I write this post from a familiar-looking Starbucks in a strange place, Canton, Georgia just north of Atlanta. I am here on this hot, hot summer day so I can be with my cousin Terri before she dies from cancer. She's 53 years old and this just isn't fair. But Terri is lucky in one regard -- she is surrounded by people who love her, including me.
I had a similar experience during my period of illness this Spring. People are still coming up to me saying things like, "We were praying for you at church." Perfect strangers lifting up prayers for me, in addition to the thousands of others from people I do know. I was on prayer lists in the Congo, in China, in Canada, and from coast to coast in the USA. A friend commented that if one prayer was a pin-hole of light from heaven, I had a spotlight shining on me.
In fact I believe with all my heart that it was the power of prayer that saved me. I had been all but written off when someone pulled together an impromptu prayer service for me at church on a Saturday afternoon. That is exactly when I turned the corner. And I don't think it was an accident. Remember in "It's a Wonderful Life" when all the prayers came together for George and it caused the angel Clarence to be sent down to help. That is what it felt like for me, like I was George Bailey but one hundred angels were sent to me, perhaps more.
What it all boils down to really is love. It was love that motivated the prayers that were sent up for me. It was love that called me down here to Atlanta to be with Terri. It is all about love.
We all want and need love. We are designed that way. We are created in the love of God and our heart's desire to love and to be loved. It is as natural as the air we breathe. But we can get ourselves into trouble when we try to dictate what that love should look like.
I did that. I had longed and longed for the one special man who would love and support me through thick and thin. I have been in serious, forever-looking relationships before but it was never right. I was often disappointed, feeling like I had given far more than I have received. So I go on. I followed my heart from place to place, vocation to calling, whatever. And I did it alone. Or at least on my own. Yet that desire was still there, burning inside me. I wanted "him" and I prayed and prayed for him to come along. Waiting to exhale, to borrow from the movies.
I learned when I was sick that I am surrounded by more love than I ever realized. I have friends, colleagues, classmates, supervisors, neighbors, parishioners, family... you name it... that loved me. And their love surrounded me like a fluffy blanket on a cold day. It didn't look like I thought it would look. It didn't come in the package I thought it would look like. But it was there. And it lifted and carried and sustained me in ways I could never imagine.
So now, after a few months of recovery, I still wish I had that special partner to lean on in times like this or just to laugh with after a crazy day. But to me honest I don't yearn for it like before. It doesn't seem as necessary for my completion or happiness or life fulfillment. I'm fine just as I am and I am loved. I have more love in my life than most, or so it seems. Who cares what color, shape or size that love is? Love is love, no matter what.
Thursday, July 22, 2010
Sunday, July 18, 2010
Its All About Relationships, Part I
My illness, of course, was not just something that happened to me. It happened to my family and my friends and the community where I live. And they were all involved in some way. And it changed my relationship with them all and them with me.
It is weird being fifty and single sometimes. I remember a divorced friend without living parents saying there was no one legally responsible to take care of her. Ditto for me. Single, no children, no living parents.... I'm pretty much on my own.
Being so on my own has its advantages. I don't have anyone else to worry about and can come and go as I please. The dogs will follow me wherever but a spouse might not. I don't have to worry about uprooting my children when the call from the District Superintendent comes and I've been appointed to another church. I like it that way, at least sometimes. Other times I wish there was someone around to talk things over with or hug me when I'm low. I have wonderful friends who fill most of those needs, but you know what I mean. I long for that one person who always has my back.
I have one brother, Steven, who lives in Boston with his spouse John. They are both busy professionals and travel back and forth between a house in the city and one on the Cape. My relationship with Steven has been tense and difficult for many years. I really don't know why. I think we just push each other's buttons somehow. I don't think it is intentional; I just think it is how we relate sadly enough. But that is what I have lived with for several years, especially during the time I was our parents' primary caregiver.
When I went to the hospital, I didn't call Steven because I didn't think I'd be admitted for the next month. I thought I'd go through the ER, get a breathing treatment, some medication, and be sent home to rest. I don't have a health care power of attorney set up because I never imagined I'd go through something like this. Steven is HIV+. I always assumed he'd get sick first.
