Laughter

Proverbs 17:22, "A merry heart does good like medicine."  

Pete is a deacon at my church.  At our church, our deacons, visit the sick, the hurting, the lonely.  They make friends with the friendless.  They pray for and with people.  They deal in meaningful touch and smiles.  They work hard and face difficult situations together.  And when they get together at their monthly meeting, they laugh hard too. 

That may sound strange but when you face such sadness together, laughter is essential. 

On the way to our last meeting, Pete asked me what seemed like a theoretical question, "How would you differentiate between "mild pain" and "moderate pain?" 

I answered the question, "Mild pain requires no medical attention."  "Moderate pain - to me - would make me want to speak to a professional." 

"Hmmm," he says. 

I wait - for certainly there will be a comment after the "hmmm."  To my surprise (why am I surprised is the real question?), there isn't a forthcoming comment. 

So I ask, "How would you differentiate between "mild pain" and "moderate pain?"  I get a short answer, "I find the two words to be synonymous." 

Again, I wait for a follow up comment.  15 years of marriage, I'm still waiting for a comment when one is not coming and I'm regularly surprised by the reality that he asks theoretical questions when to him, they are not theoretical.  I am surprised by Pete, all the time.  I'm surprised by how his brain works.  I'm surprised by why he cares about some things while not noticing others.  I am fascinated (see also dumb-founded) by his worldview and priorities.  I am surprised.  And if I can get past my ego in these conversations, I laugh at Pete a lot. 

By the time we walk into the meeting, Pete and I are laughing and arguing about the difference between mild and moderate pain combined with the difference between how his and my brain function.  I'm mildly irritated by the fact that he can't accept the premise of a question and simply adjust his thinking so as to answer said question.  Why do things have to be so hard?  Why can't we just have a normal conversation? 

And our relationships and current conversation sets the tone of the meeting - the definition of pain, how we disagree, our confusion, irritation, and laughter - It's the beginning of the meeting and we're already punchy.  It's gonna be a good night! 

A funny thing happened halfway through the meeting.  We're all sitting around the table, paper, pens, snack food.  Pete happens to be sitting on a chair without arms - and truth be told, I had noticed that he was slouching a bit more than normal.  But I'm trying not to micro-manage his life.  He's a big boy.  If he needs a different chair, he can ask. 

Halfway through the meeting, Pete falls off the chair. 

Yep, there he went, keeled over to the right.  His arms didn't flail.  His legs didn't look like they were trying to catch him either.  He just fell over.  (Of course by the next morning we realized that his core muscles just seemed to "disappear" on him - a problem with MS.  Impulses didn't get to his muscles; muscles weren't being told what to do.  In this case, the muscles jobs were to hold him upright in a sitting position.  Net result of this neurological failure:  fall over.) 

Immediately, everyone at the table (remember they're all deacons; they excel at caregiving) moves as if to run to the rescue.  But before their neurological impulses reach their legs to actually move, Pete says in the sternest voice possible, "Nobody get up." 

We all freeze, watching him as he moves to pick himself up.  We all wanted to respond in an appropriate way.  We were all concerned for him, perhaps even embarrassed for him.  But I don't think we were surprised.  

How were we not surprised by someone falling off a chair???

How do we get to a place with chronic illness that nothing surprises us?  Every day, every moment, every medication, every doctor's appointment - we simply don't know what to expect.  And if everything in life can become a surprise, is it possible that we aren't surprised by anything? 

Pete's response to this non-surprise?  "This is what I call "mild pain." 

Our response:  laughter. (Couldn't resist... turn up the volume and enjoy a laugh.)

Qualifying Events

The reason for my silence this past month is simple really... I've been hunting for God. 

Be very quiet... I'm hunting for God. 

Don't worry - it's not a discouraging search like one of those times where you're sure you've made the wrong choice in believing that there is a God.  I'm in no danger with this search.  It's not as if my faith is damaged beyond repair.  It's that my faith has changed and probably is still changing - just like I am still changing.  Therefore, hunting for God is a different exercise than it has been in the past.

My sister in law says that we all experience "qualifying events."  A qualifying event happens when you walk through a life experience and find yourself changed at the end of it.  You have learned, changed, grown, adjusted, and now you must get used to the world in your new clothes, with your new tools. 

As always one of my occupational hazards is that I travel through life with a lot of folks who are constantly walking through qualifying events.  And in the midst of their qualifying events, they too are "hunting for God." 

For example, this summer a member of my church was in a very serious car accident in which he walked away without a scratch.  Another member asks this question while shaking my hand after worship one Sunday, "Why is it that God saved him but doesn't save others?  I'm having a hard time understanding where God is and where God isn't."

Another member makes an appointment a week later to talk about yet another loss, "my girlfriend has cancer - it looks like they'll be able to take care of it with surgery but why this?  I've buried three husbands and two best friends to cancer.  What role does God play in this, if any?" 

