7:00 a.m. Monday Morning Press Release

GRANDSON SAGA REPORT - First a quick update for those who have been following Troy’s hospitalization story in recent blogs. He is at home now, without ever having received a diagnosis from the professionals at Children’s Memorial Hospital. Symptoms seem worse in the mornings and better in the afternoons, leading his parents to assume inflammation from a fall last Monday could be the elusive culprit. Unless there’s a radical shift in symptomatic patterns or severity, Troy will not see the doctor again for two weeks. Hopefully during that time he’ll stabilize and his recent leg weakness and bowel issues will be behind him!

MONDAY MORNING RETREAT MODE – I’m fortunate to be able to remain at the lake house in Michigan by myself for a few days while Fritz, the ol’ work horse, is currently driving his 15-year-old Villager on the 3-hour trek back to his classes at Purdue. A friend from church loaned me a couple of encouraging books yesterday, so I intend to stick my nose in them for most of the day. Otherwise I’ll probably write (a no-brainer), and walk (stir the blood a little), and generally play hookie from responsibility! The lake is gloriously calm and peaceful this morning – a good place for retreat.

FRIEND TO VISIT SOON – Another friend from church here in Michigan is having some extensive foot surgery this morning; she’ll be coming over tomorrow to stay with me in our one-story lake house during her initial few days of recuperation. It will be a chance for some good “girl time.” She’s a big fish eater, and we have plenty of lake fish in the freezer, so we’re good to go. In the past I forced some carrot juice down her, and she’s already made her statement about that: NO MORE. However, she’s also been forewarned about Green Lemonade and is prepared to give it the old college try, as the saying goes. (Definition of “old college try” from the Urban Dictionary: A demonstration of intent to half-ass a given project, and an indication that the project might come to fruition, but more likely won’t.)

COUNTING CHICKENS – All-of-a-sudden yesterday I had one of those gear-grinding senior moments, and realized how easy it has become to over-evaluate, over-emotionalize, over-react in just about every possible way. While the onset of these blow-outs can sometimes be rationally explained (although not always), I made an intentional decision to stop trying to count those chickens that aren’t hatched yet; to trust the yolks to develop in their own time and do a better job of living in the moment.

Neutralizing Offense and Defense

I wonder how many times we unwittingly confront and stifle each other because of our own shallow/narrow viewpoints: “Now WHY do you have to BE this-or-that way – or SAY this-or-that, or even THINK this-or-that?” No doubt such comments emerge from our own limitations or misunderstandings, and yet they come across as 100% pure, ultra-refined, bitter-as-gall judgment. “You are weird. I will never understand you. Why can’t you be more (less) this way, that way, the other way? You are driving me crazy. I can’t stand your moodiness/insensitivity/carelessness/presumption/perfectionism.”

On the other side of the coin, when we’re confronted with such comments or asked such questions (even with rose-bud sweetness), the atmosphere becomes cold, prickly and electrified. Tension snaps. Why am I the way I am? Do I even know an answer to that question? What do you expect me to say? Should I apologize for being me? Should I refine myself to better fit your expectations?

“Why are you like that?” may well be borne of underlying fear or inadequacy expressed from a position of assumed power or authority – a protective bubble of control. It unwittingly invites the recipient to throw up defenses while elevating a preconceived mindset as being superior, desirable, or necessary. It could be said with noble motives, but ends up cornering those already dealing with inner wounds of one sort or another. Instead of freeing and healing the other party, it knocks them down, smothers and squelches them while holding out an ideal (the proverbial carrot) on the other side of the cage.

In self-defense the one questioned typically runs for emotional cover, clams up, tries to appease, throws on insulative football pads, retreats, lashes back, changes the subject, dominates, or sulks. However, a more profitable reaction might be to pass the ball (the stinging comment/question/perceived judgment) back to the questioner, call for a time out, and say it like it is: “I am seeing things primarily from an emotional/logical/neutral/opinionated/educated/experienced/practiced point of view right now because (fill in the blank). I am a work in progress. I do/say/think the things I do based on my current understanding. Tomorrow I might react differently. But this is who I am today. I need your patience and kindness.”

We’ve all played both positions: offense and defense.

Meanwhile, outside the stadium of competitive right-and-wrongness, grace protects and affirms while inspiring growth and change. It promises to not only accept, but also love, cherish, and support others in such a way that encourages them to become all they can be – all God created them to be. Blessed are those who offer grace. Blessed are those who receive it and express gratitude. Blessed are those whose lives are enveloped and defined by it.

Can we learn to re-phrase our probing “why are you like this” questions/accusations, and thus short-circuit the whole mess? I believe so! In a moment of frustration/confusion/ exhaustion/overwhelm a better question might be, “I’m so baffled by the way you think/talk/act/respond/feel, but would like to understand what makes you tick. Can you tell me more about your emotional/rational/logical/personal point of view in this situation? Where are you coming from? What do you know/feel/believe/want/need and what would you really like me to know?”

Ugga…this is rare! And yet it can diffuse, open the valves, clean the pipes. It can merge and even emulsify people who appear to be oil and water.

It would be great to melt down the offensive and defensive lines and become cooperative players on the same team. It’s something to work toward, anyway.

Limping and Leaping

As of yesterday afternoon, Troy’s leg weakness (and incontinence issues) seemed to be improving somewhat, although in his dad’s words, he’s “still far from normal.” Diagnosis remains illusive. Two muscle tests have come back negative and another is still outstanding. I’m praising God this morning for the hopeful shift, although I’ve been reminded not to assume he’s over the hump yet.

As I’ve spent lots of time thinking about Troy’s debilitating problems these past few days, a broader application has come to mind.

It’s easy for my perspectives to get skewed as I journey through life’s rugged terrain with its glory-peaks and dark ravines, its marathon hikes and setbacks. I forget that when I’m barely limping along - perhaps even crawling (reminding me of Troy?) – my spirit, quickened by His love, also enables and inspires me to LEAP.

Physical endurance training, mind relaxation disciplines, academic endeavors, and other honorable pursuits foster “how to” philosophies that hint at fulfillment: quasi-nirvana. But they turn out to be facades - temporary braces - and the limp (limitation) continues. This reminds me of medical treatments that address symptoms rather than causes. In reality, we’ve been limping ever since Adam’s Great Leap away from God, and behavioral modifications can’t fix us.

Recovering from the limp is a matter of almost-paradoxical leaps of faith: leaps TO FAITH (meaning toward), but also WITH FAITH (meaning faith originates with God and is given to us by Him). Can you picture this? Leaping in the midst of weakness because God gives us faith that strengthens us to seek more faith? (Credits for the prepositions “to” and “with” in reference to faith go to Soren Kierkegaard, I think.) Do you see it the same way?

The life of faith - particularly as expressed during this recent trial with Troy, since it is foremost in my mind - translates into waiting and more waiting, believing, hoping, receiving mercy, accepting what is happening, expecting more grace, and intentionally releasing myself (my mind, will, emotions) to Him. Perhaps that’s what Troy’s undiagnosed problem is about for me; perhaps I’m being schooled in APPLIED FAITH. Maybe I’m being challenged to take giant leaps of faith: to leap with the faith and strength God has given me toward even greater faith as I respond to Him.

In my mind, it only makes sense that this inner leap of faith would be most possible when we’re literally defined by limping, and seemingly least able to leap at all. I pray that today Troy’s walking continues to improve, and that those of us on the sidelines uphold him with our individual and corporate leaps of faith.

Trembling with Love and Dread

Slow motion replay…audio is muted…movie tape runs in my mind. Nostalgia.

Sunny day…Troy’s sun-lotion-streaked face is grinning. He’s wearing his blue and green UV protective swim suit (shorts AND shirt)…running pell-mell with his characteristic arm-pumping motion across the yard…carrying a bright orange and yellow handmade gun fashioned from tubular building toys…laughing…looking back over one shoulder…escaping and yet inviting the pursuit of his boy-cousins.

The lake stands as a backdrop to the scene.

Our old rope hammock waits…he plunges into it…a refuge…the others follow in hot pursuit…pow-pow-pow. Boydom…little flashes of manhood…seeds of emerging men.

Troy is quick…action figure.

Just last month. That was just last month.

I woke this morning with these slow motion memories replaying. Troy is not running today. His legs remain still and quiet as he waits for more testing in a bed in Children’s Memorial in Chicago.

His father, my firstborn…constantly by Troy’s side…an advocate…faithful in love…giving his all, exemplifying The Father. My blood is there in that room as well, coursing with hope, aching all the while. John posted a video of Troy on his facebook page to keep us all updated, as well as a excerpt from St. Augustine that showed up around 5 hours ago (which would have been around 3:30-ish this morning):

“I trembled at once with love and dread.”

