Destination Discipline

In every life there comes a season one never expected. One could call it a long, drawn-out storm that wrings the hope and joy out of every area of life. Mine started with grief. A few months ago, my beloved boxer, Annabelle, started losing weight. The vet couldn’t find anything wrong and thus began a series of expensive tests, no answers, and crippling fear that I was going to lose her. Some would say she was just a dog, but she was more than that to me and to our family. We were already dealing with juvenile diabetes, a mysterious stomach ailment and many hard things with school. I was also trying to cope with a very stressful situation at work. I thought I was handling everything with faith and hope and love. And then Annabelle stopped eating.

I know everyone has their limits and I reached the end of mine. I had a friend who was pressuring me to pray more and trust God more. And I was. But I was also terrified and lonely. And I was trying everything we could afford to determine what was wrong with Annabelle. It was one of those, “God, I can handle a lot, but not losing her. Anything but that.”

We finally found a vet that did a x-ray of her chest (why didn’t they start there?!) and found a rash of white spots that was either lymphoma or a terrible fungal infection. Either way, she said there wasn’t much to be done. But even then, I didn’t lose hope. One of our homeopathic doctors gave us a free treatment to try as a last-ditch effort. I was certain it would work because we’ve found so much hope and healing with chiropractic medicine. And then came the day when she just could not eat anything or even keep down the nutritional gel that was sustaining her. She collapsed in the front yard. And I started sobbing. I don’t think I stopped sobbing internally for several days but there was work to be done and meetings to be had and so I delayed that final trip to the vet.

In the middle of that deep loss and grief my stressful work situation exploded to an unreasonable fervor and I fought with one of the last people I ever expected to. And I left the office that day to take my beloved to the vet. To say goodbye. And to try to manage the pain of the others in my household.

For anyone who has ever loved a dog like a child, one will understand. It’s harder for others, though people can empathize if they choose to. This wasn’t my first loss. But first or third or tenth, it’s horrible.

Then I lost my grandpa. This wasn’t totally unexpected but nevertheless, it was awful. Old memories came surging and my emotions were off the chart sad. I felt like everything was dying around me. I completely lost my equilibrium.

As the days turned into weeks things only got worse at work. I knew I wasn’t handling things well, but I could not seem to manage my emotions. And then a confrontation came again with a co-worker, and I cracked. I had a full-on nervous breakdown in the office. I immediately got very sick with an upper respiratory infection. Then my son ended up in the hospital with ketoacidosis.

I suppose that is what provided the most clarity. I have to be well to take care of my son. I do not have the liberty to limp along heart-sick and half-alive. It’s time to take action. This blog entry is my commitment to do what is necessary to heal and rebuild my life.

For the past week I allowed myself to enjoy vacation. I still don’t have a lot of energy, but I cleaned the house, baked the Christmas cookies, and listened to nice classical music that calmed my soul. I took some good walks that really wore me out and even did some strength training. I ate healthy food and got a lot of sleep. I am starting to feel more rational. I am also seeing a counselor to talk through what is happening. Most importantly, I have made a decision to live.

What I mean by that is that I truly had lost all hope of going on. I could not see any joy or gladness in my future. But now I know I need to make changes and facilitate healing. I need to let go of the weight of my grief and start thinking differently. I need to rebuild.

I’m not quite sure where to start. I find myself drawn to a few days of solitude, so I’ll be making a trip to the country. I want to chart out some resolutions and healthy patterns. I also need to make some tradeoffs and changes. I’ve never done this before and it feels…awkward.

I know God is present through all of this, but I’ll be honest, He has felt very far away. I am waiting and trusting with faith that He will deliver me, as the Psalms repeat over and over. I will try to share some of what I discover and resolve here on the blog. I want to continue with my theme of discipline because it is very important to me. I want to be faithful. But grief has a way of knocking the wind out of one. I didn’t expect this. And I know God has a purpose for my life. I just need to find it again.

Today I realized one of the most important things I need to do is to forgive. I need to forgive God for taking Annabelle and my Grandpa. And I need to forgive the people at work for their insensitivity and selfishness (among other things). I need to get back to the mindset that we are all at different stages of our journey and we need to give grace as much as we ask for grace. This too is a discipline. And candidly, I’ve been so filled with pain and bitterness I wasn’t able to do that anymore. I need to let go of all that in order to heal. And it really is hard. I have an axe to grind but it’s time to lay it down.

I find myself saying this prayer a lot lately, so I’ll share this as I end.

I found myself on the couch buried beneath an afghan my friend crocheted for me. From within the warm layers, I rubbed my fluffy slippers together and tried to shake off the chill of the fever that made my bones ache. Worse, the tickle from deep in my bronchial tubes was trickling so that I couldn’t help but cough spasmodically. And when done wracking and choking, I stared at the book shelf and wheezed. What lovely books, I thought. How I wish I could read them. Alas, I was too sick.

Sickness always finds me unprepared and unguarded. It’s strange really, how life is moving along and then, well, everything stops. Time trips over itself. And the minutes become a long tangle of questions, or worse, exclamation points.

What are we if we aren’t producing anything?