Once it was obvious my condition was serious, an angel from my congregation called every Steven Baker in Boston that she could find online. She finally reached him and he got in touch with my medical team. They apparently advised him to come here to see me thinking I wasn't going to make it. He was here twice, I understand, once that first weekend and then later as I was coming out of the coma. I have glimpses of memory from his second visit at least. Poor guy, I was pretty tough on him. First I had dreams that he had some evil alter ego who was trying to kill me and when Steve came in with a surgical mask on I ripped it off his face, accusing him of trying to get in to finish me off! Then I told him I'd die if he left me. Like I said, poor guy! But I remember how soft and sweet he was to me. I remember him begging me to go to sleep and my saying that I'd die if I did. I remember how gently he touched my face.
My friend Jill was amazing during all this. She was at my side every day. She acted as my advocate for Steven's sake. She screened visitors. She was an angel at my side. She is also a great source of information. Sometimes I have a hard time recalling if an event took place before or after I got sick and she'll tell me. She reminds me with a straight face of some of the nutty things I said as I was coming out of the coma. She tells me who came to see me and how they reacted. What a gift that is to me.
Recently I told Jill that I had a dream that Steven was sitting at my bedside crying, saying what a lousy brother he had been to me. Jill said that it wasn't a dream but a memory. Apparently it was when I was really bad and they weren't giving me great chances of surviving.
During the two weeks I was in the hospital after I came out of the coma, Steven and I were in touch daily. I remember that it would take me all morning to find the strength to write an email but I did. And we called each other. It was great. And I hoped that it would last, that this crisis would change things between us and we could be close again like we were before. But now, four months or so later, nothing has changed. Emails go unanswered. Separate lives are played out. Crisis over. Back to the familiar routine.
This Tuesday I'm headed to Atlanta to spend time with my cousin, Terri. We grew up together, the four cousins. Terri and her older sister Sue, Steven and I. We were thick as thieves. Life goes on and we grow apart. Terri and Sue have issues, Steven and I have issues. But we can't deny the bond that remains. When you spend the summer in the garden with Papaw, eating tomatoes picked from the vine, you share memories that will never fully diminish.
I'm going to see Terri because I miss her but also because she is sick. She has cancer and it is bad. Part of me doesn't want to go because I know it will be hard. I know what this means. But I go because I wouldn't miss this time with her for the world.
I've never believed in regret, or at least I've never wanted to carry regret with me as I got older. I remember moving to Chicago in what....1982 or so. I was 21 or 22. I was green behind the ears. I was scared to death. Mamaw told me something I'll never forget. She told me that I should go, even if I fell flat on my face and had to come home, I should go and try. She said, "You don't want to wake up one day an old woman and be sorry you didn't try. There's nothing wrong with falling on your face; that isn't failure. Not trying at all is failure."
And so I have tried to live my life like that. I have changed careers, gone back to school twice for advanced degrees, moved half way across the country with no job or place to live. I have loved with passion and had my heart broken more times than I care to think about. I have left cities I loved to be closer to my parents so I could care for them. I have lived fully and without much regret. And I am happy about that. Thanks, Mamaw.
So I go to Atlanta not only to love on Terri and support her mom and husband, but I go to make memories of us that I can carry with me. Will it be hard? Oh God, yes. But I wouldn't avoid the hard for the sake of the memories. I don't want to wake up one day thinking, "I wish I would have gone to Atlanta no matter what." I don't want to lose her without telling her again how much I love her and what she has meant to my life.
That's something I worry about where my brother is concerned. I think he lives with some regret when it comes to his family, including me. So I want to give us another chance. I want him to read this blog and then see if we can start over. It shouldn't take another crisis to bring us together. It shouldn't take almost losing each other to find ourselves again. I may be rejected and that's okay. I'd rather be rejected than stop trying to mend whatever is broken between us.
Far too often we get so caught up in who is right and who is wrong that we forget what binds us together in the first place. We forget what we have meant to each other. Sometimes we even forget what we were fighting over in the first place. Will we forsake loving someone just to be right?
It is weird being fifty and single sometimes. I remember a divorced friend without living parents saying there was no one legally responsible to take care of her. Ditto for me. Single, no children, no living parents.... I'm pretty much on my own.
Being so on my own has its advantages. I don't have anyone else to worry about and can come and go as I please. The dogs will follow me wherever but a spouse might not. I don't have to worry about uprooting my children when the call from the District Superintendent comes and I've been appointed to another church. I like it that way, at least sometimes. Other times I wish there was someone around to talk things over with or hug me when I'm low. I have wonderful friends who fill most of those needs, but you know what I mean. I long for that one person who always has my back.
