Archive for the The Journey Category

“My God, my God, why have you forsaken me? Why are you so far from saving me, from the words of my groaning? O my God, I cry by day, but you do not answer, and by night, but I find no rest.”

I love the way the steam gathers around the lip of my favorite tea cup. It hovers and dances as the tea cools; and if I am cold, I can wrap my hands around the porcelain and warm my fingers. Today I am sitting alone at home, nursing my lungs from a dreadful bronchitis that has kept me up most of the night. This cup of tea is a great comfort, along with my Bible, Indelible Grace, and the other parents of Marine Recruits who are currently enduring The Crucible; the final right of passage before one becomes a Marine. But more on that later. Right now I need this warmth because I’m cold; cold in my heart, cold in my bones, and cold in my spirit. I need warmth and it feels as fleeting as the steam evaporating from my favorite cup.

I had pneumonia once when I was 20 years old. It was like living in a walking nightmare. I couldn’t breath for what felt like an eternity. I lost 20 pounds because I could not eat. So every time I contract a lung sickness I get nervous because I will never forget hovering over a vaporizer with Vicks while I struggled to for every breath.

My illness is a minor agony compared to what many others endure. Joni Eareckson Tada provides great perspective in this regard. The view from her wheelchair has been at times gloomy, but she throws open the shades and shines like a diamond in the sky with her attitude of grace. I recently heard Chuck Swindoll tell the story of a conference at which she was speaking where attendees numbered more than the seats and the people were complaining rather loudly. Joni went before the crowd and said, “I understand many of you are complaining about your chairs. I don’t always like the view from mine either.” Yes, Joni reminds me perspective is important.

My best friend called to tell me she is struggling with foot pain. “The pain is unbearable,” she said. “And all I did was walk around the grocery store. Do you think I should take some ibuprofen?” The question was sincere, but I still had to chuckle. Knowing her as I do, I know how strongly she feels about taking over-the-counter meds. We who attempt a holistic approach to keeping our bodies clean sometimes struggle over what many would consider fairly simple solutions. For example, I take a pretty strong stance on attempting natural remedies before I take antibiotics. I do this because of the rise in antibiotic resistance bacteria. So the question about whether to take anti-inflammatory medication in response to excruciating foot pain provoked the good humor in me. My response was simple, “Yes.” Because honestly, sometimes I believe we are too hard on the relief modern medicine provides.

But sometimes the answers aren’t so easy. Sometimes the pain is of a different sort. A dear friend of mine is currently walking through such a dark night of the soul. A few years ago she lost her son in a tragic motorcycle accident. I can still remember where we were when she relayed the news and the exact expression on her face. I longed to take her in my arms and hug the pain away but I was at a loss for words because at that time I didn’t know her very well. And now there is more. As if the embers of that loss could ever grow dim, a new diagnosis has sent a deluge of worry, fear and ambivalence–like buckets of gasoline lined up next to a smoldering fire. One of her loved ones is stricken with cancer. With each doctors visit a new flame shoots up and threatens to consume her. So when she looked at me recently and said, “Margaret, I can’t take any more. I’m going to crack.” I felt the weight of her grief and struggled with how best to respond.

“I am poured out like water, and all my bones are out of joint; my heart is like wax; it is melted within my breast; my strength is dried up like a potsherd, and my tongue sticks to my jaws; you lay me in the dust of death.”

I reach for my cup of tea and and ponder the plight of humanity. We don’t always like to acknowledge it, but we are utterly helpless. Sure, we try to cover our sickness with medicine, and our weakness with bravado. We muster fortitude like a banner and wear our big accomplishments like shiny badges. But there is no cure for cancer–only treatments. There is no fountain of youth; we all die. Everyone’s approach to death–the ultimate curse–is different, but whether we revel in pleasure and pretend it won’t come, or prepare ourselves into madness and depression, we will all lay in a coffin one day. And that’s if we’re lucky enough to be able to afford one.

I’m not a mystic. I’m not a philosopher or sage. I’m just Margaret and I’m walking through this life trying to figure out my place in it. So please don’t read this and think I know I have all the answers. What I do know is that sometimes life is like a tea pot; the water heats up, the pressure builds, and then it screams. It screams because it has to relieve the pressure and as long as that water is boiling, the steam must get out.

