A while back, I sat across from a sweet friend of mine. We scurried to meet up after a Wednesday work day, coming together to catch up on all the things, but really—mostly—to unpack her recent Celiac Disease diagnosis.

Having been there myself a few years before, and having to uproot and change my core eating/cooking habits completely, I understood the complexity of this diagnosis. On one hand, it’s relieving to have some answers as to what’s causing the symptoms, and on the other, well, there’s so much on the other. 

The overwhelm of suddenly having to figure out a new normal. The emotional tax of being told something is “wrong” with your body. The worries of how this will change… everything. It’s a lot. My friend was feeling the lot-ness in that moment—how would it affect her grocery bill? Her social life? Her dating life? Her holidays and family recipes? She was so wise in knowing that some of those things would change, but it can feel like so much at one time. I’ve been there, at the bottom of what feels like an impossible autoimmune disordered mountain to climb.  

If you find yourself there today, in that tender space of facing the sickness in your body, may I offer you some hope?

It won’t be like this forever. There will be some relief. There will absolutely be a new normal. There will be days when you’re not worried about what each decision means for your health. 

The first wave of a fresh diagnosis is delicate. Chock full of emotion, questions, and a personal realization that this world—and our bodies—are inherently broken. Like my friend and I both felt at the beginning, it’s a lot. 

And.

I promise you this moment, this diagnosis, does not have to be a death sentence. This label does not have the authority to manage all your days. This is not the end of your life. It’s the beginning of a new chapter. In many ways, it can be a sign of fresh life.

Because the way I see it (and have lived it), we have two options when we receive news like this. We can deny, wallow, despair, and let the gravity of it swallow us whole (like I said, been there). Or, we can choose to see this physical trial in perspective of our larger spiritual reality.

As Christians, we have bodies that house the Holy Spirit—the creator of Heaven and Earth, the light of the world, our help in times of trouble. Take it from me—this option brings much more life, freedom, and healing. 

Viewing this physical struggle in light of our faith, in light of the King of Kings, in light of the sweet intimacy and closeness He promises when we’re brokenhearted… That’s the way to new life. To hope. Joy. Healing. Delight. That’s the way to live healthy and whole no matter our circumstances, symptoms, or situations. That’s the way to live Wildly Well—to live life on the firm foundation of Jesus Christ.

The rain will come. The wind will blow. We’ll get good lab reports and harrowing ones. We’ll see some relief and we’ll be paralyzed by flare ups. Our bodies will wade and wean in this broken world. But Jesus Christ will never waver, and that’s where our hope can be anchored for all our days.

Yes, there will be lifestyle changes, shifting habits and grocery lists, and an abundance of doctor appointments. There will also be grieving and frequent releases of emotion as we walk (or crawl) through long-suffering. All these things are necessary and good. But may we never lose sight that we live in a spiritual realm and the enemy is so hoping this diagnosis would take us down. Let’s not let him.

Here’s to shifting our vision to the One who will carry us through with fresh faith and new life. This diagnosis is not the end. It’s just the beginning of the marvelous story He’s telling through your life. And knowing Him, I believe it’s going to be beautiful.