I have been trying to write about something, but I cannot quite find the words. The other day, I started and ended up merely talking about Bettina, Sunshine, and Manna. I shall try again.
For well past two and a half years, day in and day out, I have lived with great criticism. It is a devastating thing to always have the worst assumed about you, to be judged and found wanting on every level, to have a mirror held up to you that is so distorted nothing you see is real. What you knew as real is lost as the sight you thought you recognized ripples into the lie, words that fill your mind drown out the Word you knew. When boundaries are crossed and the work environment fills nights and weekends, you can find yourself spinning around in all directions. I did.
In the midst of that, I found the pure doctrine. That should have been the perfect anchor. It was. I just couldn't see it.
What called to me in the Book of Concord, its siren song, is Christ crucified. There is no sweeter thing on earth than objective grace. Someone once called the Gospel elusive to me. I liked that, for it had the promise of a day when it wouldn't be. That day finally came, has been sweet on my tongue for a while now, that I have been savoring, storing up the memory for the times—I know will surely come again—when I lose sight of that which the Holy Spirit has shown me.
A perfect example, I think, is the freedom I found in the answer to a recent desperate email to Brother Goose about feeling like a fraud in writing out the Snippets intro:
You are only fraudulent if that's a lie. If it's not, then you are indeed a poor, miserable sinner who has found a source of comfort in the Book of Concord. A lifeline, of sorts, thrown out to a person who is drowning and who clings to its message for dear life.
So the Snippets are tossed out in the hopes that some other poor, miserable sinner might find in their Gospel message the same lifeline you've found.
You don't toss them out as a person who is anything other than a sinner involved in divine worship - in the exercises of faith as it struggles with despair (Tractatus 51).
Now, the key is to STOP LOOKING AT YOURSELF! You ARE a sinner and will remain one so long as you live in this flesh; the key is to let the Lutheran Confessions guide your attention away from yourself and to rest your eyes solely on Christ. In many ways this is the struggle that constitutes the Christian faith: looking to self vs. looking to the Savior. The one way leads only to despair (when we're honest) or to pride (when we're blinded); the other leads to tears of joy and songs of praise. For all us sinners, God has set forth His Son as the Propitiation, the wiping out of our sin, and of the whole world's! In Christ, your sins are forgiven, hidden beneath the saving blood. So the struggle goes on about where to focus attention. And you write the Snippets as a bit of an exercise for yourself and for others in allowing the attention to stay focused on the Lamb of God who takes away the sin of the world.
Goose, you have no other righteousness than Him. And He is enough. And more than enough. It is not your hold on Him that saves; it is His hold on you. And in Baptism He has said to you that He's got you and will not let you go until He finishes the good work He has begun.
Anyway, Christ eased the overwhelming burden I felt over the Snippets between Brother Goose's words and another's advice to think of myself as merely a placeholder until God brings someone else along who is trained in the doctrine of our confessions. But for all his admonition about looking to the cross—and all my own gazing upon my beloved crucifixes—these words still eluded me. How ever do I do that?
Tonight, while praying the Psalter with Brother Goose (he used the Coverdale Psalter) and singing hymns (he showed me a new Gerhardt one), I told him about a confession of the Gospel I made last night. In telling him, it hit me. I really have begun to learn (I am sure the process will take the rest of the my life) to crawl into the wounds of Christ and hide there. The words I wrote last night were not mere words, were not the confession I wanted it to be, but the confession I made by the faith that Christ gave me.
The problem I have battled is that I let my eyes slip from the home I found in that first pass through the Book of Concord because I wanted something as much as I wanted the Gospel. Maybe you could say I wanted what I thought would be the greatest mercy Christ could show me. Surely I would find it hanging out with a bunch of Lutherans, eh? Ah, but Myrtle, you say, you really are stupid! Hanging out with a bunch of Lutherans also means hanging out with a bunch of sinners. Looking to them for mercy will always disappoint you even as Christ will serve you through them.
If you spend your time looking at the people in the churches, you will never really see the Church. Maybe I am not quite saying that right. But our Confession is our Church. It is what binds us together and to Him. We believe, teach, and confess that there is hope, healing, and forgiveness in the gifts of Christ, in the Sacraments, the Living Word, and the Word of Absolution. And our true home is in Him. In Him and nowhere else. In Him is salvation and nowhere else. In Him is life and nowhere else.
The greatest mercy, then, that Christ could show me is the cross. It is how He is saving me. Now, this day. And how He will tomorrow. I don't even understand the half of it, but I know that it is true.
