I came home from work, took off my jacket and coat, dropped them, and fell into bed. I crawled out at some point to heat up chili, then came back down and sat again.
I've found out why TV is so addicting to people who are sick. It is a distraction, a lifting of reality. You know how reality is when I am sick? It is discomforting, nauseous, tedious, monotonous, very, very slow, where every irritation is unjust and every discomfort makes me a martyr. Add self-loathing of my heart, mind, and spirit at the moment, and it's a lovely picture, isn't it? But it did give me some insight into other lives.
My Mama, so often sick, comes home and night after night turns on the TV. It irritates me, for I can get so easily caught up in the story-lines, true, but I wished she would find some other amusement--TV can be so harmful, and has unpleasant stereotypes associated with it. Some, even a great deal, if you are sick, is understandable...but night after night?
But there is something about TV that nothing except a good book can offer, and books have words that dance off the page or letters that move around as fevers increase. TV offers an escape. Remember my heart, mind, spirit, and body when I am sick? Remember your discomfort when you are sick? TV takes that away. It is not reality, it is not just that it is exciting, distracting, colorful, and impossible to ignore. It is a means of escaping pain or discomfort. Not just a partial escape, a temporary lifting. Hours, yes, hours, where reality is suspended by a captivating world, a world that I can chose. I came home and watched Mission Impossible: Ghost Protocol. It is now nearly bedtime; I feel I just got home.
I go to bed soon, and I struggled, oh how I struggled through the workday. I had to stay till the first meeting, because I needed to know what was being said there. I had a project that had to get done today, that was the deadline. Near the time that was finished, I got another, and it was new, something I had not done before--I could make it entertaining. Then there was the second meeting, that broke up the afternoon, that had laughter in it. That last half hour, that was so hard. I was tempted so many times to just get up and leave. Work on this, work on this, just a few minutes more, my discipline was reduced to pleading. A few minutes more. Time flew when I got home, when I turned on a movie. Entertainment on a screen, a story that weaves with color, sound, movement, tension, interest, excitement, and my reality falls away.
An ironic time to be studying truth.
But I am, in my devotions. And I remember that I am to study what is true, what is noble, what is good and righteous and pure. God, if escape is so easy, can I find in it elements of things to think on? If reality is so taxing, cannot entertainment provide rest?
But teach, please my God, teach me when distraction becomes temptation, when movies become addictions, when rest becomes escape. Teach me when this is no longer good, and to enjoy the good, and turn from the evil. In the name of Christ, amen.
Thursday, January 31, 2013
Tuesday, January 29, 2013
The Elderly
I walked out of the regular office building, stopping on the front steps to breath and shake off work. Down the three steps, down the sidewalk to my left was a lady wearing a bright red water coat, walking with a distinctive gait. Her back was bent, as usual, and her short white hair was covered with a handkerchief, as it always was when she was outside. The only time I'd seen her without it was when we had a fire drill, and Betty and I had to help her reach the point where we were supposed to wait. Her mind was alert, her attitude bright, but she leaned far to her left with every step, a gait almost reaching a limp. Her hip or her side, none of us were sure which, cause her pain, and her body often seems to be falling apart. MaryAnne, she is the sweetest person I had ever known.
Tuesday through Thursday, the days she worked, she'd go through the row of cubicles and say "good morning" to all the friends she had there, from the boss to the girl who worked a few hours a day before going home to her new baby. Anytime I wasn't on the phone when she came, I'd get up and give her a hug. She'd always tell me that I was so precious, that Jesus's light shined brightly in me. I smiled when she said it, since I didn't have the words to tell her she was only seeing her light reflected. I hugged her differently than anyone else, for something about her made me gentle, but holding tight. She'd told me I had that light ever since I tried to anonymously leave ten dollars so a check of hers wouldn't bounce at the bank. She asked every person on the floor who left it, till she found out. I often try to forget about that time, but it has strengthened a friendship that I cherish.
She is the kind of person who shames every malicious thought, every bit of gossip that can hurt, even every complaint about my workday. Not, however, because she'd be horrified if I spoke it, but because she'd never even assume I could. There is something about that trust that shamed every careless joke, every resentful murmur.