I looked up the entire quote. Here it is. The last paragraph particularly speaks to me this morning:

“O eternal truth, true love and beloved eternity. You are my God. To you I sigh day and night. When I first came to know you, you drew me to yourself so that I might see that there were things for me to see, but that I myself was not yet ready to see them. Meanwhile you overcame the weakness of my vision, sending forth most strongly the beams of your light, and I trembled at once with love and dread.

“I sought at once to gain the strength which I needed to enjoy you. But I did not find it until I embraced ‘the mediator between God and men, the man Jesus Christ, who is above all, God blessed forever.’ He was calling me and saying, ‘I am the way, the truth, and the life.’

“Late have I loved you, O Beauty ever ancient, ever new, late have I loved you! You were within me, but I was outside, and it was there that I searched for you. In my unloveliness I plunged into the lovely things which you created. You were with me, but I was not with you. Created things kept me from you; yet if they had not been in you they would not have been at all. You called, you shouted, and you broke through my deafness. You flashed, you shone, and you dispelled my blindness. You breathed your fragrance on me; I drew in breath and now I pant for you. I have tasted you; now I hunger and thirst for more. You touched me, and I burned for your peace.”

Cliff Dwellers

One of our grandsons (age 5) was admitted yesterday to a hospital in Chicago because of numbness/weakness in his buttocks and legs. We’re still awaiting the final MRI test results this morning (after the doc consults with his colleagues), but it appears our little man, age 5, has accumulated fluid in the lower area of his spinal column.

My emotions are inconsistent as I hunker down and wait like a fidgety old hen, and yet uphold an image that has inspired me in recent years: resting beneath the outstretched wing of God.

Last night when I couldn’t sleep, I kept replaying an image in my mind’s eye. I saw our grandson lying peacefully, without trauma or pain, on the edge of a cliff bordering a deep ravine. His bed consisted of big pieces of cold slate. Trees and hardy shrubs grew in a tangle everywhere; sunshine twinkled through some branches as a breeze stirred. Dappled shadows flitted like a plague of fireflies across his muscular little-boy body that lay safe and sound in its spot there on the ledge. He seemed peaceful and quiet; exemplary in his confidence that he was all right – just waiting.

Then I imagined the human race on that same cliff, running and pushing and doing our individual things. Some of us were recessed just a little bit and busy with our technologies and schedules and three-meals-a-day, while others stood out as pacesetters. Still others clung for dear life to the crumbly edge, barely maintaining their spots.

The drop-off had no obvious guardrail. It seemed anyone might wander to close to the edge; we surely might end up stumbling or weakened or otherwise too close, and then fall from this place. And yet there lay our grandson, close enough to roll off, but unafraid and seemingly guarded by some other Presence.

The saving Presence was grace. A promise - God’s promise - ran the length of the cliff like a fence: the promise of His presence.

This morning the Psalmist spoke to me of a God who shelters us on that cliff ledge. He spreads His outstretched wing of mercy/love/truth to cover/protect/rescue/save those who call upon Him. This is not an automatic thing, but rather the wing is His response to our heart-and-soul submission.

I love Ps. 91:15: I WILL BE WITH HIM IN TROUBLE. No matter what circumstances bring, God’s presence on the cliff with us is consistent and permanent.

____________________

“Do not withhold your mercy from me, O Lord; may your love and your truth always protect me.” Ps. 40:11

“Keep me as the apple of your eye; hide me in the shadow of your wings.” Ps. 17:8

“You are my hiding place; you will protect me from trouble and surround me with songs of deliverance.” Ps. 32:7

“He who dwells in the shelter of the Most High will rest in the shadow of the Almighty. I will say of the Lord, ‘He is my refuge and my fortress, my God, in whom I trust.’ Surely he will save you from the fowler’s snare and from the deadly pestilence. He will cover you with his feathers, and under his wings you will find refuge; his faithfulness will be your shield and rampart. You will not fear the terror of night, nor the arrow that flies by day, nor the pestilence that stalks in the darkness, nor the plague that destroys at midday. A thousand may fall at your side, ten thousand at your right hand, but it will not come near you. You will only observe with your eyes and see the punishment of the wicked. If you make the Most High your dwelling, even the Lord, who is my refuge, then no harm will befall you, no disaster will come near your tent. For he will command his angels concerning you to guard you in all your ways; they will lift you up in their hands, so that you will not strike your foot against a stone. You will tread upon the lion and the cobra; you will trample the great lion and the serpent. ‘Because he loves me,’ sayd the Lord, ‘I will rescue him; I will protect him, for he acknowledges my name. He will call upon me, and I will answer him; I will be with him in trouble, I will deliver him and honor him. With long life will I satisfy him and show him my salvation.” Psalm 91

The Niftiest Tiny Roller

Here’s a sad but true commentary. It’s so easy to overlook the small, itty-bitty breakthroughs in life when you’re looking for something Big and Earth-Shattering.

Take, for instance, holding out hope for a Painting Machine that would Show Up and take care of all the Rest of the Painting. I’ve been daydreaming about a first cousin to those robotic vacuum sweepers, the ones that work on auto-pilot. Only in my euphoric dreams this Machine spreads paint over the walls by itself (a skilled cliff climber) and even gets way up in all the ceiling corners, leaving not a single streak or drip. The Machine is disposable. One per paint color. And no clean up.

Sadly, such a device has not shown up to rescue me from the perils of stiff-necked (catch the two meanings, here) paint-job imprisonment. But I did have a minor breakthrough on a smaller scale today: the discovery of a mini paint roller called Tiny Trimmer – just a couple of inches long and maybe an inch in diameter as opposed to the mammoth Rocket Roller (the conventional size) that tries to take off and slip out of my hand every time I start rolling. Tiny is a more sophisticated option to a trim brush, only I found his versatility stretching way beyond trimming - to infinity and beyond. He’s now my best buddy, having won five stars in my Paint Roller Rating Book (just watch for this insightful publication to be released soon in your favorite hardware store).

I suppose you could say that after several hours of overt togetherness, I ended up falling in love. An excerpt from our recent dialogue:

Me: I’m sweating like a hog up here on this ladder, the bathroom fan is buzzing in my ear, the wet paint smell is enough to make me pass out and fall off the ladder, I’m getting grumbly-er by the minute (can you tell?), and I cannot reach that stupid corner on the back side of the tub where the streaks are.

Tiny: Oh! Let me help you! Just dip and squeeze! Now bend your knees. It’ll be a breeze!

Me: Don’t try to be cute, Tiny. This isn’t an aerobics class. And I’m definitely NOT impressed with your silly verbiage.

Tiny: Tra-la-la-la! (pensively) Can I take your picture, all duded up in your paint duds? Hold it…now pose…and freeze!

Me: CUT IT OUT! One more ditzy comment like that and I’ll drown you in the paint can! Gaaaaaa! And hold your head under until you DIE! I will!

Tiny: (pouting) I only want some attention. Couldn’t you just ‘try me’…please?

Me: Man! Would you cut it with the cute-puke rhyming words? You’re making me sick.

Tiny: Ah…ah…ah…(sigh)…I think I am about to sneeze.

Me: Stop it…STOP IT! You…you…you…you’re INSANE! You’re an imposter! Nothing can make this job easier – except, of course my ingenious Robot Painter…who…like too many knights in shining armor… has conveniently elected to skip out in favor of a jousting match with his buddies followed by a belly-up to the Bar…

Tiny: Oooooo, now you’re making me jealous. Is he…is he cute?

Me: Uh, who?

Tiny: Robot Painter, silly!!

Me: (exasperated) Yeah, he’s adorable. Really muscle-y. You know, he does rappelling on the side, sort of a hobby to keep in shape. Hmmmm, very muscle-y.

Tiny: Well, I’m NOT Charles Atlas. (pause…then defiantly) But I do a good job, and I’m dependable and loyal, and I will work with you until you’re done. AND, I have a great personality. (another pause) If that counts for anything.

Me: I DON’T WANT YOU TO BE CHARLES ATLAS! For crying out loud! You’re a stupid paint roller! And a miniscule, ratty, Chihuahua-looking one, at that!

Tiny: Well then. Since I am NOT going to be offended, and I AM loyal and humble by nature, and YOU are the one needing an attitude adjustment here…well then…you should at least try me in those corners, and those skinny places above and below the trim around the potty, and along the edge of the tile. Just in case I’m worth your time.

