The Stem that still Reaches!

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 2021 near the end of my double residency, produces cycles of symptoms that include swollen lymph nodes, sore throat, gastrointestinal disturbances, fatigue, and joint pain that can feel arthritic in nature. These cycles come unpredictably, sometimes quietly and sometimes suddenly. The experience demands patience and humility because the immune system often behaves in ways that are difficult to anticipate. The hymn “Thou Hidden Source of Calm Repose” captures this idea beautifully, emphasizing that God’s peace often comes quietly beneath the surface of turmoil. Living with Lyme disease becomes an ongoing lesson in trusting that hidden source of calm even when the body feels unsettled.

At the same time, the lingering effects of post-concussion syndrome influence how the nervous system processes light, focus, and coordination between the eyes. One of the challenges identified is a spasm of accommodation, where the eye’s focusing muscles remain tightened when they should relax. This often occurs because of convergence insufficiency, meaning the eyes struggle to align comfortably during near tasks such as reading or screen use. The visual system tries to compensate by tightening the focusing system, which leads to strain and fluctuating clarity. Small adjustments in lenses, including a base-in prism, can reduce the effort required for the eyes to work together. When that demand decreases, the eyes no longer need to overcompensate as intensely. Even these small changes can bring noticeable relief. It is another reminder that balance in the body often depends on subtle adjustments rather than dramatic changes.

When I return again to the image of the blossoms beneath the grey sky, the symbolism becomes clearer. Living with Lyme disease and the effects of TBI means learning compassion for the body and patience with its limits. Vision may fluctuate, energy may come and go, and symptoms may appear without warning. Yet growth still occurs beneath the surface. The plant stretches upward despite the clouds, just as the human spirit continues to reach toward hope. The New Testament captures this spirit in Romans 13:12 Even before the sunrise appears, the promise of morning already exists.  Hope in this sense is not denial of hardship but trust in God’s sustaining presence. 

The bush itself teaches one final lesson. Not all blooms are open at the same time; some remain buds while others unfold into full blossoms. That truth resonates deeply during recovery, because healing often appears first as small signs rather than complete transformation. Treatment may begin while symptoms remain. Answers may emerge slowly rather than all at once. Strength may return gradually rather than dramatically. Yet the plant never apologizes for being mid-process. It simply continues growing. The Hymn Abide with Me meets me right there, in the in-between, when “help of the helpless” is what I need most. It teaches me to pray for nearness rather than quick fixes—to ask Christ to stay when the light feels dim and the work is still incomplete. So these blossoms become more than a photograph; they become a gentle sermon that grace grows slowly, and God remains close through every bud, every waiting, and every unfolding.