While I’ve shared my journey over the past nine months, I haven’t talked as much about some of the innermost thoughts I’ve had behind the scenes.

As I was getting ready for my infusion this morning, I thought about how strange MOGAD is. You could put ten people with MOGAD in a room, and all ten would have a unique experience. Even if all ten started with bilateral optic neuritis, as I did, their symptoms, recovery, lasting effects, and what happens next could be completely different.

Part of that difference comes from what MOGAD actually is. MOG stands for myelin oligodendrocyte glycoprotein, a protein found on the outer surface of myelin in the central nervous system. In MOGAD, the immune system produces antibodies that mistakenly target that protein. The resulting inflammation can affect the optic nerves, spinal cord, brain, or brainstem. Mine attacked both optic nerves, and in January, I was nearly blind.

My recovery has been remarkable. My corrected vision is about 20/20. My peripheral vision is within normal ranges, and most of my color perception has returned. I can drive, take care of myself and my family, work, write, go to the gym, and do the ordinary things that were suddenly impossible nine months ago. In many ways, I feel better than I have in years, not just months.

20/20 vision doesn’t mean everything is exactly as it was before January. My optic nerves show thinning from the damage. Things sometimes appear a little duller and less defined than they once did. Fluorescent and other artificial lighting make the difference more noticeable, and I definitely prefer natural light.

I don’t talk very often about the possibility of relapse, primarily because I don’t want to dwell on that possibility. MOGAD can be monophasic, meaning one attack occurs and never happens again, or it can be relapsing. The MOG antibodies that helped give my disease a name can persist, fluctuate, or eventually become undetectable. Medicine can identify patterns and risk factors, but no test can tell me with certainty what my particular future holds. Prayerfully, my attack was a one-and-done.

That uncertainty has existed alongside every milestone I’ve celebrated this year: driving again, finishing steroids, feeling like myself again, passing my driving test, and being moved to as-needed visits by several doctors. Today, I finished my next-to-last scheduled IVIG infusion. IVIG has been part of trying to reduce the likelihood of another attack. It isn’t giving me back the optic nerve fibers that were damaged in January, nor is it a promise that another attack can never happen. It has been one part of navigating a rare disease for which many questions remain unanswered.

Infusion days take about six hours, much of that time spent sitting in a chair while medication slowly makes its way through an IV. Today, while I was sitting there, the chaplain stopped by to see how I was doing and whether I needed anything. I had the opportunity to tell him my story: “I was blind, but now I see.” A little while later, one of the volunteers stopped by, and I got to tell her, too.

I don’t know whether I will ever have another MOGAD attack, whether my vision will always look a little different than it did before January, or exactly what life after my final scheduled infusion will look like. I do know what I could tell two people today: I was blind, but now I see.

Robert Frost famously wrote, “Two roads diverged in a wood, and I— I took the one less traveled by, And that has made all the difference.”

Those two paths have become a familiar picture of the choices we make in life, particularly the idea of taking the road less traveled. However, life rarely narrows itself into two paths. We face many crossroads with innumerable options.

On a road trip with my daughter, we stopped at the Mississippi Welcome Center in Vicksburg. Looking out over the Mississippi River, I took a picture of two bridges stretching across the water: an old bridge and a new one.

Construction on the Old Vicksburg Bridge began in 1928, and it opened in 1930. At the time, it was the first bridge across the Mississippi River south of Memphis. Before that, travelers in the area depended on ferries to cross the river. The bridge carried both railroad tracks and U.S. Highway 80, one of the nation’s early coast-to-coast highways. For decades, trains, cars, buses, and trucks all crossed the Mississippi on the same structure.

As traffic increased and vehicles became larger, the old bridge’s two narrow traffic lanes were no longer adequate. The new Vicksburg Bridge opened beside it in 1973 as part of Interstate 20. Cars continued using the old bridge for another twenty-five years before it closed to vehicular traffic in 1998.

The old bridge has been preserved as a historic landmark, and trains continue using it to cross the river today. Its value and purpose remain, even if it is no longer the road most travelers use.

Like the bridges, sometimes a path no longer serves us, not because that path was wrong, but simply because we’ve grown and our needs have changed. We can appreciate where we’ve been, preserve what mattered, and continue to learn from it without traveling the same road.

Scripture speaks often about paths. We are told to trust in the Lord, and He will make our paths straight (Proverbs 3:5–6). His Word is a lamp to our feet and a light to our path (Psalm 119:105). We may plan our course, but the Lord determines our steps (Proverbs 16:9).

