Holy Day

November 3rd is the new family holiday for my heart – whether we gather together, or commemorate from afar.  Tomorrow I will sit at a table and look at the faces of those who have traveled an unimaginable road, to reach a place where it is appropriate to stop and turn around.  We can together acknowledge that we stand in safety and wholeness and joy.  And that is a mighty wondrous thing!  Around us, people are experiencing loss, grief, brokenness and pain; we have been blessed with fullness, comfort, healing and peace. 

I remember the day a care package was delivered to the hospital, containing a photograph.  My memory was still so disconnected that I couldn’t hold on to the facts that there had been a car crash, or that four of us were involved, or even that I was injured.  However, one of the ICU nurses picked up this framed portrait and held it close to my face.  I squinted at it, and choked up.  “That’s my family.”  I saw us all in our nicest clothes, grouped around the newlyweds for that perfect May wedding six months earlier, and I was overcome with relief.  Just then it was clear to me – no one was missing.   Not one.  And I knew that for the miracle it was, however hazy the details had been. 

There are families that live with emptiness and grief at the edge of every day.  I never want to presume to know how vast that canyon is.  Many of them reached out to minister to our family, and rejoiced with us at the healing God accomplished.  That is grace and mercy that stuns me with its magnitude.

I don’t know why our lives were preserved.  I don’t know why we are not crippled.  But then again, I don’t know why we ever had the blessing to be together in the first place.  I don’t know why, but I am thankful.

“He has sent me to bind up the brokenhearted, to proclaim liberty to the captives, and the opening of the prison to those who are bound;  to comfort all who mourn-- to give them a beautiful headdress instead of ashes, the oil of gladness instead of mourning, the garment of praise instead of a faint spirit; that they may be called oaks of righteousness, the planting of the LORD, that he may be glorified.”  Isaiah 61:1-3

The Foot Bone Connected to the Leg Bone...

“The foot bone connected to the leg bone, the leg bone connected to the knee bone, the knee bone connected to the thigh bone…” 
They might be.  And then again, they might not.  And sometimes, the bones are attached, but not connected…in a strange, hard-to-define way.  Trying to describe it to my walking buddy I offered, “It’s a bit like being outside in the winter, and parts of your legs go numb from the cold and so they’re just slabs that you haul around; they support you, but you don’t really feel them.”   She matter-of-factly told me that her skin feels like it’s on fire in the cold!
 
However, the whole reason I was trying to explain this today, was because the hip bone DID connect to the leg bone.  I was marching along through the 6:30 a.m. dimness and working up a bit of steam when the thought surfaced – “hey, no limp?”  I quickly shoved it down so I wouldn’t be distracted (thinking about my gait makes me more awkward).  But toward the very end of our trek, my fellow walker encouraged, “you’re moving really well today” and I stopped in the path.  My leg is mine, today.  It is connected to my spine and my knee and my foot --- and I began to cry.  Standing under the immense morning sky, breathing in great gulps of air, I felt as whole as I have ever been.   This entire banged up, scarred body belongs to me.  And while I know now, with more clarity than I ever wanted, that I am so much more than my body – it’s good to have it back, right leg and all.

I have a physical therapist friend who told me to examine my limp through three questions:  Is it pain? Is it weakness? Is it bad habits?  I was disheartened at the thought that it might be bad habits.  But my steps are so studied, and careful.   And I have come to believe that I am pretty tough about pain.  So, I’m back to weakness again.  Of course.  Only time and persistent work can do anything to build strength.  For eleven months I’ve been putting in the daily effort, with results that are not frequently discernible.  And today I crossed some invisible line where weakness became strong enough for me to walk without limping.  At least for today.

I don’t want to stop here.  I never want to stop anywhere.  Because the “limping” in my heart is also wisely examined through those three questions:  Is it pain? Is it weakness?  Is it bad habits?  Some issues require wading through a lot of emotional hurt.  Some habitual things have to be recognized, repented of and “put off”.   Most of my spiritual limping requires the faith and persistent work it takes to walk in weakness. 

And that doesn’t mean sitting in the recliner, with my leg elevated and a pack of ice on it – but getting out of bed and getting dressed in the now-dark morning to put in the miles.

