Average

Looking back on my first semester of medical school ... it's crazy to even think about it. All that I have learned and unlearned. It's insane.

Medical school was not what I thought it was going to be. The challenges I thought I would face were not the challenges I actually faced.

One of the biggest struggles this semester was battling "ravenous appetite for honor."

To some extent this is almost a natural by-product of the system. You work so hard to get to medical school. To get in you have to be a perfectionist, obsessive, meticulous. And when you finally clinch that coveted spot, it's like "You are #1! It doesn't get any better than this!"

There were so many days this semester where I battled that desire for honor. It was almost a daily battle. The idea that somehow I had gotten here on my own merit, through my hard work, through my sacrifice. They tell you when you come that you're the best of the best.

But something happens in that transition from undergrad to med school. While you may have been #1 at whatever undergraduate school you went to and you were considered far above average, you get here and everyone is either as smart or smarter than you. You become ... average.

I'm going to be honest, I struggled with this alot this semester. Adjusting to the fact that here, I am ordinary. I have never been looked at as ordinary in my life. I didn't like being ordinary. What happened to all the praise, all the honor? What happened to being one of the best? Now I am ... average.

It has been a difficult adjustment. And it has exposed parts of my heart that I wanted to hide, to pretend didn't exist. Pride is an easy thing to hide. You don't have to walk around with your chest puffed out and a "look at how awesome I am" attitude to be a proud, arrogant person. This semester showed me just how prideful and arrogant I am.

I don't like being average. Ordinary. One of my biggest fears, and it's a fleshly fear, is that I will never do anything of significance. Or that I will be invisible, unremarkable.

And that is wrong. It is wrong for me to fear that. It is sin. But when you are in a system that every day tells you you need to be #1, to be extraordinary, it is hard not to fear being ordinary or average. There's a fear that you won't be recognized for what you've done. It's wrong, but it happens.

There's a drive, a hunger for glory, for honor. And I confess, I have succumbed to that hunger so much this semester.

I have to remind myself almost every hour of every day of why I am here. Of who brought me here. of what He has planned for me, even if I'm not sure what exactly that is. On multiple occasions, Father brought several verses to my mind as I struggled with being average in a world where being average is like a death sentence.

Phi 2:3-4 "Do nothing out of selfish ambition or vain conceit, but in humility consider others better than yourself. Each of you should look not only to your own interests, but also to the interests of others."

Ps. 62:7 "My salvation and honor depend on God; he is my mighty rock, my refuse."

Matt 16: 24-26 "For whoever wishes to save his life will lose it; but whoever loses his life for My sake will find it. For what will it profit a man if he gains the whole world and forfeits his soul? Or what will a man give in exchange for his soul?"

I read something the other day that said, "Great lives are never achieved by making greatness a goal ... To live for the greatness of Father is to live a great life."

And that's when it hit me. It's Father's greatness that matters. Not mine. It's His glory that I should be concerned about. Not mine. Everything all around me and in me is screaming for my own glory, my own honor.

But that is not the great life. The great life is one lived fully surrendered to Him, to His work, to His glory, to His honor. He is the one who got me here. He is the one who keeps me here. He is the one who has gifted me with the opportunity to study so I can serve His most precious creation, His people.

I am average. But that's ok. Because the One I serve is NOT average. May He forgive my pride and grant me mercy. I deserve neither His forgiveness nor His mercy. But that is the beauty of His grace. And through His grace this semester, I am learning that it's about Him. Not me.

And finally to quote my Dad, "Lindsay, you are not the center of the universe."

Thank God he's right. 

The miracle of the moment

Moments happen. They fly by. In an instant. And sometimes we don't catch their significance. We are too focused on the next moment. Or on a past moment. In this crazy, fast-paced world we live in, moments happen alot. Significant moments. And we miss them.

It's in these moments of significance that we have to decide to pay attention or just let the moment slide by. Decisions have to be made in moments, in seconds, in milliseconds. If you don't decide, the moment passes. And often you can't go back and do that moment over again.

