“How do you feel?” My husband Gene’s familiar question came as early-morning light crept through the lace curtains into our bedroom. My silence said it all. For months, I had barely managed to get out of bed by noon. Lately I hadn’t even made that herculean effort.
Gene reached over and held my hand. My thoughts felt like poison darts from an unseen enemy: You’ll never have energy again. Stay in bed. It’s all downhill from here. The good life is over. Just pray that God has mercy on you.
Three years earlier, I’d been diagnosed with rheumatoid arthritis. At last, the joint problems I’d dealt with for the past few years made sense. Except now the pain was far worse. Hands, feet, knees, elbows, shoulders—everything hurt. I barely made it from the bedroom to the sofa most
