So....I have been struggling with church lately. First of all, I was sick most of winter and missed many/most of church throughout the winter, and it has been hard to go back--I don't want to put on a "public" face--not that I really ever do anyway, but I at least usually wear clean clothes if nothing else...and I haven't even wanted to do that, or brush my teeth and comb my hair...I just don't want to be sociable...and it's often too loud for me, the music has changed and I don't know or don't like the songs...you name it, I can find the excuse....
And to top it off, God won't let it go. He keeps throwing scripture at me about not giving up gathering together. Then when I do go, He throws sermons at me. And if that weren't bad enough, he puts people in my life that show me what I will look like spiritually if I continue to avoid "corporate worship".
I have never really "liked" church beyond the social aspect ofit--I mean, I love the people. What's not to love about the people?? And the couple that I don't by instinct love, God teaches me to love. But I know that God wants more from me than to just attend a "club meeting". I remember my friend Connie Martin, long ago, talking about the value of "corporate worship" but I didn't comprehend it. I mean, I treasure my times alone with God, when I can worship in private, on my own, just Him and me.
But I have been dreaming often of Dr. Root lately. And one of my most striking memories of him was this day. (Click on "day" to read about that day.) I was telling a friend about this day and it suddenly struck me that that "connection" he made with me that day is what we do when we worship corporately. The connection I felt that day with Dr. Root was two people, marveling at some aspect of God together--which is what we do when we worship together. We are all acknowledging certain aspects of God, and worshiping---and we should all share that connection.
So why don't we? Why do we sometimes feel like we are "forcing" worship...or that we just aren't in a place to worship as the leader is directing? Is it a lack of discipline on our part? Is it a disconnect between the worship leader and me?
I'm still trying to work this out. I am who I am. God knows this.
Sunday, June 18, 2017
Wednesday, February 8, 2017
On Rest
On Rest.
I
think I forgot how to rest once I became a mom.
–but I feel like I’m starting in the middle, so let me backtrack, I
don’t want to lose you.
We
used to say of Keary, when he was little, that he had two speeds, asleep and
full-speed (and nothing in between). My
mom commented to me that she thought I was very much like Keary when I was
young. Anything I did, I did at full
speed, all out, 110%. And looking back,
I think that’s probably pretty accurate.
When it comes to general disposition, Keary is very much my clone. I remember, as a kid, hating to go to bed (or
even down for a nap) because I didn’t want to miss out on anything. Rest, to me, wasn’t a necessary part of life,
it was time in the penalty box, in which the game kept going, but I was not
allowed to participate—or even watch.
I
have carried that feeling quite into adulthood.
Sleep for me isn’t rejuvenation.
I can’t enjoy it. It’s necessary
downtime. I know that after a while I
get fumbly and less efficient and my mental sharpness goes and short-term
memory quits working, I start making mistakes—and it’s time to sleep. But as an adult I have only slept 4 to 7
hours at night—the very minimum to recharge whatever needs recharging. I’m keenly aware that I only get so many hours
of life, and I don’t want to “waste” a third of them sleeping—missing life.
In
the same way, I have found it very hard to really “rest”. I blame part of that on being a mother. I mean, once you become a mother, you are
changed forever. There is never any
going back. There is always someone else
you are thinking about, praying for, planning for, training, feeding, cleaning
up after, molding, loving….I remember, when Laura was not quite a year old,
having a dream in which I walked to the store.
No big deal. Just walking from my
house down the street to the store. But
toward the end of the dream I realized Laura wasn’t with me and I had no idea
where she was—did I leave her with a sitter?
Was she at home? Did I leave her at the store?—it was the first time I
realized that even in my dreams I was a mother—there was no going back, there
would never again be a time when I didn’t have her on my mind.
At
least….not until April 2015. (If you
need to know what happened then, see previous blogs).
I
believe April 2015 was the very first REAL rest I had since---EVER?—or at least
since childhood.
I
do remember, as a child, the feeling of the last day of school, knowing I
didn’t have to get up and do any kind of routine the next day…that feeling that
you could just let all your breath out and relax. Though I enjoyed school as a child, I don’t
think I particularly liked getting up in the morning, early, and the rush out
the door to the babysitter’s….. As an early elementary child, my summers were
mainly spent in Hazel Dell, on a small “farm”—not really a farm, but they did
have acreage and a horse, blackberries and fields. One of my “happy places” where I go when I
need to relax from stressful situations is on the hill in the pasture beside
their house—lying in the tall, soft grass, surrounded by daisies, looking up at
the few clouds sailing in the blue sky, listening to the birds, just breathing
in the “nothing to do” summer air.
Ahhhh.
And
I remember that “end of semester” feeling, or that “last day before Christmas
break” or “last day before Spring break” feeling, when all the homework is
done, the testing is over, I can clear my mind of school and just rest…School
books are left at school. It’s all put
away and I can really rest.
In
college, it was the end-of-term feeling, when all the papers were in and the
finals were done and the only stress left was waiting for grades to be
posted.
But
even as much as I enjoyed that lack of stress-lack of schedule—lack of someone-else-running-my-day,
I lacked an appreciation for having nothing to do. There was a kind of stress in not knowing
what to do—in having nothing to do, in having to come up with ways to be
productive or to keep my mind occupied—because my mind only ever had two speeds—coma
or full-on—so most of my life, even while sleeping, my mind was full-on.
Seriously. When I was about 11 or 12, I got this puzzle
that was a long flat piece of wood with an oblong hole cut in the middle of
it. Through this oblong hole was a
string and on either end of the string was a bead and a flat diamond of
wood. The bead would not fit through the
slit in the wood, but the diamond
would. Over the two strings was a metal
ring that would not fit over the wood diamonds.
