ORIGINAL POST DATE 1/9/09
In advance of the story I am about to tell, I would like to say that it is much more than mere coincidence that I recently played a minor role in a play performed at our church entitled "The Snowman". It was written by one of our very talented associate pastors, and the plot involved a character of fantasy named Bernie Graupel, whose life's occupation it was to carefully and diligently craft each and every unique snowflake for every winter storm across the globe. In the play, Bernie is frustrated by the fact that no matter his attempts, no one ever seems to be satisfied with the amount of, quality of, or timing of the snow he works so hard to provide. Bernie comes to a point of wanting to quit making snowflakes altogether, until he eventually realizes the true importance of what he does, and that it is not about the snow itself, but the HOPE of snow, that makes his job so very wonderful. That having been said, this is a glimpse into a recent chapter of the story of my little family here in the South...
Andy Warhol once said that everyone is famous for about fifteen minutes once in their life. This past week, fame found its way to our wonderful six year old daughter Rebekah in an amusing way.
Starting back last weekend, the local weather forecasters began to predict some pretty significant snowfall for our area on Tuesday. They had all of the computer models, technical readings, and doppler images to back up their claim, and told us to prepare for a nice, pretty snowfall between Monday night and Tuesday afternoon. The forecast was only for 1-3 inches, but for our immediate area, this is fairly significant, and about average whenever we actually do have snow.
The mountains just North and West of us get snow continually throughout the winter season, but when the snow comes strictly from their area in our direction, it is often blocked by these mountains, and we don't get it. The ideal scenario is when a mass of cold air and moisture collide, coming up and around from the Southwest toward the East. This is the situation that was brewing as of early Monday morning, and again, the forecasters told us to prepare for a lovely snowfall.
So, Monday afternoon began to cloud up significantly. The temperature dropped. The clouds thickened. The air had that "just right" cold, moist feel that precedes a Southern snowfall. After I had seen my patients for the day, the kids and I, true to Southern tradition, visited the local grocery store and stocked up on some food items we were out of, and some special snacks, etc., all in preparation for the snow. Around here, 3 inches of snow can paralyze us travel-wise, especially if there is any ice on the roads associated with it, so it is wise to purchase any necessities the day before the predicted event, even if there is little threat of power outages.
We all had arrived home by 5:00pm or so, prepared to tuck the kids into bed, and awaken sometime during the night and see snow falling softly outside. At around 3:30am, I awoke momentarily and began to do my nightly check on our sleeping kids. As I did, I looked out the front window, and saw that it had not yet started snowing. I was puzzled. The wind was also blowing, which is not typical when snow falls in this area. Normally the air is very still.
I turned on the Weather Cnhannel and looked at the local forecast, and the accompanying doppler images. Although it took me until much later that morning to fully accept what was happening, I could clearly see by the doppler map that the snowstorm was not as solid a mass as they had predicted, and its sketchy outline, paired with the windy conditions, had sent it on this crazy path that caused it to fall Northwest of us in the mountains, and East and Southeast of us, but it MISSED US COMPLETELY!!! In the map image, it was as if we were in this little "pocket" of dry air that was completely surrounded by snow, but none was falling on us!
Now, our three year old, Charity was excited about the prospect of snow, but she is a resilient little kid who doesn't take things very seriously most of the time, and it wasn't likely to bother her at all that the snow had missed us, given her young age and lack of understanding.
Rebekah, however, was a different matter. Rebekah dreams about snow all winter long. Every winter she asks us repeatedly if it will snow, if it might snow, if we can take a drive North and see some snow if there isn't going to be any snow. She draws snow scenes on paper. She daydreams aloud of how she is going to put on her boots and winter gear and construct wonderful, elaborate snowmen and decorate them with carrot noses and button eyes. Rebekah is a snow lover!
Given this fact, and knowing how much Rebekah was looking forward to seeing the snow on Tuesday morning, we were very reluctant to awaken her and have her discover that the snow had missed us. We put off turning on her bedroom light until the last possible minute, but eventually had no choice. This was, after all, still a regular work and school day now, since the snow had not come as expected. The morning routine still had to be performed, and everyone would be expected to arrive at their usual places at the usual times.
Usually, Rebekah is slow to awaken, but this morning, of course, she bounded out of bed, and began immediately heading for the window to see outside. Before she made it, I gently put my hand on her shoulder, and gave her the bad news. I didn't try to sugar coat it. I was very matter of fact and precise, albeit gentle, but I gave her the facts, and I explained that there was nothing we could do about it, and now we must move on and get ready for the school and work day ahead.
Rebekah cried. She cried, then she cried more loudly. Then she hid her face in the covers and cried softly. She continued to cry as we had to dress her, because she wouldn't dress herself. She cried all the way from her room, and sat down at the breakfast table and cried. No matter what we said to comfort her, it was no use. She was inconsolable.
Then my husband had a brilliant idea. "What if we let you write a letter to the weatherman to tell him how you feel?" he asked her. Her crying softened. "Maybe you can tell him how upset you are that he predicted snow and now there is none.", he said. Her crying stopped. Her face perked up. She smiled a little, and nodded her head. Eventually, she became very excited about the idea, and pestered my husband endlessly throughout his breakfast until he was through.
And so, Daddy sat at the computer keyboard and Rebekah sat beside him. He found the e-mail address for the morning meteorologist on the local news channel we watch early in the day, and typed a letter to him while Rebekah dictaded. The following is her letter, quoted word for word, exactly as it was sent. (The name of the weatherman has been altered to protect the innocent.)
"Dear Mr. G------,
My name is Rebekah -----, and I am almost 7 years old. I go to A-------- Elementary School.
I don't know why you said that it was going to snow. And you hyped it up too far Dude.
I woke up to no snow. I wanted to stay home from school. And when I discovered there was no snow I cried. I think that you need to do the weather right. You are too bad for Santa. You will not get any presents from Santa if you be bad.
Sincerely yours,
Rebekah"
After the letter was written and sent, Rebekah had a satisfied smile on her face for the rest of the morning. After school that day, she pressed my husband until he checked his e-mail to see if Mr. G had replied.
To everyone's dismay, the letter had bounced back to my husband, stating some unspecified address error. Rebekah was disappointed, but at this point decided that she had gotten her sorrow off of her chest, and that was enough to satisfy her.
The next morning was Wednesday, a bit warmer, with no exciting weather prospects ahead. The morning routine was begun, and the kids were jostled out of their beds and dressed in the usual fashion before we all sat down to breakfast together. As we were finishing getting dressed, my husband stood in the living room watching the aforementioned local news channel, as he does every morning, trying to catch the weather and some of the latest headlines. All of a sudden, he called us into the living room with a loud "Hurry! They're reading Rebekah's letter on TV!"
We rushed into the living room, and sure enough, Mr. G was sitting alongside the two morning news anchors, holding a paper copy of the e-mail he had received from our daughter the day before. He read the copy out loud, pausing at intervals to chuckle and laugh at my daughter's commentary. When he arrived at the point about being "too bad for Santa", the gentleman anchor who was sitting beside his female counterpart interjected, "Too bad for Santa? Why, that's about the WORST thing a six year old can say to you!" The response was great laughter among the three of them as Mr. G finished reading the letter.
Afterward, Mr. G quietly explained to Rebekah, should she be listening, that although his job was very scientific, it was still full of variables, and sometimes he just plain got it wrong. He then followed by giving Rebekah a personal apology over the air. The female anchor also apologized to Rebekah on behalf of all of them, and looked straight into the camera while doing so. She asked Rebekah if she would forgive them.
As the moment sank in, Rebekah was glowing with pride and joy. She stated to her father and me that indeed, she had accepted their on-air apology, and that she forgave them wholeheartedly for disappointing her. My husband sent another e-mail to Mr. G that very morning, thanking him for his kindness, and extending Rebekah's forgiveness on her behalf.