Me: I suppose so.

Tiny: (demurely, with a wink) You’re gonna love me, darlin’.

Me: Yeah, right. Love you…right. You’re so stereotypically male. All talk. All show, no go.

Tiny: Judge not, lest ye be judged…the Good Book says this. It’s a direct quote.

Me: So, according to you, Macho Mini-Roller, I have no choice in the matter. Of course. (scowls) So here goes nothing. (spreading paint evenly and quickly on the problem area) OH! (genuinely shocked) You’re…you’re DOING IT. You really ARE!

Tiny: See? Told you so. I’m pretty slick – small, but slick. (winks)

Me: I’m…I’m…(speechless and blushing)…well…(whispers under breath)…thanks, Tiny.

Tiny: No prob. Just goes to show, you can’t judge a book by its cover, or a roller by its size, lack of muscles, or even its superbly poetic communication skills. (clears throat for emphasis) Now let’s get to work…no more cryin’ in your beer, er, I mean paint can.

Sounds of Not-Quite-Silence

Before-bed noises (like between 9:00-10:00):

1. Mwupf. Uhhhh. Crack, snap. (joint noises). Gggggghhhh…

Bathroom sounds. Not what you might think - ! - but rather sounds while reaching for the far corners of the bathroom with the paint brush.

2. Mwupf. Uhhhh. Crack, snap. (Crunchy apple noises). Ggggghhhh….

Snack sounds. You had a clue (apples), but they were spread with almond butter and dotted with gummy raisins.

3. Mwupf. Uhhhh. Crack, snap. (joint noises, again). Ggggghhhh….

Hand exercise sounds. Pinkies are getting better, actually, now that I’m moving them intentionally, thanks to the advice of the hand specialist at Unity.

Jeepers, it sure is noisy around here tonight….

A Stormy Exercise

A friend asked me, “So what do you do to manage your tinnitus?” I’ve blogged around this question several times, and yet am stumped to address it squarely since I don’t have a complete answer myself. Mostly it is a matter of WAITING, focusing on God and waiting on Him, knowing He will keep me secure (His character is trustworthy). Sometimes I feel if I could just get across the reality of the noise, and know another person could truly understand, it would be very helpful for us both!

And so, I’ll try a little non-academic exercise. (My apologies for perseverating on this issue, but after all, it’s a 37-year-old topic for me). Please know this is not a plea for pity, but rather an invitation to understand.

Here’s my challenge, if you’re up for it. Try to remember several of the worst storms you’ve experienced in your lifetime. The season doesn’t matter – just the intensity of the storm. It could be a winter snow or hail storm, a spring hurricane or severe flood, or whatever. Now put them all together in your mind. Recall the atmosphere inside the house or wherever you were taking refuge; the general mood and the range of emotions.

Several instances come to mind immediately when I do this: an electrical/wind storm at the lake when I was a child and we ended up taking refuge under the bed, a tornado funnel (I watched it rip across a field at a friend’s house when I was a teenager) that literally severed three-story buildings and tossed cars as if they were popcorn, a severe ice storm here in Buck Creek in ’91 that encased EVERYTHING and we ended up being without electrical power for 14 days.

In each case, my thoughts and feelings hover at the end of the scale where adrenaline is flowing freely. But there’s more to it than that. When I revisit those memories and put myself back in the moment, I mostly feel compelled/driven to find a place of safety or at least relative security. I’m consumed by the storm; everyday things are temporarily forgotten as if nothing else exists. Insecurity or overwhelm might jump to the fore. I’m out of control since the elements WILL have their way.

My tinnitus at this stage of the game might be compared to an inner, vicious raging storm. I feel unsafe within myself, consumed and overwhelmed. This means that it only takes a little nudge from some other external stressor to tempt me to fall over-the-emotional-edge. It also means I value Good Samaritans who simply come alongside and care.

In the storm analogy, a house provides at least some degree of shelter and distance from the onslaught. But with tinnitus, there’s no place to hide, no place to go. There’s no cellar or closet or other refuge. The inner storm just keeps on, day and night, while I stand naked and unprotected in the midst of it.

You’d think the storm would eventually become so familiar it would become normal, and thus acceptable. But the body isn’t wired that way. Storms are NOT the norm. They’re supposed to come and go, not define every single minute of every single day. There would be great anguish, confusion, and loss if our world were in a constant storm state. (Remember Noah?)

Also, it seems obvious that distractions could help. That’s true to a point, but how easily are you distracted when you become New Orleans in the grip of Katrina?

And then it comes down to perceptions. Is it really so bad? Nah. Not really…not compared to many other chronic problems. My blind friend, Kathy, faces much more difficult challenges on a daily basis. And then there’s Nick Vujicik from Australia (who studied at Purdue, incidentally; I saw him on the street in his wheelchair with some buddies) who was born with neither arms nor legs. But even if it isn't totally debilitating, the truth is I can’t “perceive” my way out of the noise. I can’t ignore it.

A correct theological response is to seek refuge in the Lord. I know from my own experience this is true, and possible, and it works. And yet I am weak and imperfect. The storm is bigger than my will, and it is a constant battle to keep a right perspective/relationship with Him without crumbling under the pressure (which, in fact, might not be unlike actual barometric pressure).

Like so many other things, it comes down to prioritizing God (His presence, His sovereignty in my life) rather than the problem…waiting…letting Him work in me..

And just one more point that I’m sure I’ve mentioned before. It is lonely, here. In a true storm situation, someone else may well be in the house with you. You face it together; you jointly find the safest place possible; you help each other. Or at the very least, you compare notes on the experience (and the damages) with the neighbors when it is all over. There is community. With tinnitus and associated hearing loss that’s reached the intensity of mine, there is very little common ground, at least not with the average person. This is why I’m writing this blog today, as an attempt at education.

Bathroom Paint Job

Deck the walls with tape and paint
Fa-la-la-la-la, la-la-la-la
This the season to grow faint
Fa-la-la-la-la, la-la-la-la
Don me now old shirt so grubby
Fa-la-la, la-la-la, la, la, la
Stroke the walls o’er sinks and tubby
Fa-la-la-la-la, la-la-la-la

Watch the colors blaze while musing
Fa-la-la-la-la, la-la-la-la
Second-guess the ones I’m using
Fa-la-la-la-la, la-la-la-la.
Smells descend to pass me out
Fa-la-la, la-la-la, la, la, la
Wish I could just stop and pout
Fa-la-la-la-la, LA-LA...LA...LAAAAAAA!

Sock Lore

I find myself turning various components of life inside-out a lot these days, sort of like you do when taking socks out of the dryer. Hmmmm, this one is right-side-out, this one wrong-side-out, and these two go together – and here’s a too-far-gone pair that need to be thrown out. The other one – well, it doesn’t have a mate, not in this load, at least. The runaway could be still in the hamper, or under the bed, or who knows where…or it may never show up, having been swallowed by the Washing Machine Sock Gremlin. Oooooh, those missing ones. I’d like to wring their little hiding-from-me necks, if socks have necks.

This era of my life also seems punctuated with on-the-go sock-jogging lessons that are teaching me about completeness – or in other terms, redemption. They take me to new heights and depths to hike along trails in valleys and on mountaintops. I cower and soar. I fear and trust. I hurt and heal. I stumble and run. I hide and explore. I wear mis-matched socks and no socks at all. It is quite the hike.

In all of this, there is no such thing as status quo anymore, or predictable normalcy. That’s not only okay, but also probably the preferred way to live…hanging by a thread, on the edge, being okay with those flimsy little footee-hose-thingys you use when you try on new shoes that barely even cover your toes. Maybe this has something to do with The Goal: humility and dependence and childlikeness before an almighty and sovereign God.

And oh yes…control and stability (control-top pantyhose) are highly overrated – downright unnecessary, in fact. Imperfect socks are fine in the presence of the living God. He knows all about socks, HIS SOCKS, and He loves ‘em all just as they are.

As I continue to pore over yesterday’s encounters at the picnic, and several more today with people at church, I’m aware of so many whopper-jawed, raveling-at-the-seams, threadbare, dirty socks. Peoples’ insides are showing through some pretty gaping holes OR their outsides appear to be deceptively snazzy as a cover-up. Still, the holes are there. Some are doing the loner I-am-an-island-thing (the lone sock syndrome) OR they’re matched with people who aren’t encouraging them (the mis-match). Others want to get busy and walk/run but are stymied for one reason or another. A few just plain stink.

