In This Place

            Doing dishes, I look out the window at the familiar scene.  My wild, climbing rose bush has bloomed.  Last week’s storm tipped the tall thorned stems so the top pinks face downward instead of reaching to the eaves.  The driveway is littered with pollen and twigs, the house and yard across the street lovely with its landscaping.  Next to it (number 521 to my 520) sits the comforting sight of my daughter and son-in-law’s red brick house, van and car parked in their usual driveway spots.

            At this moment, the peace of being where Jesus wants me to be floods my soul.  Such a simple, quiet life.  My son with me, my daughter’s family across the street.  The three grandchildren, ages 9, 5, and 2 ½, with baby on the way this month. 

            This week, God has been telling me last week’s sermon.  I called it my Mother’s Day “non-sermon” because it had no preaching points to make but only spilled vulnerability from this mother’s heart.  It was about listening to the Holy Spirit speak in the daily and trusting Him when I am weak.  Since then, He has opened up four insights in my daily devotional readings, perfect in their timing:

            He reminded me to give Jesus my burdens.  My shoulders cannot bear them; His are strong and capable for the task.  He told me to look for him in hard places in my life and I would find Him.  He showed me something new:  that I should never covet the past instead of gratefully accepting the present.  And through the intersection of an image from a novel and a devotional reading, He assured me that He is the glorious open gate that invites and draws hearts to Him.

            The dishes are done until tomorrow.  The roses still gracefully bend down toward earth.  My view out the kitchen window remains the same.  And I am blessed in this place.

Perspective

            The first episodes of extreme fatigue twenty years ago frightened me.  They would strike hard and fast, without any warning system I could detect.  One weekend, my son was off to a Taekwondo event and daughter off to a church youth event.  I was supposed to be a speaker at a women’s retreat.  Instead, I spent two days on the living room couch resting, sleeping, and worrying.

            Why was I so exhausted?  How long would this last?  What were the strange buzzings and tingling sensations that zapped about in my legs and arms?  What was this traveling pain that varied from heavy ache to stabbing knife? My legs were weak when I shuffled across the living room to the kitchen to get a drink or food.  I had no concentration for reading or for listening to music or anything else.   

            But that Monday, life resumed, and I made it through another week of work.  Doctor visits and lab work yielded no definitive diagnosis, though the symptoms seemed to indicate an autoimmune disease called Sjogren’s Syndrome.  It took another six years or so before that label got scrapped and I ended up with what I secretly thought of as the hypochondriac’s illness:  fibromyalgia.

            I was fortunate to have a doctor who took me seriously through those years and who was willing to treat my symptoms.  We tried various medications (thank goodness I had excellent prescription insurance) and ended up with a combination of anti-inflammatory, anti-depressant, and muscle relaxant that reduced my symptoms.  I learned to pace myself, take a short nap over the lunch hour, and read everything I could about fibromyalgia, which is still not well understood.

            My quality of life improved greatly when I quit the work force in 2008—made possible by the generosity of my brothers and mother—to become my mother’s primary caregiver.  I settled into less structured days, simple housekeeping and cooking, and learning the art of living with the slow descent of Mom’s Alzheimer’s Disease.  It was a Renaissance of sorts for me, living in the beautiful wooded center of Whidbey Island; joining church choir, a woodwinds ensemble, and a flute choir; and taking flute lessons.  I had time to write, time to be with my mother and youngest brother, and time to slow down my already leisurely pace when fatigue and pain descended.

            Eventually, Mom’s physical health and memory loss deteriorated to the point that we moved her out of her house and into HomePlace, a memory care facility in nearby Oak Harbor.  I stayed on in her home next to my brother’s and visited her a couple times a week (which I now understand was not nearly often enough).  When Mom died in May 2013, as much as I loved living in such a beautiful setting with dear friends, music, and writing to fill my days, I knew it was time to leave.  The siren song of grandchildren in Bartlesville, Oklahoma pulled me east that October.

            And so here I am, five years later, the same amount of time I lived on the island.  Growing family, dear friends, and church life define my days.  The triple negative breast cancer of 2016-17 took its toll, creating a one-year rest stop from virtually everything except blogging.  I am still very tired; as I phase down from a month of prednisone for a severe eczema flare, life has slowed to a snail’s pace again. 

