I’ve been suffering from Mast Cell Activation Syndrome since last century, which sounds hyperbolic, but it’s true. For decades, very little was known about it, and it didn’t even receive an International Classification of Diseases code until 2022—the year I was finally diagnosed. For 30 years, I’ve trudged along with over two dozen unrelenting symptoms.

Sometime in 2012, I landed on a phrase: “I know the answer is right around the corner. I just don’t know how long the block is.” It kept me optimistic. It gave me hope.

For the past couple of months, I’ve wondered how I landed on that mantra, and this week, God provided an insightful revelation about the phrase that carried me through decades of suffering.

With MCAS, my heart feels clunky and thunky. I’ve worn innumerable heart monitors—one recorded 10,000 PVCs (skipped beats) in 24 hours. Sleep was fleeting and happened for 20 to 40 minutes at a time and then my heart would ca-thunk me awake and race as I stared into the dark, pleading: God — let me sleep! Snarkiness ensued because nights were never full nights of sleep—this lasted decades. Not a month. Not a year. Decades.

When my heart and mind finally settle and deep sleep eventually ensued, waking up was almost impossible. Each time I awakened, my first thought was: “I still have it. Something’s still wrong. How am I going to make it through another day.”

My morning BADitude was a nasty way to start the day–a change was needed. Morning turned musical: Instead of letting the enemy’s darts pummel my mind, I set my alarm to play battle songs of hope. For years, I listened until my waking battle cry: “I’m going to raise a hallelujah. I’m going to fight my battle. I’m going to rise up.” On Sunday mornings, I listened to the newest Christian releases to discover songs for my arsenal.

On a recent Sunday, I was listening and a voice trilled: “I’m in the desert.” Another Israelite reference. Yeehaw. The song described wandering in the desert—no water, no shelter—waiting for rescue. Selah’s “You Don’t Leave Me” had released two days earlier. I listened to it on repeat while driving to church, weeping the whole way because:

like the Israelites, for decades, I’d been trudging through the desert wandering. Not with sand in my sandals… but with unrelenting symptoms without a cause. No map. No diagnosis. No clear direction. Just day after day of trudging through the unknown wilderness that didn’t show up on scans or lab results… waiting for a rescue to come, as I waited exposed and vulnerable searching for the answer.

And yet… even there… I recognized my father’s faithfulness through: Moments of provision. Flickers of strength when I should’ve collapsed. Tiny mercies that didn’t fix everything—but reminded me I wasn’t alone. Even when it didn’t look like progress. Even when it felt like I was circling the same stretch of desert over and over again—like the Israelites, walking forward but somehow still waiting, wandering, wondering: What if the promised land is just up ahead?

Father, don’t let me forget who You are when my body is loud and my thoughts start spiraling. Don’t let me forget that just because I can’t see the corner yet… doesn’t mean it’s not there. There were moments—quiet, almost imperceptible—where I felt it… You holding my head up. When I didn’t have the strength to keep going, and yet somehow… I kept going.

Because He doesn’t lead just to abandon. And still… there were days I wondered—

What if the answer, the diagnosis, the relief—it’s closer than it feels?

You can be wandering and still be on your way.

But this much I know: Even when nothing is growing. Even when I’m bone-tired of the journey and the block feels impossibly long. Enough grace for that day. Enough strength for that step. Enough presence to remind me that even if the block is long…Hey girl, He will never leave you nor forsake you. The Lord your God is with you wherever you go.

“You Don’t Leave Me” is my anthem—my alarm. A daily reminder that the desert is not the destination.

The answer–the promise. Is right around the corner–I just don’t know how long the block is.