I also recognize quite a few are in various stages of rescue/deliverance/recovery/salvation/redemption. We’re all in process, so to speak – in the process of dealing with our socks. It is encouraging and hopeful to see and hear testimonies from those who are willing to go to God - the Sock-Sorter-Outer – those who expect Him to repair and wash their cruddy ones, and turn them in and/or out – REDEEM them. I love hearing about their sock-pile victories.

The thing is, I can be compulsive about sock-sorting - impatient and short-fused, frustrated and overwhelmed, and unwilling to wait on God. And yet listening and waiting are integral to the life of faith. I cannot respond to Him (which leads me to participate in daily-and-hourly sock-redemption) if I don’t first wait/listen for His voice. And that can take time.

I can’t stand it when one sock is missing. I also have a way of wearing geriatric socks until their elasticity is gone and only fragile threads hold together the heels. It’s like I’m joined-at-the-hip (oops, or the ankle) with my socks. Better to be willing to LET GO of them (as representatives of the security blankets I dream up for myself) and receive the ever-emerging sock wardrobe God has for me.

So there you have it, the weakest, most disorganized and overstated SOCK LORE analogy you’ll ever read in your life.

Fertilizing Roots

Today we attended Fritz’s BCM fall semester kick-off picnic, and I spoke with people I haven’t seen in a long time who share a long-standing Purdue history. Among them were women who have walked, or are currently walking, paths similar to my own. While chatting about cancer and health concerns, pregnancy and child-raising, Bible study and spiritual growth, work and personal goals, hobbies and recreation, aging parents and spouses, I saw my own composite collage superimposed against theirs. Afterwards I realized how much we have in common at the heart-and-soul level despite inherent uniqueness and circumstantial variables.

Of course many people were flabbergasted, or at least wide-eyed, to see Fritz throwing himself all over the volleyball court with wild abandon in old Fritz-style, slamming the ball as if to prove it was surely someone else, some masquerading clone, who had dealt with a life-threatening heart condition. I was asked repeatedly, “So, how’s he doing, really?” and, “Did the doctor ever figure out what caused him to get better?” I reassured each questioner that his recovery was a scientifically unexplainable God-thing: a mystery, a miracle.

I felt like a transplanted plant today - one that was dug up (yanked?) a few years ago and re-potted to grow in a different climate and culture for a while to learn a few things about grace and humility and witness a miracle-in-progress. Now, for a season at least, I’ve returned to the Purdue flowerbed, the old and familiar, but with new soil and a few fertilizer spikes, to boot. We won’t be here long, but we ARE here NOW. Today’s picnic helped me realize that my ouchy spot “on the fence” between the two lifestyles is an intellectual position. I still belong HERE.

Reviewing The Shack

I stayed up half the night last night to finish reading The Shack by William P. Young. This is something I’d put off for a long time since I preferred to stay clear of the cross-fire of differing opinions about this book. For quite a while now (maybe over a year?) I have heard respected friends say it is an enlightening, breakthrough-the-barriers-of-ignorance-type-book. I have also heard other respected friends say it is pure blasphemy. I decided it must be powerfully involving; a book written in a bold style that was willing to approach the supernaturally mysterious in a fresh way...and yet a book that was also potentially dangerous. So I just avoided the whole foo-fah. This worked until the last couple of days when I turned the corner and decided I had a responsibility to dig through it myself and at least be informed about what all the hype has been about. I finished at 2:00 a.m.

So now I have an opinion, my own opinion. While The Shack is a creative work of theological fiction (if there is such a thing, and I guess there is since Pilgrim’s Progress fits that description), and it is favorably endorsed by a variety of up-front people and at least a few names I recognize, and it makes points that might be seen as enlightening or applicable or otherwise inspiring, I maintain that it is elementally deficient.

The story provides an opportunity for the author to discuss Biblically-based concepts, especially through dialogue between the main character and the triune God, and yet without due respect for GLORY. In The Shack, I did not read about the Most High God I continue to seek and know – a God who defies human understanding and explanation, and yet comes to indwell human hearts and transform them. In fact, in my opinion, the reader must be very careful since it seems Young minimizes Him (re-creates God to fit human images) in an attempt to make Him relatable, which is not only dangerous but foolish. In the first chapter of Romans, Paul addresses this temptation to bring an Almighty, holy, sovereign, all-knowing, creator-and-sustainer God down-to-size.

“Claiming to be wise, they became fools, and exchanged the glory of the immortal God for images resembling mortal man..." (Romans 1:22,23).

My summary statement? Counterfeit wisdom looks and feels “right.” We must be careful and seek God’s true wisdom in order to be wise. Fools embrace imagination - arrogant, earthly, counterfeit, and deficient imagination. Conversely, we are wise (and free and whole) beings only when submitted to the Holy God who directs and orchestrates life.

The Shack challenged me to think symbolically and metaphorically. It confirmed things from my personal experience, and stretched my imagination in creative and perhaps profitable ways. It did not accurately represent God (Elohim-creator, El Shaddai-all-sufficient, Adonai-master, Jehovah-I AM, Jehovah-Jireh-provider) – or Jesus (Yeshua-salvation, Kurios-Lord) - or the Holy Spirit (supernatural counselor, comforter, strengthener). I consider it an adventurous but precarious read.

B-B-Blueberry B-B-Blues

I’ve lately grown wary
Of a fat Blueberry
Who came with his buddies
To my frig in a box.

There had to be thousands
Of big juicy round ‘uns
Just waiting for baking
Into scones or pancakes.

Ten pounds were so many
For baking a-plenty
Although to avoid it
I ate raw ones for days.

A few are now mushy
All squishy and gushy
But some are still plumpish
And just perfect for pie.

Today wrapped in pastry
They’ll be mighty tasty
And tempt me to blow it
Like an addict gone nuts.

Oh that sly Blueberry!
He just had to tarry
‘Till pie was the answer
To avoid certain rot.

Now later today Blue
And friends become blue stew
And pop from my oven
Looking crusty and sweet.

The glut’s not my own fault
Ole’ Blue planned the assault
I’m only a victim
Of sugar addiction.

Pinkie Saga (and Today's Zits)

I saw the hand specialist yesterday, who quickly confirmed some things. Yes, I have arthritis. Yes, I have bone spurs. And yes, both of those are legitimate reasons for more than casual pain. BUT, by the way, he said there’s something else to add to the full plate! Thankfully it’s just a very palatable mini-helping rather than a big greasy blob of indigestible news.

Last spring I spent several months working many hours every day with my hands. You may recall this, if you’ve been reading this blog, and I think way-back-when I even composed a blog entry about my hard-at-work fingers entitled “Rinky-Dink Pinkies.” Anyway, the work was fairly grueling/demanding as far as hand-strength-and-endurance, and my carpal tunnel (which had been quiet for the last decade since selling the bakery) came back in full force. During that time I stripped nastily stuck wallpaper, patched holes in the walls, sanded, patched some more, sanded again, caulked, taped, primed, and finish-coat-painted with 2, and sometimes 3, layers of paint – all this in 5 different rooms. Evidently while going through this drill, some tendons in my pinkies became inflamed (no surprise, I suppose), especially the left one. Over time the inflammation only escalated. Now several months later I have a seriously angry revolt going on.

Eventually the inflamed tendons started grinding. I don’t understand this, but then I don’t understand hand anatomy. So the gritty pop-popping and painful hot-knife-stabbing I’ve been experiencing could be in large part a tendon issue. This is rather revolutionary since the nurse practitioner in the other osteopathic office (whom I saw a couple of weeks ago) suggested the pain was a bone-on-bone, and/or spur-in-flesh issue.

The current plan seems to suit my mind-set, which is to choose the simple and more natural options first. I will apply heat regularly and flex the fingers to force a fist (something I haven’t been able to do for some weeks now without screaming my head off), keep Tylenol in my system, and if things aren’t significantly better in a month, get some cortisone shots. The doc said he doesn’t want the pinkies to freeze up, and lefty was well on the way. In a few more months it might have become a permanently stiff little board-of-a-finger. And then it would have been too far gone to remediate effectively.

After looking at the x-rays, Dr. B made the arthritis and bone spurs sound less immediately threatening than the nurse practitioner I saw earlier, so I am encouraged on that end as well. He feels things are definitely not normal in the cartilage department, i.e. the spaces between the bones are worn thin, but I’m also not going to have to stop typing anytime soon – which, as you might have guessed, was way up at the top of my list of most pressing concerns. He also said the old-fashioned remedy – warm paraffin wax – could be a good option for me, arthritis-wise.