She loves food. I eat with her and several other ladies, most over seventy. I often wonder how I look, sitting there, a girl of twenty-three, eating with so many older than me. I hear so many different things during those lunch conversations. One woman did things I would never have dreamed of doing, from marrying her husband and moving down to Florida with all their stuff in their car, a few hundred dollars, and no house waiting for them. One has a child's heart still, and makes me laugh so often. One has the opinions of a general and an absolute unconsciousness of social opinions. She never means to offend, but can scarcely keep from doing so--yet is so precious, for there is none of the pretense or sickening, malicious politeness that I've seen other places. MaryAnne, however, makes the younger ones of us laugh, as never a meal goes by that she does not comment on the food she is eating, the food she had last night, the food she plans to have that night. One week she was so happy, her children had sent her gift cards to Red Lobster and another nice restaurant, places she couldn't afford to eat at regularly. One of my coworkers pointed out that it's one of the few things left MaryAnne can enjoy. And she enjoys it more than I enjoy almost anything I can do.
She's over seventy, perhaps over eighty, and working still. She's part of a program that calls out to churches, advertising our company. I look at her and wonder. I've thought about the elderly a lot, since these lunches. I have struggled to walk some of them through doing the computer work; those calls can last forty minutes to do a simple thing. So I laugh at the jokes about the elderly using computers, but uneasily I remember MaryAnne, and the others I eat with. Because just today I worked with an elderly lady (only a twenty minute call, but on an average of two minutes a call, that's long), and while she was excessively, extremely, unbelievably cautious when it came to doing something like hitting "next" if she hadn't done so before, if I asked her to go back to page we'd been on she was there almost before I was. I realized that her caution came doing something new, an uncertainty that made her very careful to defend her dignity. Because America doesn't give much dignity to the elderly, does it? They cannot do things quickly, they often cannot take care of themselves, they're set in their ways, without hope of much more dreaming or ambition, they can only give a little of the efficiency and results our culture prizes. And they don't often have social graces that help to do other things. So we laugh at them, take care of them, and treat them with a brisk efficiency that gets things done and deals with everyone and leaves them very little choice, respect, or power in their lives or ours. Because, of course we know better, and can get it--whatever "it" may be--done faster. So the old guard what dignity they have by refusing to be fools to the greatest extent they can.
I am guilty of that careless arrogance. I cannot say I am exempt from it, even knowing MaryAnne and the other people who have done and seen and known far more than I have ever planned to do, people that I eat with several times a week. But a part of me has changed, knowing MaryAnne, knowing that someone can light a row of cubes in a regular, ordinary business place every morning, someone who can work with a cheerful, loving, self-forgetful spirit in an older body, someone who can look at me and see herself reflected and yet only see God's light in me. Someone who is that beautiful, whose beauty is not dependent on youth. Someone who gives me a glimpse of the power of the elderly, and the good life of the old. Someone who is more than I could ever dream of being.
Tuesday through Thursday, the days she worked, she'd go through the row of cubicles and say "good morning" to all the friends she had there, from the boss to the girl who worked a few hours a day before going home to her new baby. Anytime I wasn't on the phone when she came, I'd get up and give her a hug. She'd always tell me that I was so precious, that Jesus's light shined brightly in me. I smiled when she said it, since I didn't have the words to tell her she was only seeing her light reflected. I hugged her differently than anyone else, for something about her made me gentle, but holding tight. She'd told me I had that light ever since I tried to anonymously leave ten dollars so a check of hers wouldn't bounce at the bank. She asked every person on the floor who left it, till she found out. I often try to forget about that time, but it has strengthened a friendship that I cherish.
She is the kind of person who shames every malicious thought, every bit of gossip that can hurt, even every complaint about my workday. Not, however, because she'd be horrified if I spoke it, but because she'd never even assume I could. There is something about that trust that shamed every careless joke, every resentful murmur.