"He gives power to the faint, and to him who has no might he increases strength. Even youths shall faint and be weary, and young men shall fall exhausted; but they who wait for the LORD shall renew their strength; they shall mount up with wings like eagles; they shall run and not be weary; they shall walk and not faint."  Isaiah 40:29-31

Summer Harvest

Summer growing things spill into surplus – and fill our windowsills with the odds and ends of blooming abundance:  a sunflower head, a sprig of peppermint, greens from the newly trimmed dwarf lilac.  And I continue to collect and retrieve all these bits of beauty, squirreling up memories for the winter months ahead. 
Taking one more barefoot loop around the house I squish my feet down – all the way – and wiggle the itchy grass between my toes, breathing deeply the steamy smell of summer.  I close my eyes and think as hard as I can about this beauty – impressing it upon my soul, with details of this joy, joy, joy to be alive and whole and able to lift my arms all the way to the sky. 

Hot, humid days warm my bones and ease my muscles and I inch toward every sunbeam in my path.  Has there ever been such a glorious summer?!  The daily walks are now tinged with the vestiges of the sunrise and I gulp down the beauty – stopping to look, with complete disregard for maintaining my elevated heart rate.  The deep salmon fuschia must surely be a cardiac tonic, even if the pharmaceutical companies don’t admit it. 

To be alive is a splendid thing, and I remember the days not long ago when I did not quite believe it, but struggled to grow strong enough for living to reach beyond my survival.  I remember and I choose not to shudder.   Perhaps winter will be long and cold and hard.  Perhaps the worst has not yet been seen.  But today, this golden glorious August day, stands as evidence that spring breaks the grip of cold – and reveals new growth that flourishes into summers overflowing with green harvest.                 

And Joshua set up at Gilgal the twelve stones they had taken out of the Jordan.  He said to the Israelites, "In the future when your descendants ask their fathers, 'What do these stones mean?'  tell them, 'Israel crossed the Jordan on dry ground

The Crooked, Straight

If an abductor hip muscle is damaged, many other body parts will compensate.  The substitutions for mobility can occur so seamlessly, that I didn’t realize I was using my right hand to help lift my upper right thigh getting in and out of the car, or that I was bending in at my knee to rely on its strength when climbing the stairs.  That’s the way the members all work together, and cover up weakness. 

But sometimes that compensation prohibits the building of strength.  Loose muscles cannot support a skeletal frame…even a titanium reinforced one.  Here I am now with a task that was made more difficult by my subconscious drive to return to full functioning as quickly as possible.  Pushing past the wobbly steps and delegating the work to my capable left leg led to atrophied muscles.  

See, the bruising of bones and muscles lingers long after the outward appearance is whole.  And I am, once again, overwhelmed by another metaphor revealed in the brokenness of my body.  The hidden weaknesses have to be acknowledged, and addressed, and given the time and attention needed so strengthening can occur.   Left alone, they will not improve; they will worsen. 

Within my heart I tend toward that same short-term solution mentality – to the detriment of long-term growth.  I cover my temper tantrums with the excuses of sleeplessness, pain and/or hormones; I avoid conflict, rather than learn to speak the truth in love; I “take care of myself” when the hard thing would be to lay down my life for my family.   Each time I choose the easy way, a muscle gets a bit weaker with misuse.  And atrophy is a frightening prospect. 

However, I’ve learned the other side in PT, as well.  My right leg, once too weak to even initiate motion from a prone position, can now endure three weighted sets of 10 lifts!  They are still dreadful, and too many days I make internal deals to put them off until the last minute before bed is upon me—lecturing my own leg, “It will be harder tomorrow if you skip today.”   I am stronger, but only because I submitted to addressing the weakness.  Long-term, I want to be well – not merely appear so.

"Every valley shall be exalted, and every mountain and hill shall be made low; and the crooked shall be made straight, and the rough places plain..." Isaiah 40:4

There is a Rightness to Beauty...

There is a rightness to beauty that puts my soul at ease.  Elusive as the definition of "spirit", this feeling that pervades has no words, but is itself a sigh of relief.  In a vista of natural grandeur, or the order of pottery mugs stacked along a tea towel, I feel alignment.
I cannot tell  the name of the mountain range or the types of clouds we saw as the sun was setting on the drive home from NY last night, but I know that I could have traveled four more hours in that alley between the trees piled high with rich green foliage and the sun flooding the cloud line with a golden silhouette that flared to brilliant salmon before settling into a deep quiet purple.   The world was as it should be.  I was as I should be.   Surely I was created to be mute in acknowledgement of such opulence!  And in my kitchen at home I wiped counter tops and washed the teapot and emptied the flower vase...and then stood back and assessed the (momentarily) still life with satisfaction. 