You know, I was almost shocked when he didn’t suggest some sort of invasive treatment (namely surgery) since my symptoms had reached such a fever pitch. What a relief! My thanks to those of you in my limited readership who were praying (I can think of at least several who pledged to pray), and to the Lord for leading me via word-of-mouth to contact this doctor! I’d not visited physicians in this complex in the past, and would not have known to make the contact on my own.

And so as the saga of the pinkies continues, real life beckons and the work day begins! Today my first remodel-related job is to fill nail holes around the inside of the new windows. This seems fairly benign, as it will require only the pointer finger of my right hand and the same amount of pressure you might use to put on make-up, or camouflage facial blemishes. Ah yes, covering the zits. Deja-vu. I’ve been there, done that, before.

Epic and Intimate

Once again we’re back in the throes of remodel at the Buck Creek house (painting window trim, sealing bathroom ceramic tile). It’s humbling to see how encouragement lurks around, entering the scene (my scene, that is) to both downshift and uplift through email, snail mail, conversation, action, and inspiration.

A newsletter arrived in yesterday’s mail from an author I find both curious and admirable, a Christian man sold out to renewed-heart-level living. This article spoke volumes to me as he discussed two different perspectives: the epic and the intimate.

In his opinion, the epic viewpoint of life stirs us up…to adventure, challenge, grandeur, and vistas that may well include the miraculous. The intimate viewpoint stirs us down…to tenderness, mercy, love, beauty, and details of delicate proportions. Both are part of the same Bigger Story: one is more dynamic and sensational, the other gentler and perhaps more subliminal.

This quote seemed particularly relevant:

“Sometimes in the Gospels you see Jesus doing something epic – like calming a storm, raising the dead, dying on a Cross. Sometimes you see him in the most intimate act – a touch, a tear, a kind word. Epic and intimate.”

The author spoke of the fact that many of us are imbalanced in that we prioritize either the epic or the intimate view by virtue of our personalities and the influence of life’s experiences. And yet if we tend toward the epic, we NEED the intimate. If we tend toward the intimate, we NEED the epic. We are all hybrids, and yet not without our preferred (autonomic?) points of view that NEED complementary input.

I received this information as it was probably intended, as a call to personal evaluation, and yet focused on a particular application: relationships. I began thinking about relational turmoil, or even perceived tension, actually being evidence of the need for epic and intimate counterweights. We are so often clueless (blinded) and therefore can’t seem to see beyond our own horizons. But others can lead us to neglected ports of entry, or sometimes those we don’t even know exist.

When I am consumed by the intimate or detailed aspects of life, which is easy for me to do, I need a pacesetter to remind me of the epic. Living primarily from intimacy means living in process with shifting sands: elements of God’s trustworthy promises mixed with circumstantial and emotional hounds that repeatedly nip at my heels, scraping the skin over and over, threatening to keep me tense, preoccupied, and discouraged. Although I may preserve a right attitude of submission and even know/trust deep down that God is at work in this mosaic, the hounds sometimes wear me down and I fall prey to a narrow viewpoint.

However, when I rub elbows with those who are primarily consumed by the epic - the magnificence of the grand scheme of things, the eternal truths and mysteries, the battles between good and evil, the overriding scope of redemption - they inspire me to see beyond my own small life and to remember my place in the context of eternity.

Perhaps one other thing deserves to be said here. I’d like to be one to encourage the predominately-epic folks to study the everyday up-close-and-personal (like tiny wildflowers, colonies of industrious ants, fields of wind-waved grasses gone to seed); to speak, listen, sing, read, walk, work and play with an eye for subliminal messages as well as the obvious; to practice discerning their own pulse in the babbling of a stony brook or another person’s voice. For just as I can miss seeing myself accurately in the context of the Grand Big Picture, they may be tempted to miss the ongoing soulful daily process: acceptance, expectation, restoration, sanctification, and most of all, grace.

Kevin Flaherty's Visitation

Good old fictional Mr. Flaherty (from 2 blogs ago, I think it’s pronounced fl-are-tee) came through with my FaithWriters entry in short order this week. All I had to do was to focus on HIM (someone I dreamed up, presumably from the ozone layer), and the topic (winter), and he dictated his story to me. What a sweetheart.

I’ve posted a few FaithWriters entries as blogs in the past, usually AFTER they’ve been judged. But due to some current interest from a friend (hi Nell!) I decided to post this one here several days before it even gets turned in for the contest. As far as I know, no other contestants, or judges, know my blog address, so I think I’m safe.

So here it is: Mr. Flaherty’s story, hot off the press. I hope you enjoy the old coot.

_________________________


Visitation

Kevin Flaherty padded across the room in fleece-lined slippers to hang the wrought-iron fireplace poker on its horseshoe nail beside the fireplace. Then he shuffled backward and plopped into his favorite overstuffed chair. While sipping a boiling hot cup of strong coffee laced with four teaspoons of sugar, his feet sought their usual spot on a three-legged footstool.

Meanwhile, sub-zero, wintry winds whipped his house with razor-sharp sleet. The drafty, double-hung windows rattled with each blast, their weights-behind-the-walls banging with eerie clonks and knocks reminiscent of ghostly visitors demanding entrance.

“Whatcha want, Mr. Winter?” He cradled the cherished, if imperfect, ceramic mug and addressed the nearest frosty-etched window. “So - ya wanna come in here?”

Steam from the coffee wafted upward, as if attempting to hypnotize Mr. Flaherty with its swerving cobra-dance. The roaring fire in the river-rock fireplace spit sprays of red embers onto the hearth, and hissed with mock-dragon zeal.

“Winter,” he warned, “You’d prob’ly hafta fight this fire if ya came inside.” He focused over the tops of his smudged, crooked glasses at drifts on the sill. “Could be quite a battle. Not sure you’re up to it tonight.”

With that, he set his coffee mug on a newspaper-strewn end table and smoothed a hand-crocheted afghan over his legs. “Dana’d not let ‘cha inside if she was here.” He fondly stroked the red, orange, and yellow zigzags covering his knees with his right hand while clutching the mug she’d made him in his left.

“But she’s not here.” He pictured snow covering her grave marker. “This conversation’s between you and me.” His disheveled head of stringy white hair tilted backwards; he stared at the fire’s reflection on the cobwebby, soot-stained ceiling.

“I hear ya. Sorry. No visitors tonight.”

Winter whined and clamored for entrance. The fire popped and shot more fireworks as if to challenge its potential opponent to a duel. Mr. Flaherty closed his eyes and sighed.

There was a crash followed by an eerie tinkling of broken glass as a tree branch shattered the nearby window. A monstrous whoosh of frigid cold slashed through the room, raking icy fingers over every surface. Dana’s eyelet-trimmed curtains thrashed uncontrollably like wild animals semi-paralyzed by ill-aimed gunshot.

Jolted by winter’s sudden aggression, Mr. Flaherty’s hands involuntarily jumped, sloshing splotches of hot coffee across the afghan. “Drat it, Winter! Cain’t an old man be left alone with his pain?”

Mr. Flaherty shakily pushed the stained afghan aside and rose from his chair to survey damage. Turbulent rivers of swirling snow, eager to find refuge, gushed inside.

“Kevin, Kevin!” Winter’s insistent wind half-groaned, half-howled his name in an attempt to extinguish the fire, but the hefty billow-puffs only encouraged it instead. “Kev-KEV-KEEEEEVIN!”

He glanced furtively, helplessly, a disoriented man consumed by despair. Deafened by the roar, he stumbled toward the window. Snow-specked wind tore at his hair. A framed picture of Dana clattered to the floor in the background.

His eyes squinted as he faced the onslaught.

Then in a split second, the wind’s snarl transformed into Odysseus’ alluring Sirens: “Kevin Flaherty – your name means ‘beloved and noble of character.’ Don’t lose heart. Let suffering transform you. Let Winter teach you to hope.” It was Dana’s voice.

Stunned, Mr. Flaherty scratched his head. He mumbled, “Musta been hallucinatin’,” lumbered to the garage, and returned carrying a folding card table, several unused horseshoe nails and a hammer. Working quickly, he pounded the table’s face to the wall, covering the open window. “THERE! That should keep you out for tonight, Winter.” Mr. Flaherty’s gnarled hands unfolded the table’s two top legs. He snapped and secured them in the open position and draped the afghan there to dry.

Like a string-less marionette, an exhausted Mr. Flaherty crumpled into his chair. He dreamed Dana swirled through time and space, wrapped him in the long train of her white wedding gown, and swept away his anguish with a single cool swish of her flowing, snow-spangled, diamond-studded veil.