The following two days have been very amusing since this event. It seems every faculty member at Rebekah's school watches this particular news channel in the morning, because for the last two days all of them who encounter Rebekah at school have mentioned it, calling her "famous", and "a celebrity". Rebekah has been pleased, but also mildly embarassed by all of the attention.
This one incident of many in the lives of our busy little family illustrates so much more to me than the obvious and amusing "fifteen minutes of fame" it brought to my daughter. It is an object lesson on several levels. First, one of the facts of life is that disappointments happen, great and small. They are unavoidable. The earlier we teach our children how to deal with disappointment, and how to channel the negative feelings it can create and use them for something positive, the better. Our children need to know that life will not always go the way they expect, but that even great disappointment can bring joy in a wholly different way.
Secondly, we are teaching our children the art of expressing themselves in appropriate ways. While crying and stamping our feet can make us feel better, it does not help those around us who have to endure our fussy attitude. There are many ways that children can express their anger or frustration that will be peaceful and productive for parent and child alike.
Thirdly, and most importantly, the "no snow day" as I like to call it now, taught us to be prepared for the unexpected, and when it comes, to be ready to show our children how much we love them and respect their feelings of hurt and disappointment, without belittling them or putting them down. What may seem small and insignificant to us can be of immense proportions to a child. Rebekah is a particularly sensitive child, but she is creative and intelligent as well. By recognizing her God-given traits in all of these areas, we were able to let her work out her own problem, and as a result she received the bonus of an extra blessing of attention and praise from other adults she sees as role models! God is truly good in the way He comforts and lifts us up!
So, to all of you in the Northern areas of the country who are buried many feet deep in snow drifts, hearing the latest forecast calling for even more of the white stuff, and groaning inwardly at the thought of shoveling the driveway yet again; remember us, and treat us a little more kindly. We are the poor Southerners who long for, beg for, pray for snow, but it never comes. Yes, we know it's silly to run out and buy a gallon of milk and a loaf of bread every time we think there's a flake in the sky, but like my Rebekah, we are just responding to the hope of something exciting on the horizon, something different and special.
LET IT SNOW!!!
Tuesday, March 29, 2016
The Lady In The Basement
ORIGINAL POST DATE 5/15/09:
Yesterday I was assigned to cover for a fellow CNA and see one of her regular patients, Mrs. B., who has end stage renal failure, and has been a patient of ours for quite some time.
Mrs. B. lives with her grandson, his wife, and their two young boys in a quiet, lower middle class subdivision. When we visit Mrs. B. during the day, the entire family is out working and in school, so Mrs. B. spends the entire day alone except for our visits.
Three years ago, when we signed Mrs. B. on as a patient, she enjoyed a bedroom upstairs in the main part of the house, very close to any of the family members if she should need anything, or feel like coming out of her room to sit in the living room and enjoy their company.
Then the baby came. Mrs. B's granddaughter in law gave birth to her second son, and suddenly there came the need for a nusrsery, and the question of what to do with Mrs. B.
The question was quickly answered, when a downstairs room adjacent to the garage, laundry area, and spare bathroom, was cheaply remodeled with commercial carpet and inexpensive wallpaper, and made into a new bedroom for Mrs. B. Problem solved...not quite.
The house Mrs. B. lives in is a split-level colonial, similar to a house owned by the family of my high school boyfriend. There are two distinct levels, and two very steep flights of stairs that must be negotiated in order to travel in between them.
Mrs. B. is in her late 70's, with renal failure and a host of other life threatening health issues, (or co-morbidities, as we call them in the industry.) Climbing stairs in order to fellowship with her family is not possible for her. Walking across her bedroom to get something is not possible for her. Standing steady at her walker while I wash and change her is barely even possible for her. Basically, Mrs. B's existence consists of moving in a four foot square, from bed, to easy chair, to bedside commode. This is her whole life, these three destinations, broken up only by visits from the hospice team, and the cheerful Meals On Wheels volunteers.
As the months progressed, it became increasingly apparent that something was wrong in the B. household. When we come to visit, we often have to go upstairs to do various tasks, like obtain ice water for Mrs. B. from the refrigerator, or use the kitchen microwave to reheat her meals. Upstairs it is obvious this is the house of a busy, suburban family. The B's are not very good housekeepers, and their house is well lived in. It seems as though they forego organization and spotlessness in exchange for enjoying their active, young sons whenever they are home for work.
But, as life seemingly goes on upstairs in the B. household, downstairs is a different story. Dust is building up in Mrs. B's room, piles of it, dust bunnies so big one can literally scoop them up into one's hands without the assistance of a broom. Dust covers everything from the dresser, to the bedframe, to the oxygen concentrator in the corner of the room, a fact which, as anyone who is familiar with oxygen use will know, is a terrible fire hazard.
The dresser where Mrs. B's clothes are kept has gradually also become the family "junk depot" for odd items that don't seem to fit into any category where they can be stored upstairs. In the midst of Mrs. B's underwear and pajama sets lie drinking water filters for the faucet, used batteries, telephone cords, old bills, and an array of dirty and broken CD's, some of which can't even be identified.
It is also obvious, when one has come to see Mrs. B. on a regular enough basis, that she is not often visited by the members of the family upstairs. In fact, in her own words, Mrs. B. relates that her grandson comes to visit with her once or twice weekly, bringing her a plate of food from the restaurant where he works, sometimes sharing it with her. Mrs. B., it seems, is never visited by her grandson's wife, or their children. She is not offered the joy of watching the children grow, or being a great grandparent, and getting to talk to them about their school day, etc. To her they are just noisy children who live upstairs, and her granddaughter in law is still referred to by her as "that girl who lives here", even though her grandson has been married to her for eight years!
Mrs. B's laundry sits in the corner, overflowing out of several plastic trash bags, often not washed for weeks, even months at a time, literally. I have personally found more than three bags of dirty laundry on her bedroom floor at one time, in desperate need of laundering, the room in desperate need of an open window and fresh air, and two or three sets of brand new MEN's jersey pajama sets laid in her dresser drawers for her to wear after we bathe her. Rather than was her clothes regularly, or keep them out of her room where she won't have to endure the smell, they simply buy her cheap new ones. Once, out of anger and frustration, I even started a load of her laundry during my visit, even though it was not on my assignment, and since I did not have time to dry it completely, I left a very terse note to the family and demanded that they follow through and finish the load so that the poor lady could have some clean socks and underpants. Such an act could have bought me a stern reprimand, but I didn't care, and, incidentally, the load never got dried. It sat in the washer until it mildewed and I had to do the entire load again, this time staying an extra hour and a half to dry and fold it.
Mrs. B. has a bathroom downstairs where she lives, but she cannot walk far enough to use it, and it has gradually taken on the atmosphere of a janitor's closet in a school building or a jail. A large janitor's mop and bucket sit inside the shower stall. The gray stone tile floor is cold, without any rugs. There are no pictures on the walls, no towels on the rack, and no soap or anything pretty smelling at the sink side for Mrs. B to use while bathing. The only personal care items she owns are the hospital type cleansers and lotions we provide from the hospice.
On the most recent day of my visit, I discovered that Mrs. B. had her oxygen concentrator running, but no tubing was attached to it. Apparently, the durable medical equipment company came out to deliver her a much needed replacement nasal cannula. Her other had become dirty and brittle with age. (Typically these should be replaced monthly.) The only reason they even came was because I reported the condition of the previous one to the RN case manager the week before. (Makes me wonder about the diligence of our nurse, as well, but that's another matter.)