There is a sister out there who was not helped through troubling "life events" and has walked away from the Lutheran Church in her hurt. Part of what I wrote is:
It may seem that Protestant churches are more...welcoming...of wounded people, struggling people...but what they offer is cruel, for it is a confession that puts all the burden of your faith on yourself; it is specious teaching that is truly egregious. I weep so often for my brothers and sisters in Christ in all those churches where Christ is made the new Moses, where the Gospel is distorted beyond recognition, and where forgiveness is not offered in Word and Sacrament. I know not what life event fell her. I do not really need to. I shall be praying for her that she might find the peace of Christ, taste His forgiveness, and remember her baptism.
Pray for her this day, that she might remember her baptism. Pray for me, that I might remember mine. I pray you remember yours.
Typing out the Psalter and our Confessions day after day has helped me to think about all the things Pastor F, Brother Goose, my pastors, my Internet pastors, Walther, Krauth, and Forde have taught me, all the things the Holy Spirit has been revealing to me in bits and pieces despite the maelstrom swirling through the past year and a half. You could say that I have taken in my first promise: the Living Word will never return void and will always accomplish its purpose, as as Luther put it: [the Living Word] has, and is able to do, all that God is and can do. [LC, IV, 17-18]
A while back, in great anguish, I cried out that everything had changed and yet nothing had. Tonight, I cry out the same in great joy. Nothing has changed and yet everything has.
The pain is overwhelming. My hands are stiff and sore, as are all parts of me, making it feel as if I have not taken the Celebrex at all. When I am without the knee brace, that joint simply does not function at all.
A woman stopped by with boxes and sort of looked askance at me for not rising from the couch, but I cared not. No masking for me...at least for this day and the rest of the week. At least that is my intention. I need to recover for the Saturday;s cleaning push before Sunday's open house.
A short while ago, Bettina sent me info on an app that helps you remember birthdays. I have missed four in the past six weeks. Then, I saw a commercial about a Blackberry ap that was a personal assistant of sorts. I tried to find something similar on iTunes because I missed seven bills last month, including my mortgage, despite the system of checks and balances I have in place. I did not find one, but I did find a medical assistant app that seems most helpful to me.
I put it on the first screen in the first slot. If you tap on it, you will see a red button marked "emergency information." If you press on it, you will see my name, date of birth, blood type, emergency contact, allergies, medications, primary care physician, insurance, and a note field.
In the app itself, I have entered all my medical appointments, contacts, and history (conditions, allergies, surgeries, and vaccinations). This way, at least, when I go to a new doctor and have to fill out all those forms, I will not have to battle to remember the information. I also made a note file for my asthma attacks.
I also worked on another Snippet, sweating bullets the whole time since it was on Christ's return. That means they are done through Thursday. I am trying to work ahead to make the review process easier for the editor.
My left ring finger started hurting yesterday. How I wish my rememberer worked better. Were that the case, I would have spent today in bed, not moving an inch. But, alas, I did not remember that when a finger on my left hand pains me it is because I am growing too tired.
I have been working and working and working on the house since I lost my job. And then started out this past week sleep deprived for those neurological tests. I should have spent Thursday sleeping, but alas it was more selling-the-house work.
Today was extraordinary in that my brother came for a second all-day yard fest: mowing, edging, raking, sweeping, pruning, cleaning, re-setting the rocks that border the flowerbeds, and re-arranging both decks. The difference in the yard last week was truly amazing to me. This week, I am astounded. It is the same and yet is so neat and clean and well...balanced and larger somehow. Truly the "curb" appeal, fore and aft, has greatly improved.
I do believe that all the work on the closets was worth it, for they are all no longer crammed in appearance. Inside, the entire house is much, much cleaner, though it could still use help. It is also neat and balanced and larger somehow. Hopefully, it will all be worth it.
The problem is, I have reached the point of no return. My right knee has begun to fail, causing me to cry out even as I try to endure the pain in silence. That great barometer of my fatigue has gone from mere warning to breaking in protest. Out came the knee brace, but truly I probably need to sleep at least until the open house slated for next Sunday.
To be honest, I am disappointed in myself. I should remember these things. I should be able to take better care of myself. I should be better at pacing and setting boundaries...except...except...there really isn't anyone else to ready the house and readying the house is what is needed to sell it. And my rememberer is clearly broken.
With my brother willing to help both days, I had to leverage that assistance. Without his help, and that of Sunshine, I never would have regained control of my yard, which most certainly has been ignored for the past three seasons, if not the past two years. Being ill all last summer did not bode well for mowing and such. With all that happened this summer and fall, tending the yard merely fell by the wayside. As did keeping the house clean.
I do not know when to stop. I push and push and push myself...mostly because there does not seem to be another choice. Yet...often when I do make good decisions, when I set boundaries and say I shall not do something or I need to sleep longer I am criticized, oft told I could if I wanted to or something similar. If I wanted...what I want is to be able to function like a normal person, to not have pain in my legs when I stand for any amount of time or walk about for more than an hour or so, to remember simple things, to be able to write by hand, to always know when and where I am, to see clearly, to not shake, to not faint, to not grow so blooming cold...to not...to not...the list is long.