When he awoke, all was quiet. The card table hung like a freak work of art, impaled to the wall where it covered the window, its legs proudly displaying Dana’s afghan like a banner. Coals glowed in the fireplace, remnants of the earlier blaze.

Mr. Flaherty opened the door to confront thigh-high drifts. The world was redefined and washed clean. Millions of tiny, sparkly prisms glowed in every direction.

He squinted in the presence of Winter’s brilliance. “Dana Flaherty, you are too beautiful for words.”

Leaky Faucet

Drip

Drip

Drip

Drip-drip-drip

Drip-drop

Driiiiiiiiip

Drop

Drop-drop

Now turn the knob

No, the other way

Niagra Falls

Drips tumble, crash

Drops roar like lions

Drip-drop

Drip

Drip

TEARS

Mr. Flaherty

The topic of the week at FaithWriters is, “Winter (the season).” I slipped into fuzz-brain-mode for a while yesterday (gotta love that creative fuzz), and came up with a character…the first necessary step in my recent goal to develop fiction through focusing on characterization.

It turns out the dreamed-up, never-met-him-before-person this time is named Mr. Flaherty, actually Mr. Kevin Flaherty. He is a widower (his wife’s name was Dana); an older gentleman living in a smallish house with a river rock fireplace and very old and drafty, double-hung windows. I can’t tell you the rest; it would spoil the impact of the finished story – if, that is, you ever have any interest in actually reading the finished story, which I realize may not be the case. Actually, Mr. Flaherty is still in the process of telling ME the story. So of course I can’t tell YOU.

No doubt now you’re daydreaming and fantasizing about Mr. Flaherty. Maybe you’re obsessed with curiosity, and will lay awake all night dreaming up creative what-if scenerios about this man (his name is Irish, by the way)…something about him pacing through his house on a wintry day, snowbound and cabin-fevered, and eating himself into oblivion by consuming a whole package of Oreos…or about him discovering Big Foot’s footprint in a snowdrift in his back yard on New Year’s Day…or about him playing with the neighbor kids in the snow, maybe pulling them on sleds and building a 6’ snow dragon with bulging pickles for eyes…or about him forgetting to close the flu on the fireplace and smoking himself out of the house on a cold, starlit evening…or about him buying wild bird seed in 50 lb. bags since the deer eat most of it before the birds ever get a chance.

In any case, IF you have good leads that should make their way into my story (er, or rather, Mr. Flaherty’s story) you can always let me know (that’s a dare, by the way), and then I can check it out with him (via the fuzz vibes).

Staring Down the Contrast

Two kayaks slither like sleek swans
In their element
Smooth, quiet…paddles stirring
Yet not disturbing

Integrated and harmonious
Synchronized flotation
Free, easy, relaxed
Nothing taxed

Then…

A wave runner cuts a swath
Bee-buzz humming
Swarming, frenzied, spunky
And drunk

It surgically slices the lake
In circular pieces
With waves making spaghetti trails
As big as whales

The contrast glares
And draws my stares.

Tree Talk

Last evening I stretched out on my back and stared up into the branches of a wizened old oak with deeply cracked and weathered bark – waiting for it to speak, waiting for floods of childhood memories to wash over me, mirroring formative messages from another oak on a hillside by another lake so many years ago.

Evening sun hung low in the sky to spill blinding rays across the water. Gilded streaks dappled the tree’s truck with millions of flickering Tinkerbelle fairy-lights. Variegated leaves ranging from avocado to hunter green seemed woven together in Victorian elegance to shape lacy patterns against a softened, graying sky still barely reminiscent of blue.

The tree took its time. No rush, it said. And so I waited, knowing better than to demand what could only be freely given.

Brash, almost-setting sunlight streamed across the water, magnifying as it came, licking my bare feet with its radiant warmth, reassuring me. Gradually, softly, I heard with my heart.

Life is mysterious, precious, and comprised of small pieces that join like dot to dot pictures, one small moment at a time.

Greatness is a matter of dependence rather than arrogance.

Stormy weather builds character.

Acorns are miraculous gifts, fruit to be treasured and also freely spread abroad in soil that is eager and ready.

Tranquility is a matter of trusting in strong roots, divine placement, and an appointed/eternal scheme of things.

Responsibility for dare-devilish squirrels frolicking in the tree-tops begins and ends with them. Love for them begins and ends with the God who made them; the God who teaches what it means to love.

Strength and height, courage and wisdom, develop slowly or not at all.

Stubs denoting lost branches, scars reminiscent of lightning strikes, and wind-torn leaves are evidence of pruning and refinement that testify to healing, restoration, and endurance.

Confidence is a matter of faith in the One who plants and feeds and waters.

Stillness at the end of a day is a virtue to be sought, cultivated and cherished.

Phases are unique: seasons represent growth, dormancy, and adjustment. No need to waste time forcing change. If it is winter, or summer, then let it be - and trust God’s emerging plan.

Rest; be still.

Abide in Him.

Watch. Wait.

The sun dropped behind the treetops; bronze turned to silver; shadows fell. The tree stood serenely, waiting for dark, for the moon, for the next dawn and another day; waiting expectantly with submitted acceptance for life to unfold; waiting nobly while well-grounded and reaching and inching higher … ever higher.

Foggy Morning

White fog rolls o’er the lake,
Breathed long and slow and steady
Like warm breath in winter
With no beginning and no end.

It pushes on with stealthy rolls,
And blocks my view of trees and shore
‘Till images no longer speak
And I become both stopped and blind.

Tranquility consumes my eyes,
Although I never know
This kind of quiet from within
Where noises have their way.

It’s thicker now and heavier,
A blanket placed with care
To smooth rough edges
And cover earth with peace.

Impossible Possibilities Via Solomon Wickey

As I sat down in a chair to face Solomon Wickey this morning, I looked into his rather piercing left eye (a habit I have – I guess that means I look into the right brain when conversing with people) and said, very directly, “Hello.” His clear (like-distilled-water) eyes, plus a head full of silver-white, bang-cropped hair and a grizzly grey-white beard, seemed predominant features; the rest of his body sort of melted into bent-over, navy-blue-clothed oblivion.

He nodded every-so-slightly and responded while peering over the tops of his glasses. “You have a problem?”

“I have several things to talk about, but the big thing is that I’ve had escalating tinnitus for the last 37 years.”

“Ooooooh.” He nodded his head. “That is a big thing.”

He asked me to stretch out my right arm and resist pressure from his left hand as it pushed down, while he simultaneously gently pressed at various spots around my left knee with his right hand. Then he looked into both of my eyes, one and then the other, through a thick magnifying lens. “You have a weakness in your spleen.”

“Really?”

“Yes.” He confirmed this by touching various vials (elements?) against my knee while continuing to press with his left hand. At one point I recognized the weakness in my arm as it swung downward. Then he touched the left side of my chest, about half-way down. “Yes. Definitely spleen. Its taken care of now.”

What? Could diagnosis and remediation be so simple?

“And the tinnitus?”

“Your brain is off-center. And the bone plates are blah-blah-blah (some long word).”

“What does that mean?”

He smiled an almost-shy smile for a split second. “That means the cranial bones are out of position.”

“Really?” That freaked me out.

He evidently noticed my shock and grinned again very briefly, perhaps in understanding. “You had a concussion – maybe about 32 years ago.” He paused, then looked over his glasses again. “Have you had head trauma?”

“Yes.” I had to think a minute. “When I fell from a horse about 23 years ago and was hospitalized, and again last winter when I fell on ice skates. But my tinnitus started 37 years ago.” I dredged through my memory quickly. “I’m not sure. Right now I can’t think of another time I might have had a concussion.”

“It could have been that long ago – 37 years.” He continued to tap on my knee. “Definitely a concussion. No doubt. That’s what caused your tinnitus.”

“So?”

“It should take care of itself now. We’ll just have to wait and see.”

I sat there, stunned, and yet realized from my research and reading that he was using iridology and kinesthiology as diagnostics, and then was presumably “releasing” and “restoring.” I noticed his choice of words was different than in some of his other cases I’d heard about or read: “should” and “wait” rather than the more positive “It’s taken care of.”

“Wait and see?”

“Yes, it should take care of itself now.” That phrase again, for the second time. He said no more, and no less, and seemed to think we were done.

“I have another concern.”

“Yes?”

“I never had a dental cavity until 3 years ago – then I had 5 all at once. And my bone density is dropping, and I have arthritis and bone spurs in my little fingers. This all seems bone-related or calcium-related or something.”

More tapping. More pressing. “You should take more magnesium, to help absorb calcium.”

“I’m already taking a calcium-magnesium supplement.”