I don't exactly remember the moment I decided I wanted to go to med school. I vaguely remember being 16 and loving anatomy class and realizing being a doctor would be so cool. But that decision stuck.  It drove me for years. It still drives me.

In medicines, decisions have to be made in milliseconds. A few weeks ago, I stood in the shock trauma room and watched a team of surgeons bring in a man with a gun shot wound to the chest. It felt like an eternity, but in less than five minutes, they had in intubated, knocked out, with a femoral line in, catheter in, blood drawn, and an X-ray of where the bullet was. There was no time to think and decide. No time to mull over what to do. They had seconds. Moments. It was INSANE. I thought my heart was going to burst out of my chest, it was beating so hard. And I was just watching.

Sometimes moments happen like that. Very quickly and you remember every detail. I can tell you the exact moment I decided to go to China. It happened in seconds. Yes I had thought, prayed, and talked for a while, for weeks about it. But the decisions, happened in a moment.

I was sitting in fellowship with my family. The speaker was a worker from India. I had gone into the service not sure what I was going to do. I don't even remember what the speaker said, all I know is he said China about 3-4 times. I looked over at my mom. I think my eyes must've said what Father was telling me, because she smile at me and mouthed the words, "You're going." And I just nodded. And there was no going back.

We miss moments all the time. Because we are not in the moment. Right now is the only moment we can do anything about. Right now is where we are. All we have to do is decide in that moment. Failure to decide ... is to decide on failure. To miss what He has for you.

But there's a miracle in the moment. Those moments can change your life. The moment you set foot in a foreign country, the moment you watch your baby sister go under the water and not come back up, the moment you get that phone call with the news, the moment you see the tears in the eyes of the child you love most in this world, the moment you have to tell that child good-bye. Moments can make us laugh, cry, scream, dance. But if we aren't present in the moment, we miss that. And often we miss the miracles Father has in those moments.

Think back to those moments. The miracles. Look at the moment you're in now. What is He showing you? Don't waste the moment. It's a gift.

Taiyuan-thanks to Hailey for this pic

Flying to Haiti

Playing with my babies

Bald and Beautiful

So there’s been something on my heart recently, but I’ve been hesitant to share it for a variety of reasons. Mainly because I’ve been frustrated. And generally when I’m frustrated, I tend to say unkind things and offend people. 

And in my frustration about this situation, I’m going to try not to offend or hurt anyone. But this is something that I’ve heard a lot and I’m tired of being quiet about it.

For those of you who may not know about my struggle with alopecia, this blog post will give you some background on it, so go read it first before you finish this one.

 http://myinterruptedplans.blogspot.com/2014_02_01_archive.html

So a comment that I’ve heard all my life and the one that precipitated this post is, “Alopecia is not a life-threatening disease.”

True, you will not die from alopecia. But it does threaten your life. It attacks hair, which many studies have shown is a basic part of a woman’s identity, whether she admits it or not. 

Alopecia is life-threatening. It attacks you. It attacks your soul, your mind. It can emotionally, psychologically, spiritually overwhelm you.

It lies to you. It tells you that you aren't beautiful, that no one will ever think you're beautiful, that you can never have a normal life, that you are unclean, sick, not worth looking at.

And these are all lies I have believed and have to fight against every day. And it's only by Father's grace that I have not succumbed to these lies and ended it.

Every day, I wake up, I look in the mirror, and the first thing I see is the alopecia. For 21+ years this has been my life. And the question always is, "How am I going to hide it today?”

I want a voice for patients with alopecia. I want people who have this disease (and who are going through it alone like I did for a very long time) to have a safe place to turn to, to have support. And I wish that when I was young I would have sought out the few organizations that do support alopecia patients. But I was young and stubborn and did not listen to my parents who encouraged me to seek help. I thought I could just get through it on my own. 

But that’s not true.

Like with most things, you get support from community. From sharing your story and hearing other people’s stories. 

I’ve shared my alopecia story twice now … once in China and once in Haiti. 

It’s powerful to see what vulnerability can bring. In Haiti, I literally broke down in tears sharing about my alopecia with the women there. I cried because it was difficult to talk about it and also because my Dad was sitting in the back watching me speak. 