My son bought me this teapot for Mother’s day this past Spring. He had seen me boil water in an old aluminum pot I got at the thrift shop, and struggle to pour the freshly made tea into my Stanley thermos. He didn’t wrap it up or write and attach a fancy note, he simply handed me the box and said, “I love you, Mom.” He knows how much it grieves me not to be able to drink coffee any more, and he wanted to make my life a little better. Today I listen to it “whistle” while I drink hot tea and pray for him. And it is utter agony to me that I cannot physically help him through each stage of The Crucible. All I can do is sit (and cough) and wait.

“But you, Oh Lord, do not be far off! O you my help, come quickly to my aid! Deliver my soul from the sword, my precious life from the power of the dog! Save me from the mouth of the lion!”

I recently sat with a friend at the courthouse while we waited for her attorney to meet with the judge. She has been rejected by her husband for another woman in a culture that is not her own. She struggles with the English language and she doesn’t understand our legal system. I am angry for her situation and I want to help her, but I don’t always know how. So I did the only thing I knew how to do, I sat with her while she cried and held her hand. I held her steady lest–like a balloon–she bob away on the current of emotion and get caught on a tree limb. Because that is what friends do. I am not a saint or an angel, I’m just a person who has been there. And I remember when someone held my balloon string and kept me steady.

“I will tell of your name to my brothers; in the midst of the congregation I will praise you: You who fear the Lord, praise him! All you offspring of Jacob, glorify him, and stand in awe of him, all you offspring of Israel! For he has not despised or abhorred the affliction of the afflicted, and he has not hidden his face from him, but has heard, when he cried to him.”

King David once wrote of such agony in Psalm 22. He experienced betrayal by his closest friend, regret from his failures, and the pain of losing a child. He was a great king, a fierce military man–a fighter. He trusted God to hear his cries for help and to provide relief for his deepest and darkest agonies of the soul. Now maybe the person reading this thinks the Bible is just old musty tales, and that’s okay. I just know that it gives me hope. Its story of redemption calms my soul. The gospel tells me that yes, my situation is hopeless, but there is one who entered into this world and suffered unspeakable agony to deliver me from mine. He is the great holder of balloon strings. And I trust Him.

Tomorrow my friend will sit in a hospital waiting room while they cut the cancer from her husbands lungs. My other friend will look for work in a strange culture while trying to speak a language she doesn’t always understand. Another will seek to relieve the foot pain that makes every step sheer agony. As for me, today, I will retreat to my bed. There I will convalesce under the covers with my Bible, the words to Abide with Me – Indelible Grace, and a heart that is grateful for the kind of love that not only hears my prayers but satisfies and soothes the agonies of my soul.

I love when life is wonderful in its mystery. Too often I fall into the pattern of taking each day for granted. I climb out of bed, exercise, shower, hug my boys and head off to work. There I experience the ease many people long for. I sit or stand at my desk and perform tasks and get paid a decent wage. Then I get in my (mostly-reliable) car and drive home where I experience a meal that fills my belly, a bed that is comfortable and a roof that keeps me warm and dry. Unlike so many others, I am blessed to express my faith and to live and love as a free person. God bless the USA!

This morning, however, I did not bounce out of bed. After a sketchy night of not-much-sleep, I drug myself from under the covers and limped to the restroom. My body felt ancient and leathery. I was weak–sick even, because after several days of fighting a nasty cold-like virus, I feel like the inside of a drain pipe.

Still, after piddling around in the kitchen I pulled on my workout clothes–determined to get my blood pumping. The reason for this was simple; I have a new pair of running shoes! I found myself reciting the familiar words, “On your mark, get set, GO!” And I was off.

Normally I feel better after the first mile–not so today. But once I’m committed, nothing short of fainting will stop me. So I pressed forward. My thoughts returned to the letter my Marine Recruit sent several days ago. To be honest, it’s all I can think about.