He scribbled a “prescription” on a pad for a supplement sold there at cost (no mark-up) and handed it to me.

There were tons of other things I could have talked about, but it seemed awkward to chit-chat or bring up more topics. He seemed a man of few words; a task-oriented-straight-shooter. “Thanks.” I rose and walked out the door.

The whole encounter lasted about 5 minutes.

Driving home (for 2 hours), Fritz and I talked at length about our individual responses to our appointments with Solomon, and continued to process the experience. One thing that hit us both was the fact that the body had ways to communicate what was wrong without the use of westernized science: invasive and expensive surgery, biopsies, x-rays, MRI’s. It had a language of its own, if only someone was listening.

This was not hard for me to grasp since I already am a believer in reflexology. Several of us in our family had already “proven” the reliability of foot massage as a diagnostic tool, and perhaps a curative one as well.

My stance on healing for some time now has been that the body wants to heal itself (as enabled by God when he created it) if/when it is provided the necessary support. Today this seemed obvious. Of course our bodies are supernatural. Of course God programmed in ways for them to express their needs, and of course if we pay attention and supply the raw materials our bodies can and will do the rest – within reason, of course, since none of us will live forever.

While I respect the science behind modern medicine and realize it can also be God-inspired, today I looked eye-to-eye with wholeness/wellness from a different angle. I sensed genuine good health to be possible without the drugging, cutting, and patching of westernized, scientific medicine. Rather, with careful attention and observation of “body language,” and then releasing the diseased or struggling part to God for His restoration, we can function as He intended.

I’m still spellbound and mystified by my encounter with Solomon, and probably will be for a while. I seem unable to interpret it rationally and yet don’t find the intellectual distance daunting. Rather, I found the experience profoundly magnetic.

It will also take time for me to process Fritz and Fritz jr’s visits with Solomon (right before and after mine). Not that I’ll ever understand. I don’t think that’s even possible, unless God decides to enlighten me.

Another Step Outside the Box

Tomorrow morning we visit Solomon Wickey, the renowned Amish master herbalist with a gift of spiritual discernment and healing. It will be yet another step outside the conventional western medicine box, a BIG step this time. I am excited, expectant, curious, anxious, hopeful, humbled, and a little bit scared, all in the same breath. I don’t know what to expect, and yet feel that whatever happens could well be inspired by God. It feels a little sqirmy-and-spooky, a little electrifying-and-adrenalizing, as if to remind me that seeming dead ends are not necessarily so dead, and there’s always more HOPE when God is in charge.

Sadie's Story

Two well-respected authors (Stephen King and Anne LaMotte) have recently inspired me to work at fictional characterization in my writing. They both agree that if you zero in on developing your character, he/she will tell you the story. So often writers go about it the other way around, formulating a plot and then trying to stick characters in to fit. That just doesn’t work. The characters know their own story; we don’t.

Last week the contest topic at FaithWriters was “spring (the season).” After getting all fuzzy-brained for a while, I dreamed up a main character for my entry: a little girl who had been in a car accident during the winter and had to stay in the hospital until her release the following spring. That’s all I had to work with, initially…just this child who’d been pretty well beaten up but had healing, and a new life, waiting for her on the other side of the seasonal thaw. The story started off with two lead sentences, which, by the way, endured to the final draft, and then I waited for the rest of the story to show up – keeping my focus on her, waiting for her to tell me the rest of HER story.

She did just that.

My entry ended up earning a 9th place, which was encouraging; I’ll copy/paste it here. The little girl, Sadie (I’ve never known a person named Sadie in my entire life), grew to be big as life in my mind’s eye. Indeed, she did tell me her story, although bits and pieces of my own experience, and images borrowed from other peoples’ lives, were woven into hers. I owe a special debt of gratitude to a certain family that provided my template for Sadie’s family – so my thanks go to a certain gentleman named Bill for that inspiration.

__________________________


Guts … and Spring Beauties

Sadie spent three months in the hospital after her father’s old Buick named Guts slid on ice and plowed into the engine of a Norfolk and Southern. She laid like a corpse in traction, a fractured and fatherless waif in need of medicinal hope to match her mega-doses of morphine.

The car was originally named Gusty, and it reeked of gas and cigar smoke. The seats were decorated with random oily spots as if someone had sprinkled bacon grease here and there. The chassis wore smallpox-like rust marks that had eaten away large patches of metal to expose gaping wounds.

“Gutsy ain’t nothin’ but a rattle-trap hunk o’ junk,” her mother said.

But Sadie thought joy riding with her father was paradise. She crouched on the floor opposite the driver’s seat, lifted up the rubber mat covering a baseball-sized rust spot, and watched the snow-covered road whiz by underneath. “Go faster, Pa, faster … faster!!!”

“It’s winter darlin’ - but next spring we’ll train old Gutsy for the races. Yeeee haw!”

She was proud of him for trading two of his favorite squirrel guns for Gutsy so they could have a car. One day he re-christened the Buick with brownish tobacco spit that splattered across the dented radiator grid. “I’m calling this baby Guts - ‘cause that’s all they’ll find of me if I ever crash it.”

A month after the accident, Sadie’s mother was evicted from their trailer and relocated to an isolated, government-funded shelter. Very few people came or went. “It’s like bein’ in solitary confinement way out there,” Sadie’s mother told the hospital nurses, “but I like it that way.”

Time passed, and Sadie improved. One day in March, her mother said, “C’mon girl, you’re good enough to get better on yer own. Today I’m takin’ ya with me.”

She wrapped Sadie loosely in a bed sheet, then swooped her up and lunged through the door of the hospital room like a human Secretariat bolting from a starting gate at the Kentucky Derby. A nurse screamed as they galloped toward the nearest EXIT sign. But so what? Soon they were cruising along in a modest sedan provided by the halfway house.

“Yer gonna love it there, honey. Just wait and see.”

The world had changed since Sadie entered the hospital: no snow or ice. The trees wore a gauzy, faint tinge of lime-green. “Can we roll the windows down, Ma?”

“’Course we can!” She stopped the car, leaned over, and cranked the window with a few swift jerks. “There!”

The fresh-scented wind swirled Sadie’s long auburn hair in her face, leaving her almost as intoxicated as her father had been the day of the accident.

Eventually they pulled up to a one-story complex, and her mother hurried around to open her door. “C’mon, honey. I wanna see ya walk.”

Sadie stepped out of the car with bare feet while her untied hospital gown ceremoniously flapped in the breeze.

“Look Ma, Spring Beauties – they’re bloomin’!”

Low-growing white and almost-lavender blossoms resembling miniature stars grew next to the parking lot. They spread over the ground like a carpet of living snow that stretched all the way down a slight incline toward a giant, tear-swollen, blind-and-opalescent eye: a slushy pond in the process of thaw.

While her mother steadied her arm, Sadie wobbled like a Tennessee walking horse in training - legs arched, toes pointed in response to the dewy cold - leaving a path of crushed flowers behind her.

“It’s spring, Ma!” Sadie stopped and gestured toward the trees, the sky, and the Spring Beauties, as if to embrace it all. “Pa said we’d run old Guts hard, like if he was trainin’ for a race, once it warmed up.” She grimaced. “I miss him, Ma. And I miss Guts.”

Her mother stooped to pick a handful of little flowers. “Look here, Sadie. Up close.”

Sadie cupped her hands to hold the star-shaped blossoms. Microscopic purple threads streaked the five petals comprising each one.

“See? See them tiny little veins?”

“Yeah Ma, I see.”

Her mother sighed. A chilly wind gusted up from the pond, carrying wet, earthy smells. “Spring is when dead things wake up. Them are bloody drips from Jesus’ crown of thorns. He’s still alive, takin’ care of everything – including Pa, and maybe even Guts.”

Sadie clutched the flowers to her chest as the wind shaped a cloudy configuration in the sky. It was, most certainly, the shape of an old, holey Buick.

Two of Me

Just hand me those gold hoop earrings, please, the flowery “diklo” kerchief for my head, and (oh yeah) that long, pleated, multi-layered skirt with purples, greens and oranges. AND don’t forget the puffed-sleeve blouse with the low-cut neckline. There. That should do it. The old-lady-gone-youthful-gypsy look.

We were in Buck Creek for several days, where the house continues its remodel metamorphosis – and I wondered if, and how, I could fit, even after living there for 29 years. The recently completed heavy-duty jobs have yielded amazing results, thanks to the hard work of our younger son and one of our sons-in-law. But the to-do list still looms long, and there are plenty of decisions and hours of work ahead of us. Do I dare invest myself in this place any longer? Realistically, how can I…and yet how can I not? Have I moved on at some deep level already, or am I still actually rooted there? As our older son said recently, “That place gets under the skin of everyone who lives there.”