There are, I believe, only two Sugarland songs for which I do not care: Mean Girls and Take Me As I Am. Both have melodies I find irritating and the lyrics have no real pull. Except the title of the latter one. Oh, how I wish people would take me as I am and most certainly not as they perceive me to be. I wish, with my whole being, I did not feel the pressure to mask my symptoms and struggles as much as I do.
That is what I love best about Bettina. Well, second best. I mean, I love that she loves me. I marvel that she loves me. I am, actually, in disbelief that she loves me. She loves me as I am. She also takes me as I am. She is as mindful of my struggles as I could want a person to be, watching out for things that are a problem for me, such as bending over, turning around in the car, and walking up stairs too often. She helps me in so very many tiny ways and she is always, always, always willing to do something for me, to save the step, to save the energy. And yet, all the while, she never makes me feel as if I am a bother or am being lazy or am actually anything other than normal. My life is our normal.
I can tell her that I am too hot and she will leap into action. She does not question me or doubt me or tell me that she doesn't feel hot. None of those things, if they cross her mind, cross her lips. She just helps me get cool or find a place where wet noodle status will not be a danger to me. She has seen me wilt like a plucked flower in the August sun. She knows my fears and frustrations when wet noodletude arises. So, she is there, helping me if she can or waiting for things to pass if she cannot.
The best thing is that she does so sort of folding me into her life. When I am at her home, if I am ensconced on the couch, she goes about her duties and hollers at me or sets up a DVD or something for me. She trusts that I do not expect her to interact with me (though I am quite greedy about playing games with her even though she oft humiliates me with her brilliant play). So, when she can, she will bring the chore to where I am, such as folding laundry or peeling apples. Again, I am not a bother, just part of the ebb and flow of her existence. I love that. I truly do.
It is that quality, in at least some measure, that I recognize in Sunshine. Oh, did she bear such grief her first few Sundays. Yet she never crumpled beneath the burden. God has blessed her with this amazing ability to simply take in what she hears and then lay it at the foot of the cross. The Holy Spirit has guided her, on any number of occasions, to care for me in very small ways that are not necessarily time consuming but have great mileage on my heart. A favorite is that she heard me talk about bread pretzel bites that I had just once at a movie theatre and still dream about since they were served with nacho cheese. The next time she was at her volunteer place and was actually coming back to my house rather than going on home, she spotted a pretzel place and picked up one for me. Oh, how my heart sang and wept at such thought.
Like, well, Manna's quickie emails. Little snippets of her day that she shares. Little snippets she sends to let me know that she is thinking of me. Such a heady thing, a wondrous thing to be thought of and loved and cared for and to have people let you know in small ways because they understand that knowing is important and needed and...healing.
Something, too, that I know about Bettina and Sunshine is that, with me at least, they look more toward the future rather than the past. They do not assume one thing based on what I have done, but rather expect for good rather than bad, rather than the mistake. They see where change has come and celebrate that, help me see that, rather than where failures still run hip deep.
I had a secret that I kept, out of great fear, from Bettina. Events in August brought that into the light. She responded with more mercy than I ever thought possible. I do not believe that I have ever felt more loved, more safe, than in that moment when she first responded to the fear I voiced as to why I did not tell her. It was as if Christ Himself, not my dear friend, was giving voice to those words. It was the beginning of freedom that has worked itself into the darkness and despair unbeknownst to me at first. A washing away that only comes from absolute forgiveness.
When I despaired over the condition of the fifth petition of the Lord's Prayer because it certainly sounded like law to me, Brother Goose went round and round to help me understand. I could finally make sense of his words, but I did not really believe them, take them into my heart. They were still a mystery to me. The sign of our being forgiven is that we can forgive others. Yet I know that she could not have given me that forgiveness for the lie of omission and the distrust in her love and the gift of her friendship that was my silence unless she had been forgiven herself. Oh, do I understand that now!
At her words, too, began the process of finally trusting in her friendship, in her love. Less than two months later came a time of such trial born of a lie from someone else that tested that trust in a horrible way. Yet she did not, at least with me, flinch at my fear and doubts and the wall I threw up in haste. She waited and then came running when I cried out for help. And sat and talked and listened to hard things and took me out to do that which few others would even understand. She wrapped me up in as much love as possible and then walked away to get back to her family, trusting that the future would be as God would have it.
