on corporate worship

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.

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.

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 17^th.  And the only reason it had meaning to me was because my brother’s birthday is April 18^th, 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.”

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.  

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.  

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 4^th 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 4^th floor) the tops of some dead oak trees, and some weird-looking equipment on the roof of the building across 13^th 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 15^th.  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!!!  

My Long Sleep

My Long Sleep

The following story is hearsay.  Although, if you have enough witnesses, hearsay can be taken as fact, and since I have no real memory of the events from April 6 through April 17, and I trust those who have told me the story, this is as close to the truth as I can relate to you.

Monday, April 6^th, the day after Easter, Leslie, my 70-year-old neighbor and swimming partner, took Keary and I to the River Road Pool, as she had 2 to 3 times per week since the fall.  I usually swam 30 to 35 laps (about a mile) in the hour it took Leslie to swim 45 laps.  I had been requiring Keary to come with us because he isn’t very motivated to get exercise and because he is such a good swimmer—it’s a gift—and I want him to be in some kind of shape when summer comes so he can work on more than just conditioning when summer comes and the Junction City Pool opens and he has access to a coach.  So on April 6, we were all at the pool.  We must have been nearly done.  I think Leslie was on her 45^th lap.  Apparently I had told Keary I was tired and had taken a little rest at the shallow end of the lane K and I were swimming in.  I vaguely remember lying on my stomach in the water, in a dead man’s float, but I don’t remember any pain, or any fear, or anything else.  Keary said he was about halfway down the lane when he heard the lifeguard’s whistle, and he looked back and I was still floating face down.

The whistle cleared the pool and called lifeguards and other helpers from other parts of the facility. Two lifeguards pulled me out from the water partway and shoved a board under me and two more lifeguards and the maintenance man pulled from above and they started CPR and called the paramedics.  My heart didn’t want to restart.  They had to shock me.  Still it did not want to restart.  Eventually they got me loaded into the ambulance.  Keary had called Laura.  It was her first day back at work since her accident last fall, and she was being called away.  Since Gary doesn’t drive—we don’t even have a vehicle anymore, she had to pick him up and take him to the hospital.  Keary rode to the hospital in the private vehicle of one of the EMTs.  Apparently, after they loaded me into the ambulance, something happened and the ambulance sat in the parking lot for a while before they left.  The EMT with Keary told him they were putting in an airway, because I had gotten water in my lungs. 

When they got me to the ER, they took me down to the cath lab where they did all kinds of tests – looking at my heart to see what was wrong, starting a cooling protocol on me to help diminish any damage, as they weren’t sure why my heart stopped.  Keary got passed off to the chaplain and although Laura and Gary arrived shortly after the ambulance, it was quite a while until he and Laura could locate Keary and the chaplain.  Poor Keary. 

I’m not sure of all the timing of everything.  I know they did Dopplers looking for clots (or remnants of clots) in my major blood vessels.  Nothing.  They looked closely at my heart but found no clots, no valve problems that would throw a clot, no blockages.  My carotids were clear.  They were pretty sure I had had a stroke, as I was not moving my limbs at all and was unresponsive to stimuli.  Though Leslie had told the paramedics I was functionally blind, this did not get passed along, and so when the neurologist saw me, she was concerned because I wasn’t tracking things with my eyes. 

They had to have me on a respirator because I had inspired water and I was getting over a bronchitis.  I was trying to breathe over the respirator, so they put me on paralytics so my body would stop fighting the respirator.  When they took me off of these a few days later, my right hand kept trying to pull the NG tube out and they had to strap it down. 

They did 2 CT scans of my head and found nothing (I love that line).  They were looking for intracranial bleeds, but there wasn’t one.  Eventually they got around to doing an MRI of my brain and found a host of clots, what the neurologist called a “shower stroke”.  They originally thought that the stroke was what stopped my heart.  They found no muscle damage to my heart and no clogged arteries, like you would expect to find from an actual heart attack.  But they don’t know what caused the stroke.  It’s the old chicken-and-egg story.  The cardiologist thinks I had a bout of atrial fibrillation which allowed blood to clot in my heart and then spread all over my brain.  But in all the monitoring they did of my heart, they only recorded one episode of atrial fibrillation, and that was in the ER the day I was brought in, and the cardiologist said that he would have expected to see that in anyone who had gone through the trauma I went through.  I wore a heart monitor for weeks and to my knowledge, had no atrial fibrillation.

They took the ventilator out on the 10^th day I was in ICU, April 15.  Apparently I saw people and made eye contact and was more responsive, but I remember very little of it.  They had taken me off the paralytics and such, but I was slow to wake up. 