Following the right path doesn’t guarantee a smooth journey. Jesus told His disciples, “In the world you will have tribulation” (John 16:33). James didn’t tell Christians to consider it joy if they encountered trials of many kinds. He said When (James 1:2).

Sometimes you face storms. Other times the ominous clouds turn out to be smoke. Sometimes you have to go through the fire.

Take a closer look at the picture: the dark, ominous cloud is not a brewing storm. It’s smoke from a burning Dollar General truck we passed a short time later.

God directs our steps and lights the path, but we still choose whether to follow. Even the best-planned journey will have obstacles along the way.

All of these experiences make up our lives and shape our worldview. Some cause big shifts that challenge our way of thinking. All are significant to the person walking through them.

These moments are so commonplace that we often give them little thought until we find ourselves in the middle of one.

When an Event Feels Like a Verdict

One event can feel like a conclusion. We might say, “This changed everything,” allowing the event to define our identity and determine our direction.

Even if these moments “change everything,” we still have a choice about the direction of our thoughts and our future actions. Our minds are powerful. The meaning we assign to an experience shapes our emotional response, and our emotional response shapes the actions that follow.

Hanging by a Hinge

Picture these events like doors. You rarely notice the hinges while the door remains still. When something shifts, you hear the hinges and see the door move. Before-and-after events function in much the same way.

The temptation is to let the hinge become the whole story. While events change circumstances, disrupt routines, and expose assumptions, they do not redefine God or His sovereignty.

The Creator in the Chaos

In the opening lines of Genesis, the earth was formless and empty. Darkness covered the surface of the deep. The Hebrew language conveys chaos, disorder, and instability. Then Elohim, the Creator God, spoke. He did not react in panic. He brought order out of chaos. That pattern has not changed.

Before-and-after moments often feel chaotic. They rearrange what once felt stable. They expose what we assumed would remain. They force us into unfamiliar territory. The same God who spoke light into darkness still works within the spaces that feel chaotic to us.

Rest, Reset, Renewal

When God completes His work in Genesis, He declares creation “good” and rests, not because He felt tired, but because the work was complete. He did not need restoration, but He modeled rhythms for His creation.

Rest reminds us that the world remains sustained by His power, not ours.

This reset does not erase the before, but prepares us for renewal in the after.

The Story Is Still Forming

Whatever you face, God remains faithful in the before, middle, and after. No matter how defining the event feels, one moment does not tell the whole story. God still works all things together for good.

God’s character does not change when our circumstances do. He remains faithful when life buckles, sees clearly when our vision is blurred, provides what we need in the present moment, and offers peace when anxiety attempts to control the narrative.

Before and after may mark the timeline, but they do not rewrite His character.

The hinge is only part of the story.

Vampire Ways

In general, I prefer softer lighting. Some friends joke that my house is too dark and call me a vampire. The living room has dark green walls, wood floors, and the blinds usually stay closed since the windows face due east. When the door is open, it creates a blinding glare, even on cloudy days. In that darkness, humor surfaced as a way to cope. I joked, “I may need to rethink my vampire ways.”

As the light returns, I still find myself retreating to those vampire ways. I dim lamps. I seek quieter, darker spaces. Light often feels too bright, distorting colors and shapes, causing strain and fatigue. My eyes and brain tire more quickly in this stage of recovery. Healing does not always look like charging into the light. Sometimes healing looks like learning how much light the body can tolerate and when rest is required.

Those thoughts led me to consider why stories about vampires, light, and darkness have appeared across centuries and cultures. While the stories vary by era and author, many share common themes. Harsh light overwhelms what is unprepared for it. Survival requires awareness of limits and intentional movement. These stories reveal more about human vulnerability than about monsters, reflecting how people respond when light feels overwhelming or absent and when answers remain out of reach.

Are You Afraid of the Dark?

Fear of the dark itself seems nearly universal. Darkness represents uncertainty. People fear what they cannot see, predict, or control. Doctor Who captures that fear clearly in the episode Silence in the Library. The Doctor observes, “Almost every species in the universe has an irrational fear of the dark. But they’re wrong.”

The fear isn’t irrational, because something unseen really is waiting in the darkness: the Vashta Nerada, microscopic creatures that live in shadows and devour anything in their path.

The characters fear the dark not because darkness itself is evil, but because something unseen waits within it. Panic increases as certainty disappears. Survival depends on light, awareness, and staying together.

The Light in Darkness

Scripture does not promise the absence of darkness. Scripture promises the presence of God through it. “Even though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death, I will fear no evil, for You are with me” (Psalm 23:4). God does not wait on the other side of fear. He walks before, beside, and behind us. He surrounds us with His presence and care. Darkness does not limit His ability to guide, protect, or restore. His sight remains unlimited.

