The Juniper Tree

Photo of a twisted tree trunk

I have an affinity for weird-looking plants and animals. Moose? I love their big, fat noses and crazy antlers (although they’re also terrifying when you see one close-up!). Penguins, their amusing waddling. Walruses: their hysterical mustaches, although, again, terrifying up close. hahaha.

And there are so many amazing, weird plants out there.

One such weird, fascinating plant is the Utah Juniper Tree. 

A juniper tree at “Hell’s Half Acre” near Blackfoot, Idaho.

When I lived in Southeast Idaho, I spent a lot of time driving between there and everywhere else, including Utah and California. Near Blackfoot, Idaho, there is a large volcanic scar that runs along the highway for a time. I love the look of the green or brown (depending on the season) grass and other plants against the black rock. But I was always fascinated by the gnarled trees that jut out at odd angles straight from the rock, even on cliff faces. I wondered how the trees survive. I couldn’t see any kind of soil. There’s a rest stop that has some walking trails and I stopped once to check it out and discovered the trees are Utah Junipers. They are native throughout Southern Idaho, Colorado, Northern Idaho and some parts of Southern California–but mostly found in Utah.

They’re the trees of the high desert.

Not much can survive the arid, harsh conditions of the high desert–yet, here, the Utah Juniper thrives. It grows slowly, so slowly. A tree can be hundreds of years old, but less than 25 feet tall. But its height, or lack thereof, is not what makes it interesting to me. 

The wind whips and whirls almost constantly along the rocky, dry earth, shaping the juniper trees into gnarled, twisted, and distinctive formations. Yet, the perpetually blowing wind of the Western Desert does not destroy the tree. It hardens it, weathers it, and shapes it.  The experiences of the Utah Juniper’s life make it unique, beautiful, and strong. 

a juniper tree at the grand canyon
Photo by Landon Parenteau on Pexels.com

Life in the high desert is not easy for plants. Such arid conditions leave the rocky surface riddled with dead, dried grasses–remnants of a spring thaw long past. Most plants burn up and wither away within one season. And yet, here lies the Juniper tree surviving–thriving even–slowly building itself up year after year, inch after inch, to reach its full potential sometimes for 750 years or longer. Giving itself the grace to grow whatever it can grow, however it can grow, with the resources it has. 

Its roots grow stronger and deeper each year as it finds nourishment in the rocky ground in which it grows. A tree may be 15 feet tall, but the main tap roots can be 40 feet deep into the rock, with lateral roots growing out 100 feet away from the tree. The root system often accounts for 2/3 of the total tree mass. Because the roots are so hardy, even when the wind knocks the tree over, it will continue to grow. No matter the intensity of the burdens of the weather, it continues to cling to the sides of mountains, to cliffs, to life, and keeps growing. They are patient in their perseverance.

green tree
Photo by Shahid Tanweer on Pexels.com

The tree also sustains life around it, providing food and shelter for birds and small animals. It takes the harshness of the environment and turns it into something life-giving for all those around it.

These fascinating trees and their determination to cling to life make me feel so hopeful.  

In a 2019 BYU Women’s Conference talk, Sister Becky Craven said, 

“Hope in a gospel sense is hope in Christ. And hope in Christ simply means that we trust Him and we trust in our Heavenly Father’s plan.”

“Therefore, hope is expectation, even anticipation for happiness not only in the hereafter, but an expectation that we can have joy and contentment right now, regardless of our circumstances.”

She continued, “Waiting can mean being stifled, biding one’s time, or stopping. “But to ‘wait upon the Lord’ is not biding one’s time. It is being patient while moving forward with confidence, faith, and trust in the Lord’s plan for us.”

The Lord, at times, gives personalized and tailor-made challenges designed to help His children grow.”

green tree near mountain
Photo by Robert Anthony Carbone on Pexels.com

In October 2008, Elder Dieter F. Uchtdorf gave a really beautiful talk about Hope. I’ve pulled a few quotes out: 

“Hope, on the other hand, is like the beam of sunlight rising up and above the horizon of our present circumstances. It pierces the darkness with a brilliant dawn. It encourages and inspires us to place our trust in the loving care of an eternal Heavenly Father, who has prepared a way for those who seek for eternal truth in a world of relativism, confusion, and of fear….

Hope is not knowledge,17 but rather the abiding trust that the Lord will fulfill His promise to us. It is confidence that if we live according to God’s laws and the words of His prophets now, we will receive desired blessings in the future.18 It is believing and expecting that our prayers will be answered. It is manifest in confidence, optimism, enthusiasm, and patient perseverance.”

