How Then Shall You Persevere?

Sometimes life splits into “before” and “after.” Our lives are bookmarked by these events: before and after having children, before and after moving to a new place or starting a new job, or before and after a tragedy – a death of a loved one, a broken relationship, or a financial hardship. These events can have profound impacts on our values, identity, and daily reality. For me, one of those moments came three weeks after the birth of my second child when I woke up and could not feel or move the left side of my body. 

Within the hour, my morning turned into an emergency room visit and a helicopter transfer followed by an ambush of vocabulary I never expected to learn: relapsing-remitting, lesions, infusions, flares—all leading to one, life-altering diagnosis: Multiple Sclerosis (MS). 

I suppose I should be grateful – at least it wasn’t a stroke. I kept hearing “this isn’t a death sentence,” but it certainly felt like one to me at the time. When I was finally able to hold my babies again later that day, the relief of seeing them intact, healthy, and safe after leaving them in the care of my parents earlier that morning was equally matched with the agony and crippling fear that consumed my every thought. In the same way, as my 20-month-old accompanied me up in the “alligator” (elevator) on my way to be admitted to the neurological ICU while happily asking if I had fun in the “hopter-copter” (helicopter), his sweet toddler vocabulary provided a brief glimpse of light. For a moment, it overshadowed the profound sense of loss and emptiness I felt within.   

The initial weeks after my diagnosis were ones of immense frustration, suffocating sadness, and bitter anger. I could not safely feed my baby and felt robbed of the “newborn bliss”. I could not take my toddler to the park. I needed help to make myself a piece of toast. The usual postpartum exhaustion was replaced by a crushing wave of debilitating fatigue. Overnight, my body, which had just carried and safely delivered a healthy child, suddenly felt unreliable and not my own. 

Being a working mom added a complicated layer. Would I even be able to work, let alone succeed in my desire to be dependable and present? Is going to work going to drain the little energy that I already have? What will my family miss out on because of this? How much can I give today? What can wait? What does faithfulness look like when my body refuses to cooperate? The questions seemed endless. 

I wish I could say the countless questions have led to clear answers, but most of the time I’m finding myself making small decisions each day to persevere. Before my diagnosis, I thought perseverance meant working harder and if you were struggling, you just weren’t trying hard enough. After my diagnosis, I am continuing to learn that perseverance can be much quieter than that. Some days it looks like accepting help without apologizing for it. Some days it looks like accepting the need to adapt the plan. Some days it looks like simply doing the next thing and trusting that it will be enough for today. 

This shift in perspective has changed the way I think about joy and sorrow, too. I used to imagine these emotions as opposites, as if one had to step aside before the other could enter the room. But, as Scripture seems to recognize, life has not worked that way, motherhood has not worked that way, and chronic illness certainly has not worked that way.  

Ezra 3 describes laying the foundation of the second temple. Some people shouted for joy at the new beginning while others wept when they remembered what had been lost. The passage says the sound of joy could not be distinguished from the sound of weeping. I return to that image often; it rings true. The people were not faithless because they cried, and they were not naïve because they rejoiced. Neither response was wrong.

Living with MS feels like that same kind of moment, except the emotions keep unfolding. I grieve what has changed—the physical limits of my body, the extra planning it takes to accomplish a simple task, and the quiet fear that can fester behind ordinary plans. At the same time, my gratitude for the ordinary tasks of life—taking my two children to the park, participating in meaningful work, embracing the people who keep showing up—has deepened and allows me to look back and remember that God has not left me to carry this alone. 

Psalm 30 says, “Weeping may tarry for the night, but joy comes with the morning.” I used to want that morning to come quickly; often I still do. But I am learning that sometimes morning arrives slowly, and sometimes joy starts small, quietly, in a lamenting prayer, a text from a friend, a child laughing in the next room, or enough strength for the next ordinary thing. Through it all, God keeps His promises.  

Not long ago, a church elder asked how he could pray for our family. I did not offer a particularly polished answer—I said I wanted a “normal” year with no sickness, no crisis, no new hardship. He smiled kindly and asked, “How then shall you persevere?” 

I have thought about that question many times since, and it has become a phrase that helps me to reset when I find myself emotionally spiraling. It was not a dismissal of my desire for normalcy. It served as a gentle reminder that perseverance is not formed by avoiding every hard thing. It is formed as God meets us in the hard times and teaches us to keep going. I still pray for healing and for life to be a bit “boring” sometimes. But remembering that a faithful life and an easy life are not the same thing has helped to continuously reframe my perspective. 

So how shall I persevere as a working mother with MS? By telling the truth about the joy and sorrow that make up my reality. My body is fragile, yet God is faithful. Motherhood is demanding and so deeply rewarding. Work requires energy I do not always have, and it is a place where I can live out my calling. Sorrow is not definite; joy persists. My days may not be easy, but I can step forward with confidence knowing that before and after my diagnosis—throughout motherhood and meaningful work—He is holding me fast.