of my story, not to accomplish any of the above, but simply because I'm amazed at what God has brought me through, and I thought it might just encourage others, even if on a miniscule level to not only look for the same in their life, but to share it with others.

When I was about 12 years old, the entire make up of my skin began to change. And by make up, I don't mean Cover Girl. I started noticing really awful blemishes, and not only were they horrible to look at, they were terribly painful. No big deal, they were on my forehead, and I had bangs (awful 90's bangs, but bangs nonetheless).

It might be more polite not to share with you the gritty details of my saga, but I actually think that's the fun part, though far more exciting to deliver in person to see the looks of horror on people's faces. So, here goes.

That began the most horrendous round of cystic acne I and my dermatologists had ever seen. What started on my forehead quickly moved to my temples, to my cheeks ending under my jawline. Luckily, the cheek area under my eyes and my chin were spared so I could, at times, somewhat hide the hell that became my skin. I became quite skilled at covering up my acne. I would scoop all my hair as close to my face as possible and walk with the wind, instead of against it, so as not to call further attention to myself. When I would walk into doctor's offices, they would say, "Oh it doesn't look that bad." Then I'd pull back my hair, their face would turn white and they'd recover themselves as quickly as possible to say, "Oh, um, *ahem* um, well, let's take a look at this." Great for a teenage girl's self-esteem. Even better is when she hears, "This is going to cause permanent scarring."

During this time, I was very active in my youth group. My parents told me that I could stay home from church if I wanted to, but I wasn't about to let silly old acne keep me from my God, my friends and serving the body of Christ. I'm a stubborn one, what can I say?

Calling my acne "acne" is really offensive to acne. Mine was like epidermal Hiroshima. I had gigantic cysts on my face. Sometimes I would lie awake at night and count over 100 of them. My best friend at the time could have passed for teenage Barbie. Perfect body, hair--beautiful. Totally missed what I was going through and actually asked me once, "Have you ever had a zit that just, hurt?" I didn't even know how to respond.

You know how they tell every teenager not to pick his zits? Well, I didn't have to. They'd burst when I was walking down the hall. I would often run to the nearest bathroom because I knew something was amiss. I could feel it. My pillow cases were always bloody. Eventually those cysts became giant purple scabs that stood about 1/4 inch off my face. They had to be biopsied, they were that bad. The diagnosis? Always: infected.

I went on Accutane, which saved my skin from further decay, but was another ring of hell, in and of itself. If you aren't already familiar with the medication, it dries out every mucus membrane in your body, in the hopes that it stops the production of oil and more acne. My skin became so dry that it would flake off in pieces, my lips were always cracked. I got rashes on my arms, and my hair would also crack it was so dry. After the accutane, I had to get injections in my skin, under the jawline (you have no idea how sensitive that area is until someone sticks a needle in it) into my raised scars to help bring them down. Gitmo has nothing on my plastic surgeon's office.

I met every kind of person during my two year stint with acne. I met cruel girls who would mock me while flitting their perfect silky hair, walking away in their designer clothes. But I have to say I preferred the outright cruelty to the horrified stares. I met wonderful, compassionate, male peers who saw me for more than just Freddie Kruger's ugly sidekick. And there were always the little kids who would say, "What happened to your face?" I got very creative in my answers: car accidents, fires, bike accidents, anything that would get them to look at me as a human being, instead of a freak show.

During this season, God truly began to work in me a humility and a tenderheartedness that I do not believe I would possess had I not gone through this trial. {This trial didn't stop at 15 either. The acne left horrible, pitted scars on my face. I had my first laser surgery to help flatten the effects when I was about 16, and the next at 17. I'll probably have round three later this year.} I don't look at people the same way. I can look at the perfect Barbie of a girl and laugh, knowing that if it isn't her looks, it's something else that will help her realize life isn't her chihuahua to drag around in a Prada purse.

I also identified with those who would never be the Paris Hiltons of the world. Not only was I able to sympathize deeply with the rejects and outcasts, but I was also able to speak to them that they aren't to be defined by what the world sees them as. The world saw a freak in me, but I wasn't defined by that. I knew that I was a daughter of the High King and He would get me through. I knew that someday "this too would pass." And I trusted that he'd get me through the next trial.

I'm not entirely sure why I'm sharing this other than to say that pictures can cover a multitude of sins. I photograph well; I won't lie. But it's been a long haul getting to that place. Along that broken road, I felt the pulse of my Master and his heart for those who are hurting and broken. I learned not to take people's cruelty so close to heart. I started marching to the beat of my own drummer, the one who carried me through my trials.

I'm so thankful that the Lord gave me a strong spirit at such a young age. I knew that "the Lord [would] restore [unto me] the years the locust have eaten." It was my reality. I clung to the Words of God. The verse the Lord gave me for that season of my life was out of Isaiah: "Every valley shall be raised up, every mountain and hill made low; the rough ground shall become level, the rugged places a plain (40:4)." Those words brought tremendous life and healing to my soul and even to my skin, because my countenance grew lighter and more joyful the more I realized that this earthly shell I will someday shed for something far more glorious than I can imagine.

I'm not going to assume this does anything for anyone. I just had to give glory to God for what He's done in my life. And that's just one small example. My skin may bear the scars from years of genetic destruction, but my soul bears none, and that's only for my Savior.