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The Stem that still Reaches!

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Most days my body feels like the sky in the above photo; grey, heavy, unsettled. A flare doesn’t just bring symptoms; it brings uncertainty. It interrupts rhythm, steals energy, and forces life to slow down. Most of the plant is low and dense; thick with leaves, woven together, close to the ground. Rising out of all that green is one tall stem, lifted higher than the rest, crowned with white blossoms. Not flashy, not frantic, just steady and reaching. That’s what I want faith to look like when Lyme flares. Not a performance or a pretending I’m fine. Just a quiet rising—one small act of trust at a time. My last name stems from the Latin word crowned. It serves as a constant reminder through the ups and downs of serving the Lord in Medical Ministry what awaits me after I leave this earthly domain.  Over the past few weeks my health journey has involved navigating both Lyme disease and the lingering neurological effects of traumatic brain injury. Lyme disease, diagnosed in Germany in...
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Birds that weave and tailor - Part III

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My Grandpa Edwin lived like a weaver or tailor bird: quiet, faithful, instinctively anchored in love.  When I was nine on a trip to India, I became obsessed with a tailor bird nest near our old house and boldly announced I’d catch the mother and bring her to Canada to my Grandparents. Grandpa didn’t mock me or crush the wonder. He simply reminded me, gently but firmly, that the bird had a God-given task: to stay and incubate her eggs. The next day Grandpa Edwin staged a whole “bird-catching” moment—white car, cardboard box, fridge room, dramatic suspense. Inside wasn’t a real bird at all, but a little decorative one with eggs, arranged like a nest. In one gentle act he protected the living creature’s calling  and  protected a child’s imagination. That was Grandpa’s gift: he met a need without harm, built joy without stealing what was sacred, and showed me what Micah calls the quiet way of God. Now that I’m walking through TBI and PCS recovery, I understand that kind of me...
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Birds that Weave and Tailor: Part II

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 The tailor bird doesn’t force a home out of brute strength. It stitches. Leaf to leaf, strand by strand, it makes shelter from what’s already there. When I was nine in India, I became fascinated by a tailor bird nesting near our old house, stitching green leaves together with unbelievable precision. I sat on the divan and told my Grandparents about it, then announced—with the full confidence of a child—that I was going to catch the mother bird and bring her back to Canada. Some days, my symptoms feel like frayed edges—fatigue that arrives too early, fog that blurs simple thoughts, strain that gathers behind my eyes, overwhelm that floods my nervous system without warning. I can still “function,” but it costs more than people can see. And when the day ends, I’m left holding loose threads: the grief of what I couldn’t finish, the fear that this is as good as it gets, the temptation to shame myself for needing rest. But the tailor bird doesn’t panic when the materials are fragile. It...
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Birds that Weave and Tailor: Part I

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 Both weaver birds and tailor birds don’t build with one dramatic motion, they build by instinct.  The weaver bird works in loops—threading, tightening, pausing, testing the tension, then weaving again. Strand by strand, it makes a home that can hold. My Aunt Dr. Hereford reminded me of how this bird uses instinct to build a place of safety and security for its young. This week the weaver bird at work has an image has been sitting with me in this season of post-concussion life, because healing after TBI has felt exactly like that: not a lightning bolt, but a careful construction—small supports, steady adjustments, and the humility to rest when the work becomes too much. Some days my eyes feel like they’re doing double duty—burning dryness, focus that takes effort, near tasks that cost more than they should, screens that drain me faster than expected. Even when I can complete something, I’m learning that “possible” isn’t the same as “sustainable.” When strain shows up, it isn’...
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Open my Eyes, that I may see!

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Post MVA, I’m learning that “seeing” is not only about what lands on the retina, but about what my whole self can take in without strain, post MVA. The phrase "Open my Eyes, that I may see!" has played over and over in my since realizing I have Post-Trauma Vision Syndrome. I clearly need our Master Physician to give me clarity, courage, and compassion for my own limits. Open the eyes of my heart, Lord—not just so I can look at my life, but so I can truly see what you want to do with it. This season in the Valley has taught me how easily fear, fatigue, and grief can dim the soul’s vision even when the world around me is bright. Some days, the hardest part isn’t pain—it’s the constant effort of ordinary life. Reading can feel like wading through fog. Screens can drain me faster than I can explain. Concentration slips, not dramatically, but steadily, like trying to hold water in my hands. I’ve had to grieve the gap between what I want to do and what my body can sustain, and I’v...
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Fight of my Life

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After publishing my recent reflection,  Footprints in the Sand , I completed a prayer walk as a form of regulated, low-stimulation activity—something my recovery from traumatic brain injury (TBI) requires as much as my spiritual life does. I needed a setting where my nervous system could settle, where I could stop performing competence, and simply be present with the Holy Spirit. Standing along the Burrard Inlet, I noticed the familiar pattern: when my body is quiet, the deeper layers surface. Alongside neurological symptoms, I carry moral injury and relational grief connected to church trauma—particularly experiences tied to leadership contexts in Saanich and Victoria—and the uncomfortable awareness that I may also have contributed to harm. That mixture produces a specific kind of internal arousal: not dramatic, but persistent, with shame, vigilance, and sorrow competing for oxygen. I chose a quiet stretch of beach and watched my own footprints form and disappear. Only one set was...
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Footprints in the Sand, Part II

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During these months dealing with my TBI, I’m learning lowly, stubbornly, and sometimes tearfully that discipleship isn’t measured by efficiency. This week, the poem Footprints in the Sand continues to find me again. For the first time in Vancouver, full of sunshine and the start of flowers, I slowly believe there is hope. The hope of restoration and renewal is slowly rising. A restoration to not who Joshua was, but to a new version of Joshua. I know the Lord is creating and refining a better version, a version who will use his journey of TBI (Training Betterment Internally) to wherever the Lord leads these sets of footprints. "I don’t understand why, when I needed You the most, You would leave me?" I’ve asked that question in more ways than I can count, sometimes out loud, sometimes silently, sometimes with tears streaming down my face. Most days my body, soul, and heart feel unfamiliar and my mind feels slower. It’s easy to interpret that as distance. There are times, I say...
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