On Friday, April 17, they moved me out of ICU to the step-down unit, and then to a regular room. The following Wednesday—April 22?—they moved me to the rehab center which also seems like a dream to me—it’s such a fuzzy memory.  From then until May 1^st, I was in the rehab center where I had fantastic therapists who encouraged me to regain the things I had lost, who taught me to eat again, to use the bathroom, to dress, to walk, and to regain logical thought processes, and math ability.  On Friday, May 1^st, I got to come home.

That’s the hearsay part. I’m doing well.  I’m continuing to heal and except that I can’t stand on one foot, my hands shake a little more than they did, my legs are still fairly swollen, and my chest and back hurt from the CPR and my jaw hurts from something (Laura says the intubation), I would not know I had a stroke. 

Life Lessons from my Viola

There are often blessings hidden in crises, if we look.  Last fall, my daughter broke her leg badly and had to have surgery to repair it.  She was off of it for a while and has essentially mostly been off work for four months.  The up side is that since she was housebound, she had more time to practice violin and I had more time to spend with her.  Recently I volunteered us to play in a talent show at church—she the violin and I the viola.  I’m sure she will have her own list of what she learned through all this, but I’d like to share a few gems I picked up. 

In my fifty-plus years of life, I have had much opportunity to perform in front of people—from speeches at school and church to piano recitals and even viola recitals, playing with the Eugene Community Orchestra for a few years, things like that.  I’m very aware of how your mind can just go blank when you get up in front of people to do something, even something well practiced.  My first piano recital, which was only for the other students in my piano class, I played a piece called Fairy Tale by Dmitri Kabalevsky. (You can hear it here: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=yOj7Y_DzeCY ).  While my eyes were following the sheet music out of habit, during this performance I was not really seeing the music at all, but playing from memory.  I actually did amazingly well, at least until I got to the final chord, at which time my mind went absolutely completely blank and I had no idea where to put my hands, nor could I find my place in the music, even though I knew it was the last chord.  So I just winged it. What came out was some chord that wasn’t even in the same key as the song.  I remember someone saying once, if you play the last part well, the audience will forget the missed notes you played earlier.  Well, it happens that the converse is true as well.  If you play the ending wrong, that’s what the audience is left with, and they forget that the rest of the song was played perfectly. 

Also, fresh in my mind was our performance for Laura’s husband’s family on bake day, before Christmas, when we had played fairly well warming up in the living room, but I could not hit a string to save my life when we went into the family room to play.  I was horrified and I froze, and not a bit of it sounded good. 

As an older person, learning viola, I got past the habit of learning to play by rote and forgetting to read the music. However, as I have lost my vision, reading music has become nearly impossible for me.  My best attempts have included putting on the glasses that allow me to read (but only very close up) and then essentially hugging the music stand in order to have it close enough to read, and trying to play my viola behind it.  That didn’t work very well.  My other attempt, which is a little easier, though probably no less entertaining to watch, has been to use and overhead projector to put the music on the wall and then stand very close to the wall and dance around my shadow and play up high and down low as I try to read.  Neither of these methods would work for me for performing—although, it might have made for a good laugh….

I have had to learn all my parts by memory, from Laura reading them, playing them for me, and then learning through muscle memory and the pictures I make in my head of what my fingers are supposed to do. Laura memorizes much more difficult music that I had to learn.  And last September we watched and listened as Itzhaak Perlman pulled 45 minutes of music out of his head in front of a silent, awed, 2000 listeners. So, it can be done. 

With all this in mind, we opted to play our easiest pieces last.  And I was resigned to making mistakes.  This is in front of a bunch of people who have never heard me play, so I wasn’t really worried about making mistakes.  I was worried about playing THROUGH the mistakes.  The only thing more terrifying than getting up in front of a hundred or so people and making mistakes, is getting up there and freezing up.  During practice Laura learned where I was more likely to make mistakes, and she would often call out “F-sharp” or “D” or whatever I was supposed to be doing.  In one of the songs, I was to play a simple little progression, B-C-D-E, but that seemed to be a place I often got stuck. Once, when we were playing that, Laura could see me forgetting and looked at me, raising her eyebrows in little increments to remind me what I was supposed to play. 

During our more difficult piece, when it was my turn to play the melody, I had to shift to hit the high notes. When I played the harmony, I played the same arpeggio, only lower, but my hand kept wanting to shift. In an inspiration of genius, Laura showed me that I was really still playing the same notes only an octave higher, and if I made the mistake during the performance, it was okay, just go with it, and then shift back down for the last measure. 