The tube that was delivered to Mrs. B. was 12 feet long, but due to the configuration of the room, and the location of the oxygen concentrator, the tube was not long enough to go with Mrs. B. to her three primary locations, the bed, the chair, and the potty. So, she simply removed it and coiled it up neatly under her pillow!
Upon seeing her need for longer tubing, or an adaptor so I could connect the shorter tube to a longer one she also had available, I again contacted her case manager (who is also covering for the regular nurse, who is recovering from surgery). I stated the problem, and since the nurse is overwhelmed with a caseload not only of her own patients, but others belonging to another nurse, she was not immediately able to identify which patient I was talking about. I gave her additional details to jog her memory, and suddenly her voice lit up and she said, "Oh, the lady in the basement!"
Yes, nurse K, that's the one.
Peace out.
soul
Yesterday I was assigned to cover for a fellow CNA and see one of her regular patients, Mrs. B., who has end stage renal failure, and has been a patient of ours for quite some time.
Mrs. B. lives with her grandson, his wife, and their two young boys in a quiet, lower middle class subdivision. When we visit Mrs. B. during the day, the entire family is out working and in school, so Mrs. B. spends the entire day alone except for our visits.
Three years ago, when we signed Mrs. B. on as a patient, she enjoyed a bedroom upstairs in the main part of the house, very close to any of the family members if she should need anything, or feel like coming out of her room to sit in the living room and enjoy their company.
Then the baby came. Mrs. B's granddaughter in law gave birth to her second son, and suddenly there came the need for a nusrsery, and the question of what to do with Mrs. B.
The question was quickly answered, when a downstairs room adjacent to the garage, laundry area, and spare bathroom, was cheaply remodeled with commercial carpet and inexpensive wallpaper, and made into a new bedroom for Mrs. B. Problem solved...not quite.
The house Mrs. B. lives in is a split-level colonial, similar to a house owned by the family of my high school boyfriend. There are two distinct levels, and two very steep flights of stairs that must be negotiated in order to travel in between them.
Mrs. B. is in her late 70's, with renal failure and a host of other life threatening health issues, (or co-morbidities, as we call them in the industry.) Climbing stairs in order to fellowship with her family is not possible for her. Walking across her bedroom to get something is not possible for her. Standing steady at her walker while I wash and change her is barely even possible for her. Basically, Mrs. B's existence consists of moving in a four foot square, from bed, to easy chair, to bedside commode. This is her whole life, these three destinations, broken up only by visits from the hospice team, and the cheerful Meals On Wheels volunteers.
As the months progressed, it became increasingly apparent that something was wrong in the B. household. When we come to visit, we often have to go upstairs to do various tasks, like obtain ice water for Mrs. B. from the refrigerator, or use the kitchen microwave to reheat her meals. Upstairs it is obvious this is the house of a busy, suburban family. The B's are not very good housekeepers, and their house is well lived in. It seems as though they forego organization and spotlessness in exchange for enjoying their active, young sons whenever they are home for work.
But, as life seemingly goes on upstairs in the B. household, downstairs is a different story. Dust is building up in Mrs. B's room, piles of it, dust bunnies so big one can literally scoop them up into one's hands without the assistance of a broom. Dust covers everything from the dresser, to the bedframe, to the oxygen concentrator in the corner of the room, a fact which, as anyone who is familiar with oxygen use will know, is a terrible fire hazard.
The dresser where Mrs. B's clothes are kept has gradually also become the family "junk depot" for odd items that don't seem to fit into any category where they can be stored upstairs. In the midst of Mrs. B's underwear and pajama sets lie drinking water filters for the faucet, used batteries, telephone cords, old bills, and an array of dirty and broken CD's, some of which can't even be identified.
It is also obvious, when one has come to see Mrs. B. on a regular enough basis, that she is not often visited by the members of the family upstairs. In fact, in her own words, Mrs. B. relates that her grandson comes to visit with her once or twice weekly, bringing her a plate of food from the restaurant where he works, sometimes sharing it with her. Mrs. B., it seems, is never visited by her grandson's wife, or their children. She is not offered the joy of watching the children grow, or being a great grandparent, and getting to talk to them about their school day, etc. To her they are just noisy children who live upstairs, and her granddaughter in law is still referred to by her as "that girl who lives here", even though her grandson has been married to her for eight years!
Mrs. B's laundry sits in the corner, overflowing out of several plastic trash bags, often not washed for weeks, even months at a time, literally. I have personally found more than three bags of dirty laundry on her bedroom floor at one time, in desperate need of laundering, the room in desperate need of an open window and fresh air, and two or three sets of brand new MEN's jersey pajama sets laid in her dresser drawers for her to wear after we bathe her. Rather than was her clothes regularly, or keep them out of her room where she won't have to endure the smell, they simply buy her cheap new ones. Once, out of anger and frustration, I even started a load of her laundry during my visit, even though it was not on my assignment, and since I did not have time to dry it completely, I left a very terse note to the family and demanded that they follow through and finish the load so that the poor lady could have some clean socks and underpants. Such an act could have bought me a stern reprimand, but I didn't care, and, incidentally, the load never got dried. It sat in the washer until it mildewed and I had to do the entire load again, this time staying an extra hour and a half to dry and fold it.
Mrs. B. has a bathroom downstairs where she lives, but she cannot walk far enough to use it, and it has gradually taken on the atmosphere of a janitor's closet in a school building or a jail. A large janitor's mop and bucket sit inside the shower stall. The gray stone tile floor is cold, without any rugs. There are no pictures on the walls, no towels on the rack, and no soap or anything pretty smelling at the sink side for Mrs. B to use while bathing. The only personal care items she owns are the hospital type cleansers and lotions we provide from the hospice.
On the most recent day of my visit, I discovered that Mrs. B. had her oxygen concentrator running, but no tubing was attached to it. Apparently, the durable medical equipment company came out to deliver her a much needed replacement nasal cannula. Her other had become dirty and brittle with age. (Typically these should be replaced monthly.) The only reason they even came was because I reported the condition of the previous one to the RN case manager the week before. (Makes me wonder about the diligence of our nurse, as well, but that's another matter.)
The tube that was delivered to Mrs. B. was 12 feet long, but due to the configuration of the room, and the location of the oxygen concentrator, the tube was not long enough to go with Mrs. B. to her three primary locations, the bed, the chair, and the potty. So, she simply removed it and coiled it up neatly under her pillow!
Upon seeing her need for longer tubing, or an adaptor so I could connect the shorter tube to a longer one she also had available, I again contacted her case manager (who is also covering for the regular nurse, who is recovering from surgery). I stated the problem, and since the nurse is overwhelmed with a caseload not only of her own patients, but others belonging to another nurse, she was not immediately able to identify which patient I was talking about. I gave her additional details to jog her memory, and suddenly her voice lit up and she said, "Oh, the lady in the basement!"
Yes, nurse K, that's the one.
Peace out.
soul
The Light Bearer
ORIGINAL POST DATE: 6/9/09
Today is a rather numb day. I was informed by my husband at 3:30 this afternoon that our beloved pastor and friend, Orie, had died three hours previous, after a valiant battle with pancreatic cancer.
From the moment Orie told our congregation about his illness, I have had mixed, often guilty, feelings of both dread and sadness. Our church is of the charismatic variety. We preach the fullness of the Holy Spirit and all that provides, including healings and miracles for today.
My conflict arises from the fact that I have worked for a Hospice provider for nearly six years. Disease and death, especially cancer related death, is a topic with which I am very familiar. Throughout my years with the Hospice, I have struggled between my faith, that is, what I claim to believe, and my knowledge of the facts of the death and dying process.