            But I know more than I did twenty years ago.  I know that today does not determine the forecast of all my days.  Sleep and rest, good nutrition and exercise as tolerated will take me through.  There is a simplicity to choosing one’s activities well.  There is hope for days when I can do more, and peace for the days I cannot.  The joy of the Lord is my strength.

Shaking Things Up

            I don’t know how it happened, but suddenly Google is gone and I’m back to Bing.  My default search engine on my laptop disappeared.

            I spent a whole evening fussing and fuming over this turn of events:  After I clicked to place a blog post on Facebook, both Facebook and Google vanished, leaving me with a basic Microsoft screen that is virtually useless and, come to think of it, a disappeared desktop.

            For those of you who don’t know what I’m talking about, sorry.  I don’t really know what I’m talking about, either, except that I am frustrated.  Loss of a familiar screen has shaken me. 

            I guess this is a computer-age version of circumstances as old as time:  the sudden loss of the familiar.  Or you could say, having control ripped out of one’s hands.  The unexpected occurring at the worst possible moment.

            The past week or two God has been invading my heart with joy.  I’ve been resting in a season of serenity despite unresolved problems on the home front.  Perhaps part of my mood is from the oral prednisone treatment that stopped a major eczema flare in its tracks.  Whether supernaturally or medically induced (or, I suspect, a bit of both), the presence of peace and the absence of pain is wonderful.

I did not expect a screen change to shake me up.  I’ll adjust.  I’ll cope.  Maybe I’ll even get my computer fixed.  In the meantime, every time I flip open my laptop, God’s object lesson will stare me in the face:  scenery and circumstances change, but He does not.

Cathie

            Memory rises to fill my vision.  Blue sky, sun-shot surf rushing the shore near the bottom of the hill.  The curve to the right on Hastie Lake Road.  The memory of my dear friend Cathie, who took her flight to heaven on January 2, 2016.  Grief is a bright looking back, the knowing that time spent with her is gone this side of glory.

            I still imagine her zipping about Heaven in her electric-powered wheelchair.  Silly, I know.  But that sight somehow sums up the Cathie I knew.  Her rheumatoid arthritis and diabetes and low vision did not stop her.  The chair gave her freedom and speed.  I remember her zipping down an aisle at a flute recital in which I played.  She was going for a seat near the front. 

            It’s not that we knew each other long—five years?  In fact, we became close only the last months before I moved away from the island.  It’s that I felt so at home in her home.  My visits back (just three of them) defined by tea and ginger thins near bedtime, dinner and wine with my brother at her house, conversation and cold-brew coffee mornings.  Sorting through mail, sharing stories, going on errands in her van.

            Why this sun-filled scene today?  I don’t know, but grief’s bright looking back is both hollow with loss and brimmed tight full with joy. 

           

           

           

Life Itself

            Two years ago tonight, I discovered a lump.  My life changed.

            Now a full year out from cancer treatment, my life continues.  I am the same but different.  It would be nice to claim some huge leap into life after cancer.  However, life still plods along in its ordinary way.  Simple joys, everyday problems, daily routines define my days.

            I had imagined some grand and glorious new beginning for my cancer survivor life.  Instead, ordinary is my life.  And there is something to be said about that. 

            In an odd way, the year of cancer treatment was both peak and valley.  The peak was in an inexplicable peace and joy—the presence of God—that sustained me through the valley of suffering.  (Whether that sentence is sentimental or splendid I do not know.)

            Everyone says that after cancer, you find a “new normal,” and I guess that is true.  Health-wise, this new normal is more confusing.  Are my various complaints—fatigue, skin rashes and sores, more memory glitches, aches and pains—from fibromyalgia or cancer treatments or a complicated combination?  (I don’t know.)  Am I emotionally and spiritually healthier?  (I hope so.) 

            So I am going to post this nighttime journaling because I want to mark today on my blog.  It’s 11 pm, just about the same time I discovered the lump two whole years ago.  The miracle to embrace every day, in the midst of the ordinary, is life itself.

Text and Pray

Last Sunday, a series of texts from my dear friend Lee appeared on my phone over the course of several hours.  (Lee and I became friends because of breast cancer:  she was starting chemo about the time I was finishing radiation.)