It would fit over one end of the wood with the hole in it, but not the
other end. The object was to get the
ring free of the strings, so it was separate from the puzzle. The only rule was that you could not untie
the knots at either end of the string, and you could not cut the string or in any
way damage the puzzle. I played with
this puzzle for YEARS. I would slip the
ring over the wood and past the slit, thinking that if I could somehow get the
string out, I could slip the ring back off the wood and it would be free…but
the beads were too big to go through the slit.
I would pick the puzzle up and put it aside for months at a time…and
pick it up again….and put it down.
Then
one morning, I woke up just knowing how to do it. For decades I had been going over this puzzle
in my head, in the background, even while I slept, apparently, and one morning
I woke up and knew how to do it.
My
amazing brain figured it out while I was sleeping. I used to do this all the time in high
school. I would go to bed working on a
difficult math problem, and when I woke up in the morning, I knew how to solve
it.
But
in April 2015, I rested. I think even my
brain rested. For a time, I had no
children, no home, no husband, no work, no responsibilities, no animals to
feed, no land to care for. I didn’t have
to worry about eating or getting dressed.
I was fed and clothed and bathed by someone else. I didn’t have anything to do and didn’t know
I didn’t have anything to do. There
wasn’t even the “pressure” of finding something to do. It was just me and God. Other people flitted in and out, and it was
good, but I had no connection to them…they were just clouds that sailed by in
the blue summer sky. It was just me and
God. And in all my life, I have never
felt so completely free to just be me—to flit and dance and bubble and
frolic—all-out, full speed. No one
saying, “Shh” or “slow down” or “eyes only” or “be careful”—no “governors” (in
the engine sense). No expectations. No responsibilities. No schedules.
It was the most peaceful I have ever felt. And the most loved. And the most accepted. And the most fearless.
Years
ago, when Gary
had his stroke and I was losing my vision, bills were mounting and I was
overwhelmed, Matthew 6:25-34 was my command and my promise.
25 “Therefore I tell you, do not worry
about your life, what you will eat or drink; or about your body, what you will
wear. Is not life more than food, and the body more than clothes? 26 Look at
the birds of the air; they do not sow or reap or store away in barns, and yet
your heavenly Father feeds them. Are you not much more valuable than they? 27
Can any one of you by worrying add a single hour to your life[a]?
28 “And why do you worry about clothes?
See how the flowers of the field grow. They do not labor or spin. 29 Yet I tell
you that not even Solomon in all his splendor was dressed like one of these. 30
If that is how God clothes the grass of the field, which is here today and
tomorrow is thrown into the fire, will he not much more clothe you—you of
little faith? 31 So do not worry, saying, ‘What shall we eat?’ or ‘What shall
we drink?’ or ‘What shall we wear?’ 32 For the pagans run after all these
things, and your heavenly Father knows that you need them. 33 But seek first
his kingdom and his righteousness, and all these things will be given to you as
well. 34 Therefore do not worry about tomorrow, for tomorrow will worry about
itself. Each day has enough trouble of its own.
And
in April 2015, I finally learned what it FELT like to truly be able to not
worry for a short time. And when all
those things came back—a knowledge of time of motherhood, of home and husband,
pets and work—it was all good; I was so thankful to have them all back.
But
I learned what it means to rest, to really rest. And, though I’m still a mom, time still
flows, work still calls, and I have to think about what we are going to eat; I
have a new “happy place”. And I’m
starting to understand that “rest” isn’t a time-out from life, in the penalty
box, while the game is going on without me—but rather, it’s a place to go where
I can check motherhood and work and responsibilities at the door, and just be
with the One who loves me, in His presence, frolicking—or just snuggling—and
that all those things will be waiting for me when I get back.
Sunday, April 3, 2016
Untethered
During
the mid to late 1950s, the US
military conducted Project Manhigh, in which they sent men into the
stratosphere in balloons to see if they could endure great heights. We recently watched footage of these
balloons. They were huge helium-filled
balloons. On the ground, these balloons
were very, very tall, with a little bubble of helium at the top—nothing like
the rounded hot air balloons we see today.
The reason was that as the balloon ascended to where the atmospheric pressure
was far less than it is near the surface of the earth, the helium would expand
and there needed to be sufficient room in the balloon to contain the
helium. It was amazing to watch the
footage, as the balloon ascended up, up, and out of sight, nearly 20 miles !!!
The
events of my life in early April 2015, left me “untethered”. God only knows what really happened that left
me face-down in the pool with a very slow heart rate and a lung full of water
and apparently hundreds of clots in my brain—but over the next week or so, they
put me on paralytics, pain medications, intubation, and cooling—basically in an
induced coma. Between the brain trauma
and the medications, I have very patchy memories of those 10 days—though
apparently for some of it I was awake and responding, holding eye contact and
recognizing people—though I have no sense of time or order—it’s all a mish-mash
in my memory. But I know that for a
while at least (though for how long, I have no idea) I was without awareness of
self—at least, those things I think of that identify myself as ME.
For
the past 15 years, I have been typing a phrase that doctors use as a standard
part of their exams, “Alert and oriented x3” (or sometimes x4). The x3 is person, place and time, the fourth
is event. I think, if I responded to
anything in those first days, beyond pain, it was my name. That doesn’t mean I knew who I was—just that
I had a name and when someone called my name, I knew they were talking to me…I
don’t have any memory of not knowing my name, or my birthday, or my brother’s
birthday, for that matter. And I don’t
remember not knowing that I was any of those things that I define myself
by—mother, wife, daughter, transcriptionist, pet owner….but I know that I must
not have known them, because I remember remembering them for the first
time.
I
apparently couldn’t talk at some point, because I remember hearing an oddly
slurred voice from somewhere down deep, with the greatest effort, ask for
orange juice. It still seems surreal,
how slowly those words came, and with what great effort, and how foreign they
sounded.