I have one brother, Steven, who lives in Boston with his spouse John. They are both busy professionals and travel back and forth between a house in the city and one on the Cape. My relationship with Steven has been tense and difficult for many years. I really don't know why. I think we just push each other's buttons somehow. I don't think it is intentional; I just think it is how we relate sadly enough. But that is what I have lived with for several years, especially during the time I was our parents' primary caregiver.
When I went to the hospital, I didn't call Steven because I didn't think I'd be admitted for the next month. I thought I'd go through the ER, get a breathing treatment, some medication, and be sent home to rest. I don't have a health care power of attorney set up because I never imagined I'd go through something like this. Steven is HIV+. I always assumed he'd get sick first.
Once it was obvious my condition was serious, an angel from my congregation called every Steven Baker in Boston that she could find online. She finally reached him and he got in touch with my medical team. They apparently advised him to come here to see me thinking I wasn't going to make it. He was here twice, I understand, once that first weekend and then later as I was coming out of the coma. I have glimpses of memory from his second visit at least. Poor guy, I was pretty tough on him. First I had dreams that he had some evil alter ego who was trying to kill me and when Steve came in with a surgical mask on I ripped it off his face, accusing him of trying to get in to finish me off! Then I told him I'd die if he left me. Like I said, poor guy! But I remember how soft and sweet he was to me. I remember him begging me to go to sleep and my saying that I'd die if I did. I remember how gently he touched my face.
My friend Jill was amazing during all this. She was at my side every day. She acted as my advocate for Steven's sake. She screened visitors. She was an angel at my side. She is also a great source of information. Sometimes I have a hard time recalling if an event took place before or after I got sick and she'll tell me. She reminds me with a straight face of some of the nutty things I said as I was coming out of the coma. She tells me who came to see me and how they reacted. What a gift that is to me.
Recently I told Jill that I had a dream that Steven was sitting at my bedside crying, saying what a lousy brother he had been to me. Jill said that it wasn't a dream but a memory. Apparently it was when I was really bad and they weren't giving me great chances of surviving.
During the two weeks I was in the hospital after I came out of the coma, Steven and I were in touch daily. I remember that it would take me all morning to find the strength to write an email but I did. And we called each other. It was great. And I hoped that it would last, that this crisis would change things between us and we could be close again like we were before. But now, four months or so later, nothing has changed. Emails go unanswered. Separate lives are played out. Crisis over. Back to the familiar routine.
This Tuesday I'm headed to Atlanta to spend time with my cousin, Terri. We grew up together, the four cousins. Terri and her older sister Sue, Steven and I. We were thick as thieves. Life goes on and we grow apart. Terri and Sue have issues, Steven and I have issues. But we can't deny the bond that remains. When you spend the summer in the garden with Papaw, eating tomatoes picked from the vine, you share memories that will never fully diminish.
I'm going to see Terri because I miss her but also because she is sick. She has cancer and it is bad. Part of me doesn't want to go because I know it will be hard. I know what this means. But I go because I wouldn't miss this time with her for the world.
I've never believed in regret, or at least I've never wanted to carry regret with me as I got older. I remember moving to Chicago in what....1982 or so. I was 21 or 22. I was green behind the ears. I was scared to death. Mamaw told me something I'll never forget. She told me that I should go, even if I fell flat on my face and had to come home, I should go and try. She said, "You don't want to wake up one day an old woman and be sorry you didn't try. There's nothing wrong with falling on your face; that isn't failure. Not trying at all is failure."
And so I have tried to live my life like that. I have changed careers, gone back to school twice for advanced degrees, moved half way across the country with no job or place to live. I have loved with passion and had my heart broken more times than I care to think about. I have left cities I loved to be closer to my parents so I could care for them. I have lived fully and without much regret. And I am happy about that. Thanks, Mamaw.
So I go to Atlanta not only to love on Terri and support her mom and husband, but I go to make memories of us that I can carry with me. Will it be hard? Oh God, yes. But I wouldn't avoid the hard for the sake of the memories. I don't want to wake up one day thinking, "I wish I would have gone to Atlanta no matter what." I don't want to lose her without telling her again how much I love her and what she has meant to my life.
