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.