At
one point, someone asked me if I had any children. It seemed like they waited for an answer and
then went on about whatever they were doing—but I was trying to answer. It was like it stirred something very deep
inside me—but I didn’t know! It seemed
like I thought about that question for a very long time—but of course, time
wasn’t flowing for me like it was for the rest of the world—because of the
drugs? Or the brain injury? Or ? But out
of the blackness—looking into my memory, trying to answer that question was
like looking into a pitch blackness and trying to find something but I wasn’t
even sure what I was looking for—then out of that darkness came a name, Laura,
and images of a baby, a toddler, a woman.
However many hours or days later, I could finally answer that
all-important question—even if there was no one there to hear me answer
it. “Yes, I have a Laura. She’s beautiful.” And, as if I knew there was more in that
darkness, however much later, came the name Keary. I have
a Keary too!
In
the neurology wing, however long I was there, 3 or 4 or 5 days, every day (or
possibly many times per day) strangers would come in and ask me what day it was
and if I knew where I was. I think the
“bubble” I was in was rather small, as the date was written on a board in my
room and if I looked out the window, I should have been able to see a very
familiar view, since I have spent many days in that hospital both as a patient
and also visiting others, but in my memory, I couldn’t see that board and all I
could see out the window was white (though apparently I recognized people in
the doorway). None of it makes sense to
me—but I think I have a new empathy for how babies see the world now. I don’t know when they first started telling
me the date, but the first date I remember was April 17th. And the only reason it had meaning to me was
because my brother’s birthday is April 18th, and I felt like I
needed to call him and wish him happy birthday.
They asked me what his phone number was, but I didn’t know-but I asked
if they could call the operator or information to get it—and they looked at me
like I was crazy. (Now I know they were
just too young to know what an operator was or that once upon a time you could
call information to get a phone number—ah, the good ol’ days).
I
would tell them the date (whatever date they had told me last) and then I would
tell them I was in Hawaii ,
because I imagined the white I was seeing out the window was a white sand
beach, and the swallows flitting around were birds at the beach. Though they told me I was at RiverBend, I
didn’t really know what that meant. As
my “bubble” grew bigger and I could see cars driving out on the “ocean”, I
asked what road that was and when someone told me it was Pioneer Parkway . I then knew I was at RiverBend—as if this was
a new revelation…but even then I didn’t really know it…until they took me out
into the hall, and through the gym to the outside balcony, and I remembered the
gym from 2009, when I was there with a foot infection, and I remembered the
balcony from that same stay….
On
April 22, I left RiverBend and moved to a rehab center in downtown Eugene . Things were still surreal. My brain wasn’t mapping very well. Though I tried to see where we were going on
the ride over, I didn’t know where I was.
Though they took me to a room where I would spend the next 9 days, it
looked completely different on that first day than it did on the last, and I
never could remember where my room was, except that it was across from the
dining room—when I went back after I was discharged, several weeks later, it
looked completely different still…
I
don’t know how many days I was there before it dawned on me that I had a job
and I was supposed to be working and I needed to get back home so I could get
back to work. Time, and the pressure of
time, had come back to my life.
When
I first woke up, it was like the best vacation ever (except that I couldn’t
walk or talk or eat or take care of my bodily functions). I didn’t have any stress. No one needed me for anything. I didn’t have any deadlines. There were no expectations. I woke up with the feeling that it was just
God and me. Other people popped into my
world to do things, like clean me or feed me or just come sit with me and talk
to me and tell me they loved me. In
fact, I woke up with an intense feeling of being loved, or being at complete
peace.
Even
when I started to recognize, one by one, the tethers that tie me to this
life—my children, my family, my friends, my job, my home, my yard, my
pets….they were just plusses. But as I
woke up more and more, they slowly became tethers again—someone else was doing
my job—I would have to fight to get it back, or lose it. My dog was wanting to see me, was running
away from home to find me. My bunny,
with no one to care for him, died… My grass was growing—someone, I still don’t
know who, mowed it for me. My son was
not doing his school work because I was not there to crack the whip…my house was
starting to look very bachelorish….
Even
before I left the hospital for rehab, something inside me was pushing to come
back to earth. I knew I could not live 20 miles up forever---as
lovely as the view was, and as peaceful and relaxed and wonderful as it was up
there, just me and God with occasional visits from others—something inside me
knew I had to come back down and knew I had to do it NOW. Something inside me started fighting for
physical therapy—fighting to stand, fighting to walk, fighting to run my life
again, to get home, to be on my own turf.
Although I was probably not screaming on the outside, I was definitely
screaming on the inside for someone to help me—get me up, help me walk, I need
to GO.
As
awful as that hospital time is in my memory—all jumbly and disoriented—I still
long for that peace, that knowledge of being completely loved—even though I
wasn’t deserving by any of the things that make me ME. I was loved just because I am.
I
am loved—not because I am a (good) wife, not because I am smart, not because I
am determined and strong, not because I am a mom, not because I’m good at math,
not because I have a cool sense of humor.
I am loved because I am. I
didn’t, nor could I ever do anything to deserve it. And yet I AM loved.
The
first thing I remember when I woke up—maybe before I woke up—was this song,
“You dance over me while I am unaware.
You sing all around, but I never hear a sound. Lord, I’m amazed by You, and how You love
me.” Even while I was “untethered” by
the things of this life—the good things and the stressful things—I was still in
God’s presence. It’s comforting to me to
know that even when “I” am not here, I am still with God.
My friend, Doug Capps, before he died, said he knew that while I was sleeping, God was talking to me. I wish I could bring to mind all of what He must have said to me, but for this moment-and forever-it is enough for me to just know that He said, “Oh, my precious child, how I love you.”
My friend, Doug Capps, before he died, said he knew that while I was sleeping, God was talking to me. I wish I could bring to mind all of what He must have said to me, but for this moment-and forever-it is enough for me to just know that He said, “Oh, my precious child, how I love you.”
Sunday, March 20, 2016
For S.H. (and anyone else needing encouragement)
I know what you are
struggling with is not the same as what I have gone through, but if I could
give you a “brief” history of the past 6 years or so….I have been in a similar
place, and so I speak with confidence when I say that He is faithful, and that
He is building your faith.
