Worth It

 

Mom is wielding a bean bag in the above picture, fulfilling her occupational therapist's belief in her that she can knock down every pin. Twenty minutes and over fifty tries later, it was a reality recorded in the picture below. Faith provided the motivation and willingness to risk failure, but hard work, trial-error-adjustment, and determination created the success.

Also pictured on the right is the pole that the physical therapist has helped her to learn to use as a transfer aid. The horizontal bar lifts and rotates around the pole, then lowers to lock into place to use as a grip. It all adds up to a little more freedom, muscle building, and greater self-esteem. 

Besides fear, Mom has had to overcome self-doubt, apathy, and bias (she didn't want the therapies nor aids in the beginning) and accept help (regardless of its form) in order to move forward in her healing. Before the therapy started, she was depending on faith, alone, for her progress, but we all know that God expects more from us than that. The journey has been psychological, emotional, and physical, and so have the achievements.

So what are we dreaming of that is worth our faith, hard work, and determination?

Hole in the Clouds

It is so nice to see the blue sky and sunshine break through the clouds these days. We’ve had more cold days of rain than usual this spring. Although that’s great for the land, it can be dismal for my spirits. However, even just the occasional glimpse of a brighter day is cheerful enough to sustain me.

Today Mom had a front tooth break off and she cried in frustration over her two recent bouts of falling and now this. In her misery, she wonders if she is being punished. I hope she is able to see through the clouds of disillusion soon and glimpse a different perspective. She has been blessed with good health all her life and may have forgotten that others have had to deal with these misfortunes and worse much earlier in life.

I know it’s easy for me to sit here and espouse a brighter attitude, but I hope she can see some hope shimmering through the hole in these recent rain clouds. Her psyche has become as fragile as her body, but she’s not alone, she’s with family who love her, she’s still a dynamite 96 year old, and I’m pretty sure the dentist can fix up her smile if she will just give him time.

Spring Has Sprung

Or so the calendar says. Since today is supposed to be the first day of spring, I walked around to gather evidence. Sure enough, the signs are definitely here.

Grapefruit are now gracing my breakfast menu.

The eternal shadow of overcast skies have given way to the bright contrasts of the sun’s rays.

Temperatures are soaring between frosty nights and light jacket days.

Ankles can now be lost in the unshorn grass that is flushed green from rain.

Branches trimmed by hard winter winds are stacked and ready for mulching.

Our slumbering neighbors are alert and coming over to visit again and…

…friends who winter in the warmer South are back and singing in the trees.

The pond is bubbling freely and the goldfish are no longer sluggish.

Trees are budding…

…bulbs are blooming

…and the Oregon Grape bushes are awakening.

The world seems new again as we shake off the cold and grim winter greys and don spring shades of green. As surely as the Earth follows its track around the sun, life in eastern Oregon orbits the seasons. Students are reveling in Spring Break, farmers are preparing for spring tilling and planting, homeowners are reconditioning their lawnmowers. It is predictable and comforting; assuring us that the pain and loneliness of even the most brutal winter will not last forever. Life does renew itself and hearts do lighten. What seemed impossible in the dismal light of our season of waiting will reveal new avenues of hope in the dawn of spring. Be happy, be hopeful, and find joy. Spring has indeed sprung.

Carol of the Bells

Could I possibly make it one more step, I wondered desperately? No. The answer ringing in my head scared me more than the lack of oxygen in my lungs. With alarm, I realized my breathing had changed from the mere breathlessness of exertion to that desperate gasping that comes when taking air into the lungs is no longer enough. This was the first moment I actually considered that I might not be able to make the whole climb. It was a terrifying thought because I couldn't see a way out; going up meant not being able to breathe, but going down was surely impossible because the narrow passage was only one-person wide. I'd never get past the people behind me.

Thankfully, the people ahead of me stopped for a moment. At least, I was thankful until I realized they had stopped to let people coming down the narrow, marble staircase go past us. As I heard the descending steps of those heard-but-yet-unseen sightseers coming nearer, I tried to consciously control my breathing and slow my heartbeat, wondering all the while how any adults could possibly squeeze by. This must be a joke! Not one to usually feel claustrophobic, I began to press myself against the stone wall in a slow panic, praying that we would not get stuck. I would have held my breath as well, but I couldn't get enough of it in to hold. Who on earth led these groups to the top of the duomo? Had they never heard of timing or one-way routes? What on earth was I doing here?

Somehow, we slipped past one another, the descending group uttering encouragement as they passed. "Not much farther," they lied. Then I had to face the continuing climb. How many steps did the tour book say? 367? That didn't seem like much at the beginning, but after the first 60, when I had lost interest in counting, I was really questioning my ability to make it. Foolishly, I had followed the quick climbing pace of those in front of me; a young couple jogging as they counted and bantered. Cruel people, actually. This is a typical mistake for me; trusting the lead of others instead of thinking for myself. I, who called, at best, a 20 minute daily walk a "workout" had no business JOGGING up 367 extremely tall steps. Were those walls closing in, by the way? Was that 24 inch wide passageway getting even narrower, or was it a figment of my oxygen-starved brain?