The things we hope for are often future events. … No matter how bleak the chapter of our lives may look today, because of the life and sacrifice of Jesus Christ, we may hope and be assured that the ending of the book of our lives will exceed our grandest expectations. …

The things we hope in sustain us during our daily walk. They uphold us through trials, temptations, and sorrow. Everyone has experienced discouragement and difficulty. Indeed, there are times when the darkness may seem unbearable. It is in these times that the divine principles of the restored gospel we hope in can uphold us and carry us until, once again, we walk in the light.

We hope in Jesus the Christ, in the goodness of God, in the manifestations of the Holy Spirit, in the knowledge that prayers are heard and answered. Because God has been faithful and kept His promises in the past, we can hope with confidence that God will keep His promises to us in the present and in the future…

The things we hope for lead us to faith, while the things we hope in lead us to charity. The three qualities—faith, hope, and charity35—working together, grounded on the truth and light of the restored gospel of Jesus Christ, lead us to abound in good works.36

With Nephi I declare: “Press forward with a steadfastness in Christ, having a perfect brightness of hope, and a love of God and of all men. Wherefore, if ye shall press forward, feasting upon the word of Christ, and endure to the end, behold, thus saith the Father: Ye shall have eternal life.”39


green leafed tree
Photo by Jen Healy on Pexels.com

If the trees were sentient, they may wish they didn’t live in such a windy and severe climate. But then they wouldn’t have such an interesting and unique look. The wood would not be hardened and useful to the people who lived in these locations for centuries, who used it as firewood and fencing. They wouldn’t be able to give shelter, nutrients and protection for the surrounding area for centuries.

May we not be like the single-season grasses but rather the Juniper tree that sends its roots out deep and wide and provides shelter and nourishment to those all around it. May we find peace and hope we continue to persevere through winds that beat at us and dig as deep as we need through the dry desert sands at our feet to the eternal well of the Savior’s Atoning Waters.

Life on the Edge

Person standing on the edge of a mountain cliff. The sun is sitting on the horizon just below the mountain
Photo taken in Yosemite National Park ♥ Photo by Leio McLaren (leiomclaren) on Unsplash

I live life on the edge.

The edge of an allergic reaction.

The edge of medical science.

The edge of an unknown, looming, black abyss.

The edge of fear.

The edge of faith.

I’m not an “edge” type of girl. I am terrified of falling. Heights have always scared me. I have always clung to the known, the safe, the solid.

I don’t have that luxury anymore.

I have been aggressively attacking my rare diseases since I was diagnosed in 2015. Each day, each doctor’s appointment, I’ve been inching closer to the edge, knowing at some point we were going to max out my options. At a recent appointment with one of my specialists, we were discussing next steps.

Reality Check

“We don’t have a lot left we can do, Megan. There’s so much we don’t know about how your condition works or how to get it to stop reacting to everything. It’s just so complicated,” my wonderful GI doctor said. “You live on the cutting edge of medicine and science.”

I sighed. I know.

During my entire childhood through college, I knew, KNEW, I was going to be a scientist. I knew that I wanted to live on the exciting, cutting edge of medicine and science–as a researcher. Working on cures for devastating conditions like Alzheimer’s disease.

Not as a patient. It never even once crossed my mind. And it’s definitely not exciting on this end of the equation. 

But then God had other plans. He knew. Knew that I was going to need that basic understanding of biology because I was going to be the one with a devastating, ill-understood condition. It was heartbreaking when I didn’t get jobs in research and ended up working as a paralegal. As much as I have come to enjoy law (which surprised me), I still miss molecular biology.  Until three years ago, all I used my degree for was to successfully keep my office plants alive. Now the reason I studied it for so long are obvious and I have been so grateful for that basic knowledge.

A week after the conversation with my GI doctor, I met with my immunologist, also a wonderful doctor (I’ve been so blessed). “I think we’re pretty much capped out on you, Megan. You’re already on all max doses of all the medications. I don’t have any more treatment options unless we decide to do chemotherapy. And I don’t think the side effects are worth it at this point,” he said. “I know you’ve still got symptoms, but you’re stable now. We’re going to have to wait until more treatment options are available, or your condition changes.”

I sighed again. I know. And I agreed.

Stable doesn’t mean cured, fixed, or better. It means I’m not getting catastrophically worse at the moment. I am certainly better than I was three years ago. But it means I still am sick. Still have severe allergic reactions. Still have the risk of anaphylaxis at any moment. Still might end up in the hospital. Still might get worse. Still might need chemo. Still might die from this.

I’m at the point where I’m tired of fighting my body and need a break anyway. It’s been a hard year so far. Adding in weekly immunoglobulin therapy has been more difficult than I expected. I’m exhausted–physically and emotionally.

I told both of the doctors this at the appointments. They both nodded in support and encouraged me to take a break from pushing my body and my spirit. “It’s okay to take a break. You’ve worked really hard at this for a long time. Take some time to just live. Let’s see you in six months and we’ll see where you’re at,” they both said.