I sometimes wish I could ask her things as if I were another person, not me, not Myrtle. First and foremost, I would ask her what is the hardest part about loving me, for I would do most anything to make that cross easier for her to bear. It is a cross. I know it. I would think that the hardest part of our fifteen year friendship is that I doubt that she will continue to love, will continue to want me in her life. To be fair, that is the kind of relationship outcome I learned as a child. And, to be fair, I cannot actually remember the bulk of those fifteen years because of my blasted brain cells. Yet I know those 15 years have passed as a fact even if not as a memory that I can re-live. I should trust that.
I have changed. The wailing has ceased. The weeping, for loss and grief, will ease when it eases. Doubts and fears and terrors and worries still exist. Yet I also understand that which I hoped would be possible is not and most likely will never be and I have laid that hope down. In the laying down has come balance. And in all those Psalms have come peace.
In no small part, I have also changed because I am more at ease with her friendship than I have ever been...more joyful, actually. What an amazing gift God has given me born from a terrible, terrible cross! Such is faith. Such is the life He has for us.
So, this night, is in part peaceful because of Sunshine's companionship and her selfless collating and folding of the 100 copies of the Dare to Read: The Book of Concord booklets that have been sitting in a box for a couple of months, is an easier night to bear.
It is also an easier night because I know, when Bettina and I talk next, I can bewail and bemoan the absolute misery I am in due to pain and the bone deep fatigue. She will listen, love me, and pray for me. She will, as she is wont to do, search for some little way I can do something easier, some bit of organization or some process, or some remembering help, and she will tell me to take better care of her best friend. But she will also accept me as I am. She will let me voice my pain and not take it as complaint. She will let me voice my fears and not take it as criticism. She will let me voice my heart and merely take it as wanting not to be alone in those things.
She will love me in such a way as I can understand--juggling the needs of her family with our friendship as best she can--patiently and selflessly, reflecting the love and mercy of Christ to me, because she is forgiven and she is loved by the Good Shepherd who is also the Lamb who takes away the sins of the world.
As silly as it sounds, my prayer would be that everyone have a Bettina in their lives. I pray that everyone would have a Sunshine to shower mercy and a Manna to reach out and touch and a Brother Goose to ask questions that they might learn that which is missing in their life, in their heart.
We have entered Advent today, that ineffably joyous time of reflecting on the many ways Christ comes to us. Today, He came to me in a dear woman who traced the cross on my forehead after I was served the Eucharist so that I might have the tangible reminder I need. Today, He came to me in a brother who labored long and hard in my yard. Yesterday, He came to me in a writing student who took from her college holiday break to help me in my yard. This week, He came to me in an adoptive brother who carved out a smidge of time to pray the Psalter with me for courage to walk through a door. This month, He came to me in a realtor who has poured out her life in finding me a home to buy, sight unseen, so that I can start a new life. This summer, He came to me in a woman who offered to scrub my tub and another woman who offered to read the Living Word to me and sing hymns to me. This spring, He came to me in a man who offered to be my brother, both men who have more on their plates than any three men should have. Last year, He came to me in the pure doctrine of the Lutheran Confession and in the holy waters of Baptism and in the Eucharist and in the Word of Absolution. Fifteen years ago, He came to me in a woman who sat in one of my classes, who would end up loving me as He does so that I might taste and see that I am loved. Thirty-two years ago, He came to me in a single verse of the Living Word that has deepened into an ardent passion and hunger for the Gospel and the promises of God. Two thousand years ago, He came to me in a broken and bruised body, put to death in abject shame, that I might know forgiveness.
I spent this day trying to make progress on reducing the things in my house. While I did not gain as much ground as I would have wished, I did complete a long desired task: creating a spreadsheet of the Book of Concord quotes on my Facebook page!
This past week, I created a spreadsheet of the psalms used in the Snippets emails because it is difficult for me to remember whether or not I have already used a particular Psalm. I would rather laboriously open up the past files or log onto the interface and pick through them. And then the next day I couldn't remember any of them that I reviewed the day before. Now, I just glance down my chart and can quickly determine if I have used it or not. The same was true for my Book of Concord status posts.
Now, repeats are not bad at all, but there are so many riches contained in both the Psalter and the Book of Concord that I do not wish to repeat until repeats are necessary. With the Psalter, that will be in 100 more emails. With the Book of Concord...well...probably many years!
This day, I would also like to note the power of the Living Word, once more. Truly, I believe typing out nearly 1/3 of the Psalter to date has helped heal some of the hurt and confusion that I have borne of late. Night after night, the Word has fallen from my lips and my fingertips and then back into my ears as I read and re-read to ensure I have not made a mistake. These prayers have filled my days and sometimes my nights.
And then there is Sunshine, who has consistently prayed the Psalter over me, putting my name into the Word, the Word that is the words of my heart spoken aloud, spoken by Christ, spoken and brought into the light, rather than the darkness that can be so terrifying, such despair.
