Thin Places

I stumbled to my coffee maker and began my morning ritual. I ground beans, measured them into a filter, and reached for the glass coffee pot - only to discover a roach had died in it over night.

Dead roach in coffee pot. That's how I felt this morning.

It's the third Sunday in advent and I was home alone, battling pain. Last weekend I battled a cough that tired my ribs. An inhaler settled it down, but by mid week, one last little cough popped something in my side that has hurt ever since. A doc will read the x-rays tomorrow, but whether a rib is fractured or not, I'm slowed again, maneuvering with pain.

Dead roach in coffee pot.

I gave up on the coffee and sat down on our sofa to attend TV church in my pj's. The pastor from Second Ponce de Leon Baptist Church delivered a message that gave me what I needed to clean out that pot, make fresh coffee, and move on with my day.

He talked about thin places, moments where the veil between earth and heaven becomes translucent, thin, clear; our awareness of the divine poignant and true. He said that Christmas is a season ripe with thin places, which is why I feel like I'm missing out.

I spent last Christmas season recovering from ankle surgery and preparing to move. And just when my cough seemed to settle after a month of sickness this year, my rib gave way and I'm struggling to keep my day to day schedule going, let alone participate in extra Christmas fun.

Dr. David Snapp reminded me that to encounter thin places, we must be willing to have our lives interrupted. And once interrupted, we must learn to wait with patience and anticipation. His words helped me see my current challenge in a different way. For everyone who was in the manger in Bethlehem were visitors to the town. Their lives had been interrupted and they had taken a journey to a foreign land - and there they encountered the divine.

My journey through advent is different again this year. But it's still my journey. It's still a walk through the ordinary in search of the divine; a thin place, the place of wonder and awe. For God became man and dwelt among us.

A Birthday Blog

As I watched football with Sam in the Chattanooga Choo Choo Hotel this weekend, I surfed the web, searching for info on Mitochondrial Disease. My 82 page muscle biopsy report arrived in my in box ten days ago and while I know it confirms I have adult onset Mitochondrial Disease, there's a lot more I don't know.

My search led to the mito action web site where I read, "When facing a diagnosis of something like Mitochondrial Disease, it is important to acknowledge feelings of grief. There is the grief of the parents over the life they had dreamed or imagined for their child, and there is grief for the adult of the loss of the life they thought they were going to have. Do not underestimate the impact of this grief, and the time that it takes for a person or family to heal... First there is the crisis stage which usually lasts only a short time and is followed by isolation - the person is exhausted by the crisis and now just feels totally alone and wants to be alone..."

Stop right there! It wasn't until I read those words that I understood what I've been feeling the last few months. Yes, my new med is helping a great deal.
But while I've enjoyed relief, I've also grieved continued limitations that may never go away. Trying to filter the good with continued loss made it easy to shrink back into isolation.

The article continues, "Then there is the stage of reconstruction; life is not like it was before but you can reconstruct your sense of self, or your sense of 'normal' for your family." (By Cristy Balcells RN MSN and Joanne Turco, RN, MS)

www.mitoaction.org/blog/coping-mitochondrial-disease

Sometimes I think writing about all this is blah and self focused. But then I read this quote from Joni Eareckson Tada, a quadriplegic who is now battling cancer, "God's up to something big. How can I showcase Him to others?"

www.worldmag.com/articles/17198

Armed with her words and numerous facebook birthday well wishes, I've decided to come back out of hiding and try to get faithful with writing... again. For "we are not of those who shrink back and are destroyed, but of those who believe and are saved." (Heb 10:39)

The above photo was taken at a fund raiser for a mito clinical drug trial. Yes, that's me, a poster child for mito disease. Its' not exactly where I thought I'd be at this point in life... "But we are not of those who shrink back..."

Life with Legs

More than a month has passed since my last entry. I haven’t written for two reasons: depression and awe.

As summer wore on, my body wore down. Knee instability complicated normal ankle and hip weakness, leaving me overwhelmed by everyday tasks. Three rounds of transforaminal shots spread over seven weeks (of summer) helped post surgical nerve damage (from winter). The day after I completed the procedures, however, my insurance company approved a muscle biopsy and spinal tap. Nagging symptoms required further testing, but I had no desire to face more needles or procure another scar. So I watched House marathons unfazed by his cynicism.

Two weeks after my spinal tap, and many more before I expected results (muscle biopsy results take up to two months), the doctor’s office called. Tests run on my spinal fluid revealed low levels of 5mthf, a necessary ingredient in fueling central nervous systems. I was told a prescription med could make a big difference. And after a mere weekend on the new meds, my legs worked better than they have in years. The one-eighty turn, from thinking I was headed to wheelchair to walking with liquid legs in less than a week, left me in awe.