At 12:17 pm, she sent two texts:

            Are you OK

I don’t know why but I’m very anxious for you praying for you and I love you please be careful

I did not see those texts for over an hour.  At 1:31, I replied:

I’m fine.  Just saw this.  Prayers always appreciated.  Morning service went very well—God showed up. (that’s what I always pray for)

Lee texted back at 1:41:

What were u doing at 11:30--?

I saw that text at 2:26 pm and wrote back:

I was talking with people after church.  Who knows?  You could have been praying me up for some later (or even earlier) time I need prayer and protection.

At 5:40 pm, there was one last exchange:

            Are u busy

            No

And then I called her.  She told me that during the sermon at her church, she suddenly had a load of anxiety crash down on her concerning me.  As soon as church let out, she nabbed a prayer warrior friend and they prayed fervently for me.

Do we have any idea what that was about?  No, but God does. 

And I am struck, once again, by the Father’s care for me.  And blessed by Lee’s immediate prayer response when she suddenly sensed danger. 

To quote Rick Warren, “God is a caring, consistent, close, and competent Father.”  He knows all our needs---past, present, and future—and often calls on His children to pray at just the right time.  Imagine all the intercession happening at any given moment all over the world, and all because our Father, the great I AM, loves us and prompts us to pray for one another. 

Reading Power

            In recent weeks, God has gotten my attention through reading. 

            First was discovering Christian author James L. Rubart.  After finishing his novel, The Five Times I Met Myself, I knew I wanted to read more.  The other book of his on the new fiction shelves at Bartlesville Public Library was The Long Journey to Jake Palmer.  I finished it the day before its March 5 due date.  Absorbing storyline and profound truth packed into 374 pages, the book tells the story of the protagonist’s difficult path to healing of old emotional pain and, finally, the freedom in living into his God-given destiny.

            A few hours later that same Sunday evening, I decided to finish reading a brief Parker J. Palmer book, Let Your Life Speak:  Listening for the Voice of Vocation, which had showed up at the top of the library’s e-book home page.  I’ve read at least one other book by Parker Palmer before and loved his perspective and his way with words, so I immediately checked it out.  I’ve been reading this book in short spurts.  To my amazement, his last chapter’s discussion of leadership dovetailed perfectly with the ending of Rubart’s novel.

            Both books speak of the power of transformation.  It’s interesting that our Bible Study Fellowship lesson from February 27 covered Romans 12:1-2:  Therefore, I urge you, brothers and sisters, in view of God’s mercy, to offer your bodies as a living sacrifice, holy and pleasing to God—this is your true and proper worship. ² Do not conform to the pattern of this world, but be transformed by the renewing of your mind. Then you will be able to test and approve what God’s will is—his good, pleasing and perfect will.  (NIV)

Those two verses seemed to sum up the truth God was emphasizing to me.  Then, the March 7 lesson on Romans 12:3-8 spoke more specifically into my life.  Along with the 40 Days of Prayer series we are doing here at Good Shepherd, I’m receiving the encouragement God seems determined to give me.  Incidentally, one of the recent readings was Romans 12:1 from The Message:  So here’s what I want you to do, God helping you: Take your everyday, ordinary life—your sleeping, eating, going-to-work, and walking-around life—and place it before God as an offering. Embracing what God does for you is the best thing you can do for him.

            Let me backtrack a bit.  It’s been a year since I finished cancer treatment, and I have not jumped back into life as I thought I would.*  Energy and motivation levels run low at best.  I am wary of making commitments I cannot keep.  My daily life plods along at a snail’s pace. Bothersome physical ailments weigh me down.  I guess I thought that once the cancer treatments were done, the fibromyalgia would disappear, too.

            The book about Jake Palmer, the book by Parker Palmer, and the Romans verses I’ve read over the past few weeks remind me that my identity is in Christ, not in what or how much I can accomplish each day.  My part is to offer all that I am to my Savior and stay “tuned in” to his purposes, which are spelled out in Scripture.  Pray, read my Bible, love the people in my life, keep trusting God, and learn to trust him more.  Take care of my body.  Do what I can and rest when I need to.  Ask God to direct my days.  Use the gifts he’s given me to bring him glory.  And thank him for everything along the way.

*Except, of course, helping out with my darling grandchildren!