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!

What I Don't Remember

            What I don’t remember must fill volumes

            I’ve started the endless task of going through the stuff jammed into my office closet.  I did a few of the boxes from the floor—thank goodness for my son who can lift heavy boxes of papers, books, and miscellany—and now have turned to the top shelf.  Sunday’s sorting included pages from my Franklin Covey planners of 1999 and 2000 as well as random cards, notes, and letters from the 1990’s.

            The planning pages reveal the schedule of the busy single mom I was.  My planner was my brain and to-do list on all fronts:  work, home, and church.  I jotted down work meetings, student appointments, lesson planning reminders, and notes about which stack of essays to read and grade first.  Occasionally, I see a familiar student name, but most are minus the facial recall.  Grocery lists reveal my penchant for shopping the specials and using coupons, though I had forgotten about buying ten packets of Kool-Aid for a dollar.  Doctor appointments, school activities, packing lists for family trips, phone calls to make, board meetings and committee meetings to attend, Bible studies to lead . . . you get the idea.  There was even a lengthy Bible study on Exodus that appeared to use several sources.  I don’t remember preparing the study or leading the class.

            Evidently, I was involved in a coffee prayer (or was it prayer coffee) group that I sometimes led.  There are prayer lists for people I do not remember and Sunday notes from sermons long gone from my memory.  A stray poem or church newsletter rough draft or committee report show up here and there.  Unfamiliar names to call or projects to lead or tasks to undertake: it’s all in the planner.

            I keep only a few pages for future reference—the date I received my first (and incorrect, it turned out) diagnosis for the pain and fatigue that dogged my days.  The day Joseph broke his foot at Taekwondo class.  A sad poem, an upbeat Faith Promise testimony. The rest, literally hundreds of pages, I throw away.

            The random assortment of cards and letters from friends warm my heart, as do the homemade cards and notes my children made for me.  So much love, so many blessings that I had forgotten.

            And there is more to come.

           

December 27 Long Day

            Leave house at 10:15 am.  Drive hour to Hillcrest Medical Center.  Check in at Outpatient Imaging before 11:30 am.  Fill out paperwork and register with nice middle-age woman with waist-length hair.  Wait.  At noon, follow the technician back to the MRI area.  Mention that the vein on the top of my left hand has a history of blow-outs mere seconds before it blows out. Endure second stab to base of left thumb.

            Lie perfectly still on stomach for twenty minutes while machine clangs and bangs for breast MRI.  Savor sound of a radio station through earphones during brief silences.  After technician injects contrast dye into IV, continue to lie still for last minutes of MRI.  Wait as table slides out of machine. Sit up and wait till dizziness passes; then, go put on top-half clothing again. 

            Walk short hallway to Peggy V. Helmerich Women’s Health Center and check in at  Leta M. Chapman Breast Health Center at 1 pm for right-breast mammogram.  Find out  appointment is for 2 pm.  Wait.  Complete registration, have hospital bracelet removed and new one put on.  Wait. 

            Follow technician to changing room.  Change.  Follow her to 3-D mammogram room.  Try to follow her directions to get into and maintain impossible positions for mammogram.  Stop breathing and start breathing as instructed.  Feel grateful that squeezed breast does not hurt as much as it did six months ago. 

            Walk back to changing room, but don’t get dressed yet.  Wait to see if radiologist needs more pictures.  Suddenly start feeling afraid, remembering diagnostic mammogram and ultrasound from May 2016 when radiologist gave cancer diagnosis.  Breathe sigh of relief when technician reappears and gives the all clear.  “See you in six months,” she says cheerily.

            Follow hallways to main hospital entrance and purchase from Starbucks an Americano and bakery treat.  Freeze outside as walking back to car. 

            Drive home.  Arrive at 4 pm and collapse on couch.  

Celebration!

Available December 23, 2017 in paperback on Amazon.com!  Kindle version to follow soon!

Tango

            Cozy scenes of my new kitten lit up my imagination:  Tango sleeping on my lap, enjoying the fleece blanket nest I created in the end table storage, sitting in the office windowsill spot cleared specially for her.  That was before I brought her home.

            True, Tango does sleep on my lap on occasion, but I never thought about the frustration that could cause me.  She likes to come between me and my Kindle or book.  She wants to share any snack I hope to nibble on as I read.  And she gets especially persistent if I have a glass of milk.  My imagination neglected other typical cat behavior, too:  kitty sneezes and kitty farts in my face, kitty claws contentedly kneading my good blouse or my bare arm, kitty tongue licking the straw of my covered water container. 