I am walking in a measure of peace that is actually rather foreign to me. I have hope that I have never experienced before. And I am reminded of my baptism at every turn. Yes, some things are still so difficult that I do not see a way around them. I have suffered such losses of late they seem unbearable. I have been without the consolation and comfort of the Word of Absolution for months. And I have so many questions about the Gospel, about doctrine, that the hunger drives me crazy half the time. But I do see the cross. Christ be praised, I do!
As much as I longed to take in the body and blood of Christ, I was tired. Very tired. Brother Goose called to pray some psalms with me before I went in and she sat with me in the pew. Well, she sat and I lay down.
She asked if I wanted her to stay with me, a query to which I nodded emphatically. I did not want to commune. However, it turned out that I did. By mistake, she was not served. I tried to get the server's attention, but I failed. My utter joy at what I received with mixed with great sorrow at what she lost in staying by my side.
Sunshine, so aptly nicknamed, took joy in the forgiveness wrapped in healing and sustenance that I received, rather than focused on what she missed. She was truly happy for me.
We are taught that there is no greater love than a friend who lays down his life; Sunshine gave up life. Could there be greater love than that? I am truly humbled by her care of me, primarily because so often I clearly see the Holy Spirit at work, giving her Words to pray, hymns to sing, when she could not truly know how much that particular Psalm, that particular hymn would mean to me in that moment. She is quick to always say she is no great person. In that respect, she, too, is a miserable, wretched sinner. But she is baptized, given the name of Christ, and filled with the Holy Spirit who works through her that He might love me, care for me, with her hands and her voice.
In the same way, my beloved Bettina lets me know that I am loved, playing iPod games with me, miles apart but together nonetheless. She sent me a doodle drawing. She makes quick calls. She sings and prays. She tells me about her day. She records the silly songs her son sings. She includes me in her life. Her husband sends his love and affection via offers of stuffing--how well he knows my gluttonous desire for such good food!
In the same way, Manna reaches out from the great white north and sends those wonderful quickie update emails on the moments of her day, with encouragement and messages from her husband as well. He's been painting up a storm and I get to tease him about having a new painting job waiting for him in Fort Wayne if I close on the house, Lord willing. It is good to joke and laugh and tease a bit, to step outside the job loss and uncertainty and pain and fatigue and just have those newsy, breezy, cheery exchanges.
In the same way, the editor takes time out of his crammed life to regularly preview the Snippets emails for me--full well he knows how important it is to me to be sharing the Book of Concord in a good, right, and salutary manner.
I scheduled three days of testing, orginally during vacation days, thinking that it would be the best way to knock out some of the neurological tests that, hopefully, will shed light on how stupid I have gotten over the past couple of years.
I was truly not prepared for the pain. And I did not rise to the occaision, embrace it as a cross to bear. Instead, every minute all I could do was hang on just one minute more.
The tech started out by running a comb through my hair to find her reference points. My hair was somewhat wet since I was instructed to wash it, so the comb pulled and tore out significant chuncks on more than one occaision. Now, I had electrodes attached to my head on Monday. Trust me, this was totally different.
She also scrubbed my skin until it was abraded in several places. On the side of my neck, it was raw and the paste stung so much that tears leaked down my cheeks despite trying to be brave. I ended up having her move that electrode over enough to avoid the abrasion.
What puzzles me most about the day was that staring at a red dot on a screen actually hurt my right eye to the point it was watering profusely during the second round.
I should have realized, truly, that it was not going to be a good day when I got lost four times walking through the hospital trying to find the lab.
If you ask me, running electrical current through ankles and wrists is not the best way to gather data. I mean, I was supposed to remain calm, eyes closes, silent, with no other brain waves than the response to the current. It is very, very difficult to remain that way when in significant amount of pain. I would also proffer the tech shouldn't have repeatedly told me just how hard it would be and that most of her patients did not complete the test. She gave me every opportunity to quit, to not even start, instead of encouraging me through the process.
After the first pass on my left wrist, with one more pass to go on that side and double passes on my other three limbs, I asked her to count down the time, to provide periodic updates so that I knew how much longer it would last. With each update, I prayed the prayer my pastor wrote out for me when he was sharing how he managed to get through hard things: Lord Jesus Christ, Son of God, have mercy on me, a sinner.
I am so tired, so very tired. My limbs still hurt. My neck still feels as if it is on fire. And I am glad that the mercy of Christ carried me through the past three days.
What was the most managable test, you ask? The one measuring my auditory pathways. In the ear not being tested, white noise was broadcast. I concentrated on that sound, instead of the clicking, and was able to remain relaxed, probably getting the best data of the day.