In the realm of my experience, death escapes no one. I have helped many good Christian men and women along the road to their ultimate death. Some of them had the same faith basis as my own, filled with the Holy Ghost, claiming and proclaiming their healing to the very end. I have seen a bereft, Godly husband lose his beloved 50 year old wife to colon cancer. I have been at the dying bedside of a Baptist preacher who lived his life as he taught, in love and generosity to everyone he met. He left behind a beautiful wife and a 14 year old daughter. I have watched the quiet, haunting agony of three young children, as they sat by the bedside of their 44 year old mother, who tried her best to be strong for them, and bestow upon them as many final words of love and wisdom that her failing body would allow. I watched her in her weakened state as she kissed them at bedtime one night, one by one, and told them how proud she was of them, and how much she loved them. She died the next day while they were in school. They had a father who did not want them, and have all since been adopted, in the same family, thank God.
And so, in these last months, this same, terrible conflict has plagued my mind ever since our pastor's announcement of his disease. We have been encouraged many times in these last weeks not to look at the circumstances in our lives from the natural perspective. We have prayed, shouted, praised, worshipped, and positively proclaimed our way through this trial, now only to be faced with the reality of today's outcome. Death has now claimed our beloved pastor.
In my natural eye, which is trained to see the signs of death clearly, I could almost count the days until my pastor would succumb to the ravages of his illness. While everyone cheered last week at the announcement that his cancer fighting cell blood levels had reached nearly normal, I saw the signs that read that his body had merely stopped fighting the cancer, and had chosen instead to peacefully shut down and surrender.
And now, I sit here today, like all the others in my church family, shocked, saddened, torn apart by the news of his death, but unlike the others, not surprised. Instead I am ashamed, ashamed that I have knowledge of the physical realm on which I relied throughout these months. I am ashamed that I have, admittedly, sat quietly shaking my head inside, pitying those who seemed so sure that Orie would live. While others have shouted and prayed more and more fervently for his healing during these last difficult weeks, I have only prayed that they would accept his death easily, and not suffer emotional harm from being unprepared for its eventual arrival.
There are some who would call me the worst heretic, who would call for me to repent in my heart and turn to the truth. There are even some who would say that perhaps I contributed to the demise of my pastor because of my unbelief, because of my reluctance to pray for the ultimate miracle. They need not condemn me, because I condemn myself even more. This battle has long raged within me, but until this day, I have been able to separate myself from it. At work, I could live in my "hospice world" and be safe and secure in my knowledge of all that my experience has taught me; and at church I could exercise my "faith" and proclaim that healing does exist, even for cancer, even if I have never seen it done.
Now, however, the rubber has met the road. Much like Orie admitted several times in his last months here with us, my unbelief has come to the surface, and now it must be dealt with. I am challenged to face the reality of the conflict between what I know to be in the natural, and what I claim to believe as spiritual truth.
Orie's name (loosely translated) is "light bearer". That is what he was to me. In the seven years I knew him, he allowed me to see more truth, and more unconditional love than I have ever seen revealed in the life of any man on earth. Orie loved my family, and it showed. He has prayed over me and my children many times. He visited me when I was sick, and never showed any distaste for my discouragement and lack of faith. He gave kind words, and the most honest, open prayers on my behalf. He gave me truth to keep me going when I thought that I couldn't.
Shortly after Orie announced his illness, I told him privately that I was so grateful to him for those times, when he didn't give up on me, and that I, in turn, would not give up on him. Somehow, today, I feel a great weight, because I know in my heart that I quietly broke that promise in these last months, not only once, but many, many times. I'm sorry, Orie. If you were here, I know, however, that you would forgive me, and not only forgive, but give me an encouraging hug and tell me to move on and grow forward from this moment.
So, to the light bearer who has been my earthly guide these seven years, pointing me ever toward the Father, I will miss you. I hope the glory of heaven is all that you imagined it to be, and so much more.
Today is a rather numb day. I was informed by my husband at 3:30 this afternoon that our beloved pastor and friend, Orie, had died three hours previous, after a valiant battle with pancreatic cancer.
From the moment Orie told our congregation about his illness, I have had mixed, often guilty, feelings of both dread and sadness. Our church is of the charismatic variety. We preach the fullness of the Holy Spirit and all that provides, including healings and miracles for today.
My conflict arises from the fact that I have worked for a Hospice provider for nearly six years. Disease and death, especially cancer related death, is a topic with which I am very familiar. Throughout my years with the Hospice, I have struggled between my faith, that is, what I claim to believe, and my knowledge of the facts of the death and dying process.
In the realm of my experience, death escapes no one. I have helped many good Christian men and women along the road to their ultimate death. Some of them had the same faith basis as my own, filled with the Holy Ghost, claiming and proclaiming their healing to the very end. I have seen a bereft, Godly husband lose his beloved 50 year old wife to colon cancer. I have been at the dying bedside of a Baptist preacher who lived his life as he taught, in love and generosity to everyone he met. He left behind a beautiful wife and a 14 year old daughter. I have watched the quiet, haunting agony of three young children, as they sat by the bedside of their 44 year old mother, who tried her best to be strong for them, and bestow upon them as many final words of love and wisdom that her failing body would allow. I watched her in her weakened state as she kissed them at bedtime one night, one by one, and told them how proud she was of them, and how much she loved them. She died the next day while they were in school. They had a father who did not want them, and have all since been adopted, in the same family, thank God.
And so, in these last months, this same, terrible conflict has plagued my mind ever since our pastor's announcement of his disease. We have been encouraged many times in these last weeks not to look at the circumstances in our lives from the natural perspective. We have prayed, shouted, praised, worshipped, and positively proclaimed our way through this trial, now only to be faced with the reality of today's outcome. Death has now claimed our beloved pastor.
In my natural eye, which is trained to see the signs of death clearly, I could almost count the days until my pastor would succumb to the ravages of his illness. While everyone cheered last week at the announcement that his cancer fighting cell blood levels had reached nearly normal, I saw the signs that read that his body had merely stopped fighting the cancer, and had chosen instead to peacefully shut down and surrender.
And now, I sit here today, like all the others in my church family, shocked, saddened, torn apart by the news of his death, but unlike the others, not surprised. Instead I am ashamed, ashamed that I have knowledge of the physical realm on which I relied throughout these months. I am ashamed that I have, admittedly, sat quietly shaking my head inside, pitying those who seemed so sure that Orie would live. While others have shouted and prayed more and more fervently for his healing during these last difficult weeks, I have only prayed that they would accept his death easily, and not suffer emotional harm from being unprepared for its eventual arrival.
There are some who would call me the worst heretic, who would call for me to repent in my heart and turn to the truth. There are even some who would say that perhaps I contributed to the demise of my pastor because of my unbelief, because of my reluctance to pray for the ultimate miracle. They need not condemn me, because I condemn myself even more. This battle has long raged within me, but until this day, I have been able to separate myself from it. At work, I could live in my "hospice world" and be safe and secure in my knowledge of all that my experience has taught me; and at church I could exercise my "faith" and proclaim that healing does exist, even for cancer, even if I have never seen it done.
Now, however, the rubber has met the road. Much like Orie admitted several times in his last months here with us, my unbelief has come to the surface, and now it must be dealt with. I am challenged to face the reality of the conflict between what I know to be in the natural, and what I claim to believe as spiritual truth.
Orie's name (loosely translated) is "light bearer". That is what he was to me. In the seven years I knew him, he allowed me to see more truth, and more unconditional love than I have ever seen revealed in the life of any man on earth. Orie loved my family, and it showed. He has prayed over me and my children many times. He visited me when I was sick, and never showed any distaste for my discouragement and lack of faith. He gave kind words, and the most honest, open prayers on my behalf. He gave me truth to keep me going when I thought that I couldn't.
Shortly after Orie announced his illness, I told him privately that I was so grateful to him for those times, when he didn't give up on me, and that I, in turn, would not give up on him. Somehow, today, I feel a great weight, because I know in my heart that I quietly broke that promise in these last months, not only once, but many, many times. I'm sorry, Orie. If you were here, I know, however, that you would forgive me, and not only forgive, but give me an encouraging hug and tell me to move on and grow forward from this moment.