I have a husband,
married in 1988, a
daughter born in 1984, whom my husband adopted in 1989, and a son born in 2000
(and two miscarriages and infertility between the kids). I developed diabetes in the 1990s. My husbnand and I were both born in 1962 and
met in late 1986.
In January 2008, my
grandmother died at the age 92 of a massive stroke. She had been the prayer
warrior of our family. In December 2008,
my eldest brother died of cancer that he refused to fight. About that time, we found out that our
daughter was pregnant with our first grandchild—they have struggled with
infertility and this was a miracle for
them, and the pregnancy had been fraught with early spotting, but things seemed
to be going okay. In April 2009, when
she was about 6 months along, I broke my leg on Sunday night and then went with
her, on crutches, to her OB appointment.,
where the baby’s heart rate was very slow—in the 60s. They had her come back the following day,
when they discovered that the baby, a little girl, had died.
Having a broken leg
really cut down on my ability to exercise, a key component in my diabetes
control, and in August I developed an infection in my foot that landed me in
the hospital for 10 days with sepsis and kidney failure and foot surgery and
lots of bills….It took me MONTHS to recover from this, but just as I was
getting on my feet again, in November 2009, my husband had a massive stroke
that took him out of the workforce and left me the sole provider. Because of my uncontrolled diabetes, I was
losing my vision. My husband had done
all the shopping and cooking to that point, but could no longer drive, so that
new fell on me, as well as taking extra work to make up for what he was no
longer able to bring in. By April of
that year (2010), I was no longer able
to drive, barely able to work, and having to do all the cooking and shopping…it
was awful. I had to put all the groceries
away myself (and all the dishes) because if someone else put them away, I could
not find them.
I remember standing
in my kitchen feeling completely overwhelmed—too much to do, losing my vision,
not able to drive any longer, having people bring me meals and groceries (the
orchestra I had played in and no longer could, organized a meal and food box
for us for many months, and every week they would send us a box of premade
meals I could put in the freezer and take out when needed, and basic panty
supplies…what a god send!!..and I had huge hospital and doctor bills that
insurance did not cover for both myself and my husband, and then our son, who
picked that year to jump off a board and land on a nail and put it completely through
is foot…all the way out the top..so HE had a hospital stay too…..oh, and they
eye doctor sent me to a retinologist who said I needed surgery—and over the
past 6 years I have had 7 physical surgeries on my eyes, countless laser surgeries
and countless injections…and still owe him over $10,000……
I remember standing
in my kitchen thinking, I just cannot go on any longer. Lord, this Is more than I can bear….(did I mention I was still trying to
homeschool through all this?). he said
to me, “Look at birds, they do not worry about what they are going to eat or
where they are going to sleep, and yet not one of them falls from the sky that
I don’t know about. Look at the lilies of the field. They do not worry about what they will wear. How much more to me you are than they!!! Trust ME to provide for your needs, and you just
focus on your part. “ Worrying IS a waste
of time and energy and emotion.
Over the last few years
there have been MANY faith-strengthening trials. But God is faithful. I wrote in my blog about many of the things He
did along the way. It’s important to keep
a record of his faithfulness because when we are afraid, the enemy likes to get
in our heads and say things to worry us, but if we instead look back at what God
has done to provide for us—even the impossible, then that voice is easy to recognize
as untrue. Our god IS faithful Our god DOES care about us. Our god DOES meet our needs. Our god DOES want good for us. But he also wants us to trust him and not fight
and flounder and worry. The more we trust,
the easier the walk becomes.
Stand firm in what you
know, sister. All He has for you is good.
Just rest in Him.
Tuesday, February 16, 2016
Thoughts on Fear
One of the things I woke up with last April was the unshakable knowledge that I was unconditionally loved. It wasn't an intellectual knowledge..something that I know in my head but not throughout the rest of me.
For a long time I have thought that we are really too hard on ourselves. We have this notion that we have to measure up to something in order to be accepted and loved, and the better able we are to measure up, the more we are able to accept being accepted and loved.
I remember when I had my daughter. I watched her sleeping one night when she was about 18 months old, and I knew without any doubt in my mind that I would unhesitatingly, unthinkingly, lay down my life for her. She didn't have to do anything to earn my love. She didn't have to be the best at anything, she didn't have to be good, or nice, or cute or obedient--NOTHING. I loved her with everything that was in me just because i did--because she was my child, perhaps, or because God gave me a supernatural love for her--whatever the reason, it was the strongest, surest, most enduring love I had ever felt.
But that night, as I was pondering that amazing feeling, I realized that MY mom loved ME in that same way. And almost in the same instant that I realized how much I loved my daughter, I also was able to accept how much I was loved.
Over the course of the years, as I watched people bash themselves for failures (big and small) I started to see that they weren't seeing themselves the way God sees them. What parent when his child takes his first steps and falls on his hands, or his behind, thinks poorly of him? No, the parent comforts the child, hugs him, helps him up, and encourages him to keep trying. Even after that child has been buzzing around for years, when he trips and skins his knee or elbow or palms, the parent still does not scold, but puts Bactine and Band-Aids on the wounds and offers snuggles for the wounded ego.
When I was "sleeping" I felt like I was that little child, romping like a lamb or kid, kicking up my heels, running clumsily, stumbling and falling, but not worrying about falling, about making mistakes. There was no fear or ridicule or scolding. No fear of failing a quiz and taking my grade average down. I was loved, completely loved, just exactly as I am...."Now therefore there is no condemnation for those who are in Christ Jesus, who walk not according to the flesh, but according to the Spirit." and "perfect Love casts our fear".
We really need to check the self-talk that goes on in our heads. Are the words condemning us for failures or flaws or misfortunes? Do those words line up with Scripture? Do they line up with what our Father in Heaven thinks of us? Do they line up with what the One who died so that there would be no condemnation for us thinks of us? The one who said, "Where are your accusers? ...Then neither do i condemn you. Go and sin no more." and the One who said, "The one who is forgiven much loves the most."