My identity is so frequently tied up with the work I do, whether at home or in the office. I crave accomplishment. I need validation. So when I’m stuck on the couch and the only thing I produce is the carbon monoxide from my nostrils when I exhale, I get to feeling, well, rather stale. Who am I?

I don’t generally have a family that dotes on me. The people in my house tend to be wrapped up in their own situations. So when I found myself on the couch with my little grand daughter tending to me, I was rather humbled. As I lay there shivering, she sat in a chair at my side and sang little songs to me that she was making up as she sang. I didn’t understand a word but I felt her love and care. I also felt tears trickling down my cheeks. What made her bend low to sit with her “Grammy”? To talk sweetly, and pet her hand and to sing songs to cheer her? I was really moved by her tenderness. What a gift!

I’ve been going through a rough time lately. I’ve been having panic attacks and many sleepless nights. I’ve been praying the Psalms in all my waking moments and waiting for God to intervene. I remember a pastor saying many years ago that when God doesn’t remove the miserable situation, He sends His comfort. Sometimes comfort takes the form of a little girl with big brown eyes, cherub cheeks and dark frizzy hair. I never imagined I could love someone so much, or be loved in such a pure and unique way.

When the days are difficult, I am thankful for an identity rich in the love of my Heavenly Father and my precious granddaughter. When I struggle to remember who I am, it is a deep comfort to know I am loved.

The leaves on the Bradford Pear tree are fluttering. Their movement in the Autumn breeze is so delicate that the tree itself appears light enough to lift. The Chickadee is hiding among the green and red tassels, watching for the woman in the window sipping green tea. There are glittering specks on her cheek that catch the early morning light. But he is more concerned with the little black seeds and his crop, which is not quite full. He is waiting for the fat, greedy tree scaler with the bottlebrush tail to finish thrashing the feeder so he can steal a few more seeds. She gobbles and glares. As if she didn’t have enough acorns, she has to eat all his food too.

The wren is singing again. The show-off. He snatches little crumbs of walnut and peanut butter and then bursts into song. He flashes his tail and prances from roof to feeder to perch to, WAIT, that’s my spot! Too close! Get out of my space! With a flash of his tail, he snatches an insect from the branch and flits away again with a trill of laughter. The woman is smiling.

“Chick-a-dee-dee-dee!” He crunches and snaps the seed in his little beak. His friend, the titmouse and her sisters swoop and dive nearby. “Bee bee bee!” They shout while they delight in their aerial dance. Then, they are moving through the Sycamore top with precision. Their melodies are harmonies even when they are just laughing at each other. They distract him for a time. And then he begins to mourn her again.

She was light. When first he saw her on the feeder, she was new and fresh. Her black cap glistened, and her white cheeks fluffed. She was sorting the seeds as if they were meant to be counted. Her eyes were like beetle’s bottoms but filled with mirth. She turned her cheek to him and assessed, though he knew not what. But quickly she was off among the branches with her flock. He followed her because the look she gave was like a summer morning and the sun of her smile warmed him.

He won her heart and they made their nest. He watched and protected. He chased the hawk away with his brothers. He allowed no danger, no fear. And they found gladness in the leaves of the Bradford Pear. Their young grew and prospered. When she was hungry, he found food. When she shivered, he warmed. They were a unit, proud and glad. More, they were a family.

But she didn’t return that dusk. And when he searched, he found her near the road. He stayed for while, watching the feathers that no longer fluttered, the eyes that no longer saw. Her feet were clenched with nothing to perch on. She was still and there was no breath.

He stayed through the night and the morning, until the smoking machines shook the ground with their loud engines and cruel motors. He had to leave her there. Murders! Wretched monstrosities!

Mockingbird

The mockingbird has disrupted his thought. She lands on the branch above and surveys him with a tilt of her head. The tree is shivering as the cold winds blow. Her Gray Majesty of long tail and song has known loss too. Today she quips and chatters. But she knows the way of things. And with her staccato notes she tells the world the way it is and the way it will be.

“Loss and Life are the circle of things.

Crickets and peanuts and wanderlust dreams.

Winter and Summer erupt in their way.

Bonding and mating and fresh sprigs of hay.

Little pink mouths with a tongue that does sing,

Life is still filled with such beautiful things.”

The mourning dove alights on the bath and dips his toes in the water. He is watching, watching, watching and waiting, waiting, waiting. And when he is sure that no predator comes, he splashes and shuffles. His mate is nearby so he rushes and preens. The geese honk and fly over in formation. The season changes again.

The chickadee grabs a seed. “Chicka-dee-dee-dee!” Hunger is the driving force behind life. For now, the world moves in seasons as a frame of reference, but one day it will not be so. One day all grief will be gone, and sighing will linger no more. There will be everlasting light to fill eyes once full of tears. The Creator and Maker will shine joy and gladness and right all wrongs–death being most wrong of all. And maybe the chickadee will meet his mate again. Maybe they will dance and sing. Maybe they will just be still. Maybe they will look back and laugh.

The chickadee chomps his seed from the feeder and watches the woman in the window. “Thank you,” he says, and flies back to the Bradford Pear and his chattering leaves. Food is life. And life is still beautiful.