That's something I worry about where my brother is concerned. I think he lives with some regret when it comes to his family, including me. So I want to give us another chance. I want him to read this blog and then see if we can start over. It shouldn't take another crisis to bring us together. It shouldn't take almost losing each other to find ourselves again. I may be rejected and that's okay. I'd rather be rejected than stop trying to mend whatever is broken between us.
Far too often we get so caught up in who is right and who is wrong that we forget what binds us together in the first place. We forget what we have meant to each other. Sometimes we even forget what we were fighting over in the first place. Will we forsake loving someone just to be right?
Wednesday, June 30, 2010
The "P" Word
Patience. I think that is the most hated word in the English language. How we hate having to wait for anything. Folks my age grew up in the age of convenience. From "Hamburger Helper" to ATMs to remote controls for everything, we want it NOW. Maybe even yesterday.
And the thing is we expect the same thing from God. We say our prayers then expect the answer. Now. It is like placing our order in the drive-thru lane and having it ready for us when we drive a few feet to the window. We want God to act just as promptly and we begin to lose faith when we have to wait.
I remember how frustrated I became sitting on the edge of my hospital bed waiting for someone to come in and help me go to the bathroom. I've already talked about having to trust the people that were charged with my care. But now my focus was turned away from others and toward myself. I had to be patient with the healing process.
Remember my childhood nickname? Little Miss Me-Do. I haven't changed much. My stubborn self-reliance has only grown as I've gotten older. I'm fifty and single. I've never lived with anyone other than my immediate family. When I feel like getting up and going I get up and go. Now I can't. I can't even get out of bed and go to the bathroom alone.
The general rule that for every one day you spend down it takes three to recuperate. I was in Critical Care for 14 days, on a vent for ten. So as the general rule goes, it would take six weeks for me to recover from being down that long let alone for the damage H1N1 did to my body. I was going to have to be..... yes, I was going to have to be patient with my body and the healing process. Dang. I hate when that happens.
I recall so clearing telling Dr. Mahan that all I wanted to do was get up, drive to Jay-C and do my grocery shopping. I didn't have any ideas about climbing Mt. Everest or anything fancy. I just wanted to buy bread, eggs and salad greens. By the time I went to rehab I was doing okay with a walker. I could walk short distances without much trouble. After only a couple of days I was "independent on the unit" meaning that I could walk down the hall to dinner without assistance and go to the bathroom on my own. That was an exciting day.
Doesn't sound exciting? Well, three weeks earlier I was on a vent and not expected to live. Two weeks before I could barely hold a cup of water or feed myself. To be declared "independent" was music to Little Miss Me-Do's heart.
A little air was let out of my sails when I started trying to walk without the walker. First we tried a cane and then no support of any kind. It was so hard. My balance was off. My legs felt like lead. So much for heading to the grocery store!
I had to keep reminding myself that my recovery was a process. It would not happen over night. There would be times when it felt like I was headed backwards rather than forward. And I had to keep focused on how far I had come, from not being able to feed myself to walking 50 feet without assistance, from not being able to go to the bathroom without help to being independent on the unit. Process, not destination.
I needed help with this. I needed folks like my friend Jill who had been there so much to tell me what I went through those two weeks I was out of it. When I heard the stories of doctors and monitors and vents and comas, I realized just how far I had traveled on this journey. I had to see the big picture in order to appreciate the small victories.
The same is true with God. We see such a small part of a situation or an event, and usually we can only see how it is affecting us. But God sees the whole picture. God sees the short- and long-term consequences and how one action will affect many lives. Like the Stephen Curtis Chapman song says, "God is God and I am not; I can only see a part of the picture He's painting." God may need us to wait sometimes until a part of the solution is ready. The timing may be off. Someone else involved may need to grow a little. For whatever reason, God says, "I'm not saying 'no' to your prayer, but I need you to wait awhile. Be patient."
And so we wait. We might complain about it. A lot. We might get frustrated. But we wait. And while we wait we pray and we continue to move forward. And we accept help when we need it.
It has now been four months since I got sick, three since I came home. And guess what? I can get in my car and drive to Jay-C, and do all the grocery shopping I want any time I want. And the first time I did, it was worth the wait.
And the thing is we expect the same thing from God. We say our prayers then expect the answer. Now. It is like placing our order in the drive-thru lane and having it ready for us when we drive a few feet to the window. We want God to act just as promptly and we begin to lose faith when we have to wait.