Where is there a place for fear in us? We have no fear of failure. There is no one to condemn us. We have not reason to worry, because God holds all things, provides for all our needs, and loves more than we can imagine. What can we really control? One of my greatest fears is that I will die and my son will not have me to direct him and his attitude, or redirect him, or keep pointing him toward God. But what can I really REALLY do in that regard. I can love him, I can be gentle with him, I can encourage him and pick him up when he falls--but I can't make him love God, not really. If God sees fit to allow me to continue to participate in my son's life, you had better believe I will do it with my whole heart, because he is the only mission field I really care about. But even if I do everything right, I really, in the end, have no control over my son's choices. No parent really does. We can pray. We can do things to pull them in or push them out, but ultimately the decision lies with each person as to whom he will serve. So, while I WANT to be a part of his life, it's not ultimately my decision...God will take me whenever He wants or let me stay until Jesus returns. I really don't have any say in it, and I have to let go of THAT fear..that last little bit of pseudo control I have in life...over life itself...
And once I let go of all that fear, guess what? There is nothing left for me to do but love. I don't have to worry about the harvest, about the weeds, about my lawn getting mowed, about what I'm going to eat or drink, about what I'm going to wear, about deadlines...The only thing left for me to do is to love and frolic. If I want to frolic by swimming a mile or mowing my lawn or tending my flowers, or making beauty around me, then I'm free to do that...but I don't HAVE to, and the world won't fall apart if I don't....
And you know what else I learned about fear and letting go of it? It makes me free to see things more clearly. I had an appraiser come out last fall, after I had done NOTHING with my yard all summer...my husband had had my son throw cardboard on the back deck rather than taking it to the burn pile and blackberries had overgrown most of it. We had about 2 days' notice that he was coming and I actually took a day off work so I could clean the back deck and mow the yard, and Gary frantically cleaned inside, but it' really looked like a hoarder's house still....and I was fretting about that appraiser coming and God told me, "just remember, it doesn't matter one bit what he thinks of you."...and when he came and saw the clutter still on the front deck and his first words were, "You did know I was coming, right?" I repeated to myself, as I did many times in his hour-long inspection, "It doesn't matter a bit what he thinks of me." And it didn't, and it worked out fine.
And once I let that go, once I REALLY believe deep inside, that "it doesn't matter one lick what you think of me", then I'm free to see you as God sees you, flaws and needs all together, and I'm better able to help you--I'm better able to see past your criticism and treat you and talk to you in a loving way.
When I don't count, you are so much easier to love! (and I'll bet it works the other way around too).
So MY New Year's resolution is to learn to walk in perfect love...to not walk in fear or in the flesh, but to walk in truth....I don't want to forget what last April felt like....the joy of coming back to life, and the comfort of being completely accepted and loved--and what it felt like to live without fear. I'm gonna fail. But I'm going to get back up and keep on trying, because you don't learn to run by giving up when you are learning to walk..... And I'm going to quit being afraid of leaving you all behind, because God will take care of you all--with or without me. And truth is, I want to stay here as long as I'm still growing and still being of some use in the kingdom--or to my family...but I'm not afraid to leave, when the time comes, so if I don't get to say goodbye, I'll see you later!!! Don't live in fear.
For a long time I have thought that we are really too hard on ourselves. We have this notion that we have to measure up to something in order to be accepted and loved, and the better able we are to measure up, the more we are able to accept being accepted and loved.
I remember when I had my daughter. I watched her sleeping one night when she was about 18 months old, and I knew without any doubt in my mind that I would unhesitatingly, unthinkingly, lay down my life for her. She didn't have to do anything to earn my love. She didn't have to be the best at anything, she didn't have to be good, or nice, or cute or obedient--NOTHING. I loved her with everything that was in me just because i did--because she was my child, perhaps, or because God gave me a supernatural love for her--whatever the reason, it was the strongest, surest, most enduring love I had ever felt.
But that night, as I was pondering that amazing feeling, I realized that MY mom loved ME in that same way. And almost in the same instant that I realized how much I loved my daughter, I also was able to accept how much I was loved.
Over the course of the years, as I watched people bash themselves for failures (big and small) I started to see that they weren't seeing themselves the way God sees them. What parent when his child takes his first steps and falls on his hands, or his behind, thinks poorly of him? No, the parent comforts the child, hugs him, helps him up, and encourages him to keep trying. Even after that child has been buzzing around for years, when he trips and skins his knee or elbow or palms, the parent still does not scold, but puts Bactine and Band-Aids on the wounds and offers snuggles for the wounded ego.
When I was "sleeping" I felt like I was that little child, romping like a lamb or kid, kicking up my heels, running clumsily, stumbling and falling, but not worrying about falling, about making mistakes. There was no fear or ridicule or scolding. No fear of failing a quiz and taking my grade average down. I was loved, completely loved, just exactly as I am...."Now therefore there is no condemnation for those who are in Christ Jesus, who walk not according to the flesh, but according to the Spirit." and "perfect Love casts our fear".
We really need to check the self-talk that goes on in our heads. Are the words condemning us for failures or flaws or misfortunes? Do those words line up with Scripture? Do they line up with what our Father in Heaven thinks of us? Do they line up with what the One who died so that there would be no condemnation for us thinks of us? The one who said, "Where are your accusers? ...Then neither do i condemn you. Go and sin no more." and the One who said, "The one who is forgiven much loves the most."