I’ve been pondering the change ever since. A few highlights:

I haven’t used my handicap sticker in three weeks. I can walk through Target without spasticity slowing my step and escort my voice and piano students from one building to the next without a cane. I can grocery shop, carry in the bags, cook dinner, and still walk. And it’s probably hard for most of humanity to understand how big a deal that is to me.

I’m living life with legs, relishing them a new.

Entering His Rest

When I watch the sky fill with color, I feel small in a good way. Bent rays twisted through the atmosphere create masterful evening canopies under which I rest, mindful of our Creator.

It's easy to rest by the ocean under a brilliant sky. It's another thing to enter His rest during the day to day toil we live as life.

At one point this summer, I told God if He would just do such and such, I could rest. And I needed rest. My body was stressed enough. Due to recent physical limitations, it made sense to me that God would want to decrease my stress level in the ways I desired most.

He offered a simple reply, "Enter my rest now."

"There remains then, a Sabbath-rest for the people of God; for anyone who enters God's rest also rests from his own work, just as God did from his. Let us, therefore, make every effort to enter that rest..." (Heb. 4:9-11 NIV)

The Message translation states earlier in Hebrews 4, "If we believe, though, we'll experience the state of resting. But not if we don't have faith."

I've stood at this cross road before, the place where I can stew over uncertainty or rest in the reality of God, my Savior, my Lord. It's never easy. But the option is real. We can enter His rest. Trust in His goodness. Watch Him provide.

Or pick our nails.

I long to enter His rest.

Happy At My Feet

My family knows my favorite place in San Destin- the ocean's edge. I carry my sea blue chair to where the water washes over my toes. And I sit. For hours. Sometimes with a journal. Sometimes with just an open heart.

We've shared a week in Dad's time shares for about ten years. At some point on our trip, a related someone will ask something like, "Why do you enjoy staring at the water for hours on end?"

My mom asked this year. And the best answer ever came to me later.

I love watching happy at my feet... where the water bounces, collides, and forms patterns of lace as quick to vanish as a falling snowflake. Bubbles float. Waves dance. And a smooth, thin rush of water washes gently over my feet, cleansing.

I couldn't sit in my chair as long this year. And the water was full of June grass a few days - even at the water's edge. But last Wednesday, crystal clear waters soothed my soul for a time. God was big. The world beautiful. And eternity real.

And as the sun set, I found this happy at my feet...

Be Still

I heard a sermon over a week ago that caused me to face the stark level of anxiety in my soul. WordNet.com defines anxiety as "a vague unpleasant emotion that is experienced in anticipation of some (usually ill-defined) misfortune." When I looked deep inside, deeper than my normal deep, I recognized worry, nervousness, and that "vague unpleasant emotion" that fights fear.

As I thought about it all, the still small voice spoke, "Be still..."

I'm not exactly a fast mover these days, but I pick my nails. Almost constantly. Frayed nails expose my anxiety. Just last Sunday, someone commented on the less than desirable state of my ring and pinkie fingers, especially. I smiled. I used to cover them with acrylic nails, but eventually gave up on the beauty routine and prayed for peace. A peace that would show on my nails.

I looked up the Hebrew definition of "still" from Psalm 46. I read, "abate, cease, consume, fail, faint, forsake, idle, leave, let alone..." At the end of the long list of words, small letters referred me to a related definition a few numbers back. There I read, "cure, heal, repair, thoroughly, make whole."

I expected the first list of words, but not the second. They still resonate deep. In stillness there is healing. In letting alone a cure. In ceasing I can be made whole.

Two months of summer lie ahead. I hope within a few weeks to post a photo of healthier nails as I soak in the Psalmist's words, "'Be still and know that I am God; I will be exalted among the nations, I will be exalted in the earth.'" (Ps. 46: 10)

Adventure Mother Driver

A few years ago, I realized why I feel fidgety by summer's end. As the daughter of a Delta pilot, summers often included vacation adventures that started when I was eleven. We traveled to a remote Bahamian island that year where my dad "lost" our passports and later hitchhiked with my sister when our rental car broke down. A few summers later we met Gertrude the Cow in Southern Bavaria when a dirt road ended in her pasture.

I've longed to share those type of adventures with my boys, but have not the resources, or at this point, the body.

So when Sam asked about swimming this summer from 5:45-8:15 am, I struggled a few days before figuring out how to mentally tackle the overwhelming request. I'm not heading to Europe or Hawaii or any other exotic location this summer. No, I'm adventure mother driver, alert in the wee hours, toting my man cub to and from the place of physical challenge. With bra in purse (in case we have a traffic altercation), I grab pillow and blanket and walk bleary eyed to the car. On my more alert days, I brush my teeth and even potty before heading out.

While Sam speeds through currents of chlorine, I let down the windows just a tad, hide my face from the rising sun, and protect the mother ship in the fetal position. When my man cub returns from his morning foray, we travel home for a mid-morning nap.