            Tango has been mine for three weeks now, and she finally tried out the cozy fleece blanket nest for a few minutes last night.  She prefers sleeping behind the couch, on the hardwood floor, under the dining room table, and on the cupholder fold-down of the living room couch.  Of course, she also loves to nap on my recliner end of the couch.  Often I find her offerings of one or more of her catnip mice in the morning.  Like a good dog, she lies down near my feet when I sit at the dining table or computer desk.  (When I’m eating, she jumps up on the table and I deposit her in the office.)

            Now she happens to be on the office windowsill space gazing out at the front yard.  Good cat.  A few minutes ago she made a deposit in her litter box, which caused me to promptly jump up from this writing to scoop, add scented litter beads, and start the diffuser with the hopes I could keep writing without gagging.  You see, she has the stinkiest poop of any cat I have ever known.  Diet adjustments have done nothing to make a difference. 

            Which brings me to the last thing I never imagined:  my sensitivity to litter dust.  Lightweight clumping litter is out.  I’m using the regular-weight stuff which promises to kill odors.  Hah!  At least it is slightly less dusty.  It didn’t occur to me that sharing my office space with litter box would be a problem.  With the air purifier running at high speed and the diffuser sending out a lavender scent, I may be able to survive the dust and stink.  Uh-oh.  She just got in the box again.

            But Tango does have the softest, silkiest fur imaginable.  She purrs loudly with contentment.  Her meowing voice is very soft.  She allows all petting:  back, head, under the chin, belly, paws, and tail.  She entertains with her mad dashing around the house, expert soccer playing with a bottle cap, and focused hunting of crickets. She’s a keeper for sure.  

Sleeping With Turkeys

            A lovely holiday tradition has sprung up in my family.  It started, I believe, when I lived in faraway Washington State and my son lived in Colorado.  The times one or both of us came to Oklahoma for a November or December visit, we celebrated with a holiday meal and gift-giving at my daughter’s house.

            I seem to have used up my cooking skills, meager as they were, in my children’s early years when everything I made was whole wheat, bean-full, low salt, and taste free.  Long after they left the nest, I became the unlikely chef for my aging mother and bachelor brother.  Those were easier (and tastier) cooking years because I had an unlimited grocery budget and did not read labels.

            When I moved to Oklahoma four years ago and took up living solo in the house across the street from my daughter’s family, I left cooking behind.  That, plus the absence of a large enough dining room table, was enough to maintain the habit of celebrating holidays at my daughter’s house.  For Thanksgiving this year, we numbered seven:  Shawn, Dana, Benjamin, Joelle, Josiah, Joseph, and me.

            Conversation meandered along assorted topics, with Benjamin providing the background celebratory sounds and Joelle acting as emcee.  At some point, we grown-ups talked about how eating a lot of turkey makes one sleepy.  Meanwhile, eight-year-old Benjamin finished his full plate in record time, four-year-old Joelle asked for gravy to drink, and two-year-old Josiah held his spork in his right hand while using his left hand to finger-feed himself the yummy homemade stuffing and heavenly cranberry gelatin salad.  He ignored Dana’s delicious turkey, savory vegetable medley, scrumptious sweet potatoes, and my tasteless roasted green beans with red potatoes. (I forgot to add the minced garlic.)   It should be noted that he later chowed down on Dana’s homemade pumpkin pie with coconut whipped cream.

In the living room after that wonderful feast, my son felt sleepy.  Leaning back into the loveseat recliner, he closed his eyes.  Four-year-old Joelle loudly reported, “Joseph is sleeping with turkeys!”  Dana and I laughed till we cried.

Reflections

                From Monday afternoon until Wednesday evening, I pondered possible analogies concerning Tango, me, and God.

                I thought of how much I have conducted my life out of fear.  I mulled over how I hide from God even while he is patiently waiting on me and wooing me with his presence.  I wondered how grieved he feels when his own adopted children keep themselves isolated from his comfort.

                And then came Wednesday evening when I walked into my office and saw Tango perched on the windowsill.  As always, I spoke softly.  When she looked at me without the usual terror in her eyes, I approached slowly.  When I was halfway across the room, she jumped down to the desk and then to the floor. 

                She seemed a little skittish, so I slowly lowered myself to the floor.  And then a lengthy petting session began.  She was desperate for attention, butting up to my hand, rolling over on her back, and climbing up onto my lap.  I stroked her silky, soft fur and she purred.  It was like the good old days at ARF.  Eventually, my joints required I stand again.  I said good night and left the room.

                Today (Thursday) she is up to her old hiding tricks, but maybe in the cool of the evening, she’ll emerge for more fellowship.