I remember how frustrated I became sitting on the edge of my hospital bed waiting for someone to come in and help me go to the bathroom. I've already talked about having to trust the people that were charged with my care. But now my focus was turned away from others and toward myself. I had to be patient with the healing process.
Remember my childhood nickname? Little Miss Me-Do. I haven't changed much. My stubborn self-reliance has only grown as I've gotten older. I'm fifty and single. I've never lived with anyone other than my immediate family. When I feel like getting up and going I get up and go. Now I can't. I can't even get out of bed and go to the bathroom alone.
The general rule that for every one day you spend down it takes three to recuperate. I was in Critical Care for 14 days, on a vent for ten. So as the general rule goes, it would take six weeks for me to recover from being down that long let alone for the damage H1N1 did to my body. I was going to have to be..... yes, I was going to have to be patient with my body and the healing process. Dang. I hate when that happens.
I recall so clearing telling Dr. Mahan that all I wanted to do was get up, drive to Jay-C and do my grocery shopping. I didn't have any ideas about climbing Mt. Everest or anything fancy. I just wanted to buy bread, eggs and salad greens. By the time I went to rehab I was doing okay with a walker. I could walk short distances without much trouble. After only a couple of days I was "independent on the unit" meaning that I could walk down the hall to dinner without assistance and go to the bathroom on my own. That was an exciting day.
Doesn't sound exciting? Well, three weeks earlier I was on a vent and not expected to live. Two weeks before I could barely hold a cup of water or feed myself. To be declared "independent" was music to Little Miss Me-Do's heart.
A little air was let out of my sails when I started trying to walk without the walker. First we tried a cane and then no support of any kind. It was so hard. My balance was off. My legs felt like lead. So much for heading to the grocery store!
I had to keep reminding myself that my recovery was a process. It would not happen over night. There would be times when it felt like I was headed backwards rather than forward. And I had to keep focused on how far I had come, from not being able to feed myself to walking 50 feet without assistance, from not being able to go to the bathroom without help to being independent on the unit. Process, not destination.
I needed help with this. I needed folks like my friend Jill who had been there so much to tell me what I went through those two weeks I was out of it. When I heard the stories of doctors and monitors and vents and comas, I realized just how far I had traveled on this journey. I had to see the big picture in order to appreciate the small victories.
The same is true with God. We see such a small part of a situation or an event, and usually we can only see how it is affecting us. But God sees the whole picture. God sees the short- and long-term consequences and how one action will affect many lives. Like the Stephen Curtis Chapman song says, "God is God and I am not; I can only see a part of the picture He's painting." God may need us to wait sometimes until a part of the solution is ready. The timing may be off. Someone else involved may need to grow a little. For whatever reason, God says, "I'm not saying 'no' to your prayer, but I need you to wait awhile. Be patient."
And so we wait. We might complain about it. A lot. We might get frustrated. But we wait. And while we wait we pray and we continue to move forward. And we accept help when we need it.
It has now been four months since I got sick, three since I came home. And guess what? I can get in my car and drive to Jay-C, and do all the grocery shopping I want any time I want. And the first time I did, it was worth the wait.
Friday, June 25, 2010
Me, a miracle?
Yesterday I stopped by the Critical Care Unit at Good Samaritan where I spent two weeks in March in a medically-induced coma on a vent. I especially wanted to see Mike, the nurse who had been most involved in my care.
I don't remember much about my time in critical care except right at the end as I was coming out of the coma. What is so interesting is that I don't remember much about reality during that time but I can recite details of my dreams. I can explain the wallpaper in a room in one dream and my brother's face in another. I was sure I was in Boston (which is where my brother lives), at the Good Sam cardiac unit had been taken over by Partners Healthcare (which is where my brother works), and that my brother had flown in a magical machine to save my life (which turned out to be a portable x-ray machine!). Very strange dreams mixed with a twisted view of reality.
Anyway, when I was visiting the unit yesterday, I heard a phrase I've heard often these past few months: "You are a miracle." The folks that were around me during those first couple of weeks in March say the same thing: we didn't expect you to live. But I did. And that is seen as a miracle.
I grew up with the Gospel stories of Jesus' healings and now I preach on them. I've been asked a number of times why God doesn't perform miracles in the world any more. My response is that miracles are happening all around us every moment of every day but we usually explain them away with science, technology, or coincidence. The Enlightenment still impacts our view of the world and we still have a hard time with mystery. We like answers. And we like them now.