Will this day, this week, bring me closer to an answer? I do not know. The neuropsych exam in December should at least fill in a greater part of the picture. The neurologist just does not know if enough will be painted for him to determine what I need.
I will admit, the best part of the past three days is that I did not have to mask for a single second. It was actually important that all my weaknesses, all my confusion, all my disorientation be transparent to the technicians running the tests.
The wicked part of MS is that many times the tests fail to pinpoint the whys and wherefores of symptoms. I am ready to receive such news. However, I am hoping that will not be the case. Oh, how I long for at least some data that will pinpoint the type of cognitive dysfuction so that I might develop better coping strategies, that I might remain independent longer.
I have wanted to at least get one day ahead on the Snippets of the Book of Concord emails so that I can be sure to have feedback. This morning, the editor gave me some strong edits, most excellent stuff, but I received them after it had gone out. This was my fault since I wrote it in the middle of the night.
So, I spent this evening doing the next three Snippets. That means...yes...you guessed right...typing up three psalms in one evening. Whilst my fingers did grow a bit clumsy from all that labor, my heart sang.
It sang more brightly, too, for Sunshine called with a psalm ready for me this evening, knowing a day of tests and an offer on the house (a disappointing low-ball one it turns out) would be a trial for me. Given that the MRI scheduled for tomorrow was canceled since, apparently, four weeks is not long enough for authorization, it was an even crappier day. Sunshine did not know this, but the Holy Spirit did.
He gave her Psalm 62 for me. SIGH. BLISS. Oh how I savor having the Living Word poured over me, but I will say I am rather partial to psalms being prayed for me with my name in them the way I have done for others.
I have asked God for just one thing, one small thing, to be easy. So much, so very much has been hard for a long while. I am fatigued, yes, but I am also weary. Feeling embattled on all fronts, I asked God for just one thing in my life to be easy. Just now, I realized that God has done this; He has made one thing easy for me!
For a few months now, I have been able to step foot into my shower without fear, without the fear of falling. I have been able to do this because Sunshine scrubs my tub for me every other week. Laboring selflessly on my behalf, she scours it smooth so that I stand on sure foot. Not only does she do this, but she remembers each time and offers to do so freely, never making me ask her for help. In all ways, this is an easy thing.
Last month, when I was not at home and longed for a shower, my pastor's wife retrieved what I needed to wash my hair from my bathroom (its length requires some serious detangling conditioner), my pastor brought it to me, and a stranger stood watch over me. Even there I was safe.
Sunshine and my brother spent the entire afternoon working on the yard for me. The greatest task was to prune the crepe myrtle by the front door. The before and after is simply stunning; before was a tree taking over practically the whole home...an after of a beautifully shaped decorative tree enhancing an entrance with a freshly painted door (compliments of my Saturday's elbow grease) and the faceted light I installed when I moved in all those years ago now in full view.
I did prune some myself, since cutting branches off the crepe myrtle is as painful to me as working on my bonsais. There was much "negotiation" on nearly every cut. No tears were shed, however.
The yard was mowed, edged, and raked as well. The rose of sharon bushes lining the fence all have fresh mulch beneath them and the varigated euonymus bushes out front are finally no longer unruly messes. My brother even when so far are to clean out the shed, which I had gone through and "reduced" gardening pots and supplies to the essentials in preparation for the move.
Poor Sunshine, she had not spare shoes with her, so there she was raking, sweeping, dragging branches, and bagging leaves in her Sunday finest. What a servant's heart God has placed within her as He knit her in her mother's womb.
This is a bit of a problem since I am not to have more than four hours sleep before one of tomorrow's medical tests. I shall have to occupy myself for a few hours yet before seeking the comfort of my pillows.
The house was listed Thursday night. In three days, I had three prospective buyers. The first made an offer this evening, though since it is sitting in a sealed envelope at the realtor's office, I know not yet if it is a good one. Never would I have considered actually having to wonder that.
While I am still falling off that cliff, wondering when, where, and how I will land, it seems to me God has been busy making the path to Fort Wayne quite smooth for me.
There are many things I have lost, cognitively, that are very, very hard for me to bear. A week ago, Sunshine tried to put things in perspective for me regarding why others are oft dismissive when I have tried to talk about it. Oh, but Myrtle, you’re still so smart! I could easily punch the next person who says that. She said that I was up in the clouds and while I am no longer there, I am still on the mountain tops of the folks around me. Something like that, though without the metaphor. Reduced significantly but not noticeably for those who’ve never been in the clouds.
My pastor came and brought me the Lord's Supper last Sunday. A blessed day all around! We talked at length about several of the hard things of late and my leap off the cliff in moving to Fort Wayne. He always says that he does not know what to say, but he does, because the Holy Spirit does and that is how Christ tends to His sheep, through His undershepherds.
