Haven

            Haven is the word Diane used to describe my home.  That is exactly what I prayed for as I rearranged my living space last spring.

            My pocket Oxford dictionary defines haven as “a place of safety” or “a harbor or small port.”  Both describe the essence of this place. 

            Living here on my brother’s property—Casa Del Gato (house of the cat) as he calls it—has been a place of safety as well as a harbor of healing for me.  Natural beauty surrounds my cabin in the woods.  Within, my unstructured time is conducive to reflection and creativity.  I live in the coziness of a cabin with plenty of internal and external space in which to flourish.

            Isn’t healing all about growth in the end?  Once the weeping edges of deep wounds begin to knit together and once the salve of solitude and prayer soaks in, the soul sprouts into new life.  All the fretful energy spent to conceal the real and anesthetize the pain is transformed into a creativity that God can use to help along the healing in others.

            Last spring, as I shed my role of full-time caregiver for my mother and sought to create a new space for myself, I wanted it to reflect the peace God has gradually brought to my spirit in this place.  Refuge and sanctuary are two of the words that came to mind then.  Now I like Diane’s word best, but with an essential dimension included:  Holy Spirit Haven.  Not because of me, but because of what He has done.

Sock Joy

            I’m the sort of person who gets excited when her new lavender socks match her older lavender shirt.  There is nothing like a little sock joy to counteract a drizzly gray morning.

            The opening line of a novel I never finished comes to mind:

            Even though fear barricaded Dee Jones in her bedroom at night, unexpected joy sometimes bubbled up like a cool, refreshing spring in the morning.

            That clear, undiluted joy pops up at unexpected moments.  Discovering the right place to hang a picture.  Experiencing God’s Word speaking directly to my need.  Hearing pure, soaring tones of worship flow out of my flute.  Seeing glorious mountains rise in their white-capped glory against the sky’s clear blue.  Sinking my feet in the sand and listening to the soothing surf caressing the shore.

            When joy strikes—even over matching socks—I know its source:  God.

           

Click Less

            I spent a lot of unproductive time on the Internet yesterday, looking for cheap airfares and searching for part-time job possibilities.  I need to supplement my retirement income so that I can continue to make those quarterly trips to see my family.

            Even as I browsed, I knew I was getting nowhere fast.  It occurred to me that I would be in much better shape if I spent as much time praying as I do chasing the unattainable on the Internet.  That did not stop me, however.

            At bedtime, as usual, I reached for the daily Lectionary readings and my Message Study Bible.  Before I turned to the day’s reading, I told God I was sorry for trying to find His answers on the Internet especially when I have the clear sense that He is going to open doors I cannot open myself.

            And then I opened my Bible to the psalm of the week, Psalm 37.  I saw that I had, sometime in the past few months, highlighted verses five and six: 

“Open up before God, keep nothing back; he’ll do whatever needs to be done”

Stunned again.  Reading on to verse seven, I saw this:

“Quiet down before God, be prayerful before him”

Oh, my.  Those verses unleashed more prayer.  I asked for forgiveness and rejoiced in His grace.  It is time to “open up” and “quiet down.”   It is time to let Him lead.  Yes, I’ll still search the Internet, but without the frantic aspect.  I’ll listen to Him, stay open to His nudges.  I’ll trust more and click less.

Nap On Demand

            Yesterday:  intermittent downpours, occasional lightning in the distance, barely perceptible thunder.  Last night:  Flash!  Boom!  Flash!  Boom!  Crackle!  Silence . . . It sure was quiet without ceiling fan and air purifier and refrigerator motor humming.  This morning:  pelting rain, rumbling thunder, falling barometric pressure.  This afternoon:  blue sky and sun, sauna-like 70s.  (My apologies to those who are experiencing truly hot weather.)

            I believe I have strained my shoulder and neck muscles from taking too many naps.  I feel a familiar sadness wrapping its cloak about my aching body:  pain, fatigue, and no motivation are all of one piece with fibro flares.  It’s tempting to feel sorry for myself or to assign too much meaning to my grey mood this week.  Remembering that once upon a time I felt this way most of the time is enough to remind me how blessed I am now to have far more good days than bad.

            What’s more, I have tomorrow to anticipate.  Morning worship at Whidbey Presbyterian and getting to do two of the things I love most:  serve as worship assistant and play my flute.  Who could ask for anything more?  But then, there is more:  going to an afternoon play with a dear friend, enjoying whatever I prepare for dinner, indulging in a taste of chocolate wine with my brother. 

            And next week, next week I shall start to gradually increase my walking as I gradually decrease my caloric intake.  I’ll make a to-do list; I’ll resume serious practice of my flutes; I’ll apply myself to writing and editing and neglected household tasks.  I’ll celebrate the mild summer weather.  But, rain or no rain, I’ll still be sure to nap on demand.

Staging

Stage:   a point, period, or step in a process.

            Maybe it is lactic acid build-up in my muscles.  I seem to remember having read something about that once, but it’s hard to tell with the fog rolling in from the Sound straight into my brain.

            Right now I am in stage two of the starting-my-day process, which appears to be an instant replay of yesterday’s experience.  Again, this morning I woke early, feeling as though every muscle in my body was being squeezed and stretched to capacity.  I finally creaked out of bed at six.  Protein breakfast shake, morning meds, coffee, and computer did not perform the usual magic, so at seven I went back to bed.  About the time I remembered that a pain pill might be in order, my cat climbed up on me, kneading my achy left bicep and settling her ten-pound weight in for a little catnap.

            I obliged and slept for thirty minutes.  Unable to sleep any longer, I got up again.  The word “staging” entered my fogged-over brain, and I obediently followed it to the computer, flax muffin and skim milk in hand.  As I started to write, I popped one Tylenol #3, which is the back-up plan when the breakthrough pain gets out of hand despite the daily Celebrex.  Pain is a funny thing:  it’s better to get ahead of it than let it drag you to the depths.  I woke up already behind, so I hope that a little extra pharmaceutical relief will help move me toward my goal of being a functional human being today.

            There really should be no surprise in this flare-up of my fibromyalgia symptoms after the exciting and rigorous week of General Assembly followed by a fun day with my friend Jody and the long trip home.  It’s good that I can take things slow and easy now.  Flute and laundry and one more nap before lunch should get me through the morning.  The afternoon sunshine will beckon me outside to get my joints moving and some errands done.  Then more laundry, watering the garden, desk work, reading, preparing a simple supper for my brother and me, watching the news, doing more reading, and petting the cat should be sufficient activity for the rest of the day—all interspersed with catnaps as needed.