I remember as a teenager talking with an elderly Scotsman at our church about the recent discovery of a flower that grows at such depths in the ocean that divers only viewed it that week.  The species had been blooming for thousands of years and this was the first time any person saw its display.  "Isn't that amazing that God would do that?"  I was momentarily proud of my worshipful observation.  "He didn't have to make it so beautiful."  Mr. Ferrier replied in his gravelly brogue, "Oh, but He did have to.  That is His character."

Two weeks ago, on a Friday night, the summer air combined with the work week's end to produce a swell of conversation as four of us in Adirondack chairs debated the differences between humans and animals.  All the usual answers were examined inside and out:  ability to reason... emotions....soul...  

If that discussion took place this evening I would offer the knowledge of the rightness of beauty.

"The heavens declare the glory of God; and the firmament shows His handiwork. Day unto day utters speech, and night unto night reveals knowledge. There is no speech nor language where their voice is not heard."  Psalm 19

With This Hug...

I saw friends at our niece’s wedding on Saturday – good friends with whom we have a long history.  And again it hit me: embarrassingly intense feelings as I hugged someone who prayed for me through these past seven months.  And she held tightly and cried with me – great, gulping tears.  I’ve experienced it before; they are moments that transcend words.  Still, days later I find myself attempting to transcribe and somehow dissect the prevailing waves of emotion. 

My tears are filled with the early days of bewildered sedation in which I learned to follow my husband’s directing and cues and I never wondered or cared “why”.  They were hard times.  From the inside, I felt as if my concentration was consumed with placing one foot in front of the other, all the while trying to remember the fact that I couldn’t walk – I couldn’t even sit up or extend my hand.  Focusing intently on the jobs given me (deep breaths in, wiggle your toes, tell me where you are), I was fortified by looking around for approval that I was doing it well.  Today that remembered helplessness makes me cry…for the shame of it all, and the relief that I am no longer there.

I also carry the months of pain and disability in my tears.  My daughters placed me from a wheelchair to a toilet, and they learned the rhythm of pulling my leg straight out as I lowered myself down so that my hip could extend that battered limb.  They helped with the showering process that we finally whittled down to one hour – excluding drying my hair.  Until then I hadn’t considered the effort of walking as a price to be weighed against the value received.  Some days the shower wasn’t worth the energy outlay.  My nights were measured by audiobooks and an Australian serial of eighteen seasons…and then increasing the time I could bear to spend lying on a bed, beginning with fifteen minutes.  I mourn the toll it took on a twenty year old son and sixteen and eighteen year old girls to face that with me day and night for weeks, and I weep with the knowledge that my family would not and did not leave me in that place alone.

My tears hold the solitary days of “recovery”.  I alone could do the work of rebuilding muscles and increasing mobility and flexibility.  I was tired of being handicapped, tired of being weak, tired of all the concessions that had to be made for me.  But I had to begin with the breathless, sweating two minutes on the elliptical and work my lungs and heart and legs for three months until the day I reached 15 minutes on that dreaded warm-up machine.  All the book knowledge in the world could not stand-in for the physical training contrary to my natural inclinations, but vital to my survival.  And one day I cried from the effort all through my hour long session.  However, those grueling workouts enabled the thankfulness and pride that watered my eyes as I mounted four steps and received a rose from my daughter at her high school graduation two weeks ago.

This is a portion of the emotional mural in my background when I see someone who prayed for me – who carried me.  Because, I was carried.  Without the arms and hands and love and tears and prayers of God’s children I would not have had the weak, faltering courage to continue on day after night after day for these seven months.  So, there is release in that tear-filled hug, as well as an acknowledgement of the enormity of the grief and pain.  Above all there is an emotion toward God deeper than “gratitude”, unable to be confined to vocabulary, for the triumph of being enabled to stand and hug a friend who didn’t know the details, but still helped with the load.