How do I know my pastor is an undershepherd? He mentioned an album for me to buy to listen to as I lie down to sleep and when I awake from night terrors. Now, he really doesn't know me. He knows absolutely nothing of my musical tastes, save for knowing that Lord Jesus Think on Me is a hymn I would dearly love have sung over me as much as possible. I am fairly certain he does not know of my love of Fernando Ortega, my enjoyment of a few Chris Rice songs, and my adoration for all things Sugarland. He knows nothing about what types of music sing to my heart, soothing and moving me when it falls upon my ears.
The album he advised me to purchase is Lighten Our Darkness, an a capella compilation that is so beautiful my heart aches. Oh, how I miss singing. I miss the pure music made by just voices blending oh so perfectly after much practice. Truly, I bought the album because he told me to do so, trusting his advice because he is an undershepherd and because he knows something of night terrors.
The first night, I listened to it over and over again, for hours. Now, each night, I fall asleep to it. Each time I awake, I push the start button again. My heart soars at its beauty, taking comfort and strength that our Creator would give His creation such a gift as is music.
The first night, I listened to it over and over again, for hours. And I wept. I cannot hear the words. I cannot understand them. The truth, the Gospel, that is being poured over me is completely lost to me.
I used to sing. Not all that well since my break is in an awful place. But I did. The asthma changed that. But really the scrambled brains did so more. I never read music; I learned everything by ear. In the groups I sang with, I could give people my note and they’d find theirs. I was also a fair hand at working out harmony.
Sunshine and I sing hymns together. Sometimes we find one I can sing harmony, but rarely...not as much as either of us likes. And I have not been able to learn any of the melodies she has sung for me, even If God Himself Be For Me—a Gerhardt hymn that I long so much to be able to sing.
I struggle to learn hymns because I cannot hear the melody. One thing good, great gift actually, the pastor of my last parish did for me was to make those audio files of hymns so all I heard was a single voice singing the melody. I learned 27 hymns that way.
The ex-professor part of me oft wonders why it is that I can no longer distinguish notes of music. Why I cannot work out harmonies any longer. And why I cannot hear the words in so very many recordings.
The music on the album my pastor recommended is so very, very beautiful. Utterly. I am truly thankful that the Holy Spirit prompted this undershepherd to speak of that which would help me battle the terrors of the night. But I also sorrow because I cannot understand the words.
Last winter, I went Christmas caroling and got in some real trouble with the cold. Then, I had dressed warmly and had a coat, scarf, and gloves. My godmother gave me her baby to warm my chest; the pastor fetched blankets and draped them about me. I should have been toasty. But I wasn't. I couldn't really walk...whole body shivering and cramps in my leg muscles. I didn't think about it much beyond that day.
After all, anyone who really knows me knows that I embrace cold like a dear friend! I am not really comfortable until the temperature drops to the 60's. I find the 40s balmy. The 20s a bit brisk. I rarely wear a coat. My turtlenecks have gone unworn for years. My concession to the cold is a scarf and gloves, maybe another undershirt.
However, the dysautonomia has vastly affected my thermoregulation and I fear this winter, wherever I may be, is going to be a series of hard lessons for me.
Today, I went to Lowe's to fetch some sand and pea gravel to put out front (yes, I have continued to tackle projects needing done about the house even after placing it on the market). I had on my track suit, with bike shorts, thick socks, and three tank tops. I was fine when I got out of the car. I sort of felt the cool air walking across store, but thought nothing of it. Laboriously hefting the bags into the cart should have left me sweating, but it did not. Pushing the heavy cart to the checkout stand, I started to shiver. By the time it was my turn, I resembled an aspen leaf in the fall winds. The cashier actually picked up his heater and placed it on the counter for me. I really was surprised at how cold I was, given the temperature was only about 55 degrees. I keep the house at 67.
Part way across the parking lot, I fell to the ground and curled in a ball trying to warm up. I didn't care about my cart or where I was. All I could think was that I was in trouble.
Christ be praised, an older man came along with his wife and daughter. Through chattering teeth, I managed to tell him the problem. His wife took my keys and ran to the car to start the engine and turn the heat on full blast. He then basically picked me up and carried me to the car, his daughter following with the cart. After getting me settled in my seat, he unloaded my purchases in the back of the car and put the cart away for me.
It was a rather sobering moment, soaking in the heat, trying to recover enough to drive myself home. I think the randomness of it all is so difficult to handle.
I mean, this summer, there were several times that I ended up blasting the heat in my home, more than once punching the button until it reached 80 degrees. Normally, I start getting uncomfortable above 70, really noticing the temperature and its effects beginning to creep over me at 72. I never really know what might trigger the plummet in temperature. Logically, winter will be a problem. But later this evening, when I had to go out again and it was colder, I was okay. I had changed my clothing, but I still forgot to take a coat.