She loves food. I eat with her and several other ladies, most over seventy. I often wonder how I look, sitting there, a girl of twenty-three, eating with so many older than me. I hear so many different things during those lunch conversations. One woman did things I would never have dreamed of doing, from marrying her husband and moving down to Florida with all their stuff in their car, a few hundred dollars, and no house waiting for them. One has a child's heart still, and makes me laugh so often. One has the opinions of a general and an absolute unconsciousness of social opinions. She never means to offend, but can scarcely keep from doing so--yet is so precious, for there is none of the pretense or sickening, malicious politeness that I've seen other places. MaryAnne, however, makes the younger ones of us laugh, as never a meal goes by that she does not comment on the food she is eating, the food she had last night, the food she plans to have that night. One week she was so happy, her children had sent her gift cards to Red Lobster and another nice restaurant, places she couldn't afford to eat at regularly. One of my coworkers pointed out that it's one of the few things left MaryAnne can enjoy. And she enjoys it more than I enjoy almost anything I can do.
She's over seventy, perhaps over eighty, and working still. She's part of a program that calls out to churches, advertising our company. I look at her and wonder. I've thought about the elderly a lot, since these lunches. I have struggled to walk some of them through doing the computer work; those calls can last forty minutes to do a simple thing. So I laugh at the jokes about the elderly using computers, but uneasily I remember MaryAnne, and the others I eat with. Because just today I worked with an elderly lady (only a twenty minute call, but on an average of two minutes a call, that's long), and while she was excessively, extremely, unbelievably cautious when it came to doing something like hitting "next" if she hadn't done so before, if I asked her to go back to page we'd been on she was there almost before I was. I realized that her caution came doing something new, an uncertainty that made her very careful to defend her dignity. Because America doesn't give much dignity to the elderly, does it? They cannot do things quickly, they often cannot take care of themselves, they're set in their ways, without hope of much more dreaming or ambition, they can only give a little of the efficiency and results our culture prizes. And they don't often have social graces that help to do other things. So we laugh at them, take care of them, and treat them with a brisk efficiency that gets things done and deals with everyone and leaves them very little choice, respect, or power in their lives or ours. Because, of course we know better, and can get it--whatever "it" may be--done faster. So the old guard what dignity they have by refusing to be fools to the greatest extent they can.
I am guilty of that careless arrogance. I cannot say I am exempt from it, even knowing MaryAnne and the other people who have done and seen and known far more than I have ever planned to do, people that I eat with several times a week. But a part of me has changed, knowing MaryAnne, knowing that someone can light a row of cubes in a regular, ordinary business place every morning, someone who can work with a cheerful, loving, self-forgetful spirit in an older body, someone who can look at me and see herself reflected and yet only see God's light in me. Someone who is that beautiful, whose beauty is not dependent on youth. Someone who gives me a glimpse of the power of the elderly, and the good life of the old. Someone who is more than I could ever dream of being.
Friday, January 25, 2013
Lost
I came back from seeing Les Miserables; it was the second time, coming home late on a Friday, a second time trying to quiet my heart.
There is a song in the movie, and both times I cross my arms, hold myself tight, and end up begging God, please, let it stop. Let it end. Let the song be done, let it move on. It is Marius's song, "Empty Chairs, Empty Tables," sung after making true friends and seeing them die. It is a song of loss.
There is a song in the movie, and both times I cross my arms, hold myself tight, and end up begging God, please, let it stop. Let it end. Let the song be done, let it move on. It is Marius's song, "Empty Chairs, Empty Tables," sung after making true friends and seeing them die. It is a song of loss.
There's a grief that can't be spoken.
There's a pain goes on and on.
Empty chairs at empty tables
Now my friends are dead and gone.
Here they talked of revolution.
Here it was they lit the flame.
Here they sang about `tomorrow'
And tomorrow never came.
From the table in the corner
They could see a world reborn
And they rose with voices ringing
I can hear them now!
The very words that they had sung
Became their last communion
On the lonely barricade at dawn.
Oh my friends, my friends forgive me
That I live and you are gone.
There's a grief that can't be spoken.
There's a pain goes on and on.
Phantom faces at the window.
Phantom shadows on the floor.