“I consider that our present sufferings are not worth comparing with the glory that will be revealed in us.  The creation waits in eager expectation for the sons of God to be revealed.  For the creation was subjected to frustration, not by its own choice, but by the will of the one who subjected it, in hope that the creation itself will be liberated from its bondage to decay and brought into the glorious freedom of the children of God.”
Romans 8:18-21

Sweat & Tears

No matter how hard I struggle at PT, I cannot lose my limp.  It’s right at the end of my gait – as I’m coming out of the stride.  Committees of therapists have observed my walk “to the end and back”, leaning their heads together and mumbling.  I have been encumbered by hand weights, ankle weights, weighted poles, shoe lifts, resistance bands and even a leash as I have hobbled my version of a catwalk before these assessing eyes.  And it’s always a little bit better…maybe.  No – try it the other way.  I lean toward the left, tighten my abdominal muscles,  press the weight through to the outer edges of my feet.  I walk so intentionally that I sweat from the effort.  Still…they’re thinking.
Today a part of my leg was stretched that I could not feel.  And I mentally tallied all the places that remain numb: top of my foot, side of my leg, bottom of my back…hmmm.  Nerves regenerate at an excruciatingly slow rate, and naught can hurry the wee things.

And so here I am, eyes stinging in disappointment and frustration, with the lesson to wait.  I would have thought I’d learned it by now, but perhaps that is the true impediment.  I have to know waiting as a way of life, not a solitary achievement.  I can’t put in the time and then clear this hurdle.  I have to yield my goals, my timetable, my vanity, my strength.

Yield everything.  Forever.

 “O LORD, my heart is not lifted up; my eyes are not raised too high; I do not occupy myself with things too great and too marvelous for me.  But I have calmed and quieted my soul, like a weaned child with its mother; like a weaned child is my soul within me.  O Israel, hope in the Lord from this time forth and forevermore.”  Psalm 131

Weeping May Endure for the Night...

Today as I was making my way across the kitchen preparing my second breakfast (an item for the "pros" column of physical therapy), I was struck by the realization that feeling was beginning to return to my backside.  Although I have learned the painful truth that regenerating nerves can be a synonym for torture, the reflexes of potty humor kicked in and made this a hilarious moment as I envisioned the focus of this particular episode of burning pins and needles.  Alone in the kitchen I laughed,  and as I continued the process of toasting my english muffin, the reflection might have been forgotten if not for the next moment.  When the toaster freed my snack for the protein-rich Nutella topping, my hand hovered over the roll of paper towels and then paused.  I turned to walk the length of the kitchen again to the corner cupboard and I took an extra fifteen  seconds to pull a bisque colored square plate from the bottom of the stack.  And at that moment, with the deliberate selection of an item for pure aesthetics, I realized the pattern:  I am happy.

It's true.  Today I am brimming with effervescent, giddy happiness.  It is not the deep, solid, theologically grounded contentment of joy -- nothing so mature.  I just chortled merrily in the kitchen "thank you! -- thank you!-- thank you!"
There is no discernible reason for this rush of emotion, and I should know because I have tried to find one.  The weather holds intermittent sun -- but it is cold and we have had intermittent sun before.  My left arm is still riddled with the normal level of discomfort and my right ankle is too stiff to swivel.  Incredulity even led me to investigate the side effects of my nighttime pain medication, reading through the tedious forum of complaints and praises without finding mention of a single positive resultant emotion.  The conclusion is that there is no explanation but "thank you! -- thank you! -- thank you!"

Tomorrow I may sense the weariness of this uphill climb draping its grayness over my mood, but I feel now as if I have caught the exhilarating first whiff of Spring with all of its intoxicating promise.
Today it is a heady relief to be happy.

"To you, O LORD, I cry, and to the Lord I plead for mercy:  'What profit is there in my death, if I go down to the pit? Will the dust praise you? Will it tell of your faithfulness?  Hear, O LORD, and be merciful to me! O LORD, be my helper!'  You have turned for me my mourning into dancing; you have loosed my sackcloth and clothed me with gladness,  that my glory may sing your praise and not be silent. O LORD my God, I will give thanks to you forever!"  Psalm 30:8-12

Bits and Pieces Come to Mind...