When performance time came, exactly what I feared would happen did happen.  Just like on bake day, I could not hit a string to save my life. I was playing the melody and I was consistently hitting two strings, and sounding awful. But I had seen that coming and knew that I had to focus on my bow arm, moving my shoulder to change strings and my forearm to play.  I got past that obstacle.  When it came time to shift, I also missed it, but I had practiced the “what if” of that and worked through it.  When we got to the end of that song, I forgot NOT to shift, but because we had talked about what to do if that happened, I was able to play the last measure correctly, and end on the right notes! 

The rest went fairly easily.  We missed little things here and there, but it was not major. We had made it through the hard stuff, and now all I had to do was remember the notes and play out and look at Laura for some timing cues here and there. 

So, as I think about that performance, and how it applies to life, I see two major themes.  First, accept that you are going to make mistakes and make peace with that.  I heard a saying recently that the difference between a master and beginner is that the master has failed more times than the beginner has even tried. Second, know yourself.  Know where you are likely to fail.  Don’t stop at failure.  Learn ways to play through the failure.  Learn how to go on from the wrong place, whether it is asking for direction from a friend, “F-sharp!” or practicing getting to the right place from the wrong place.  But play!  Play through, and play with conviction!

Garter Snakes

(Note:  This was in the draft file from way back, 3-26-08)


Ah, spring.... G did school with K this morning, I worked all morning...I had thought this was going to be an easy week...well, maybe tomorrow!!

About 3:30 I was beat and it was sunny, so K and I went outside to feed the horses and replace some rotted fence posts in the back yard--a job I have been putting off all winter. I don't mind the nailing or the digging, but inevitably the posts are rotted only a foot down, and so the other foot and a half is still good and next to impossible to pull up.

K and I ducked into the lean-to to dodge one hail storm. We have pea-sized hail that stings bad enough...I can't imagine what hail would be like if it were golf ball sized like in the midwest!! The hail stopped as quickly as it started and we went to work knocking off rails and pulling up posts, and started digging out our first post.  K spotted a baby snake (garter snake) so we looked it over and I explained to him that we couldn't keep it in the house because Daddy would flip....and then I pulled up another scoop of rotted wood and sitting right on top of that was an even bigger garter snake, maybe 10 inches long.

When we first moved here, we had red racers...black with red heads and red/orange stripes. But the ones we have been seeing in the past few years are the most beautiful blue...We held the slow-moving, slow-motion snake in our gloved hands and watched as it "tasted" the spring air, deciding who held it and if it was time to wake up yet. It warmed up as we held it and admired it. It had a pale yellow stripe down the back and each side and the spots on the black body between the stripes were a neon blue. In the summer, these snakes move so fast (and there are BIG ones in our manure pile, aka the fly-smorgasborg) that I half thought I imagined the neon blue. But it really is neon blue. As we examined his tummy, the sun came out and K noted the opalescence of his gray-blue underside, glimmering blue and pink and silver and cream.

What an amazing God we have that He would make even the underside of a snake beautiful!! And how fortunate for us that we got to catch one and examine it today!! And how lucky I am to have a boy to share it all with!! The rain and cold finally drove us inside, but at least we got one post replaced...enough to keep Gracie out of Bill's yard!!

The Other Son

Prodigal:
1)  characterized by profuse or wasteful expenditure: LAVISH  (a prodigal  feast) (prodigal outlays for her clothes)
2)  recklessly spendthrift (the prodigal prince)
3)  yielding abundantly : LUXURIANT —often used with of (nature has been so prodigal of her bounty — H. T. Buckle)

I have been thinking about the “prodigal son”, the story Jesus told about the son who demanded his inheritance and then went out and spent it on raucous living.  Eventually, the son saw the foolishness of his ways and returned home, much to the delight of the father.  His brother, on the other hand, wasn’t quite so excited to see him.

We have probably all heard this story used in sermons many times.  I think the emphasis is usually on the prodigal, repentant son; because that is us.  But I have been thinking about the brother lately.  So please indulge me when I go beyond the story and write in a few things that aren’t there, but might be.

I’m guessing the faithful son in the story was not yet a parent, or he would totally understand his father’s perspective, and he might even feel the same way about his brother’s return.  It’s also possible that the son who stayed behind secretly wanted to leave the family business and go out on his own, but didn’t do it either because he lacked the strength or because he loved his father and after seeing what his brother’s actions did to his father, he couldn’t bear to do the same.  Either way, I think he lacked an appreciation for the relationship that he had with his father, the brick-by-brick foundation he had been laying in the relationship with his father.

But there is also the possibility that the son watched his father mourn the loss of his prodigal son.  Perhaps he watched him every day, as he scanned the horizon looking for his son to return.  Perhaps his heart ached as his father, in a moment of emotional weakness, expressed his frustration about his lost son, or his anger about his foolishness, or his hurt over the separation, the lack of communication. “He doesn’t call. He doesn’t write. I only hear how he is through the grapevine.”  It’s possible that the son who watched the agony of his father, helpless to ease the pain in his heart, built up a little anger of his own for his wayward brother.