Empty chairs at empty tables
Where my friends will meet no more.
Oh my friends, my friends, don't ask me
What your sacrifice was for
Empty chairs at empty tables
Where my friends will meet no more.
At the end, the friends who sang the song of revolution now sing the song of heaven, a song with no more swords, no more anger, a song that shows they gained tomorrow.
But this song, it builds till I can barely listen. Coming home, I found it was the sense of loss that echoed in me that made the song painfully unbearable.
But what have I lost?
This is the question I do not know how to answer.
Tell me, what have I lost?
What do I ache for, that I do not have?
I have family, distant but true friends, and a God who loves unconditionally and relentlessly. Tell me, other than perfection, which is not mine to have yet, what do I lack?
Tell me, what have I lost?
What do I ache for, that I do not have?
I have family, distant but true friends, and a God who loves unconditionally and relentlessly. Tell me, other than perfection, which is not mine to have yet, what do I lack?
A purpose, perhaps?
I thought I might have lost myself, the self I had seen at college, but I wondered if I ever really had a self to lose, if I had not always been a dreamer that existed in shades and shadows.
I have lost my certainty, but not my faith; my strength, but not all victory by God's grace; my sense of worth, but not my sense of being loved.
But that is still a loss.
There's a grief that can't be spoken,
There's a pain goes on and on.
Empty words and empty letters
Now my friends are far, some gone.
There they talked of God's great goodness.
There it was they lit the flame.
There they sang about `tomorrow'
But tomorrow isn't the same.
From the college on the hilltop
They could see a world reborn
And they rose with voices ringing
I can hear them now!
The very words that they had sung
Became their last communion
as the world closed in at dawn.
Oh my friends, my friends forgive me
That I live and dreams are gone.
There's a grief that can't be spoken.
There's a pain goes on and on.
Phantom faces at the window.
Phantom shadows on the floor.
Empty books at empty tables
Where my friends will meet no more.
Oh my friends, my friends, don't ask me
What the dreaming all was for
Empty chairs at empty tables
Where my friends will meet no more.
Saturday, January 19, 2013
Promised
Sometimes it is dark.
Sometimes it is so dark I cling to the dark, hiding, afraid, withdrawing from light, for the darkness hides from everyone else the knowledge that I am afraid.
Sometimes fear shudders my body as tears stream down my cheeks.
I am afraid of loss. I am afraid of losing someone I love. I am afraid of how sick she is.
I looked to prayer, and it drove the evil in the darkness away, but my heart was not calm. I sent messages to friends, asking for help, and a little reassurance came.
I left the dark and came down to my room, seeking answers, seeking help. I reached for The Valley of Vision, Whispers of His Power, and my ESV Study Bible bound in leather, books I know well from devotions. I did not know where to look.
My Bible was the logical choice, for it held infallible truth. It is a big book; I still did not know where to look.
I had a bookmark in Psalm 130. I started to read. "Out of the depths I cry to you; O LORD, hear my voice! Let your ears be attentive, to the voice of my pleas for mercy!" My eyes were filled with tears, I was sobbing. I had memorized the Psalm, and though I could no longer read it through the salty water, I remembered. Here another of God's children had pleaded too.
And my fear. God is trustworthy, God is great, God is merciful to the frail. But I did not want to be afraid. I knew that it was wrong. And I had sinned, throughout the day, and approaching God was hard, even though I need Him, I need him, I need him.
Here, the Psalmist's next verse. "If you, O LORD, should mark iniquities, O Lord, who could stand? But with you there is forgiveness, that you may be feared." The first two verses, the cries I could not find the words to utter.
The next verse, the one I had to believe, because I did not know it here and now, "I wait for the LORD, my soul waits, and in His word I hope. My soul waits for the Lord, more than watchmen for the morning, more than watchmen for the morning." Had I not just found in His word the cries I needed? God, give me strength to wait, to hope; God, give this to me! God, give me what I pray for my loved one, please; God, thy will be done. God, thy will is good. If it be your will, heal her, tonight. Heal her completely. Tonight, and leave her with us. God, if this is your will, please. Please, God.