This evening we’re back at the lake house, and I’m feeling that romanticized gypsy-ness again. Where DO I belong? Either place. Or both. Or, hypothetically, neither. I keep telling myself that real gut-level belonging has less to do with location and more to do with inner orientation – but it sure would be nice to just settle down somewhere. I’m not a very good nomad, it seems. And yet the desert-wandering experience, like Israel’s Exodus journey, is definitely a time for introspection and character-building.

I’m currently reading Frank Peretti’s The Oath, a chiller of a mystery story with characters as wild and crazy and unpredictable as any gypsy. In fact, they make my life look stale in comparison. (Books like Peretti’s are sometimes a good reality check.) Still, I’m more than ready to chuck the ruffled skirts and pointy-toed slippers and get back to jean shorts and flip-flops. That’s the real me. And I think I’ll be as happy as a pig in mud when, someday, I can live in just one state, in just one house, and mow just one lawn, and attend just one church - and the traveling gypsy phase is history. On the other hand, I’m reminding myself to savor the moment, and enjoy the diversity of bouncing back-and-forth. Not everyone gets to live dual lives during a single life span.

T-Rex and Being Still

In my mind’s eye, tinnitus has become some screeching T-rex intent on my destruction. (Rather than reading T-rex as Tyrannasaurus Rex, try Tinnitus Rex. A fitting name, I think, given its volume and pitch.) After 37 years of continuous, escalating noise and developing perspective checks and coping skills - praying for healing, and pretending (there’s the stiff upper lip thing) to live normally while face-to-face with T-rex - I’ve given in. I can’t do it anymore.

The bone spurs in my fingers were the last straw, the catalyst showing me I can’t fight T-rex with activity. Busyness worked reasonably well as a T-rex diffuser in the past, since overt activity requires focusing away from the inner noise. Many online tinnitus resources emphasize this very thing – the importance of being busy and productive. When I discovered a couple of days ago I couldn’t even fold fitted bed sheets or wrap a birthday gift without excruciating pain in my left pinky, I realized I’m done. I don’t have any ammunition left.

But maybe that’s a good thing. During a recent stint of 24 hours spent entirely alone, a day ending yesterday evening spent in total isolation here at the lake except for a couple of phone calls from Fritz, I wasn’t eaten alive by T-rex. In fact, the figurative monster just stood there that whole time, sizing me up with his blinking reptilian eyes, screeching and roaring his usual insults inside my head in an attempt to drown out whatever sanity I might try to muster…but he didn’t advance and conquer. I was waiting for him to pursue my total destruction, and yet it didn’t come.

This is curious. It would seem so much stalking and breathing-down-my-throat and perpetuating auditory terror would end in conquering. I was ready for it, having thought for a long time that it could happen, especially because of stories about people with ongoing tinnitus who ended up clinically depressed or even suicidal. I’ve fought against such ends, and trusted God for protection, and yet when I found myself washed up and quite literally out of resources to fight I was surprised T-rex didn’t finish the job. I guess that means God was doing His, even in the midst of my melt-down.

Yesterday just the two of us (T-rex and I) were sitting lakeside on a very calm and sunny day surrounded by peaceful dragonflies and minnows, while puffy clouds floated by. T-rex hovered all around, stomping and wheezing as usual, pressing his intense and dagger-like noises deep into my heart and soul while I just sat, not running or resisting or even hoping or praying, but just being.

The spiritual implications? Of course God was there, too. I told myself to, “Be still (raphah) and know that I am God” (Psalm 46:10). Be composed in the face of potential disaster because of the faithful character of God. Know that the Enemy strikes terror in the hearts of men, and yet GOD IS. That is enough. Lord, help me know this.

Crumbles

I’ve been preoccupied lately with the image of things crumbling: dynasties, empires, and whole cultures, as well as ideologies within them - but also egos, dreams, relationships, well-developed plans, physical abilities, and even…cookies. When crumbs of any kind spray apart like little pieces of shot from a shotgun, they will never again be the same as before the trigger was pulled (or the dream shattered). As the saying goes, that’s the way the cookie crumbles.

Physical life seems to be about living in a crumbled state to some degree, recognizing the mysterious little crumbly-and-broken pieces of the everyday, gathering and re-gathering them even though they refuse to fit together perfectly, waiting for them to shape something beyond the here-and-now deep in our hearts. Physical death, conversely, is about rigor mortis.

When I am broken, eventually something emerges out of the crumbles that I never saw before. Maybe it is a different kind of life; maybe it is Life itself, and everything else was just a prettily-shaped-and-stamped, enticing-looking Oreo waiting to be dunked in milk, waiting for the crumbly part to break off and swim around and get all soggy and even disintegrate, waiting to completely change and transform, even in an elemental way.

I am there today, once again: more crumbly than ever, waiting for more love and wisdom and grace.

Drips, Stones, Straws, Camels, Noises, Spurs

The dripping of water wears away the stone. (Lecretius)
The last straw breaks the camel’s back. (Dickens)

If you’re the drip, you’ve learned perseverance. If you’re the straw, you feel pretty powerful. If you’re the stone or the camel, too bad for you.

Tinnitus wears away the spirit, and bone spurs break the heart. (Muehlhausen)

A Kink in the Hose

This morning I could not seem to make myself completely wake up. Between 6:00 (when Fritz first woke) and 11:00 (when I finally got out of bed) I slipped between strange dreams and druggy visions and sleep, always coming back to a vague sense of being pinched somewhere deep inside, and therefore numb. It wasn’t a typical neurological numbness though, but rather something more holistic.

Finally, when I could muster enough coherence, I tried to focus on what that pinched-ness meant, and therefore on what was actually happening. The image that came to mind was of a central core line, something like a garden hose extending through my body, soul, and spirit, with a kink in it.

I sensed this was something big, something not to be swept under the rug (or in this case, blankets). I lay there and stretched, wanting to twist and release the kink just like you do with a hose. But I couldn’t. In fact, in my mind’s eye the pressure just kept building behind the kink, which allowed very little physical energy or mental acuity or emotional stability to dribble through.

I’ve been a little “off” all day, which feels cumulative, as if it has been building over time. I’m not sure what this means. It seems maybe I’m clogged somehow and would benefit by finding a pressure valve. I’m wondering if Solomon Wickey (the Amish master herbalist I’ll see in about a week) will know where it is? And if there’s any connection between the kink, tinnitus, and/or arthritis?

Gravel Road

The apostle Paul talks about our years on earth as a race to be run. I have to wonder if this race (which I think of as requiring top-notch Nike running shoes) can also figuratively include barefooted tip-toeing on sharp gravel. That’s where I seem to be right now: slowly inching along, building new calluses on the soft, tender arch-parts. This is a humbling and challenging, as well as character-building, journey.

It’s easy to want to emulate seemingly aggressive, assertive, decisive, focused runners intent on conquering the miles; people who seem goal-driven and achievement-oriented. But some people also run their races as introspective/creative/thoughtful/expressive types with chicken gizzard hearts-and-souls who peck at stone-cold-insights along the way, accumulating them as useful tools for the daily grind. That’s currently my style.

Jean Watson’s new CD (which includes my partial contribution of a few lyrics for one song) is entitled “Everything Can Change.” I’ve listened to it repeatedly, and although I have a hard time hearing the actual lyrics, I find much of the music subliminally inspiring. It directs me from the smooth interstate highway to exit ramp I kick off the Nikes, ignore the padded fleece house slippers offered as a comfy option, and head with bare feet toward a slower gravel road where, “When I call upon Your Name, everything can change.” Here, skin-to-stone with harsh realities, I find I must depend on the Lord. Here I don’t have the luxury of pushing or hurrying or making things happen.

There’s gravel underfoot. I’ve been watching my mind-set wrestle with change out of necessity as I think back on what I did today: enjoyed a delightful mug of chai at Decatur Daily Grind with Emily; swam with her family in the lake; laughed out loud; played Euchre without little fingers. Also what I wasn’t able to do today: participate in one-on-one grandkid conversation too high-pitched to hear; bake yeast rolls for said grandkids; ignore pain/loss/fear/incapacity; keep a stiff upper lip. And lastly, what I need to remember to do tomorrow: focus outside myself; trust God; ask others for help; appreciate, accept and expect like a child.

The times, they are a-changin’ here on this dusty, narrow, scenic, inspiring gravel road that promises to transform me – if I let it.