This season continues to teach discernment. Retreat is not rejection, boundaries are not failure, and rest does not signal resistance to healing. Healing includes learning when to step back, when to dim the lights, and when to allow the body and mind to catch up to the progress already underway.

For now, I retreat to the comfort of my cave, listen to my body’s need for healing, and rest in God’s peace. I trust a Big God who sees clearly, even when I do not. “The LORD is my light and my salvation—whom shall I fear? The LORD is the stronghold of my life—of whom shall I be afraid?” (Psalm 27:1) I pray that these limitations remain temporary, but that the lessons endure long after my sight fully returns.

Headaches, sinus issues, and migraines are not new to me. In the week before Christmas and into the new year, I experienced something new. Sinus pressure settled in behind my face and eyes, more pressure than pain. A dull headache followed and stayed for days. Medication, water, caffeine, and even migraine treatments did nothing to help. Auras appeared without the pain, which wasn’t necessarily abnormal for me.

What began as pressure behind my eyes and a persistent, dull ache slowly turned into something harder to explain. I developed a blurry spot in one eye, prompting an emergency room visit. A CT revealed a sinus infection. I followed up with my eye doctor, who ruled out any retinal issues, noting only dry eyes and some surface issues. The relief of that appointment was short-lived. Within days, the same blurry vision appeared in the other eye, then things started going dark.

I sat on the couch with every light turned on, yet it felt like I was wearing sunglasses at night. No light entered. Color and shape disappeared, and fear took a seat.

We returned to the emergency room, were transferred to a more equipped facility, and spent several hours undergoing more tests without answers. I was told an ophthalmologist would call me, but that call did not come. Again, the relief of ruling things out did not change the symptoms.

My own eye doctor called me back, reevaluated the situation, and noticed extreme pressure in my eye. Back to the ER we went. This time, I was admitted. With my sight nearly gone, I was completely dependent on others to read messages, feed me, guide me to the bathroom, and tell me the time. Daily life narrowed in ways I never anticipated.

Hospitalization finally brought answers after more MRIs, CTs, and a lumbar puncture, including a diagnosis of optic neuritis. This inflammation of the optic nerve interrupts the signal between the eyes and the brain. Treatment includes IV steroids for several days, followed by an oral steroid taper for weeks or months. While the steroids stop the damage and begin the healing process, recovery takes time.

That explanation helped me understand what was happening physically, but it did not answer the deeper questions. What do you do when sight disappears faster than certainty? How do you wait when answers come slowly and outcomes remain unclear?

During my hospital stay, my room was in Hope Tower, a name that carried more meaning with each passing day. I spent many hours praying, asking not just for the return of my sight, but also for clear vision. My room had a constant flow of visitors. Every person, situation, or thought that crossed my mind became an opportunity to pray.

Recovery has not been linear. Darkness gave way to shapes. Light sometimes feels too bright or distorted, as though it bends the wrong way inside my eyes. Clarity is improving, but definition is still forming.

A familiar verse says, “I once was blind, but now I see.” Those words carry a deeper meaning now. The space between blindness and sight can be long, quiet, and deeply refining. I fought overwhelming fears and clung tightly to faith.

This season has required stillness and patience that do not come naturally to me. In the quiet, clarity has taken shape in unexpected ways. Lessons have surfaced about what needs to be released and what truly matters moving forward.

Prayer has carried me in ways I cannot fully describe. Friends stepped in without being asked. My children rose to the challenge, though not without growing pains. My husband continues to meet me with equal parts service and silliness.

Some days are better than others. I must remind myself to go slower and be patient. I continue to manage the side effects of steroids. Even as energy and stamina improve, limitations remain. As vision improves, discomfort is part of the process. Light feels intense, varying between too much and not enough. Contrast feels exaggerated. My eyes work harder to make sense of what they see.

I am humbled by God’s provision as I wait in expectation. Patience is a process, and obedience is a practice. I remain grounded in my faith. I believe in the Great Physician and trust that His plan and purpose are greater than anything I could ask or imagine. At the same time, I acknowledge that some days in this journey are hard. I continue walking forward in faith, held by His hand, trusting that even the difficult days remain under His care.

After arriving home, I began to reflect on how much we are like the turkey crossing the road. We focus so intently on what we want that we often fail to see the danger around us. The turkey ran toward danger instead of away from it. We often do the same when we follow our selfish desires rather than God’s direction. James 1:14 explains, “Each person is tempted when he is drawn away and enticed by his own desire.” Scripture also gives clear guidance: “Flee from temptation” (2 Timothy 2:22). God provides a way out every time (1 Corinthians 10:13), but we must choose to take it. Turning away is not weakness. It is wisdom and obedience.