So what does a modern day miracle look like? Well, from what I've heard it looks like me. It is a miracle I survived given how sick I was. Given the very high fever and the inability to oxygenate me. Even my pulmonary physician known for his talent and his ego said he did not heal me, that an angel was sitting on my shoulder. So I am a walking miracle.
I have to admit that is not a title I am keen to take on. First, I didn't do anything. I was in a coma. I just laid there (looking very unattractive I'm sure). If there was a miracle, the credit goes to God and the healing hands of grace. It certainly doesn't go to me.
Second, the idea of being a miracle comes with some guilt. H1H1 has impacted thousands of people. Thirty-nine folks died in Indiana alone. More than 340 pediatric deaths have been reported to the CDC. I think of 340 little ones and their grieving families and it makes me shudder. Why was I saved and they were not? I'm nothing special. My friends and family may disagree but as folks go, I am rather ordinary. So why was I saved and others were not?
Ordinary. Those are the folks God uses throughout history. Abraham became the father of a great nation. He was ordinary. Moses brought his people out of slavery and back home through the wilderness. He was ordinary. Mary was a country girl and Joseph a simple tradesman. An ordinary couple. And they all changed the world.
Yikes. What does that hold for me? That's the other struggle I have with the idea of being a miracle. What in the world does God have in mind for me? What am I going to be called to do? Talk about pressure.
A friend suggested that maybe I'm already doing what God wants me to do and that I was saved so I could continue to do it. No great heroics. No parting of seas. Just being me. I've always believed that God doesn't expect us to have extraordinary gifts but that we make ourselves available to God's work in the world. If we are open and available, God will work within us to bring everyday miracles. As a pastor, I've made myself completely available. I've dedicated my life to service in God's church. I want to do my part to make the world a bit more compassionate, a bit more gentle, a bit more accepting. And maybe God needs me to keep doing exactly what I am doing.
This same friend also suggested that I accept the idea of being a miracle because it gives people hope. They can look at me and think, "If God can bring her through near death, God can pull me through this." I can live with that idea. I am in the hope business after all. That is what I try to bring to everyone I meet, a sense of hope in Christ who makes all things possible. So if my being a miracle helps one person have hope, I can live with that. No pun intended.
I don't remember much about my time in critical care except right at the end as I was coming out of the coma. What is so interesting is that I don't remember much about reality during that time but I can recite details of my dreams. I can explain the wallpaper in a room in one dream and my brother's face in another. I was sure I was in Boston (which is where my brother lives), at the Good Sam cardiac unit had been taken over by Partners Healthcare (which is where my brother works), and that my brother had flown in a magical machine to save my life (which turned out to be a portable x-ray machine!). Very strange dreams mixed with a twisted view of reality.
Anyway, when I was visiting the unit yesterday, I heard a phrase I've heard often these past few months: "You are a miracle." The folks that were around me during those first couple of weeks in March say the same thing: we didn't expect you to live. But I did. And that is seen as a miracle.
I grew up with the Gospel stories of Jesus' healings and now I preach on them. I've been asked a number of times why God doesn't perform miracles in the world any more. My response is that miracles are happening all around us every moment of every day but we usually explain them away with science, technology, or coincidence. The Enlightenment still impacts our view of the world and we still have a hard time with mystery. We like answers. And we like them now.
So what does a modern day miracle look like? Well, from what I've heard it looks like me. It is a miracle I survived given how sick I was. Given the very high fever and the inability to oxygenate me. Even my pulmonary physician known for his talent and his ego said he did not heal me, that an angel was sitting on my shoulder. So I am a walking miracle.
I have to admit that is not a title I am keen to take on. First, I didn't do anything. I was in a coma. I just laid there (looking very unattractive I'm sure). If there was a miracle, the credit goes to God and the healing hands of grace. It certainly doesn't go to me.
Second, the idea of being a miracle comes with some guilt. H1H1 has impacted thousands of people. Thirty-nine folks died in Indiana alone. More than 340 pediatric deaths have been reported to the CDC. I think of 340 little ones and their grieving families and it makes me shudder. Why was I saved and they were not? I'm nothing special. My friends and family may disagree but as folks go, I am rather ordinary. So why was I saved and others were not?