It’s possible that when the brother returned, and the faithful son saw how happy it made his father, even though he knew this was right, held a little fear in his heart that his brother would take off yet again, and he would have to watch , helpless, as his father mourned yet again.  I have always felt that the brother who stayed behind acted childishly and selfishly.  But maybe his concern, deep down, was that his father would be hurt again.

In the Old Testament, we see that each tribe was given a portion of the Promised Land as their inheritance except for the tribe of Levi, who was given a small area in each of the other tribes, because the Levites were the priests, and they needed to be among the people in order to minister to them. But god did not consider that they had been short-changed.  He said of it, “I am their inheritance.”  That is, they had a special relationship with God, a special closeness, a special understanding that God did not give to the ordinary man.  God gave them the BEST; He gave them himself.  This is the inheritance God gave each of us when He came to earth in the person of Jesus to live among us, to show us Himself in human form.  This is the gift God gave us when He left his Holy Spirit to dwell among us.

I am the prodigal.  I have wasted the inheritance God gave me here on earth, and I have returned to God begging to be a servant in his kingdom, but he has restored my position as an heir.  All God wants of me is that I walk beside him, daily, intimately. But how many days do I go off and do my own thing?  I am guilty of not valuing the relationship God wants to have with me.  How do I hurt him when I wander off on some rabbit trail?  I always come back, and I always will come back, but what have I missed that God wanted to show me on our walk, or what story did I not hear, or what dance did I miss out on while I was out off on my own?

I don’t want to miss any more. I want to sit at His feet, hear every word, dance every dance and hear every story.

On Death: The Privilege of Participating in God's Pain

I have been attending a Beth Moore Bible study these past few weeks.  On one of the days she taught about Abraham’s test, when God asked Abraham to take Isaac up and offer him as a sacrifice on the altar.  Most of us who have read this story, recognize that it is the foretelling of God offering His son, Jesus, as an offering for our sins.   I had never looked at it before from the viewpoint that God was giving Abraham the opportunity (dare I say privilege?) of participating in God’s pain and loss.

My uncle, barring divine intervention, is on the brink of death as I write this.  I knew last spring, when I saw him for my birthday, I was seeing him for the last time.  I thought I had come to terms with that.  I have not.  I’m still weepingly sad. I’m still begging God to intervene and heal him completely and make his body strong and whole.  In the same way that Abraham knew that even if he sacrificed his beloved son, Isaac, the son through whom God promised Abraham’s descendants would outnumber the stars, God would STILL be able to keep his promise, I know that God is able to change what seems to rational thought inevitable. 

But that is what we do.  We fight death.  With every measure of strength we have, we fight death.  We know at our very deepest part that death is NOT part of who God made us to be.  Death is NOT RIGHT.

I remember reading Genesis 3 as a young person and thinking, “If God said if they ate from the tree he told them not to eat from they would die, then why didn’t they die when they ate from it?”  In fact, according to Genesis, Adam lived 930 years!  The first death recorded in the Bible wasn’t even Adam or Eve, but Abel, and this was before Adam was 130 years old. 

Clearly, the fruit was not poisonous, and death did not come into the world by natural law.  God chose death as the consequence of sin.  But why?  Why death?

B. D. Napier, in a little book of poems called “Come Sweet Death”, writes about the fall, “…let us be free of you—or let us die!  It is the same, you say, you stubborn God?”  and later,  “Sweet Eve, you say you thought you heard him laugh?  I heard him say, “how can I give you up? How can I hand you over?”  Then a word about another silly little tree—an antidotal tree, redemptive tree.  And then—this must be when you thought he laughed—I think I heard him sob.       I think he wept.”

Sin brought a separation between God and man.  A big separation.  A separation it would take another death to bridge.   When we feel the pain of separation that death brings us, that pain is an echo of the pain God feels at the separation sin brings between Him and each of us.  That’s why death is the fitting consequence of sin. It causes the kind of pain in man that sin causes in God.

And when I miss a loved one who has died, I will remember that it is just a ripple thousands of years past the first wave, and just an echo of the pain my own sin has caused.  And I will think about the second tree, where the death occurred that made the pain of separation a temporary thing.  

I’m still praying for your miracle, Bill, because the pain is big.  But if it doesn’t come, I’ll be looking for you at the reunion.  I love you so much.  I’m so thankful for the privilege of knowing you, for all you have done for me for half a century, for your faithfulness, for your legacy.  I will carry your smile and your laugh and your voice in my heart the rest of my life.  

With immense love and the utmost respect, dedicated to 

William Oscar Richter 

November 11, 1948 to February 25, 2013