There are other stories with similar questions.  Perhaps you have stories and questions too.

What is the role of God in this, if any? 

For the theologians out there, we're dabbling in the doctrine of the sovereignty of God.  For the rest of us, we're trying to answer the age old question, "where is God when it hurts?"  However you walk into these stories and questions, the answer is not simple.  If it is to you - and I don't mean this to be hurtful - you haven't considered it from its many angles yet.  God is not a simple concept.  God is bigger than we can imagine, stranger than we think and cosmically more creative than the human mind and/or heart can conceive.  And so trying to wrap our heads around where God is - or isn't - can't be consolidated into an answer that fits on a bumper sticker... but oh how folks have tried. 

And so here's where I am with the stories and questions... I've decided to hunt for awhile.  I've decided to look with intent, squint my eyes and imagine things a little distorted, turn my head to the side and wonder.  I've even decided to say, "I don't know" and be ok with it.  I'm on a hunt - and I'm not alone.  There are others (and maybe you're one) who find you ourselves with different clothes and different tools this side of a qualifying event and we're simply not used to our new selves quite yet.  And so hunting for God isn't like it used to be.  Hunting for God has more colors and more wild animals and less places to hide in last year's dogma.

Jeremiah says that we will find God when we seek God with our whole heart.

My sisters recently told me a story about their childhood.  Our parents live in NJ and TX and so we spent a lot of time on planes visiting for the summer.  My youngest sisters played a game in the airport so that they could find one another.  One would yell, "Marco" while they other responded, "Polo" until they found each other in the crowded airport.  At the time they were probably 3 1/2 feet tall.  They couldn't see over the crowds of people and they apparently weren't relying on the adults with them... they were going to search for themselves using their best idea - Marco/Polo.

I love the image of two tiny creatures ducking in and out of a sea of legs and luggage yelling, "Marco!"  I can hear the silence amidst the loud crowd as one listens intently for the magic word, "Polo!"  I can feel the joy as the Marcos got louder and the Polos met the Marcos.  Searching with all of their heart.  Hunting with the clothes and tools that they've got. 

I'm getting used to my new clothes and tools and I'm hunting for God. 

Be very quiet... I'm hunting for God.  

Public Appearances

I enjoy walking in the mornings.  I've traced a couple miles worth of sidewalks around my townhome development.  On Saturday mornings, a neighbor and his dog sit on the front porch.  On my second loop, he pauses from smoking his pipe to ask me, "forget something?" 

I know exactly where the dogs are in the neighborhood because they bark when I pass.  I miss them if they are napping.  I have watched the cultivation of many mini crops over the summer.  A variety of tomato plants (nothing like a NJ tomato).  A great looking eggplant stalk.  Some peppers.  Some basil or the hopeful cilantro (always hard in NJ). 

There's a woman who has at least 30 plants, all different sizes, shapes and colors strewn around her home, including a patch of sunflowers, staked and standing 7 feet tall.  I finally met her one day; her name is Dolly. 

Earlier in the summer, it had hardly rained.  The grass was brown and brittle.  I could almost hear people's pots beg me for a drink of water.  But while we were away, it rained in NJ.  I've come back to a very different terrain.  The grass is green.  People's planters... well, they're stringy but alive.  The fruit is starting to grow - tomatoes are turning red, peppers are plumping out, even that eggplant stalk looks good.  (The cilantro... it never works here, they pulled it out.) 

Burdock Flower, for medicinal purposes, click here

As I was rounding the back of my home, I noticed a small fuchsia plant growing all alone in the back field.  I smiled and kept going but the voices in my head said, "Go back, check it out.  Aren't you interested in this dessert looking plant?"  So I turned around.

The back field had patches of green disbursed among the brown.  And in a green patch, this flower bloomed.  I wondered, how deep are its roots?  How long had it been growing before it made its public appearance?  I was so glad to have stopped, to honor its display. 

I vowed to go back and take a picture of it. 

The next day when walking, I smiled as I turned the corner, waiting to see the fuchsia speck in the distance and it wasn't there.  I slowed down, wondering if I had a. dreamed the whole thing, b. had the wrong corner, c. the wrong spot, d. none of the above. 

The was d.  I quickly realized that the lawn had been cut.  This beautiful plant, with its deep roots and long journey had been mowed over.  It was the only thing in the large back field of grass.  To the landscaping crew it was a weed.  No one had cultivated it specifically for that space.  It grew on its own, planted from seeds that came on the wind. 

I tried to find the spot; I wanted to see if I could see its roots.  Nothing.  I'm certain that they are there.  But to those of us looking from the outside, the life and strength of this weed goes unseen. 