On day three this week, I woke from said mid-morning nap and proceeded to get ready for a Transforaminal lumbar shot in my back. I made coffee, pulled out crunchy Jif and a power bar, and ate while the pot brewed. Only after the bar was down did I wake enough to remember I wasn't supposed to eat before my Transforaminal shot procedure.

I don't know if the nurses understood how much energy it takes to be an adventure mother driver. But I had no other excuse for my mental lapse and had to wait an extra day for the shot.

I may have a host of mishaps ahead which is why my sense of adventure is heightened when I drive before sun up and sleep in the corner parking lot, communing with nature, supporting my swimmer son.

Green Again

I just opened a daily reading from Ransomed Heart Ministries and read, "Can it really happen? Can things in our lives be green again? No matter what our creeds may tell us, our hearts have settled into another belief. We have accepted the winter of this world as the final word and tried to get on without the hope of spring." (Desire 110-111)

Two weeks ago, I listened as a neurosurgeon offered his assessment of my leg issues. He said there are two things going on. One he could help, the other he could not, since from his perspective, the images from a recent MRI do not explain why my hip is so weak. He concluded permanent muscle damage is the likely cause.

Those words echoed in my head for days, souring my mood--"permanent muscle damage." The finality of it all squelched all hope and left my heart cold.

Four days later, I met with my ankle surgeon. He looked through each image and offered another explanation, speculating that a small protrusion in the disk may be causing the weakness. Both doctors agreed I should schedule an injection from a pain clinic, but only one believes the injection might help the hip.

When I left the second office, I marveled at how much hope helped. Logically, I knew neither doctor really knows why my hip is so weak. But on that Thursday, Dr. Royster took me from winter to spring.

The Ransomed Heart reading from this morning ended with these words, "We make a nothing of eternity by enlarging the significance of this life and by diminishing the reality of what the next life is all about."

If the mere hope of something fixing the weakness in my leg could lighten my mood to such an extent, I wonder what would happen if I anchored my hope in the reality of what's to come verses the tyranny of now. I've not been very good at that lately. But even the Psalmist sang, "Why are you downcast, O my soul? Why so disturbed within me? Put your hope in God..." (Ps. 42: 5)

Last night's storms left a sweet green outside my window today. I found these two blossoms in Donna's flower bed hanging heavy from the wet. But even their sweet smelling beauty,as enticing as it is, doesn't compare with the spring that's yet to come.

Donna's Colors

I lived at 3750 Apple Way for almost twelve years. In all those years, I grew only a small patch of Impatiens. They were dear to me. A sign of hope. A small victory in an otherwise unkept yard.

I live across town now, in a home I tried hard to avoid. My husband and his former wife shared this abode for well over a decade. But God had other plans and we moved in a few days after Christmas, in a deep mid-winter that stretched well into spring.

As the weather thawed, however, daffodils grew and yellow blossoms lined my driveway. Dogwoods and azaleas lit up the front yard soon after. As I took photos today, I discovered a deep burgundy iris I'd driven past several times without noticing.

And all the while I've thought about Donna, her life of color, and the beauty she left behind. Every spring an array of color will unfold in this yard. And every year, the colors of her soul will shine through those who knew and loved her well.

She left a kaleidoscope of color - which leaves me wondering what I will leave behind.

"Therefore as God's chosen people, holy and dearly loved, clothe yourselves with compassion, kindness, humility, gentleness, and patience... Forgive as the Lord forgave you. And over all these virtues, put on love..." (Col. 3:12, 13, &14)

Donna wore love and God's colors showed.

Starting Again

An entire season has passed since I last wrote. I fell on Nov. 14th after months of concern about my weak right ankle. It encountered a small stick or a pine cone, I'm not sure which, and the ankle rolled. As I lay on my front sidewalk in pain, I became well aware that at least one surgery was imminent.

About the time I began to recover from ankle surgery, we sold my former home and moved from the east to the west side of town. Within a week of the move, pain in my back intensified and I realized it needed care. After two trips to the ER on the same day (one in an ambulance), I was admitted to the hospital where the docs discovered a large herniated disk.

It's been two months since back surgery and I'm still recovering. In some ways I have more control of my walking. But my right foot is quite numb and if I lay on my left side with bended knees, I can't lift my right leg. It won't budge. An MRI of my back has been ordered to check for bone fragments which means one surgeon wonders if I might require a third surgery to heal.

It's been easy to hunker down in silence during the long winter months.

But the birds are singing today. It's seventy degrees and the sky is crystal blue. I'm wearing a spring skirt over freshly shaven legs which is no small feat. And the view from the shade of my covered front porch includes a landscape dotted with bright yellow daffodils.

"See! The winter is past; the rains are over and gone. Flowers appear on the earth; the season of singing has come..." (Song of Songs 2: 11-12)

Today, I can join with the birds, delighting in a new season, a new time, a new day to just celebrate the Good King is on His throne and has it all under control.

No, it's not easy. But He is good.