So, to the light bearer who has been my earthly guide these seven years, pointing me ever toward the Father, I will miss you. I hope the glory of heaven is all that you imagined it to be, and so much more.
Guilty
ORIGINAL POST DATE: 9/30/10
"Guilty" Duet by Barbra Streisand and Barry Gibb
Barbra:
Shadows falling , baby , we stand alone
Out on the street anybody you meet got a heartache of their own
(It oughta be illegal)
Make it a crime to be lonely or sad
(It oughta be illegal)
You got a reason for livin'
You battle on with the love you're livin' on
You gotta be mine
We take it away
It's gotta be night and day
Just a matter of time
And we got nothing to be guilty of
Our love will climb any mountain near or far , we are
And we never let it end
We are devotion
And we got nothing to be sorry for
Our love is one in a million
Eyes can see that we got a highway to the sky
I don't wanna hear your goodbye
Oh!
Barry:
Aaaaah!
Pulse's racing , darling
How grand we are
Little by little we meet in the middle
There's danger in the dark
(It oughta be illegal)
Make it a crime to be out in the cold
(It oughta be illegal)
You got a reason for livin'
You battle on with the love you're buildin' on
Together
You gotta be mine
We take it away
It's gotta be night and day
Just a matter of time
And we got nothing to be guilty of
Our love will climb and mountain near or far , we are
And we never let it end
We are devotion
And we got nothing to be sorry for
Our love is one in a million
Eyes can see that we got a highway to the sky
Barbra:
I don't wanna hear your goodbye
Barry:
Don't wanna hear your goodbye
Both:
I don't wanna hear your
And we got nothing to be guilty of
Our love will climb and mountain near or far , we are
And we never let it end
We are devotion
And we got nothing to be sorry for
Our love is one in a million
Eyes can see that we got a highway to the sky
Don't wanna hear your goodbye
Don't wanna hear your
And we got nothing to be guilty of...
When I was an adolescent in the early 80's, this album came out, the above lyrics being from the title track. We had a large family room that had been added onto our house in the late 70's, and within it was this large, grandly stylish, floor model stereo from Capeheart, shipped to us from England. (Back then, you didn't have the internet, and a hundred distributors across the globe. You ordered these things from a catalog and they came straight from the manufacturer.) It was a glistening, dark, richly stained wood, with all the bells and whistles inside; turntable that played 3 record speeds, double cassette deck with auto-reverse feature, a solid state AM/FM stereo receiver with a lighted dial, and the gem of it all, an eight-track player with automatic program changer!! In an age when TV's were getting smaller and more compact, stereos were turning into FURNITURE!
My younger brothers and I would sit on the black and white checkered sleeper sofa, all lined up in a row, and select our favorite albums (We had quite an extensive collection back then, everything from Carole King to Liberace, improved upon only by the arrival of rhe mid-eighties, and my natural teenage propensity to the purchasing of fine music from the era.) Culture Club never had such loyal fans. (That would be really funny if you understood that we grew up in a female-dominated household and that today both of my brothers are gay.) We would listen with pleasure as our favorite music surrounded the room in quadraphenic euphoria! I remember my youngest brother M, would rock back and forth againgt the back of the couch in time to the music. (This was not merely a musical response, but something I later realized he had always done.) My middle brother J would suck his fingers, (not the thumb or forefinger: the two in the middle), and I my thumb. (Yes, I sucked my thumb for that long, and worse yet, I still have under my pillow a worn-out concert t-shirt that is really just now rags). In fact, I call it my "rag", kind of like a remnant of my blankie in the old thumb-sucking days. At night when I awaken for any reason, my first instinct is to usually feel around my pillow area and make sure my rag is still there. It's comfort and relief to touch it's coolness, somehow, and I spend a minute soothing myself with its cool touch, before I tuck it back safely into its nook. It's like comfort, something that is always there, reliable, safe.
It never occurred to me until years later that an eight year old soothing himself by rocking violently back and forth against the couch was not normal behavior. I never realized back then that my brother and I, happily sucking our appendages, were way past the age to have been doing that kind of thing. It was what was normal in our house. Strange how confining childhood really is. We were already messed up in the head and we didn't even know it!
Our parents have led us on what would now be considered a textbook road of dysfunction, all the way even into adulthood, upon which, we happily trod, and now all have our badges and scars to show for it; failed marriages, failed parenting attempts, identity confusion, etc. We had it all back then, substance abuse, child abuse, spousal abuse (my mother beating my father, not the other way around, as was so succinctly explained to the S-ville police dept. as they questioned my brother M for details about his call one evening, and as he then replied "I know what the hell I mean, now just get down here!" He was only about ten then. Geez, we were really screwed up.
As it happens, this "Guilty" album was one of our all-time favorites. Released in 1980 by Barbra Streisand and Barry Gibb, it had a story-like quality, with all the songs seeming to be tied together in this theme about this couple who find one another, perhaps under circumstances in which they should not be falling in love, lose one another, long for, and rediscover one another, after they come to the realization that they cannot help the way they feel, and they "have nothing to be Guilty of"...I won't go into how my brothers loving this album by a showbiz chick and a male falsetto should have also been telling in regards to things to come.
It occurred to me, then, only just today, as for some reason I was reminded of this song, that that is how we lived our lives. We sat, happily engaged in our various comfort rituals, swept away into a world where it was okay to feel things and find happiness, and where there was nothing to be guilty of.
Sadly, in our reality, we lived just the opposite. Feelings were banned in our house, not that you would get beaten for crying, but that being verbally abused and degraded repeatedly and habitually was so frequent that you learned to become steel and contain those feelings, until eventually you didn't even actually feel them at all.
The one emotion that was allowed to thrive, however, was guilt. We were constantly blamed if there was an item missing in the house, for sneaking too many snacks from the kitchen, if the Pope died, if the car wouldn't start. Somehow it was something we did or didn't do that started this enormous chain reaction and caused the whole world (and our mother's anger levels) to spin off its axis. We were also brainwashed into carrying the guilt for actual things we had done, like broken a dish, accidentally set a trash can fire, (yes I know that's extreme, but we were kids. Kids do stupid stuff), and that guilt was magnified, like being arrested for littering and going on trial and being found guilty of murder, and serving a life sentence. The harrassing and reminding never ended. It would be pulled out and used like a weapon at strategic times, never expected, but always wounding. We had no privacy. Several times I remember my mother holding my private journals filled with poetry in her witchy hands, reading aloud what I had written and mocking it in front of the whole family. My brothers would laugh and laugh, but they were only doing it because that is how you earned love in my house, by siding with my mother, no matter what wicked, evil thing she was doing to another of us. You befriend your jailers. That's how you get extra privileges.
By the time I was sixteen I had had enough of it, and had set my jaw against them both. I was going to live my own life from now on, and keep my decisions private from anyone but myself. If I was told not to go somewhere, I went anyway. If I was told not to talk to a certain friend, I would ride ten miles on my bike to visit them and say I was somewhere else. The truth is that they didn't care. Since I was now unruffled by their behavior, the quest was useless to them, because pain was always the desired result, and I hadn't any left.
This stubbornness, of course, ended up causing more trouble for me later in life than it prevented. It was only when I softened my heart to the calling of God upon my life that my life began to change, and I'm not referring to merely "being saved". I did that when I was eighteen and still lived a screwed up life well into my early thirties. I mean when I finally, slowly, began to realize the TRUE love of God, the love that He placed there, already inside of me, to share and give, and be refilled over and over again. That is why I give no man or woman judgement because of their choices. Much of what I see in the world that most would consider base, or evil, or sinful, I have done in one way or another, or purposed it in my heart, even if I never acted on it.