I will proffer that I do not believe it is a coincidence that during the inspection for the house I chose it was determined the heating system is the largest possible for the house, i.e., I shall have no problems keeping it toasty should that be necessary.
I have felt so alone, trying to make the right decisions in haste, trying to figure out what to do next, the house here, the house in Fort Wayne, the neurological testing, work, everything....
Sunshine, knowing how incredibly shell-shocked I have been over the past two days, called to pray a Psalm over me this evening as a way to end the day. Oh, how I am thankful the Holy Spirit promoted that dear woman to speak the Living Word to me!
Strengthen us by Your Spirit, according to Your will, both in life and in death, in the midst of both good and evil things, that our wills may be crucified daily and sacrificed to Your good and gracious will. Into Your merciful hands we commend Myrtle and all who face uncertainty regarding the future in these difficult days, praying for them at all times, Thy will be done!
Sunshine called to tell me some news she knew would be important to me, and I faltered upon hearing something else behind her words. Perhaps I heard wrongly, but anguish still filled my heart and tears flowed. Sunshine, so aptly nicknamed, quickly spoke of Jesus and the hope she is certain I have in the Gospel, despite how often I stumble these days. The hope that encourages her to see in me. The hope she remembers for me when I have lost sight of the cross. Oh, how well she understands my longing for it!
Without prompting, Sunshine offered to pray a Psalm for me. When she asked me to pick one, I gave her the choice, a departure for me since I usually have one in mind I am longing to hear...or two or three or four! Which one did she choose? Or, rather, which one did the Holy Spirit choose to pour over me? That dear woman prayed all of Psalm 119 for me, putting my name into the words of this prayer of longing for the strength, solace, comfort, and instruction of the Living Word.
Nothing, absolutely nothing, means more to me and speaks more to me than the Living Word. Over and over and over again, I am humbled and awed by its power to still my heart, to bring peace in the midst of a great storm...despite even the obstacles of my own flesh. Would that it were I had it poured over me every day. Surely I would grow stronger. Surely I would know peace. Surely I would be able to bear this cross.
I read it aloud to myself all the blooming time, savoring the taste on my lips and the sound in my ears. Yet it is not the same as having it poured over me. Such riches. Such wonder.
What an utter, precious, merciful gift Christ gave to me through Sunshine this day. His timing, as always, was perfect. For in that prayer, He clung to me in a way I could understand, in a way I could take in, literally, saving me from drowning in the anguish and the confusion and the failure and the sin that has overwhelmed me this day.
Marist College, recognized for excellence by U.S. News & World Report, TIME Magazine and the Princeton Review, and by Barron's Best Buys in College Education, is noted for its leadership in the use of technology to enhance the teaching and learning...
Laura Thomson of Winterville, NC, received a Bachelor of Science degree in Accounting from Marist College the weekend of May 23. Marist is an independent comprehensive liberal arts college with an...
Laura Thomson of Winterville, NC, is a member of the Class of 2015 and is majoring in Accounting. Marist is an independent comprehensive liberal arts college with an enrollment of 4,700 full-time ...
Laura Thomson of Winterville, NC, member of the Class of 2015, has been named to the Marist College Dean's List for the Spring 2014 semester. Marist is an independent comprehensive liberal arts co...
Laura Thomson, of Winterville, NC, is a member of the Class of 2015 and is majoring in Accounting. Marist is an independent comprehensive liberal arts college with an enrollment of 4,700 full-time...
Laura Thomson, of Manlius, NY, is a member of the Class of 2014 and is majoring in Accounting. Marist is an independent comprehensive liberal arts college with an enrollment of 4,500 full-time...
Laura Thomson, of Manlius, NY, is a member of the Class of 2015 and is majoring in Accounting. Marist is an independent comprehensive liberal arts college with an enrollment of 4,500 full-time ...
Laura Thomson, Manlius, NY, is a member of the Class of 2015 and is majoring in Accounting. Marist is an independent comprehensive liberal arts college with an enrollment of 4,200 full-time und...
Laura Thomson of Manlius, NY, has enrolled as a first-year member of the Class of 2015 at Marist College in Poughkeepsie, NY. More than 11,400 high school seniors applied for admission this fall,...
Colleges across the country are recognizing students from Fayetteville Manlius High School for their on-campus success. Click any achievement to discover alumni from Fayetteville Manlius High School, view their personalized Merit pages, and learn about...
Laura Thomson of Manlius, NY participated in the annual Run/Walk for Hunger Month at Marist College. Thomson, is a Freshman majoring in Accounting. "There is a two-fold purpose to Hunger Mon...