Ordinary. Those are the folks God uses throughout history. Abraham became the father of a great nation. He was ordinary. Moses brought his people out of slavery and back home through the wilderness. He was ordinary. Mary was a country girl and Joseph a simple tradesman. An ordinary couple. And they all changed the world.
Yikes. What does that hold for me? That's the other struggle I have with the idea of being a miracle. What in the world does God have in mind for me? What am I going to be called to do? Talk about pressure.
A friend suggested that maybe I'm already doing what God wants me to do and that I was saved so I could continue to do it. No great heroics. No parting of seas. Just being me. I've always believed that God doesn't expect us to have extraordinary gifts but that we make ourselves available to God's work in the world. If we are open and available, God will work within us to bring everyday miracles. As a pastor, I've made myself completely available. I've dedicated my life to service in God's church. I want to do my part to make the world a bit more compassionate, a bit more gentle, a bit more accepting. And maybe God needs me to keep doing exactly what I am doing.
This same friend also suggested that I accept the idea of being a miracle because it gives people hope. They can look at me and think, "If God can bring her through near death, God can pull me through this." I can live with that idea. I am in the hope business after all. That is what I try to bring to everyone I meet, a sense of hope in Christ who makes all things possible. So if my being a miracle helps one person have hope, I can live with that. No pun intended.
Thursday, June 24, 2010
Speaking of Trust....
That is sure something I needed to do, especially in the beginning. I was on a vent for 10 days in a medically-induced coma. They had trouble taking me off and my prognosis was bleak. Of course I have to trust what folks have told me about those first two weeks because I don't remember a bit of it.
I knew something catastrophic had happened to my body because I wasn't able to hold a cup of water let alone walk around like nothing had happened. The first day PT came in to help me stand on my own two feet I thought I was going to die. Standing up on my own that first time was the hardest thing I've ever done. It was insane. And taking those first few steps? I can't tell you how hard that was.
The weird thing was that I just woke up like that one morning. I had no memory of being that sick. My doctor came in, we talked about a plan to get me up and moving, perhaps transferring to a rehab hospital for a short time. I explained that I didn't understand what happened to me. And she said words I'll never forget: "You are going to have to trust those of us who have been here taking care of you."
So why should that be so memorable? Because it is so hard. At least it is for me. My mother always said that the first words out of my mouth were not the typical "doggie" or "da-da." No, my first words were "me do." My nickname growing up was "Little Miss Me-Do" and I admit that I still resemble that remark.
Trust us. Sure. I am a control freak, which is a difficult and somewhat embarrassing thing for a pastor to admit. How many times have I preached about surrender? How many times have I told someone to let go of control and trust God? Here I was, Little Miss Me-Do, unable to feed myself. Talk about a humbling experience.
I trusted those around me because I didn't have any other choice. And it wasn't easy at times. I've been on my own for thirty years. I've become very used to doing things my way and coming and going as I pleased. And here I find myself like an infant again, unable to do much of anything for myself. So I had to let go. I had to allow others to take care of me, as difficult as that was.
When I was finally able to let go, I was able to find a certain peace. I had to surrender myself into strangers' hands again and again. These were folks who didn't know me other than as a patient and I didn't know them at all. Folks helped me go to the bathroom. Others helped me walk. Still others gave me baths and showers. I had to trust these folks to help me because I was unable to take care of myself. And "Little Miss Me-Do" was okay with that.
So this begs a question with regard to faith. If I was so willing and able to trust these strangers to care for me, why is it so hard for me to let go of control and trust God? God who knows me better than I know myself. God who loves me far more than I could know. When we are unable to let go of control, we fail to trust God. That is something I want to get much better at. Let go. Trust God with everything, small and large. And just be. There is such joy and peace in that. Oh Lord, I believe. Help my unbelief.
I knew something catastrophic had happened to my body because I wasn't able to hold a cup of water let alone walk around like nothing had happened. The first day PT came in to help me stand on my own two feet I thought I was going to die. Standing up on my own that first time was the hardest thing I've ever done. It was insane. And taking those first few steps? I can't tell you how hard that was.
The weird thing was that I just woke up like that one morning. I had no memory of being that sick. My doctor came in, we talked about a plan to get me up and moving, perhaps transferring to a rehab hospital for a short time. I explained that I didn't understand what happened to me. And she said words I'll never forget: "You are going to have to trust those of us who have been here taking care of you."