The last verse is almost a command to the reader, a command to give others the same command the reader finds to be truth. "O Israel, hope in the Lord! For with the LORD there is steadfast love, and in Him is plentiful redemption, and He will redeem Israel, from all his iniquities." A sister of mine (in Christ, close to me) called, and I shared what I was finding to be truth. God's word playing out in my life.
All good things.
But not quite enough. My sister prayed with me, and I was calmer. My soul is still pleading endlessly for her health, my loved one. I still have tears washing over my eyes, then retreating, not falling. I still cannot breath through my nose, and my words are almost frantic, pleading, seeking release.
But there is one thing my soul is clinging to, one thought He gave me.
Jesus is healer.
It is no guarantee, this thought of mine. But it is a promise, of who God is.
Jesus is healer.
The truths of Scripture, that come to us in need. The beauty of the jewels in the darkness of the mine, the reflection of light in the water to a drowning person that leads them up to air, or the rock that does not move in an earthquake where everything crumbles.
Jesus healed the sick, the lame, the blind, the dead. God who is healer, heal her tonight. God who is healer, send forth your power tonight. God who is everything to me, and to her, heal. If it be your will, heal. In the name of Christ, amen.
Jesus is healer. This I have been promised, my God can heal. May He heal her tonight. Amen.
Sometimes it is so dark I cling to the dark, hiding, afraid, withdrawing from light, for the darkness hides from everyone else the knowledge that I am afraid.
Sometimes fear shudders my body as tears stream down my cheeks.
I am afraid of loss. I am afraid of losing someone I love. I am afraid of how sick she is.
I looked to prayer, and it drove the evil in the darkness away, but my heart was not calm. I sent messages to friends, asking for help, and a little reassurance came.
I left the dark and came down to my room, seeking answers, seeking help. I reached for The Valley of Vision, Whispers of His Power, and my ESV Study Bible bound in leather, books I know well from devotions. I did not know where to look.
My Bible was the logical choice, for it held infallible truth. It is a big book; I still did not know where to look.
I had a bookmark in Psalm 130. I started to read. "Out of the depths I cry to you; O LORD, hear my voice! Let your ears be attentive, to the voice of my pleas for mercy!" My eyes were filled with tears, I was sobbing. I had memorized the Psalm, and though I could no longer read it through the salty water, I remembered. Here another of God's children had pleaded too.
And my fear. God is trustworthy, God is great, God is merciful to the frail. But I did not want to be afraid. I knew that it was wrong. And I had sinned, throughout the day, and approaching God was hard, even though I need Him, I need him, I need him.
Here, the Psalmist's next verse. "If you, O LORD, should mark iniquities, O Lord, who could stand? But with you there is forgiveness, that you may be feared." The first two verses, the cries I could not find the words to utter.
The next verse, the one I had to believe, because I did not know it here and now, "I wait for the LORD, my soul waits, and in His word I hope. My soul waits for the Lord, more than watchmen for the morning, more than watchmen for the morning." Had I not just found in His word the cries I needed? God, give me strength to wait, to hope; God, give this to me! God, give me what I pray for my loved one, please; God, thy will be done. God, thy will is good. If it be your will, heal her, tonight. Heal her completely. Tonight, and leave her with us. God, if this is your will, please. Please, God.
The last verse is almost a command to the reader, a command to give others the same command the reader finds to be truth. "O Israel, hope in the Lord! For with the LORD there is steadfast love, and in Him is plentiful redemption, and He will redeem Israel, from all his iniquities." A sister of mine (in Christ, close to me) called, and I shared what I was finding to be truth. God's word playing out in my life.
All good things.
But not quite enough. My sister prayed with me, and I was calmer. My soul is still pleading endlessly for her health, my loved one. I still have tears washing over my eyes, then retreating, not falling. I still cannot breath through my nose, and my words are almost frantic, pleading, seeking release.
But there is one thing my soul is clinging to, one thought He gave me.
Jesus is healer.
It is no guarantee, this thought of mine. But it is a promise, of who God is.
Jesus is healer.