“Dear Mother,

This is my last letter before I see you on graduation. It’s finals week and we’re going to be very busy so no more letters. This is it! We got this week and the crucible. I’d like prayer for all of it. I have shin splints again and I’m toughing it out because there have been 4 people who have gone to medical and they are going to be here a lot longer. I’ll be fine when it’s over but in the meantime it’s rough.

I’d rather be home. Well, I’ll see you soon and I love you all very much.”

My son used to get shin splints when he played soccer. They were the bane of his existence. So to hear that they’ve returned is difficult for me. I can’t give him advice. I can’t even talk to him. All I can do is pray. It’s the reason I was awake at 3:45 am this morning. The worry wart in me was working over time, and there was nothing I could do to stop that hideous fungi from wracking my brain. So I lay there under my covers and prayed like a condemned man before the hanging.

I was jogging up a hill with all of the fervor of a fish flopping on dry land as I listened to my Bible. I was listening to the story of Moses and the Israelites–who were trying to leave Egypt for The Promised Land. I kept wondering why they are called Israelites–after Israel(or Jacob) and not Abraham. Why weren’t they called Abrahamites? These are the questions I ask God when my brain is in a funk. After all, it was Jacob who stole Esau’s blessing and he was kind of a pansy of a dad. So how did a whole nation get named after him? Anyway, it occurred to me that I am no different than those people wandering through the desert(dessert!) after God did all those terrible things to Pharoah to free them from slavery. It seems they didn’t learn anything. So I’m worrying, when I shouldn’t be, and fretting over the ice cream I ate last night and basically not trusting God at all because I’ve gained some weight and my son has shin splints and life is just not going the way I want it to. And that is basically how I finished my jog/limp/walk–dripping with perspiration and despair–despite my sparkly new running shoes.

Boy am I a big baby. I should have just written I’m a loser-whiny-baby and saved my readers some time.

After a shower, a nice sulk, and some hot tea, I decided to run errands. And that is when I met Joan Smith.

I was standing outside The Salvation Army Store when this elderly woman began chatting at me. I say “at me” because I was nose deep in a bin trying to find a backpack for my youngest child. I was tired and crabby and hungry because it was 2:00 pm and I hadn’t eaten anything yet. After a few minutes I gave up my scavenger hunt and entered into the conversation. And I have to admit, Joan Smith is probably the most interesting person I have ever randomly met. She is 71 years old. She used to be a cop until a drunk driver crashed into her and nearly killed her(not once in the conversation did she complain). She currently works at an auto body shop in West County. She has white hair, is missing many front teeth and has tough, red skin and a hunched back from all the surgeries. But more importantly she is whip smart and as kind as a Golden Retriever. She told me how for many years she has been passionate about helping disadvantaged children and used to work at a home that took care of them. She told me story after story about helping specific boys the rest of the world had given up on, and how in her spare time she still buys and repairs bicycles to give to them as gifts(on her own dime). She mentioned her age because she said she is still riding a mountain bike and loves it. But the coolest thing Joan did was tell me about the poor and forgotten people in the world that she meets on a daily basis and how she helps them, but more importantly, how they help her.

“I talk to people wherever I go because I think it’s important,” She said. “Community is not about how much money you have, it’s about how much you take care of another person.” And I just stood there slack-jawed, in awe of this wonderful stranger-of-my-own-heart as she told me the story of a homeless man she met who didn’t have more than a few dollars to his name and asked for her help to buy some Ramen noodles so he wouldn’t starve. And she said, “You know, Ramen Noodles are filled with salt and aren’t very good for you, still, I bought them and gave him $5.00. I would have given him more but it’s all the money I had. In turn, he told me about Jesus.”

So I gave her my card and she gave me this in return…a hand scrawled poem that I will cherish until the day I die.

It’s when your hands are empty that you find a way.
It’s when you see only darkness that you must pray.
It’s–you have only 2.00 dollars and a coupon for your brother’s meal.
It’s when he shows you Jesus that you know God’s real.

And I can’t stop thinking about her and how she loved on me for the hour we spent talking. Did she see how tattered and threadbare my heart was? Like a bloodhound seeking out the sad and lonely soul, she found me and covered all my cold places with her warmth. And it seems like she was an angel–except she gave me her phone number and promised to have lunch with me soon. But I do know one thing, God sent her when I most needed a friend.