What I realized today is that, even still, even now, after evidence upon evidence of God's love and mercy upon my life, I am still living much of it feeling "Guilty". I feel responsible for the consequences of each one of my choices, which is not a bad thing when soul-searching, but to the degree that I cannot ever fully enjoy the good things in my life. I never allow myself to be imperfect in any task, and when I find myself in impossible situations where I could do nothing but fail, I somehow believe it is my fault.
I lost my job yesterday, and found myself sharing with some close friends about how guilty I was feeling for letting down so many people, since my leaving, while not intentional, was caused by some compliance issues I was having. Suddenly, after the end of all these exchanges between us, I stopped and said, "Wait a minute! I'm not guilty! I am NOT guilty!" I worked a string of long, hard years at this job, years of literally, blood, sweat, and tears. I took the best care of my patients that I could. I tried my best to look out for their needs in the best way I knew how. I was kind and friendly to my co-workers. I was respectful of my bosses (until the very end). I did everything I could to do what was expected of me, and still enjoy my job. The fact that there were a few small issues (and they were small, but just not to them) that we couldn't agree upon in no way makes me a loser, or the one at fault!
It seems I've been on this kick lately grooving to sultry love songs from the 80's and relating them into broader relationships beyond that of just a man and a woman. You can have a relationship with your boss and a relationship with your job itself. It's still a relationship, still requires maintenance, upkeep, repair, and sometimes a severing if there can be no agreements. Leaving any relationship behind causes grief, in all of its many stages, at different times, in different order, and at differing levels.
I have left behind yet another chapter in my life, and I was told I should be reticent for the things I simply could not do, but you know what I think? I think "(I) got nothing to be 'Guilty' of!" Nothing at all!
"Guilty" Duet by Barbra Streisand and Barry Gibb
Barbra:
Shadows falling , baby , we stand alone
Out on the street anybody you meet got a heartache of their own
(It oughta be illegal)
Make it a crime to be lonely or sad
(It oughta be illegal)
You got a reason for livin'
You battle on with the love you're livin' on
You gotta be mine
We take it away
It's gotta be night and day
Just a matter of time
And we got nothing to be guilty of
Our love will climb any mountain near or far , we are
And we never let it end
We are devotion
And we got nothing to be sorry for
Our love is one in a million
Eyes can see that we got a highway to the sky
I don't wanna hear your goodbye
Oh!
Barry:
Aaaaah!
Pulse's racing , darling
How grand we are
Little by little we meet in the middle
There's danger in the dark
(It oughta be illegal)
Make it a crime to be out in the cold
(It oughta be illegal)
You got a reason for livin'
You battle on with the love you're buildin' on
Together
You gotta be mine
We take it away
It's gotta be night and day
Just a matter of time
And we got nothing to be guilty of
Our love will climb and mountain near or far , we are
And we never let it end
We are devotion
And we got nothing to be sorry for
Our love is one in a million
Eyes can see that we got a highway to the sky
Barbra:
I don't wanna hear your goodbye
Barry:
Don't wanna hear your goodbye
Both:
I don't wanna hear your
And we got nothing to be guilty of
Our love will climb and mountain near or far , we are
And we never let it end
We are devotion
And we got nothing to be sorry for
Our love is one in a million
Eyes can see that we got a highway to the sky
Don't wanna hear your goodbye
Don't wanna hear your
And we got nothing to be guilty of...
When I was an adolescent in the early 80's, this album came out, the above lyrics being from the title track. We had a large family room that had been added onto our house in the late 70's, and within it was this large, grandly stylish, floor model stereo from Capeheart, shipped to us from England. (Back then, you didn't have the internet, and a hundred distributors across the globe. You ordered these things from a catalog and they came straight from the manufacturer.) It was a glistening, dark, richly stained wood, with all the bells and whistles inside; turntable that played 3 record speeds, double cassette deck with auto-reverse feature, a solid state AM/FM stereo receiver with a lighted dial, and the gem of it all, an eight-track player with automatic program changer!! In an age when TV's were getting smaller and more compact, stereos were turning into FURNITURE!
My younger brothers and I would sit on the black and white checkered sleeper sofa, all lined up in a row, and select our favorite albums (We had quite an extensive collection back then, everything from Carole King to Liberace, improved upon only by the arrival of rhe mid-eighties, and my natural teenage propensity to the purchasing of fine music from the era.) Culture Club never had such loyal fans. (That would be really funny if you understood that we grew up in a female-dominated household and that today both of my brothers are gay.) We would listen with pleasure as our favorite music surrounded the room in quadraphenic euphoria! I remember my youngest brother M, would rock back and forth againgt the back of the couch in time to the music. (This was not merely a musical response, but something I later realized he had always done.) My middle brother J would suck his fingers, (not the thumb or forefinger: the two in the middle), and I my thumb. (Yes, I sucked my thumb for that long, and worse yet, I still have under my pillow a worn-out concert t-shirt that is really just now rags). In fact, I call it my "rag", kind of like a remnant of my blankie in the old thumb-sucking days. At night when I awaken for any reason, my first instinct is to usually feel around my pillow area and make sure my rag is still there. It's comfort and relief to touch it's coolness, somehow, and I spend a minute soothing myself with its cool touch, before I tuck it back safely into its nook. It's like comfort, something that is always there, reliable, safe.
It never occurred to me until years later that an eight year old soothing himself by rocking violently back and forth against the couch was not normal behavior. I never realized back then that my brother and I, happily sucking our appendages, were way past the age to have been doing that kind of thing. It was what was normal in our house. Strange how confining childhood really is. We were already messed up in the head and we didn't even know it!
Our parents have led us on what would now be considered a textbook road of dysfunction, all the way even into adulthood, upon which, we happily trod, and now all have our badges and scars to show for it; failed marriages, failed parenting attempts, identity confusion, etc. We had it all back then, substance abuse, child abuse, spousal abuse (my mother beating my father, not the other way around, as was so succinctly explained to the S-ville police dept. as they questioned my brother M for details about his call one evening, and as he then replied "I know what the hell I mean, now just get down here!" He was only about ten then. Geez, we were really screwed up.
As it happens, this "Guilty" album was one of our all-time favorites. Released in 1980 by Barbra Streisand and Barry Gibb, it had a story-like quality, with all the songs seeming to be tied together in this theme about this couple who find one another, perhaps under circumstances in which they should not be falling in love, lose one another, long for, and rediscover one another, after they come to the realization that they cannot help the way they feel, and they "have nothing to be Guilty of"...I won't go into how my brothers loving this album by a showbiz chick and a male falsetto should have also been telling in regards to things to come.
It occurred to me, then, only just today, as for some reason I was reminded of this song, that that is how we lived our lives. We sat, happily engaged in our various comfort rituals, swept away into a world where it was okay to feel things and find happiness, and where there was nothing to be guilty of.
Sadly, in our reality, we lived just the opposite. Feelings were banned in our house, not that you would get beaten for crying, but that being verbally abused and degraded repeatedly and habitually was so frequent that you learned to become steel and contain those feelings, until eventually you didn't even actually feel them at all.
The one emotion that was allowed to thrive, however, was guilt. We were constantly blamed if there was an item missing in the house, for sneaking too many snacks from the kitchen, if the Pope died, if the car wouldn't start. Somehow it was something we did or didn't do that started this enormous chain reaction and caused the whole world (and our mother's anger levels) to spin off its axis. We were also brainwashed into carrying the guilt for actual things we had done, like broken a dish, accidentally set a trash can fire, (yes I know that's extreme, but we were kids. Kids do stupid stuff), and that guilt was magnified, like being arrested for littering and going on trial and being found guilty of murder, and serving a life sentence. The harrassing and reminding never ended. It would be pulled out and used like a weapon at strategic times, never expected, but always wounding. We had no privacy. Several times I remember my mother holding my private journals filled with poetry in her witchy hands, reading aloud what I had written and mocking it in front of the whole family. My brothers would laugh and laugh, but they were only doing it because that is how you earned love in my house, by siding with my mother, no matter what wicked, evil thing she was doing to another of us. You befriend your jailers. That's how you get extra privileges.