I sighed. Okay.

I was afraid this day was going to come. I’ve spent three years fighting so hard to improve. Once I knew what was wrong, I had something to fight against. And I’m a good fighter. I was absolutely sure I could get better (even when my doctor wasn’t sure). And I have gotten better. I’ve improved significantly. My doctors remind me of this at every appointment. But, improvement does not equal “fixed.” They remind me of that too.

This time I hear Reality slapping and screaming at me, “There is no cure for this. You’ll be like this for the rest of your life.”

It is crushing.

I already knew it, of course, intellectually anyway. I knew it the day I got my diagnosis three years ago, but it was still devastating to hear it now, again. To feel it. To feel the thick, black emptiness below me slowly reaching for my dangling feet, ready to suck me in at any moment.

I take a deep breath. I can do this. I can keep going. I can make it six more months.

I mark time by doctor’s appointments now. Every six months. Monthly shots. Weekly infusions. Daily pills. Living in six-month windows. I’m not able to see beyond that. And some days, barely able to see tomorrow. I worry this is how the rest of my life will be like.

Reactions

Every moment I live with a fear that I’m going to have an allergic reaction. I recently walked into a lovely shop and before I even got to the entrance, I could smell a sweet perfume emanating from the store. It was too strong for me. I wore my mask, hoping it would be enough. I quickly went in and made my purchase and left the store, practically holding my breath the whole time. Praying I would not have a reaction. I’ve learned not all prayers are answered the way we want. (Also, online shopping is my favorite. No smelly stores!)

By the time I went to my next stop, one block away, I could tell I was having a reaction. A headache exploded in my skull. My GI tract was suddenly very angry at me. I was nauseous, congested, dizzy, achy, exhausted, and anxious. The bright sunlight triggered hives and diffuse itchiness. I scrambled to find my nausea medication which helps, but it’s not a cure-all. I needed benadryl. And sleep. Lots of it. But I still had a play to go to that afternoon, and a five-hour infusion to do after that. I didn’t want a reaction to stop me from living my life. I repeated my mantra to myself, “Just breathe. Slow, deep breath. Just breathe. You’ll be okay.”

I made it to the play and took some Tylenol, and hoped no one sitting near me would be wearing something scented. The play was enjoyable and I wore my mask the whole time. Naturally, I got weird looks from most people around me. I smiled and winked at the kids who stared. Hopefully communicating that I wasn’t a scary monster. Most smiled back.

I slept for the rest of the weekend. Just two stores and a play were too much for my broken body that day. Some days I can do more, some days I’m only able to do the bare minimum to survive.

Life on the Edge of the Cliff

I cling desperately to edge of my cliff, feet dangling precariously above a vast, inky black sea of nothing. Fingers curled tightly into any crevasse that may give me hold so I don’t slip. The rest of my life spread out in front of me. A giant black void of nothing. It’s all I’ve seen the past few years. Not even the glimmer of a faint star in the sky. My wonderful, brilliant doctors don’t know how to help me anymore. I don’t know how to help me anymore. I don’t know what my future holds. Staring at the empty black is terrifying. I squeeze my eyes tightly against the black so it doesn’t sink into my soul. 

But sometimes I bravely open my eyes wide and stare, searching, reaching for a light in the mist. And sometimes I glimpse it, one step forward. One step enough for me.

I am not hopeless.

Attitude is Everything

A friend recently told me she can’t believe I have such a good attitude with all of this going on. I shrugged my shoulders, not sure how to respond. I don’t know that I have a great attitude about it, but complaining doesn’t help anyone. Just makes everyone around me miserable too. (Though I still do complain sometimes!) Laughing at myself is much more entertaining anyway.

What else can I do? I might sit on a cliff, dangling above an unknown future…but doesn’t everyone? No one knows their future. Everyone has struggles of some kind. Everyone is fighting unseen battles. Mine are of the weird, expensive, medical variety. Some might have family or financial struggles. Others may have difficulties at work. You might have something completely different. But my “rare” struggles don’t make me more special, or more admirable, just because they are unique.

We are all here on Earth to help and lift each other up during our struggles. Heaven knows it’s difficult, maybe even seemingly impossible some days. But I can, at least, smile at someone today. Even if that someone is just myself staring back in the mirror.

I have hope in better days yet to come.

I have hope in seeing through the black fog to the sun rising above the beautiful valley below.

I have hope that from my perspective on the edge that I’ll be able to see how far how I’ve come and the wonderful, beautiful future I have going forward.

I have hope in a bright, happy future when all pain and suffering no longer exist.

I have faith I’ll be there to enjoy that feeling.

I’ll close my eyes and bask in the happy, warm sunlight of that moment.

_____

[A version of this article was published on The Mighty, a website for people with chronic illnesses, in February 2019. It was originally written in July 2018.]