Today I remembered that on the morning of the crash I was at a half marathon to benefit ovarian cancer research.  My husband and our eldest son had been training for months and I was a last minute volunteer fill-in.  The task assigned to me was directing the runners at a portion of the course that unexpectedly veered across the railroad tracks to cut down alongside the river.  The day was cold and windy in that elevated and exposed spot, so I determined to be the best volunteer possible.  I waved my turquoise shirt-flag in a wide arc, calling to the runners “Keep it up – this way – almost there – hardest part is over – well done!”  Some loped past me with eyes fixed ahead or on the ground, some gave a wave, and some picked up a staggering pace with a deep breath or a smile.  Many of the runners thanked me for being there.  I was in awe of them and their athletic abilities and goals, and that pride in these strangers kept me from noticing my numbing ears and fingers as I jumped and shouted and flapped my turquoise tee.
Although I have never run a race, I have been in a marathon for almost three months now.   And I am struck today by the metaphor of the course and all the volunteers along the way.  At the beginning, someone brought a CD player and music to play while I was unconscious, innumerable people fed my family at home 2 hours away, friends and relations made the drive to sit by my bed talking to me and reporting things such as, “Stephanie opened her eyes a couple of times today”, and empathetic people packed and sent  baskets of snacks and crossword puzzles to nourish and distract my husband.  Further out, the crowds thinned to those helping arrange for wheelchairs and medical support, a comfortable spot at home… and even more meals to keep everyone strong.   Cards and flowers arrived almost every day as people expressed their love and reminded me of God’s greater love, even in the days of trial.

The primary characteristic of a marathon is that it goes on for a long, long time.  At just the right moment two different college friends wrote letters sharing the way they have wept and prayed for me and the truths about God upon which I can REST.  When pain and sleepless nights were accumulating, the gift of a boomerang and audio books unexpectedly helped me through a brutal stretch.  And just this week a dear sister appointed herself my “winter buddy” with the aim of regularly encouraging me through the remaining days (54 left!) until Spring.

I suddenly find myself smiling at the remembrance of my enthusiastic waving and flapping.
It does make a difference.

“Therefore, since we are surrounded by so great a cloud of witnesses, let us also lay aside every weight, and sin which clings so closely, and let us run with endurance the race that is set before us, looking to Jesus, the founder and perfecter of our faith, who for the joy that was set before him endured the cross, despising the shame, and is seated at the right hand of the throne of God.” (Hebrews 12:1-2 ESV) 

Some Days I Know My Weakness...

My body is smashed up – inside and out – and my emotions are ragged.  Some days contain triumphs and achievements to which I point and upon which I attempt to dwell.  However, discouragement, grief and anger lurk around every pain killer deadline.  When they accumulate and spill out I am no longer thankful that I can limp to the bathroom, but am resentful that it takes me five minutes to swing my legs over the side of the chair or bed, balance my “boot” into an upright position so I can wiggle in my foot, Velcro the six straps that hold my broken and plated ankle into a supported environment, and then begin the long, uneven trek to empty my stent-enhanced bladder.  At the end of the exercise I can choose to sit in a cushioned seat or balance my body on my left hip.  The decision is weighted by which part of my body aches the least – my broken bottom or my shattered hip.  Either way, the ribs will have increased pressure from the position and keep up a slow dull throbbing like the bass line in a torturous modern opera that never resolves or ceases.   That is the truth of life two full months after the car crash from which I amazingly survived.  And so, I read, meditate on, and share Bible verses.  I don’t post about God’s love and care because I am confident and rejoicing, but because I am weak and doubting and desperately need to say the words aloud before witnesses.   I am not pious or strong, but crippled and needy.  And He blesses me in my brokenness.  “This is a trustworthy saying…If we are faithless, He remains faithful for He cannot deny Himself.”  I woke this morning with these thoughts on my heart and determined to share them.  As I opened my inbox I found the following words from a friend that has experienced unimaginable grief and loss during the past year:  “I read a verse you recently posted.  I am amazed and comforted and encouraged by your positivity and love for God.  I know I am fighting a spiritual battle and so many days I want to give up.  Thanks for sharing.”
Somehow, in the middle of the muck of these trials under which I easily fall, God has used my struggles to encourage a sister in severe grief.  In my mustard seed faith I am surprised…and encouraged.
“But he said to me, ‘My grace is sufficient for you, for my power is made perfect in weakness.’ Therefore I will boast all the more gladly of my weaknesses, so that the power of Christ may rest upon me. For the sake of Christ, then, I am content with weaknesses, insults, hardships, persecutions, and calamities. For when I am weak, then I am strong.”