By definition a weed is a plant that we have not found use for yet.  Weeds are resilient and they are often beautiful.  Many have proven medicinal qualities and are edible (of course not after years of a diet of round-up.)  

As I stood above the patch of greenish brown grass, I had the following thoughts.  I love that this plant grew deeper when it was dry.  I love that this plant found a way to make a public appearance - and in fuchsia!  (My grandmother used to say that fuchsia matches everything, haha!)  I loathe that in one afternoon, a big machine leveled the plant.  I love that there is a large untouchable plant beneath the surface. I thought that I would sense the plant's disgust at being chopped down.  Instead I sense the plant smiling.  I think it's gearing up for Act 2. 

And so I walked away loving that we also grow deeper when it's dry.  We also find a way, amidst struggle and hurt and disappointments and confusion to make a public appearance - sometimes in fuchsia.  I loathe that sometimes things outside of our control can level us.  And yet beneath the surface of each of us there is something untouchable. 

And instead of being disgusted by that which levels us, I too smiled realizing that we too can gear up for Act 2. 

Whistling in the Dark

I read Matthew Sanford's book, Waking recently.  (Krista Tippet in Speaking of Faith did a fantastic interview with him that you can find here.) In his book he speaks of "healing stories."   When Matthew Sanford was 13 years old, he was in a tragic car accident that killed his father and sister.  When his surviving mother and brother explained the extent of his injuries to him, his mind responded with this,

I could not control what was going to happen, but I could control how I perceived my situation. I needed to find a path, a way to keep going forward.  So, I told myself a story, a healing story - my mother and brother needed me to live.  It was like whistling in the dark, a way to feel rhythm despite being engulfed in the unknown.  

Whistling in the dark.  I love that image.  As I read the book, I wondered what our healing stories had been over the past five years.  What have our minds told us that have moved us toward wholeness?  Truth be told, I can remember the "hurting stories" much easier than the healing stories.  Too often my mind has chosen to sing a dirge rather than whistle in the dark.

I have often dwelt on the "can't's" of our life.  Pete can't drive.  Pete can't pick up things and carry them across the room (like a cup of coffee or our granddaughter.)  Pete can't walk to the bathroom at the movie theater.  Pete can't walk on the beach.  Pete can't take pictures because he's too shaky.  Pete can't...

I'm not ashamed of dwelling on the reality of our situation, nor do I think others should be ashamed when they do that.  In fact, as I read Sanford's book I hoped that he had loving friends and family who would allow him to sing a dirge from time to time - certainly that is part of anyone's path to wholeness.  And let's be honest, sometimes dirges are hauntingly beautiful.

Yesterday Pete bought me my first native American flute.  I love the sound of a wooden flute, it speaks for the soul, it longs for something unseen, it sings a dirge.

We purchased the flute from a vendor at the Keystone Blues and Arts Festival.  It's hand-carved of Spanish cedar and it plays in the key of A.  Apparently Native American Music is traditionally in the key of F#, a key that speaks to the heart chakra.  F# is not a common key and I want to use it in worship so we chose the key of A; it speaks to the wisdom chakra.  (Click here for a taste of this sound.)  

Of all the things that people pray for, wisdom is one of the most common.  We pray for understanding.  We seek clarity.  Amidst brokenness, we long for healing and in its absence, we ask for wisdom to see wholeness.

I think that's what Matthew Sanford is talking about in healing stories - wisdom to see wholeness when living with brokenness.  I saw wholeness yesterday after we bought the flute.

We, Pete and I, my dad and Jeanne (my stepmom) were listening to the blues when a woman emerged in the crowd. She was using a basic walker, two small front wheels, back sliders. Her left foot was in a cast.  She was struggling and had even paused to look ahead, most likely wondering, "how much farther do I have to do this?"  I looked at Pete who was looking at me and in a split second without using words, he pointed to his chair and then the woman and then to me.  Not waiting for my reply, he stopped her.  I couldn't hear him but I imagine he said something like, "can I offer my wheelchair to you?"  I saw her pause for a few seconds and then she smiled and said confidently, "yes."

I got up, Pete switched to my folding chair and our new friend, Sandra (one of the artists at the festival) sat in Pete's new wheelchair/rollator.  She looked at me and said, "how do I make it go?"  I said, "I push you."  She said, "You come with it too!"  And we were off on our journey to the restrooms, another 150 feet.

Something magical happened, the dirge became a whistle.  The dirge of "We can't" turned into "look at what we can do?!"

We've always noted that people in wheelchairs are often unseen by walking folk.  They, like children, are not at eye level.  There were quite a few people in wheelchairs at the festival.  Pete noted that he enjoyed a camaraderie with others as they pushed past him.   We see people who often go unseen.  People who often go unseen see us.   

