[guestpost]This is part one in a three part series of my latest journey with God. Click here to read the second post, “Saying Goodbye to Dolly Parton,” and here for the final post, “That Time God Healed Me.”[/guestpost]
It’s 4:07 am. I’ve been awake for a while now, praying, journaling, hanging with God. I seem to struggle with sleep more so lately than I have in a long time, but I’m learning to embrace these early mornings. God is using them to create some beautiful, intimate time between us. I do a lot of praying in the middle of the night these days, so if you have any requests, feel free to send them my way.
It’s been three months since I’ve been able to write. I am more grateful to be typing these words out right now than you may ever know. Grateful God is restoring the gift of connecting words in my brain and bringing them to life. I’ve feared and wondered if that’s something that would ever happen again.

I’m a pretty open person, not afraid to share parts of my life – the good, the bad, and the ugly, especially if it will help someone else grab a hold of the freedom God desires for them. Yet at times I’m pretty private, especially when I need to process through some things. This has been one of those times – a season of exploring, understanding, and growing deeper with God in a trial of hardships, heartaches, and great things, too. But now I’m ready to share.
“I think you had a stroke,” the neurologist said. Then she stepped out for a moment to grab something. A week before my 33^rd birthday, I sat in the doctor’s office trying to make sense of everything that had been happening to me. The word “stroke” swam laps in my mind a thousand miles a minute and I could feel myself getting short of breath. The room suddenly became too small and the tears were about to flow. I was trying to hold myself together, trying to be tough. But I was tired of being tough. I was too weak to be tough. I texted my friend Marge in the waiting room and asked her to please join me. I couldn’t do this by myself. I couldn’t sit through this alone. After a set of shots injected into the back of my head to treat the migraines, prescriptions, orders for more tests, and instruction to take an aspirin everyday, we headed for the car. Why do I need to take aspirin? Old people take aspirin. I’m not old. I’m healthy. How is this happening right now?
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As my sweet friend drove away from the doctor’s office, there were only six words I could mutter. “The devil can kiss my butt.” We laughed. It felt good. I called my mom and we cried together. “They think I had a stroke.” Those were words I never imagined I would say to my friends and family. But one thing I knew for sure, in the midst of that news, God was still good.
I sat across from my friend Marcie at the kitchen table as I shared the news. We sat silent for a few minutes, because sometimes there aren’t words. Sometimes you just need silence. Then when silence has run its course, it’s time to speak truth. Through my fear and wondering I looked at her and said, “God was just as good before that doctor used the word ‘stroke,’ and He’s just as good now. God is good all the time. And I will not ask why in this situation. If God wants me to understand, I trust He will show me.”
More hospital visits. More pain. More tears. More begging for peace in my body, if only for a moment. I’d barely been able to get out of bed for weeks. The strength it took to hold a towel after a shower seemed like I was competing to be a body builder in a Strong Man’s competition I didn’t belong in. I was tired of emergency rooms. Tired of doctor’s. Tired of being sick. Tired of trying to figure out what was happening to me. I’d be lying if I said I didn’t ask God to just take me home so this would be over. I couldn’t live like this.
But God didn’t have plans to take me home yet. Instead, in the midst of questions, chaos, sickness, and pleas for healing, He brought to me one of the greatest gifts I’ve ever received – a blue-eyed 15-year old boy with a heart the size of Texas – who was just as hungry for healing in his own way. The day he was born I experienced love like I’d never known as I held him in my arms and welcomed him to the world. Now we’d be doing life together as God gave him a second chance at life, too.
God’s timing definitely doesn’t line up with ours. Here I was, responsible for the life of another human being and I could barely get out of bed. Here I was, supposed to be leading a ministry, helping other hurting women, and I slept in sunglasses because the light was too painful, unable to eat because the nausea was overwhelming.
I showed up at my first physical therapy appointment to see “stroke patient” written out on each form I signed. Was that my identity now? Is that who I would be known as from here on out – Sundi Jo, the stroke patient? No way… I texted a friend and said, “My identity is not found in being a stroke patient. My identity is found in Jesus Christ. I am His child.”
God gave me the gift to speak and write. He blessed me with the talent of forming words to inspire others. But one day it seemed that gift was gone. One day I couldn’t remember things. One day I couldn’t speak to you in a complete sentence. One day I couldn’t think clearly enough to write a grocery list. I sat across from a friend in the restaurant, silently begging for her grace for me as I desperately tried to form a whole sentence and keep my emotions together. The left side of my mouth drooped down my face and I fought through the shame of being in public, dabbing my mouth with a tissue so I wouldn’t drool. I wasn’t sure what dignity I really had left, but I vowed not to ask why. I knew regardless of what was happening to me, God was good.
There is more to the story I’m excited to tell you about, but it’s far too much for one blog post, so stay tuned..
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