Where is there a place for fear in us? We have no fear of failure. There is no one to condemn us. We have not reason to worry, because God holds all things, provides for all our needs, and loves more than we can imagine. What can we really control? One of my greatest fears is that I will die and my son will not have me to direct him and his attitude, or redirect him, or keep pointing him toward God. But what can I really REALLY do in that regard. I can love him, I can be gentle with him, I can encourage him and pick him up when he falls--but I can't make him love God, not really. If God sees fit to allow me to continue to participate in my son's life, you had better believe I will do it with my whole heart, because he is the only mission field I really care about. But even if I do everything right, I really, in the end, have no control over my son's choices. No parent really does. We can pray. We can do things to pull them in or push them out, but ultimately the decision lies with each person as to whom he will serve. So, while I WANT to be a part of his life, it's not ultimately my decision...God will take me whenever He wants or let me stay until Jesus returns. I really don't have any say in it, and I have to let go of THAT fear..that last little bit of pseudo control I have in life...over life itself...
And once I let go of all that fear, guess what? There is nothing left for me to do but love. I don't have to worry about the harvest, about the weeds, about my lawn getting mowed, about what I'm going to eat or drink, about what I'm going to wear, about deadlines...The only thing left for me to do is to love and frolic. If I want to frolic by swimming a mile or mowing my lawn or tending my flowers, or making beauty around me, then I'm free to do that...but I don't HAVE to, and the world won't fall apart if I don't....
And you know what else I learned about fear and letting go of it? It makes me free to see things more clearly. I had an appraiser come out last fall, after I had done NOTHING with my yard all summer...my husband had had my son throw cardboard on the back deck rather than taking it to the burn pile and blackberries had overgrown most of it. We had about 2 days' notice that he was coming and I actually took a day off work so I could clean the back deck and mow the yard, and Gary frantically cleaned inside, but it' really looked like a hoarder's house still....and I was fretting about that appraiser coming and God told me, "just remember, it doesn't matter one bit what he thinks of you."...and when he came and saw the clutter still on the front deck and his first words were, "You did know I was coming, right?" I repeated to myself, as I did many times in his hour-long inspection, "It doesn't matter a bit what he thinks of me." And it didn't, and it worked out fine.
And once I let that go, once I REALLY believe deep inside, that "it doesn't matter one lick what you think of me", then I'm free to see you as God sees you, flaws and needs all together, and I'm better able to help you--I'm better able to see past your criticism and treat you and talk to you in a loving way.
When I don't count, you are so much easier to love! (and I'll bet it works the other way around too).
So MY New Year's resolution is to learn to walk in perfect love...to not walk in fear or in the flesh, but to walk in truth....I don't want to forget what last April felt like....the joy of coming back to life, and the comfort of being completely accepted and loved--and what it felt like to live without fear. I'm gonna fail. But I'm going to get back up and keep on trying, because you don't learn to run by giving up when you are learning to walk..... And I'm going to quit being afraid of leaving you all behind, because God will take care of you all--with or without me. And truth is, I want to stay here as long as I'm still growing and still being of some use in the kingdom--or to my family...but I'm not afraid to leave, when the time comes, so if I don't get to say goodbye, I'll see you later!!! Don't live in fear.
Saturday, May 23, 2015
My Long Sleep (part 3), Moving Day
My Long Sleep
(part 3) Moving Day
Just the
knowledge that I was going to be moving to rehab kept me sane my last days at
RiverBend. I was so restless, bored,
frustrated, and ready to move forward, I was about to drive the nurses insane
and win the “most hated patient” award.
Nothing sounded good to eat. Even
the applesauce that had tasted so good earlier, they were mashing up my bitter
pills in and making it a miserable experience. My tongue was burned and hurt
with everything but cold. Eating was work. I had no appetite. They kept asking me what sounded good and all
I could answer was “enchilada” (or something Mexican, anyway). So one day, the kind, Julie-like nurse, took
me for a ride outside. I don’t know that
I had been out of my room much, other than for about 2 trips in contraptions
that let me walk. But I hadn’t been
seeing very well—or maybe I just wasn’t remembering all I saw—so nothing really
looked familiar. Today, they took me out into the hall in a wheelchair and
suddenly I knew where I was. They took me through the gym outside onto a
patio—FRESH AIR!! But I remembered the
gym from my days in ortho, in 2009—this may have been when Parma came in to
visit me, as I was on his floor now. I
hadn’t known where I was—no room number, no hone, I couldn’t see the walls or
anything beside me, only bright light that occasionally came in from the window
and swallows darting in and out of the clock tower outside my window.
The kind nurse
took me outside and told me my family had called and asked if they could bring
an enchilada for me (since apparently I had been refusing to eat). She gave me a few minutes outside, then took
me to a different room where I could lie down and sleep/rest until my family
got there. She wrote on the board,
“Please wake me when my family comes.”
That was the first time I was aware of any white board in my room.
After a little
while the enchilada came—or maybe it was a burrito. It tasted so good, and I knew I would be
leaving soon, perhaps even tomorrow, and things were looking up.
It seems like I
stayed in that room that night. I
accidentally got the tv turned on somehow and listened to that annoying
peaceful music all night long—and would AVOID it the rest of my stay, as it
played on the tvs in rehab too…I couldn’t figure out how to turn it off or find
anything else…and it was the first time I really was aware of anything like a
tv in my room. I still could not move on
my own, and so whatever position they left me in, I had to stay in. Go figure. I could stand, but I could not
roll over—that was even an issue in rehab actually, because my chest hurt so
very much. In the morning someone tried
to get some breakfast down me, perhaps some yogurt and a bit of toast, but not
much. I don’t remember getting
dressed—but I do remember that Gary
was supposed to bring me some clothes and meet me at the rehab center. I don’t remember which door I left RiverBend
through, probably the front ones, but I was loaded with all the things people
had brought, flowers and a puzzle book, almost more than I could hold. I do remember a vase of lilacs that made the
whole van smell heavenly. Even the
driver commented on it. The van had a
ramp out the back and the driver just wheeled me up into the back of the van
and locked my wheelchair in place. I
tried to watch as we left, I knew the roads, but the light was so bright and I
really didn’t know where we were going, other than someplace else.
He wheeled me to
my room on the 4th floor.