When I returned home, my mechanic friend looked at the car. The damage truly was cosmetic. He snapped the fender back into place in less than five minutes. You cannot even tell anything happened. That is what God does with us! He restores what is broken and strengthens what is weak, making us new. We may still experience consequences from past choices, but through the blood of Jesus, we stand without stain or blemish, whole and redeemed in His sight.

Even a turkey on the highway can teach a lesson when the heart is listening. My frustration with myself became a nudge from God to stay alert.

We’ve all had those home repairs that drag on longer than they should. What I didn’t expect was for our dishwasher to become a teacher of patience, frustration, and, ultimately, gratitude.

It all started over a month ago. Suddenly, the dishwasher decided to run for a few minutes, then stop. A few years ago, we encountered a similar issue with a different dishwasher and were advised that the problem was with the electric panel. This time, I ordered and replaced the part rather than the whole unit. Even after replacing the part, it capped out at 25 minutes into the cycle.

I decided to contact Sears and received some good news: I had paid for an extended warranty, which was still active. A technician visit and any repairs would be covered!

When the technician arrived for what I thought would be a simple diagnostic, he determined that the dishwasher’s power cord needed to be replaced and noted damage to the outlet. Inconvenient, yes—but straightforward. I scheduled our electrician for the very next day. Problem solved, right?

Not quite. When the electrician arrived, we realized the dishwasher had been reinstalled crookedly by the technician. It was wedged so tightly in place that even the electrician couldn’t get it back out. That one mistake turned a simple fix into a much bigger problem.

Still, I tried to stay optimistic. I scheduled the power cord installation for after we returned from vacation. I woke up early to be ready for the 8:00–5:00 window. Before noon, I received a text canceling my appointment. I rescheduled and repeated this process—waking up early only to receive another cancellation. Each time, an automated message informed me my appointment was canceled “due to unforeseen circumstances.” After much searching, I finally found a number that connected me to a human. Those hours on the phone led to promises of “high priority” and “guaranteed” appointments.

Again, I woke early, this time ready for a 7:00–6:00 window. At 10:30 that morning, a technician called and said he was on the way. Finally, some progress! Then came the kicker: “Do you have the part?” he asked. I was stunned. “Um… no. Sears has the part.” He promised to call back. Instead, at 11:00, I received another automated update—my appointment was pushed off yet again.

At this point, we had four cancellations and a crooked, nonfunctional dishwasher still sitting in the kitchen. I wish I could tell you I handled it with grace. The truth is, frustration bubbled over more than once. It seemed ridiculous. It still does.

I asked the technician if he had a supervisor. He said I had to call the 800 number—the same one with nothing but automation. Apparently, that’s also the only number the technicians have. My eyes were opened to how and why Sears failed. I called my live agent number again and added to my original complaint.

I am beyond frustrated, but God has been using this inconvenience to remind me of two things: patience and gratitude. James 1:3 tells us, “The testing of your faith produces patience.” Patience isn’t automatic. It grows in the waiting, in the irritation, in the circumstances beyond our control. Every canceled appointment has been a test: Will I let this steal my joy, or will I practice patience in the middle of the mess?

The second lesson is gratitude. Gratitude doesn’t make the dishwasher work, but it reframes my perspective. I’ve had to remind myself: I’m grateful we even have a dishwasher. Grateful for food to cook, even if the dishes pile up. Grateful for an electrician willing to help, even if the problem wasn’t his to fix.

The dishwasher still isn’t repaired, but God often does His deepest work in us when things aren’t neatly resolved. The waiting isn’t wasted—it shapes us into people who can be both patient and grateful, even in the middle of life’s crooked dishwashers.

In the meantime? The kids are getting some valuable “old-fashioned life lessons” washing dishes by hand. Maybe patience isn’t the only thing God is teaching in our kitchen.

He doesn’t mind missing the candles and cake on the actual day. Camp is his happy place. It’s a place where he feels alive, confident, and free. Over the years, he’s built friendships that have lasted. The group chat between his cabin mates is rarely inactive. He pushes himself physically on obstacle courses, overcoming fears and facing new challenges in ways he doesn’t do at home. He’s been spiritually stretched and is often sought out as a prayer warrior or wise counsel among his camp friends.

This year, when I asked him about his favorite part of camp, with the caveat, “Besides your friends,” he said, “The leap of faith.”

I raised my eyebrows at this. “Really?”