I think my alopecia has affected my parents more than it’s affected me. They had to watch me lose all my hair when I was 2. They had to take me to the doctor and hear the best physicians say, “There is no cure.” They have had to watch me struggle with this disease, knowing that there’s nothing anyone can do. They’ve had to come to my defense when people would say insensitive comments or when other children would make fun of me. They’ve sat quietly while I’ve screamed terrible things at them because of my anger and frustration. And they have done everything in their power to make me feel beautiful. 

To be honest, my alopecia is what drove me to medicine. I think my thought process was, “Well if I can’t fix my own disease, maybe I can help someone fix theirs.” Whether or not that was a good motive, I don’t know. But it started this whole process of getting me where I am now. 

I’m rambling now, but I guess what I really want is for people to know what this disease means. I want people to understand that when you complain of a bad hair day, there might be someone listening who has no hair of their own. And it hurts to hear that. 

It hurts when people say alopecia isn’t life-threatening. Because while it may not be the thing that ultimately ends my life here on this earth, it threatens my life. 

The glorious part of this is that I don’t have to worry about what people think of how I look. Granted, I still do because I’m human and a sinner. But Father sees me as beautiful. He doesn’t see the bald spots. He doesn’t see the acne. He doesn't see weight. Or the crooked nose, or crooked back, or the dark circles under your eyes. He sees you. He sees me. 

And He thinks we’re beautiful. 

Sharing my alopecia story at Taiyuan Teens

Vision

"Father, if you don't want me here, let me fail this exam."

This was what I said to Father before I took my first medical school exam today. Yes I know I'm crazy, asking Father to have me fail. But hey, "Not my will, but yours."

I'm not gonna lie, the last three weeks have been hard. Last weekend, as my babies headed back to school, I was an emotional wreck. I wanted to leave and go back to China.

But Father.

Father has a reason for me to be here. Just like He had a reason for me to be in China.

And yesterday at fellowship, my teacher said something that has made me feel so at peace about being here and not there.

We talked about having a vision, specifically Father's vision for your life.

A vision starts with a burden, a concern. It's something that will make you weep, it will convict you.

But, when you're given that vision, you might not necessarily take immediate action toward that vision.

There is a time of preparation, a time of maturing.

I think that's where I am now. I think Father is refining the vision in me. He's given me a burden: China. He showed me China, He showed me something I never thought could even be possible for me.

Now He's preparing me.

That's what this time in medical school is for.

It's not about me. It's not about being number 1 in the class, or getting into a top residency (both of which aren't necessarily bad goals).

It's about preparation. Medical school is preparing me for the vision Father has for my life. It's a time for Father to refine me, to give me the skills I need to do His work, to test me.

That's the outlook I need to have right now. I've fought hard these last few weeks to keep myself from going back to old habits and lies of  "I have to be the best," "I have to prove myself to these people," "the only way to do well is to focus only on school."

But His grace keeps me focused on the goal: serving Him and serving the people He made.

And this week, as I was yearning to go back to China, He gave me a vision. And He gave me a blessing.

I GOT TO SEE DUSTIN AND TALK TO HIM!

Early Saturday morning, I used skype to call Dustin's mom's cellphone. The minute she heart my voice, she started yelling for him to come talk to me.

"Hello Meesa Lindsay."

At that moment, hearing my precious boy's voice, I thought my heart was going to burst.

Seriously ... how cute is this?!

The whole time I talked to him, he kept saying, "Meesa Lindsay, I am so happy."

I would say, "I miss you so much. Everyday I miss you."

And he said, "Me too. Me too."

Then I got to see him, his mom used an app called weChat and we had a video call.

I SAW THEM!!!! OH MY GOSH!!!

Seeing his smile again, hearing him and his mom talk in Chinese, laughing with them. It did my heart so much good.

I thought that seeing him and talking to him would make me sad, would make me miss China so much.

It did make me miss China. But Father gave me such a peace-that yes, I miss my babies, and I miss Dustin. But I'm supposed to be here. Father used them to give me a vision.