Tonight I danced around the yard with my boxer dog, Tank. One of my neighbor’s leaned out of her door and shouted, “Are you having fun over there?”

“You bet!” I said.

And I took this picture. And I thanked God for his goodness and his grace. I may never solve my eating problem. I will probably always be a worrier. I won’t always be able to help my sons when I want to. But God loves me and that’s all that really matters; loving and being loved. What wonderful grace!

I woke up feeling groggy this morning. Thanksgiving leftovers have taken their toll and my body was soggy and sticky with sweets. I suppose the cold and cloudy day might have been a deterrent. I could have climbed back into bed after letting the dogs out and snuggled into the covers with a good book. I have a dozen on my night stand after all. But I know my body, and if I were to do that I would end up feeling sluggish and icky all day. I had a very important event to attend in the afternoon so I socked it to the chilly air and got at it.

The thermometer read 38 degrees and I braced myself for the wind. You see, I desperately wanted to ride my bike but I have never gone out when it was that cold before. I felt sufficiently layered with gloves and ear covers and sped down the hill by my house with gusto. I figured that worst case scenario–my fingers would go numb and I’d have to turn right around and head back. But when the cold started to sting I found myself reluctant to return home. I flexed my fingers and pumped my feet. I pushed up hills and waved to passersby. Unlike every other bike ride I’ve done this year, I saw no other cyclists on the roads–only frazzled drivers–and none of them waved back when I lifted my hand in a friendly gesture.

“I get the feeling that I’m living in sci-fi. I get the feeling that my weapons are low-fi.”Switchfoot “War Inside”

The words and music streamed through my earbuds as I pedaled to the beat. I thought about how bland and blank the sky was. No blue. No white fluffy clouds. Only cold. Bitter, audacious, cold. So why, when I had felt like gum on the bottom of a shoe only minutes before, did I suddenly feel as if I could fly? I don’t really understand what it is about riding my bicycle that makes me feel so great. I supposed I could “adult” and talk about endorphins and aerobic exercise. I could talk about brain activity in correlation to oxygen levels, but that all seems rather cerebral. The truth is, every time I jump on my bike and take off down a hill, I am 10 years old again at the top of Blackwood Drive in Florissant. I’ve got my right foot on the pedal of my light purple Huffy bike. I am flicking the lavender tassles and adjusting the stuffed animals in my white plastic basket. I can see my little sister off in the distance–her blond pony tail blowing in the wind. My best friend, Shelly, is pulling up behind me and we are preparing to race to the bottom. If I’m lucky, I’ll beat her. If I’m not, I’ll try again. And then we’re off and I’m flying like a bird.

“I can feel it building up inside. The images that play inside my mind. The dreams that I’ve been dreaming all my life. The colors that live outside the lines.”Switchfoot “Back to the Beginning”

I’m somewhere around Mid Rivers Mall–about 30 minutes into my ride–when I hit my stride. Just a few weeks ago traffic at 9:00am on Saturday morning would have been nonexistent, but today the cars were like pill bugs–busy little gray insects zooming from point A to point B while hardly noticing the crazy white woman on her light blue Jamis bike pedaling like a pro and harmonizing to the soundtrack of her life: Switchfoot. And somehow the cold just felt less. On one of the busiest shopping days of the year I was “wasting time” riding my bike around and past the stores rather than rushing into them. Simple as that thought is, it gave me so much perspective about my life.

I sped down the country roads of St. Peters with abandon. I coasted into Lakeside Park. The great blue herons were fishing. The hawks glided and landed with a wary eye in my direction. And all around me the cacophony of motion served as an expression of the exultation I felt in my soul. It wasn’t the most visually spectacular day or the most physically comfortable. But today was brilliant in its simplicity. And in some ways, it was perfect.

I suppose I could have stayed in bed an extra hour. I could have caught up on dishes. I could have even made waffles and bacon. None of those things are bad. But I’m glad I braved the cold air. I may be a dreamer, but today was a beautiful day for a ride on my bicycle.