At 100 steps we reached a broad landing where people stopped to look at antique paraphenalia hung on the walls overhead. I feined interest as I audibly gulped in huge quantities of air and refused to continue the climb again until my blue lips faded to at least white. Now at the back of the pack, my two kindly cohorts let me lead us up the remaining stairs at my own leisurely pace. I'm sure the guide, who followed at the rear and made the trip several times a day, was ready to throttle me, but at this point, survival was my only goal. I no longer cared if the view was worth it; I just wanted to live. Two-thirds of the way up we got another reprieve at the base of the dome as we filed along its inside wall just long enough to admire the frescos before re-entering the passage again. Hope flooded me at that point as I actually began to concieve of salvation. That was about the time the right hand wall became a vertical rope around which the steep steps spiraled and the left hand wall began to lean in. My breathing was better, but I will admit that my prayer life increased as I petitioned that no one would need to pass us again.

For me, the challenges of the climb were unexpected and life-changing. The view was, of course, worth it, but so was the experience itself. In that moment of hopelessness, when neither going up nor going down seemed actually possible, I faced real fear. Grace gave me a moment to collect myself, but it was hope that made me start moving again and got me to the top. I learned that nothing worthwhile is gained without risk and that my own instincts and reason are worth trusting.

So, during this second week of Advent, I celebrate Hope; one of the greatest gifts we have ever been given and one of the best blessings we can share with one another. Hope is what keeps us from giving up...on ourselves, on God, on each other. It keeps us from becoming bitter, dried up skeletons no longer capable of loving or taking risks. It drives us to keep looking for cures, to forgive, to try again, and to take another step up that winding, claustrophobic staircase of life.

Here's to the hope that Christmas will reign in our hearts forever:

Get Into the Spirit!

This is the week of Operation Christmas Child, which is sponsored by the nondenominational Samaritan’s Purse organization. Mom and I have each packed two plastic containers (instead of the suggested paper-wrapped shoeboxes) with small toys, stuffed animals, toothbrushes, toothpaste, bars of soap, hard candy, flip flops, socks, puzzles, notepaper, pencils, and erasers. We will take them to a nearby relay center, along with $7/box for postage, where they will be checked for inappropriate war toys, candy that could melt, or liquid substances such as shampoo before being boxed in crates and sent to regional centers and then loaded onto planes for delivery. Accompanied by a little bible story book printed in a native language, the gifts go into countries all over the world and are given to children who are victims of war, natural disasters, poverty, and disease. Many of these kids have never received a gift before.

Our church has also done this as a group project for quite a few years. I provide the plastic containers because they can be reused by children’s families to store food, etc. and everyone in the parish randomly brings small toys, wrapped candies, and hygiene items with which to fill the boxes. Some bring a little, some a lot. We spread all the goods out on tables and then each grab a box and fill it according to whether it is for a boy or girl and which age group (3-5, 6-10, 11-14). It’s easy, fun, and feasible for everyone.

If you’d like to try it, here’s where you find a drop-off center close to you and more details about the process. I love the joy that this brings to everyone involved. What a great way to begin Advent!

Out of the Ashes Comes Hope

(I have just come into the house from a quick trip to the library when there is a light knock on my front door.)

Me, opening the inside door and taking a step backward: Hi.

Him, holding the screen door and leaning forward a bit: Do you own a green Toyota pickup?

Me (feeling of dread – my daughter has the pickup in the city...what has happened?): Yes.

Him (rushing to get the words out): The stereo was stolen out of it? A long time ago?

Me (tumble of thoughts...confusion...): Yes. (My eyebrows furrow, taking in this sketchy character. Is he 25, 30? What does he want? Clean, but sounds uneducated. Like some of my past students? Be careful, I think. How does he know about the pickup?)

Him: I did it. I stole it. The stereo.

Silence. We look each other in the eye. He seems relieved to have said it, yet afraid of my reaction. Do I have a reaction? What? My thoughts tumble backward ten years to picture the pickup parked out front, our reaction to see it broken into, and the frustration that someone thought we could afford the loss...or didn’t care...

Me: You did it?

Him: Yes. (Heartbeat.) I did my time, but I wanted to tell you it was me.

Again we both pause. I am formulating what I want to say next, (Why is he familiar?), but I am too stunned that this is happening to formulate much.

However, he is here for a purpose and is driven to continue: How much did it cost? (Reaching for his wallet) I have $15.

Me (putting my hand up like a stop sign): No. It’s alright. (Am I just being nice, or do I really mean it?)

Him: No. I want you to take it.

Me: No. I’m just glad you told me the truth. (Realizing how much it must have taken for him to do this I want to add something encouraging. The words, stumbling but sincere were something like): I hope good things happen for you now as you work toward your future.

Thrusting three crisp $5 bills toward me he quickly adds: I’ll pay you more when I can.

Finally, something in me breaks through my shock so that I can say more firmly: I don’t want any more money. It means more to me that you came and told me the truth.

After he makes sure I take the bills, he backs up a little. Perhaps it is his turn to be a little stunned. Neither of us is sure what comes next.

Me, moving closer to the doorway: Thank you for telling me. I really appreciate your being honest.

He seems satisfied and, letting go of the screen door, turns to go. Before he is down the porch steps I lean around the screen door and ask his name. Stopping, he turns around and tells it to me without hesitation. Things click into place in my mind.

He wants to know something else as well: Did the pickup belong to your son?

Me, inwardly analyzing his question but answering honestly: No. It was the family car, but he drove it to work after school.

I watched him turn and go, unable to take my eyes off of him. His fresh start began with taking care of some old business. Setting things right. Forgiveness and grace. Amen. I will never forget.