By the time I was sixteen I had had enough of it, and had set my jaw against them both. I was going to live my own life from now on, and keep my decisions private from anyone but myself. If I was told not to go somewhere, I went anyway. If I was told not to talk to a certain friend, I would ride ten miles on my bike to visit them and say I was somewhere else. The truth is that they didn't care. Since I was now unruffled by their behavior, the quest was useless to them, because pain was always the desired result, and I hadn't any left.
This stubbornness, of course, ended up causing more trouble for me later in life than it prevented. It was only when I softened my heart to the calling of God upon my life that my life began to change, and I'm not referring to merely "being saved". I did that when I was eighteen and still lived a screwed up life well into my early thirties. I mean when I finally, slowly, began to realize the TRUE love of God, the love that He placed there, already inside of me, to share and give, and be refilled over and over again. That is why I give no man or woman judgement because of their choices. Much of what I see in the world that most would consider base, or evil, or sinful, I have done in one way or another, or purposed it in my heart, even if I never acted on it.
What I realized today is that, even still, even now, after evidence upon evidence of God's love and mercy upon my life, I am still living much of it feeling "Guilty". I feel responsible for the consequences of each one of my choices, which is not a bad thing when soul-searching, but to the degree that I cannot ever fully enjoy the good things in my life. I never allow myself to be imperfect in any task, and when I find myself in impossible situations where I could do nothing but fail, I somehow believe it is my fault.
I lost my job yesterday, and found myself sharing with some close friends about how guilty I was feeling for letting down so many people, since my leaving, while not intentional, was caused by some compliance issues I was having. Suddenly, after the end of all these exchanges between us, I stopped and said, "Wait a minute! I'm not guilty! I am NOT guilty!" I worked a string of long, hard years at this job, years of literally, blood, sweat, and tears. I took the best care of my patients that I could. I tried my best to look out for their needs in the best way I knew how. I was kind and friendly to my co-workers. I was respectful of my bosses (until the very end). I did everything I could to do what was expected of me, and still enjoy my job. The fact that there were a few small issues (and they were small, but just not to them) that we couldn't agree upon in no way makes me a loser, or the one at fault!
It seems I've been on this kick lately grooving to sultry love songs from the 80's and relating them into broader relationships beyond that of just a man and a woman. You can have a relationship with your boss and a relationship with your job itself. It's still a relationship, still requires maintenance, upkeep, repair, and sometimes a severing if there can be no agreements. Leaving any relationship behind causes grief, in all of its many stages, at different times, in different order, and at differing levels.
I have left behind yet another chapter in my life, and I was told I should be reticent for the things I simply could not do, but you know what I think? I think "(I) got nothing to be 'Guilty' of!" Nothing at all!
The Big 4's
ORIGINAL POST DATE: 9/4/10
I have a big birthday coming up. By big, I don't mean we're having a big party, or that I'm reaching some milestone ending in a 5 or a 0. What I mean by big is that I am way past the slender numbers, the svelte 2's and the curvy, pleasing 3's. I am now officially semi-deep into the 4's, the square jawed, hulking, angular and unappealing 4's.
The 4's are scary. The 4's have you taking sudden and repetetive inventory of your life thus far, mentally calculating: "Have I done this, and this? Have I saved enough so far for retirement? Have I raised my kids to be good people? Is it too late to lose that weight and still have time to enjoy looking hot? Will I ever travel to those places I wanted to visit?" Etc., etc. etc.
The 4's are the stage when you being to feel as if you are borrowing time from younger generations. Although you are more than likely still an active, productive member of society, you feel this growing dread that every new accomplisment or personal goal you achieve is either overshadowed by those of your children, or worse yet, slightly embarassing, especially if it is something that most people would have accomplished years ago. There is swelling pride whenever a 5 year old learns how to ride his/her first bike, but when a 40 year old accomplishes the same goal, there is probably far more jeering and laughter from the sidelines than there is glowing encouragement. This, of course, is an exaggerated example, but I believe it illustrates the point.
The 4's have you looking at life from a morbid angle. There are, after all, only three strikes in baseball. After the 4th down in a football game, the ball changes hands. No one says, okay, let's lift this box together on the count of 4...ready...? 4 is around the corner, seemingly too long, or too late.This personal milestone has, for me, been a real wakeup call. I know people say that all the time. "Oh, wow, that *insert dramatic event here* was a real wakeup call!" I guess, then there is a powerful reason for this common experience, otherwise there wouldn't be so many of us saying it.
In many ways, the 4's are a good place to be. There's alot of comfort in the routine of life. There is alot less pressure to maintain the physical attributes of younger years. Things kind of go along at their own pace, often stressed and rushed as usual, but with a more defined, expected outcome. We already know the insurance company is going to try to bilk us out of our claim, along with all of the tactical trick phrases and tecniques they will use to try to trip us; we know this, and we are ready, armed with the knowledge acquired from decades of getting bilked, screwed, and shafted by various conglomerate entities.
There is power in this knowledge. I once got our cell phone bill reduced to a ridiculously cheap amount for two lines, on a completely unlimited plan with worldwide coverage. I was able to do this because my years of experience had taught me that nearly 99% of everything in this life is negotiable. It's a deep, dark secret they don't want you to know about, and one that you will never discover in your "2's" if someone doesn't just tell you.
The other part of my urgency to live out my dreams comes from a loss I have experienced recently, the loss that I have alluded to and written about in more recent posts. This loss, I will reiterate, was not the loss of a romance or a human partner. It was the loss of something very personal and passionate for me, the loss of my position as a singer on my church praise team. The details of how this happened are not important here. What is important is that I have just recently lost something that was very dear to me. It was a coveted gift, a place of satisfaction and fulfillment, and it's absence has left an empty, gaping hole in my heart that, so far, refuses to heal.
There are also the interwoven relationship issues related to this loss, the taking of sides, the division of opinions among friends, the friends who want to be supportive, but keep an arm's distance while doing so, to protect themselves from the fallout. All of these are devastating, wreaking havoc on my stress levels to the point of disturbed sleep. Worse, however, than any of these, is the surprising alienation I have felt. The cutting off of the relationships who had nothing directly to do with the problem, but were bound together mainly by that association. When the association is cut off, the relationships flounder, because the singing, the band, the camraderie of the learning and performing of music together is what held them together. Each individual one is like a separate, whole, and unique death all its own, with its own experience of grieving, and melancholy, and loss. This is the weight I have had on my shoulders for over three months now.
My husband told me the other day how much more joyful and healthy I looked than I had in recent weeks/months. Truly, it has been a summer of changes for me. I have changed jobs twice now (the latter of the total three being the reason I was so happy the particular day he made the comment). I have made definite decisions about my career path once I finally graduate college (another late-blooming activity that is usually best completed earlier in life). I know there has been some happy progress for me in these areas, but my personal life, even my spiritual life, since this matter is related to the body of believers with whom my whole life surrounds, is in a shambles.
Inside, I am a grieving, molten wreck. The worst of it is that I have tried to resolve the issue numerous times. I have offered my hand in friendship, offered to meet with the people involved and repent of my own mistakes, and make peace, all to no avail. No one seems to hear me, and no one will give me any solid responses to any of my questions. I feel as if I am a portion of chaff, drying in the merciless sun, and being lifted away to oblivion on the wind. The joy on my face just proves that I have another talent honed to perfection only in the 4's, the ability to act as if nothing is wrong.