The truths of Scripture, that come to us in need. The beauty of the jewels in the darkness of the mine, the reflection of light in the water to a drowning person that leads them up to air, or the rock that does not move in an earthquake where everything crumbles.
Jesus healed the sick, the lame, the blind, the dead. God who is healer, heal her tonight. God who is healer, send forth your power tonight. God who is everything to me, and to her, heal. If it be your will, heal. In the name of Christ, amen.
Jesus is healer. This I have been promised, my God can heal. May He heal her tonight. Amen.
Friday, January 11, 2013
Starving Hope
I do not throw up very easily, and therefore am very uncomfortable when I get sick to my stomach. I usually feel nauseous for long periods of time, and have discovered a very simple solution to the problem: I don't eat. With nothing in my stomach, it feels fine. I am even tempted to get up and act like it's a normal day, doing my chores and getting ready for work. But despite how well it makes me feel, it is a terrible solution--I am depriving my body of the nutrition it needs not only to function, but to get better.
I do much the same thing with hope.
Hope hurts, or rather, hoping and hoping and hoping, waiting for months, and watching that hope slowly whither as it is not fed nor fulfilled, hurts. A wise author writes "Hope deferred makes the heart sick." It is a crushing, frustrating weight that can literally break the heart and leave it weeping. After over nine months of hoping for meaning and purpose in my life after college, and it hurting more and more as I saw nothing, I gave up hoping.
It took care of so many problems. Without hope, life didn't hurt anymore. I wanted nothing, and so wasn't frustrated or sad when I didn't get it. I expected nothing, and received nothing, and maintained equilibrium. Frustration, and my sin in taking it out on my family, disappeared.
But so did everything that gave life to the actions and thoughts in each day. No hope, no expectation, meant a daily routine of nothingness. Without hope, life was a set amount of time with a corresponding amount of chores that I completed on autopilot. It was scarcely life at all.
It was safer, and hurt so much less. But it starves the soul in much the same way refusing food starves the body. Apathy takes over the way weakness takes over the starved body. The soul no longer hurts because its dying of malnutrition, and the ache can be ignored because there is no energy to actually feel hurt.
The obvious solution is to start to hope again, or rather, to pray to God to give you hope. But that takes courage, a courage many disappointed people cannot find, and do not even want to find. Who wants to be hurt that way again? And why should it be any different this time, if I start hoping again?
I am called to faith. It is a simple answer, but it is this: I am called to believe, to trust in a good, perfect God who does not let His saints want for anything they need. God, give us your children courage to believe. To hope.
I do much the same thing with hope.
Hope hurts, or rather, hoping and hoping and hoping, waiting for months, and watching that hope slowly whither as it is not fed nor fulfilled, hurts. A wise author writes "Hope deferred makes the heart sick." It is a crushing, frustrating weight that can literally break the heart and leave it weeping. After over nine months of hoping for meaning and purpose in my life after college, and it hurting more and more as I saw nothing, I gave up hoping.
It took care of so many problems. Without hope, life didn't hurt anymore. I wanted nothing, and so wasn't frustrated or sad when I didn't get it. I expected nothing, and received nothing, and maintained equilibrium. Frustration, and my sin in taking it out on my family, disappeared.
But so did everything that gave life to the actions and thoughts in each day. No hope, no expectation, meant a daily routine of nothingness. Without hope, life was a set amount of time with a corresponding amount of chores that I completed on autopilot. It was scarcely life at all.
It was safer, and hurt so much less. But it starves the soul in much the same way refusing food starves the body. Apathy takes over the way weakness takes over the starved body. The soul no longer hurts because its dying of malnutrition, and the ache can be ignored because there is no energy to actually feel hurt.
The obvious solution is to start to hope again, or rather, to pray to God to give you hope. But that takes courage, a courage many disappointed people cannot find, and do not even want to find. Who wants to be hurt that way again? And why should it be any different this time, if I start hoping again?
I am called to faith. It is a simple answer, but it is this: I am called to believe, to trust in a good, perfect God who does not let His saints want for anything they need. God, give us your children courage to believe. To hope.
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