And right now, I'm preparing for that vision.

One year

One year ago.

One year ago today, I stepped out of my sixth floor apartment in Taiyuan, not knowing what to expect from this day.

One year ago today, I stepped into my first class ...

One year ago today, I met my babies.

And my life changed forever.

Today, right this moment, my babies are beginning second grade.

They are beginning second grade.

And I'm not there.

They have a new foreign teacher.

And my heart is breaking.

I would give anything to be there with them right now. Watching them walk to class in their lines, holding hands, smiling.

There are so many things going through my mind right now. Like, "I wonder if they remember me." "I wonder if their new foreign teacher is nice." "I wonder if they'll dance to the same songs we danced to last year." "I wonder if they've gotten taller this summer." "I wonder if they are wearing those adorable uniforms." "I wonder if they are asking where I am." "I wonder if Dustin is still the class monitor for Class 3." "I wonder if class 4 is still as bad as they were last year or if Yi Lao Shi is cracking down on them." "What if they are crying for their parents? Who can comfort them?" "I wonder if Bruce and Jude are still having their power struggle in Class 4."

I'm supposed to be studying right now. But instead I'm looking through pictures of my babies. My beautiful, precious, annoying, frustrating, talkative, loving, hilarious, hyper, crazy babies. And I'm weeping.

I'm weeping because I miss them. I miss hearing them call out my name "Meesa Lindsay! Meesa Lindsay!" I miss their hugs, their kisses, their love.

One year ago, today, these babies changed my life. Changed it forever.


One year ago today, I met a little boy, a little boy named Li Tian Ho. And I didn't know it then, but he would soon become the one person in China I loved the most. Somehow he grabbed hold of my heart and he never let go.

The first time I met him

The last time I saw my precious boy

Today, my heart is not here. Today my heart is in Taiyuan, at Shanxi Modern Bilingual School, at Section 3.

One year.

I will never forget.

The med school chapter

So I’ve been debating and debating on whether or not I should start a new blog while I’m in med school or just keep this one up and going.

My reason for starting a new blog would be that the China chapter, the big interruption in my life, has ended. I didn’t see med school as an interruption … it was the perfectly normal path my life was supposed to take.

Or so I thought before China.

Now, it’s almost like med school is interrupting China. Don’t get me wrong, I am thrilled beyond belief to be here. It is an honor and a privilege to study the human body, one that I humbly accept. Every day I wake up and I say to myself, “Is this real life?”

It is real life. As surreal as it is to sit in a classroom of 165, learning with the best and the brightest, to have my hands inside a real human body in Anatomy Lab, to be studying the most fascinating aspect of God’s creation … this is my reality.

Last week I stood with my classmates and was “sworn in” to the study of medicine. It was one of the most precious moments of my life, because out of the corner of my eye, there stood my Dad, reciting the Hippocratic Oath with me and the other students and the physicians in the room. Tears came to my eyes at that moment because it dawned on me the responsibility I was taking on, the one I have watched my Dad carry for my entire life.

People joke that I was born to be a doctor. I used to believe that.

But now I understand that I was not born to be a doctor. I was called to be a doctor. There’s a distinct difference. Yes one could say medicine is in my blood, passed down from my Dad and the result of having two volumes of medical records by the time I was ten years old.

But it’s not a birthright. It’s a calling. Or rather, it’s part of my calling.

I was not born to be a doctor.  I was born to be a servant of the Most High, to glorify Him in all that I do, to serve Him above everything else. And I am privileged enough that the way I get to do that is through the art of healing.

That’s where my focus needs to be. On Him. Him alone.

Every day here my heart is torn. I am loving being in medical school, but I am missing China terribly. Med school is now interrupting my China life.

So I’m not going to start a new blog. This one is going to be both the China blog and the med school blog.

Because after all, they’re both life interruptions. But then again, they’re not.

And that’s a God thing.

Getting my white coat. I'm on the far right in the gray dress.

My beautiful parents. Couldn't have made it here without them