After all, who really wants to hear someone go on and on about their struggles and problems all day? I know I don't. It's depressing to hear someone defeat themselves over and over again, by breathing life into the lies that others have set in motion as being the truth about them. We need to change our diets when we get into the 4's. Just like we can't physically survive on the junk food we used to thrive on in our 2's, when we reach our 4's, we need to get rid of the crap, and the BS, and all of the poisionous, toxic waste we hear day after day.
There is another lesson to be learned in the 4's, and that is that what we create can sometimes be toppled and destroyed unexpectedly by the actions of others. Once we bring our creation to the table, it is there for everyone to feast upon, and some diners partake daintily, some with appetite and true appreciation, and some with greed. We cannot protect what we have created once we have shared it with the world. There is no promise of permanency in anything we do. Often, sometimes many times in life, we are required to look at the rubble fallen all around us, and stoop to pick up the pieces, determined to rebuild them and create something new all over again.
No one can determine who we are and what we are to become but our own selves, both by what we do with our hands, and what we speak forth into the air.God created the world with one breath. He spoke just a word, and there was life, abundant life, and all manner of creature and animal, including man (and woman). We have his creative power within us, if only we would believe it, and grab hold of this wonderful adventure and begin to really live.
The relationships I have lost are precious, but they are gone now, not part of my future, and therefore not worth time dwelling upon. I loved them, love them still, but we have come to a crossroads, and I cannot spend any longer standing here, deciding which way to go. There is only one way, and that is forward.
Love to All,
---soul
I have a big birthday coming up. By big, I don't mean we're having a big party, or that I'm reaching some milestone ending in a 5 or a 0. What I mean by big is that I am way past the slender numbers, the svelte 2's and the curvy, pleasing 3's. I am now officially semi-deep into the 4's, the square jawed, hulking, angular and unappealing 4's.
The 4's are scary. The 4's have you taking sudden and repetetive inventory of your life thus far, mentally calculating: "Have I done this, and this? Have I saved enough so far for retirement? Have I raised my kids to be good people? Is it too late to lose that weight and still have time to enjoy looking hot? Will I ever travel to those places I wanted to visit?" Etc., etc. etc.
The 4's are the stage when you being to feel as if you are borrowing time from younger generations. Although you are more than likely still an active, productive member of society, you feel this growing dread that every new accomplisment or personal goal you achieve is either overshadowed by those of your children, or worse yet, slightly embarassing, especially if it is something that most people would have accomplished years ago. There is swelling pride whenever a 5 year old learns how to ride his/her first bike, but when a 40 year old accomplishes the same goal, there is probably far more jeering and laughter from the sidelines than there is glowing encouragement. This, of course, is an exaggerated example, but I believe it illustrates the point.
The 4's have you looking at life from a morbid angle. There are, after all, only three strikes in baseball. After the 4th down in a football game, the ball changes hands. No one says, okay, let's lift this box together on the count of 4...ready...? 4 is around the corner, seemingly too long, or too late.This personal milestone has, for me, been a real wakeup call. I know people say that all the time. "Oh, wow, that *insert dramatic event here* was a real wakeup call!" I guess, then there is a powerful reason for this common experience, otherwise there wouldn't be so many of us saying it.
In many ways, the 4's are a good place to be. There's alot of comfort in the routine of life. There is alot less pressure to maintain the physical attributes of younger years. Things kind of go along at their own pace, often stressed and rushed as usual, but with a more defined, expected outcome. We already know the insurance company is going to try to bilk us out of our claim, along with all of the tactical trick phrases and tecniques they will use to try to trip us; we know this, and we are ready, armed with the knowledge acquired from decades of getting bilked, screwed, and shafted by various conglomerate entities.
There is power in this knowledge. I once got our cell phone bill reduced to a ridiculously cheap amount for two lines, on a completely unlimited plan with worldwide coverage. I was able to do this because my years of experience had taught me that nearly 99% of everything in this life is negotiable. It's a deep, dark secret they don't want you to know about, and one that you will never discover in your "2's" if someone doesn't just tell you.
The other part of my urgency to live out my dreams comes from a loss I have experienced recently, the loss that I have alluded to and written about in more recent posts. This loss, I will reiterate, was not the loss of a romance or a human partner. It was the loss of something very personal and passionate for me, the loss of my position as a singer on my church praise team. The details of how this happened are not important here. What is important is that I have just recently lost something that was very dear to me. It was a coveted gift, a place of satisfaction and fulfillment, and it's absence has left an empty, gaping hole in my heart that, so far, refuses to heal.
There are also the interwoven relationship issues related to this loss, the taking of sides, the division of opinions among friends, the friends who want to be supportive, but keep an arm's distance while doing so, to protect themselves from the fallout. All of these are devastating, wreaking havoc on my stress levels to the point of disturbed sleep. Worse, however, than any of these, is the surprising alienation I have felt. The cutting off of the relationships who had nothing directly to do with the problem, but were bound together mainly by that association. When the association is cut off, the relationships flounder, because the singing, the band, the camraderie of the learning and performing of music together is what held them together. Each individual one is like a separate, whole, and unique death all its own, with its own experience of grieving, and melancholy, and loss. This is the weight I have had on my shoulders for over three months now.
My husband told me the other day how much more joyful and healthy I looked than I had in recent weeks/months. Truly, it has been a summer of changes for me. I have changed jobs twice now (the latter of the total three being the reason I was so happy the particular day he made the comment). I have made definite decisions about my career path once I finally graduate college (another late-blooming activity that is usually best completed earlier in life). I know there has been some happy progress for me in these areas, but my personal life, even my spiritual life, since this matter is related to the body of believers with whom my whole life surrounds, is in a shambles.
Inside, I am a grieving, molten wreck. The worst of it is that I have tried to resolve the issue numerous times. I have offered my hand in friendship, offered to meet with the people involved and repent of my own mistakes, and make peace, all to no avail. No one seems to hear me, and no one will give me any solid responses to any of my questions. I feel as if I am a portion of chaff, drying in the merciless sun, and being lifted away to oblivion on the wind. The joy on my face just proves that I have another talent honed to perfection only in the 4's, the ability to act as if nothing is wrong.
After all, who really wants to hear someone go on and on about their struggles and problems all day? I know I don't. It's depressing to hear someone defeat themselves over and over again, by breathing life into the lies that others have set in motion as being the truth about them. We need to change our diets when we get into the 4's. Just like we can't physically survive on the junk food we used to thrive on in our 2's, when we reach our 4's, we need to get rid of the crap, and the BS, and all of the poisionous, toxic waste we hear day after day.
There is another lesson to be learned in the 4's, and that is that what we create can sometimes be toppled and destroyed unexpectedly by the actions of others. Once we bring our creation to the table, it is there for everyone to feast upon, and some diners partake daintily, some with appetite and true appreciation, and some with greed. We cannot protect what we have created once we have shared it with the world. There is no promise of permanency in anything we do. Often, sometimes many times in life, we are required to look at the rubble fallen all around us, and stoop to pick up the pieces, determined to rebuild them and create something new all over again.
No one can determine who we are and what we are to become but our own selves, both by what we do with our hands, and what we speak forth into the air.God created the world with one breath. He spoke just a word, and there was life, abundant life, and all manner of creature and animal, including man (and woman). We have his creative power within us, if only we would believe it, and grab hold of this wonderful adventure and begin to really live.
The relationships I have lost are precious, but they are gone now, not part of my future, and therefore not worth time dwelling upon. I loved them, love them still, but we have come to a crossroads, and I cannot spend any longer standing here, deciding which way to go. There is only one way, and that is forward.
Love to All,
---soul
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