It’s hard to imagine that it was the same room I had the whole time,
because it looked so very different the first time I was in it and than when I
left. My brain was still not “seeing”
things properly. My first impression was
that it was a long T-shaped room, with a bathroom at one end, a bed along the
far wall (which was actually a window with blinds) and two “windows” on the
wall that had dividers in them. It
reminded me of a school room at first.
They helped me up onto the bed and explained that they had to do
Dopplers of my legs—that they had to do that for everyone. I remember they had a “Sara Stedy” (http://www.arjohuntleigh.com/products/patient-transfer-solutions/standing-raising-aids/sara-stedy/
) like they had had at RiverBend, and I had to put my hands on the bar and pull
myself to standing, and it hurt like heck (my chest), but once I got past that,
standing up felt SO good. Then they would affix a sling behind me and I would
sit back and they could wheel me around, like to the toilet, and set me
down….Ah!! Someone took me to the
bathroom when I first arrived. Looking
back, I think it was Marc (my chocolate pudding nurse) who had been with me
from the very beginning at rehab. After a
little while, Gary and Laura showed up and we all went over to the dining room
(which was across the hall from my room) and they explained some things to them
and they ordered me a salad for lunch and Speech Therapy came and watched me eat….I
started with mashed vegetables…yuck. But
the salad had Italian dressing and I ate it, though my hand shook ferociously,
with gusto.
I really don’t
remember much of the rest of that day. I
do remember Marc or Lou or one of the male nurses saying they needed to do an ultrasound
of my bladder to check for residual. But
their equipment was in use somewhere else or otherwise AWOL and I told him, “Trust
me, there’s nothing left!!” I think they
had removed the catheter before I left RiverBend and it felt so good to go….At
some point, someone came in to remove my PICC line. I didn’t even know I had one. I remember
the physical therapist (was it Shannon ?) using
a slide board to get me from wheelchair to bed and back. Oh, how hard it was to scoot myself. My left leg didn’t work and my chest hurt so
my arms were of little use, and it was scary and painful and hard. But for the first day at least, perhaps two,
that was how I got from wheelchair to bed and back. Exhausting. And I had to do it for every meal and for every
bathroom trip.
The view out my enormous
window was (from the 4th floor) the tops of some dead oak trees, and
some weird-looking equipment on the roof of the building across 13th Street . Internet reception or satellite or ?? The divided windows turned out to be two white
boards, and lo and behold, there was a tv, but it would be days before I would
notice it. My lilacs sat on a table
beside my bed where I could smell them.
The clothes that
Gary brought,
some jeans and some shorts, did not fit. The shorts, which I had had for years, were absolutely
too small….I had gained weight in the last 2 weeks, not eating, only on IVs…that
happened in 2009 when I had my foot surgery too…There must be a LOT of salt in the
IVs they give you…Very frustrating.
Physical therapy
came again, either that night or the next day and she asked if I could stand to
transfer, rather than using the slide board.
Or maybe I asked. I was already getting
stronger. Attitude and hope are everything.
My Long Sleep (part 2) Waking Up
My Long Sleep (part 2)
Forgive me if
this seems disjointed. These memories
are all a jumble in my head. I have tried to sort them into when they probably
occurred by comparing them to what I know, my husband and daughter’s notes,
what other people have said, etc.
The first day I
really remember after Easter is April 17.
I’m glad I remember that day. I’m
sure I was on some wonderful drugs—Provigil, for one, to help restart my brain,
since it didn’t seem to want to wake up from the coma I was in. I was also on some medications that the
doctors told my family would make me not remember much of what I went
through. I was also on some medications
I would not have let them give me had I been conscious, so I apologize for what
I did or said while on those medications…
On April 17, I
have a memory of Alex DePue’s silhouette (and if you have ever seen his hair,
you would know you CAN actually recognize him by his silhouette) and Miguel’s
guitar and silhouette, and “Classical Gas”, one of my favorite songs. I don’t know why I remember them in
silhouette, other than I have very little visual memory of events, almost like
my sound recorder was working but not my visual one. This is a little taste of what Alex and
Miguel sound like. https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=pycdoWOUrO0 I couldn’t find a recording of them playing Classical
Gas, but here is Mason Williams playing it (he wrote it). https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=EEzyrpfrPEI Note:
Mason has a whole lot of strings with him, but Alex is his own
orchestra!! Except for the horns, it
pretty much sounded like this.
What a
wonderful thing to be the first thing you wake up to! I remember bits and pieces of other
things. I remember being sung to. I remember waking up with a song in my heart,
a song we sing from church. I know that
Francine must have come and sung it to me, but I remember waking up trying to
sing it. “You dance over me, while I am
unaware….” You can listen to it here https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=9qVkzdK6N20
. This is the song I woke up
singing.
When I finally
did come to, I had such a sense of being loved, like I have never had before,
and an absolute loss of fear. I didn’t
know where I was, when it was, who I was, or that I was even sick. I didn’t even really know I couldn’t
move. But I had a lack of fear like I
have never known. I wasn’t conscious of
time or family or work or home. I had no
thought of things I wasn’t getting done.
I didn’t know I had children. I
didn’t KNOW anything. Most of all, I
knew no fear—and I have thought over these past weeks how to describe that to
you, but I’m not sure I ever will be able to.
I had no fear of failure, no fear of what other people would think. It was like being a young child, crawling
into your parent’s lap and having them hold you tight and say, “it’s okay. It’s gonna be okay.” And you totally believe them, because they
are grown-up and can do anything and know everything. It was a peace like I have never known, a
peace I want to hang onto, a peace that I don’t have to DO anything or BE
anything—that I’m okay, that it’s all okay—and there was such a joy that came
with that.