After I took Sandra back to her booth, I heard a healing story of my own.  I get to make friends with people who sometimes go unseen.  I could hear whistling in the background as I pushed the wheelchair back to my family.  Pete stayed in the folding chair and I sat down in his wheelchair and a new rhythm emerged against the backdrop of our unknown.

Things To Do in Water

I love to swim.  I swam competitively in high school - my favorite race was the 200 meter freestyle, not a sprint not really distance race either.  The race requires a steady, yet fast-paced stride.  In so many ways, that race describes the life that I want.  I like a fast paced life but I like life to happen steadily not in spurts.  In fact, I plan it that way.  I keep a calendar and I consult it many times a day.  I look to see when there is free time and I fill it with stuff I want to do and stuff I need to do.  I like lists too.  I keep a variety of ongoing lists:  your basic todo list, a shopping list, an idea list for writing and speaking engagements... won't bore you with the others but suffice it to say, there are more. 

My calendar and my lists keep my life on track.  They keep me moving in a steady, fast-paced stride.

My life is a 200 freestyle race... I wish my life was a 200 freestyle race.  

When in relationship with anyone else, chronic illness or not, life doesnt' move at any steady pace.  When dealing with a chronic illness, it's hard to move at a fast-paced stride together.  I could keep a fast-paced stride but I would inevitable leave my partner behind. That wouldn't do really because I married with the intent of having a partner. I wanted to share my life with someone; I wanted someone to share his life with me.  I wanted to play together and think together, love together and learn together.  And so my life seems like it's lived in spurts now.  It makes me insane.

It makes me insane not because Pete is ill.  It makes me insane for two reasons.  First, I cling to my "life as a 200 freestyle race."  Second, when my stride is interrupted, I sometimes don't know how to live with myself .  My current level of insanity is my own doing.

In regards to letting go of the "life I wanted" - I really am working at it.  When I consult my calendar now, I do it with an eye for our life, which includes issues related to living with a chronic illness.  I ask questions like, How much can we actually fit into a weekend and maintain meaningful discourse with others?  or How much rest is needed during the week in order to accomplish my hopes for that same week?  I have learned to embrace the times of day that are for me (aka: the scrumptious steady fast-paced moments) where I can do the stuff I like to do:   writing, cooking, walking, reading.  If I find myself with extra time on my hands with extra energy, I ask for extra Julia time (check out the new pic I put in the about me section to introduce her to you all.)  My friends are wonderful at swimming alongside me too.  They fill my life with fun that sometimes includes Pete but sometimes give me something to do when Pete needs a different pace.

Regardless of my planning and my attempt to keep a certain pace, life is always interrupted.  It's not just from chronic illness.  Some people have reminded me that some of the issues I write about have little to do with chronic illness.  I agree.  And I appreciate the "reality check" that much of what I struggle with is universal and can't be put into the category of "my life is forever changed because my partner has a chronic illness."

Enter second issue:  when life does not function at the pace at which I wish, what do I do with myself?  I'm talking about adjusting my stride to function in relationship to another.  Sometimes my steady, fast-paced stride turns into a float.

And so yesterday I floated for awhile, literally. I'm on vacation in Colorado where there is a heated, outdoor pool.  Surrounded by mountains and aspen trees, I floated.  I'm a good floater.  I remember training to become a lifeguard and having to "rescue" instructors who didn't float.  Did they have too much muscle mass?  Not enough fat?  I'm not sure what makes a person unable to float.  For me it's a matter of air; it's a matter of breathing.

As I floated, I was aware that on my inhale my body rose to a flat even float.  On my exhale, I had to adjust my core muscles while my body sank a couple inches in the water, waiting for the next inhale.  In and out, in and out.  Floating.

It's very quiet when floating.  My ears are underwater and I can hear myself breathing and thinking.  The other voices around me are muffled.  I am alone.  Me, the mountains and the aspens with an occasional bird who is also floating.

My colleagues have used the image of floating recently in regards to trusting God.  I have a good friend who works as an interim pastor.  She leads churches through transitions that last from 1-3 years.  That means that she's looking for a new job more often than others.  A couple years ago, one job ended before she knew if she had a next one.  It was scary.  And when praying together, the word that came to mind for her was "floating."  She needs to float.  Floating taught her to trust in a new way.

Interruptions in life bring my stride to a halt.  And like I said, I haven't figured out what to do with myself.  Rather than float, I tread water, arms moving back and forth, legs bicycling round and round.  In high school when we were in between swimming seasons, we would play water polo for fun.  I hated it.  The ball only moves through three or four hands before someone tries to score.  Most of the game is spent treading water.  It's exhausting and it's boring.

What do I do with myself when my life comes to a halt?  Much of the time I tread water, arms and legs moving like crazy to keep me buoyant.  Interestingly, floating keeps me buoyant too.

Things I can do in water:  swim, tread water and float.  I love to swim.  I hate to tread water.  I am learning to float.