So why should that be so memorable? Because it is so hard. At least it is for me. My mother always said that the first words out of my mouth were not the typical "doggie" or "da-da." No, my first words were "me do." My nickname growing up was "Little Miss Me-Do" and I admit that I still resemble that remark.
Trust us. Sure. I am a control freak, which is a difficult and somewhat embarrassing thing for a pastor to admit. How many times have I preached about surrender? How many times have I told someone to let go of control and trust God? Here I was, Little Miss Me-Do, unable to feed myself. Talk about a humbling experience.
I trusted those around me because I didn't have any other choice. And it wasn't easy at times. I've been on my own for thirty years. I've become very used to doing things my way and coming and going as I pleased. And here I find myself like an infant again, unable to do much of anything for myself. So I had to let go. I had to allow others to take care of me, as difficult as that was.
When I was finally able to let go, I was able to find a certain peace. I had to surrender myself into strangers' hands again and again. These were folks who didn't know me other than as a patient and I didn't know them at all. Folks helped me go to the bathroom. Others helped me walk. Still others gave me baths and showers. I had to trust these folks to help me because I was unable to take care of myself. And "Little Miss Me-Do" was okay with that.
So this begs a question with regard to faith. If I was so willing and able to trust these strangers to care for me, why is it so hard for me to let go of control and trust God? God who knows me better than I know myself. God who loves me far more than I could know. When we are unable to let go of control, we fail to trust God. That is something I want to get much better at. Let go. Trust God with everything, small and large. And just be. There is such joy and peace in that. Oh Lord, I believe. Help my unbelief.
Wednesday, June 23, 2010
My Second Half
My Second Half
Is that a strange name for a blog? Well, this is my first time, really, so bear with me. I've just had an experience that needs to be shared, or at least I need to write about it. Whether anyone else is interested, well.... let's just see how it goes.
I almost died. It happened in early March 2010. I had H1N1, Type A, the strain that kills folks. It has killed little kids and teenagers and active 25 year olds. But I lived. I survived. And I have to tell you that it has changed me. I hope for the better, but change nonetheless.
Of course I don't remember much about it. I remember getting what I thought was the flu or some other upper respiratory gunk thing. I called the doctor. I stayed home and drank tea. And then one evening, I felt the energy drain from my body like gas being syphoned from a car. I live alone. I am a half hour from the closest hospital. I was scared. So I called 911. I was taken to the ER at Good Samaritan Hospital in Vincennes, Indiana and that is that last thing I remember until I woke up two weeks. later.
Two weeks. I just lost two weeks of my life. Fourteen sunrises, fourteen sunsets, the Academy Awards, the change to Daylight Savings Time, and much of the Lenten season. They had all happened without me and I had lived without experiencing them.
And I think that is the first lesson learned from all this. We can get away, check out at the office, spend time with family and friends and God without laptops or iPhones or CNN. And the world will go on without us. And we will not have missed much. We are not as important as we think we are. Really. Trust me on this.
Is that a strange name for a blog? Well, this is my first time, really, so bear with me. I've just had an experience that needs to be shared, or at least I need to write about it. Whether anyone else is interested, well.... let's just see how it goes.
I almost died. It happened in early March 2010. I had H1N1, Type A, the strain that kills folks. It has killed little kids and teenagers and active 25 year olds. But I lived. I survived. And I have to tell you that it has changed me. I hope for the better, but change nonetheless.
Of course I don't remember much about it. I remember getting what I thought was the flu or some other upper respiratory gunk thing. I called the doctor. I stayed home and drank tea. And then one evening, I felt the energy drain from my body like gas being syphoned from a car. I live alone. I am a half hour from the closest hospital. I was scared. So I called 911. I was taken to the ER at Good Samaritan Hospital in Vincennes, Indiana and that is that last thing I remember until I woke up two weeks. later.
Two weeks. I just lost two weeks of my life. Fourteen sunrises, fourteen sunsets, the Academy Awards, the change to Daylight Savings Time, and much of the Lenten season. They had all happened without me and I had lived without experiencing them.
And I think that is the first lesson learned from all this. We can get away, check out at the office, spend time with family and friends and God without laptops or iPhones or CNN. And the world will go on without us. And we will not have missed much. We are not as important as we think we are. Really. Trust me on this.
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