And my mind
started to look for the familiar. I had a
nurse who looked like my cousin Julie, and she was so kind, and she ended all
of her sentences with ‘eh?’. I looked
for my friends’ daughters, I looked for my cousins, I looked for people from
church. I looked, I called. I needed familiar. Nothing was familiar. I’m not even sure I was remembering things
from day to day or from hour to hour. I think the nurses had to keep telling me
their names over and over and I think I probably said the same things to them
over and over, “You look like Julie,” or
“You look like Sarah.” I thought of my
dog. I needed to see my dog. During this time, my dog ran away from home
and he made his way to the pool…not the same pool I had gone to, but I’m sure
it smelled the same. I think he was
looking for me too.
I was so glad
to see people I really did know, Mike Tucker and Marvie and Merle Tish. Gary, Keary and Laura came nearly every day
and they felt like I recognized them. (Gary said I smiled when I
saw them so he was pretty sure I could see, even though I don’t remember seeing
much.) Linda came…I know for a while, it
seemed like a pretty steady flow of people, and please forgive me for not
remembering who…it’s all very fuzzy—I blame the drugs.
I’m sure I
didn’t start talking until they took me off the ventilator, on the 15th. I do remember trying really hard to ask for
things like orange juice and applesauce.
I think they probably fed me thickened orange juice with a spoon. I have a very vague memory of icy orange
juice, like slushy almost. And I
remember trying really hard to say “orange juice” and how hard that was and how
I sounded like a drunk when I said it.
And I think they fed me applesauce and I tried so hard to say applesauce. And it all tasted so good and I was so
thirsty and my tongue was so sore (and is STILL sore) from the
defibrillator. I remember trying to talk
even when people weren’t around. I
remember someone asked me if I had children and I didn’t know. But something in my brain started dredging up
memories…I didn’t know who I was really, but I remembered I had a daughter—and
I recognized her when I saw her—and I remembered I had a son, and I knew him
when I saw him too. And even if my mind
would not have remembered them, all my emotions did, because I remember the joy
at seeing them—how beautiful they were/are and how happy it made me to see
them. And I remember saying, even if
there was no one around to hear, over and over and over, so I would never forget
again, “I have a daughter Laura. She’s
beautiful. And I have a son,
Keary.” I know someone must have heard
me at least once because someone asked, “That’s an interesting name. How do you spell that?” I didn’t remember that Gary couldn’t drive. I didn’t remember that we didn’t own a
car. I didn’t remember a lot of things
about my life, about me. Funny how we
still are ourselves, even when we don’t know who we are….Gary said I still had
my sense of humor. It was one of the
first things to come back.
Someone asked
how long Gary and I had been married and I couldn’t remember and couldn’t
figure it out, so I told them what Gary always says when he can’t remember,
“Not nearly long enough.” So Gary became known to some
of the staff as Mr. Not-Nearly-Long-Enough.
I remember
getting a little physical therapy at RiverBend.
I knew I needed to get up. I
wanted to move. I remember trying to get
up in the night, but my legs would not move well and the best I could do was to
bend them up on the bed and my foot would step on the catheter hose and it
would pull and hurt, so I would try the other foot. I think I probably went back and forth with my
feet all night, first trying one then the other. When they had moved me out of ICU I was awake
and aware enough that I wanted to go home, I wanted my dog and I wanted OUT of
that place. It was so cold and dark and
lonely and I wanted familiar. The ceiling looked weird and far away, like
things do when you are drugged. I felt
like I needed to go to the bathroom and I could see a little light on the wall
that I thought was a switch for the bathroom and I was grabbing for things that
weren’t tied down and trying to throw them at the light on the wall to turn the
light on so I could see where I was, so I could get up and go to the
bathroom. Long, long hours awake in the
dark (I don’t know if it was really dark or if I just couldn’t see…). I know there was something on my left but I couldn’t
see it. I tried to reach for it, but
there was nothing that wasn’t attached and it felt wet—I don’t know if I
spilled water or pudding or what have you…I could not see to the left at all. I
remember someone coming in and saying, “Oh my” but nothing more. I couldn’t get up and I couldn’t figure out why
and my chest hurt when I tried to and I didn’t know why things weren’t
working…I didn’t know I was sick, I
didn’t know I was paralyzed. I didn’t
know I was tied down. But I was sure
kicking my legs a lot that night.
They would come
in every day and ask me if I knew what day it was and where I was. Then they would tell me. It’s April 18 and you are at RiverBend in Springfield . I remember telling them, “It’s my brother’s birthday,
I need to call my brother.” But I didn’t know his number and even if I did, I sure
could not work the stupid phone (I think you need a PhD for that). When I would look out the window it was all white,
bright and sunny, glaringly white, and so I would tell them I was in Hawaii . That kind of became my go-to lline. “It’s April something and I’m in Hawaii .” Finally, one nurse got really irritated at me
and said, “you know, you won’t get to go home until you answer correctly.” Then one day I could actually see the cars driving
on the road outside and I asked a nurse, “What road is that?” (All this time it
had just looked like ocean or white sand to me) and she said, “That’s Pioneer Parkway.”
And then it clicked, I wasn’t at RiverBend in Hawaii , I was at RiverBend in Springfield/Eugene. Something familiar. Something I knew. “Hey, the best nurse ever is on the
orthopedic floor, Parma . You should go meet him. Tell him I said hi.” And at some point I remember Parma sticking his head in. “I heard you were here, just wanted to check
on you.”
I kept telling
them I needed to get up and walk. I kept
telling them I needed physical therapy. Finally,
a few days later, they did get me up. They
had me stand by this machine and they strapped me in and told me to walk, to “drive
it like you stole it” and I was happy and I walked, all the way to the end of
the hall and back and it felt so good, and I was so tired by the end. And then they let me use a machine to stand
up and they would wheel me to the toilet
and let me go…and wheel me back. ….
After two weeks in bed, it was all I could do to stand, but my desire
was stronger than my legs were weak, and my will was stronger than my chest was
sore. I got
so frustrated with them, though because if I was lucky, I got to get up once per
day….if I was lucky. Sometimes not even
that. I started protesting and getting depressed,
refusing to eat. So they decided to put
me in rehab. None too soon and good
riddance RiverBend!!!
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