By Kristen Levens
I’ve been a sick person most of my life. I nearly died from bacterial meningitis at only a few months old. I faced several surgeries in the first few years of my life. Around the age of two, my most favorite doctor that I’ve ever had (and will have until he’s no longer practicing medicine…if you know, you know) mused to my mom that I might have an autoimmune disease. But at that time in the early 90s, those were still extremely new. People weren’t talking much about the ways your body can fight itself and win and lose that fight all at the same. My adolescence was quieter—marked mostly just by having lots of ear and sinus infections and some chronic gastrointestinal stuff that never added up to anything noteworthy and people wondering why I got sick so often. We just kept going, though.
At age 22, after an elective surgery, the trauma my body had gone through threw it into a major revolt. The symptoms that had been hidden through the years, explained away by fatness, femininity, an assumed poor diet, and who knows what else, could no longer be ignored. I was first diagnosed with Crohn’s disease, and then the gamut of other autoimmunes followed. Once you have one, your body loves to keep going.
Now at 36, having lived this life for the last almost 15 years (really 36, but it feels odd to say it if the diagnoses weren’t there), I can say that some days it’s fine. Some days I’m ok, and my energy is ok. But other days getting out of bed takes nearly all the spoons I have. (If you don’t know the Spoon Theory, look it up! It’s such a helpful framework.) As I write this, I’m on a short-term medical leave from my current call because of the myriad of ways my body can and cannot handle life. In that spirit, I felt called to write a blessing that I needed to hear. And, so, I share it with you too, in case you also need to hear it or in case someone you know needs to hear it.
A Blessing for the Woman Whose Body Fights
May the Holy One cradle you in the hush of divine mercy,
like dawn light spilling softly across a weary room.
When pain lingers through the long night
and morning comes too soon,
may sacred presence be the gentle hand upon your brow,
the breath of peace within your soul.
May Christ, who knows the language of suffering,
walk beside you in every shadowed valley.
When your strength feels like a flickering flame,
may love be your steady light,
your shelter in the storm,
your song in the silence.
May the Creator remind you, again and again,
that you are not defined by your struggle
nor diminished by the weight you carry.
You are a beloved daughter—
woven with tenderness, crowned with dignity,
held in everlasting arms.
May grace fall on you like rain upon dry earth,
quietly restoring what weariness has worn thin.
May hope bloom in hidden places,
like wildflowers rising through stone,
and may joy visit you in small sacred moments:
a kind word, a shaft of sunlight,
the stillness of prayer,
the warmth of being deeply known.
When the days are heavy and the journey long,
may the Spirit breathe fresh courage into your heart,
renewing you with mercies as new as the morning sky.
And may healing—whether of body, mind, or spirit—
come to you as grace allows:
in strength for today,
in peace for tomorrow,
and in the promise that you are never, ever alone.
May the Holy One bless you and keep you,
carry you and comfort you,
now and always.
Amen.