You see, my son is not the first to volunteer for heights or big risks of any kind. He tends to think things through carefully. He doesn’t seek out thrills without purpose. He prefers quiet solitude. Most of his “risks” are in the world of video games.

This year, something about the high-ropes elements at camp impacted him greatly. Strapped into a harness, he climbed a tall wooden pole and jumped, reaching for a trapeze bar just out of reach. The goal of the “leap of faith” is simple enough: leap from the platform and grab the bar. When you catch the bar, you soar. If you miss, the harness catches you.

As I listened to him describe the moment, I could hear how his apprehension turned to excitement. This year, his leap of faith felt particularly meaningful. He turned seventeen at camp, and every day feels a bit like climbing that pole. With every choice and plan, the stakes get higher. As parents, we’re on the ground, holding the ropes, shouting encouragement, praying he’ll reach his goals and land safely.

His decisions now carry lasting weight. College and career plans, friendships, and owning his faith. His responsibilities grow as he tests his limits and discovers how far he can go. In many ways, he is leaping, sometimes with confidence and sometimes with fear, but always knowing someone is holding the line. His parents are doing the same, gradually releasing our grip so he can soar.

While he’s still in our home, he has a harness and even a net in the form of boundaries and guidance. His consequences are smaller, with more second chances. We all know the day is coming when the safety net will widen, and his choices will carry him to places we can’t follow.

This season of parenting feels like the high ropes course. We’ve invested in his learning, and we are taking a leap, trusting that we’ve given him what he needs. One day soon, he will soar. Sometimes, he may crash. We take comfort in knowing that even when we’re not the ones holding the rope, God is the truest safety harness.

While he learns to leap, we learn to let go, trusting a faithful Father to hold us both, steadfast and sure, through whatever comes our way.

In my Christmas decorations, the fragile ornaments live separately from the non-fragile ones. Everything is carefully wrapped each year. One of these ornaments is a large hand-painted ball from our first Christmas in Germany. Well, was. When I went to pick up that ornament, I heard and felt a crunch through the wrapping. This is one of those “cannot be replaced” kinds of ornaments. I was devastated, while at the same time recognizing that the ornament was less important than the memories of our time in Germany.

Over the weekend, when loading my show bags, my son managed to knock everything onto the floor with a splendid crash. When I arrived and started setting up my booth, I learned that two of my mirrors had not survived. I cleaned everything out of the bag and shook out the shards over the trash can.When I arrived home that evening, my daughter’s first words were, “Something bad just happened to your pepper shaker.” The first thing I noticed: everyone was barefoot. Though disappointed that my antique shaker crashed and broke, my first task involved safety and cleaning another mess of broken glass.

Each of these instances provided an opportunity. I could be mad about the loss of objects and the mess, or I could be thankful that no one was hurt and teach humility through service. I could focus more on the stuff and less on the people around me. Even in my disappointment, I focused on gratitude.

It is the same when we face brokenness through significant losses in life: loss of income, loss of a job, loss of a loved one, loss of a dream. How we respond determines how we will heal and rebuild.

The song also contrasts what we demand with what we truly need and our earthly plans with the hope God provides. That thought has stayed with me as I reflect on one year before beginning another. Focus determines direction, even (or especially) in times of brokenness.

On Monday morning, I cleared the warning to see my miles until empty (another thing I had to do before ballet rehearsal). When I arrived at the tire place, instead of seeing a tire pressure of 27 in the offending tire, it said 12! Sure enough, there was something in the tire.

A bolt like this one is an important tool when securely fastened. When it comes loose, it becomes a source of danger. Our words are much like this little bolt. In James 3:9, we read, “With the tongue, we praise our Lord and Father, and with it, we curse human beings, who have been made in God’s likeness.” The passage continues, saying, “This should not be.” Proverbs 18 tells us that life and death are in the power of the tongue. Sadly, we’re often careless with our words, letting them fall where they may, causing harm.

Jesus warned the crowd, specifically the Pharisees, saying, “For by your words you will be acquitted, and by your words you will be condemned” (Matthew 12:37). Our words make an impact on others. How often have you been discouraged by a negative comment, reassured by a kind word, or uplifted by a compliment? Words have power! (For further study, read Hebrews 10:24–25, Romans 15:2, and 1 Thessalonians 5:11.)

Don’t be a bolt in the road! Be the bolt that connects securely! Check yourself regularly. Are you encouraging? Are you considerate of others with your words? Do you strive to build others up? Or are you careless with your words, speaking before thinking?

I’m happy to report that the tire was easily and quickly patched, inflated, and back on the road. Little things make a big impact, whether it is a bolt in your tire or a thoughtless word. I cannot control the debris in the road, but I can control my words.