in and through his eyes

I seem to always be fascinated by your eyes, Lord
Not by the color or shape or size--
  Although I do see them as brown and almond and set deep in a rugged dark face--
But by what they see.

When I look in your eyes,
I see compassion and peace
Hope for the hopeless
and rest for the weary.

But at the same time,
I see the snap of fire that is reserved for those
Who trouble and persecute Your people.
Both your people Israel and your people that have been grafted on through adoption.

People like me.

When I read the Gospels and look through your eyes,
Oh Lord!
The compassion that you felt for the poor
The downtrodden
Those who have come to you for healing
Or salvation.

I see grief--tears for Lazarus your brother,
John your cousin
And the woman caught in adultery.

I see fire for the religious leaders who have dared to distort Your truth
To take away the role of Love
And replace it with a lifetime of rules--
  Rules that nobody can ever follow--
All for the sake of religion.

How do you see us today, Lord?

I myself dared to ask you to let me see myself through your eyes.
I was afraid--trembling--
For I knew the wrong that I had done.
I knew how ugly the world saw me to be
And I was horrified at how you must see me.

But I had to know.
Because I had to know if what I believed about you was true,
Or if I was believing a lie.

And so, fearfully, I asked you to show me myself
  As You saw me.

And I saw

A woman of beauty,
Dressed in white,
Prepared as a bride for her Husband.

And then I saw the husband's view--
The love, the adoration
Adoration?
That he felt when he looked upon me

And I saw the truth

This is why You died
This is why You came to Earth as a baby

Because you adore us
Love us
Enough to give up your life
To save us.

And during these 40 days of Lent
May I learn
  Somehow
To see my brothers and sisters
With your eyes.

Amen.

community

We stand in a circle,
Eyes open,
A candle in the center
A cross beside it.

One by one,
We pick up the cross and share.

Some speak of dreams of the future,
Others of sorrows of the past.

All are here to speak to You
While surrounded by community.

You did not mean us to live a life alone.
You called some of us to married life
Others to single life

But you have called all of us to a life in community.

We have brothers and sisters here.
Some are old, some are young,
But all alike are here to praise you
And fellowship with each other.

The isolation of the day is past
As young and old join together
In praise and worship.

We will come away from here richer
Because we have shared the wonderful treasure
Of you
And each other.

morning conversation

I woke up with you on my mind.
The room seemed to be full of your presence,
As if you had been watching me closely as I slept.

During the day, your voice seems small and quiet
It is hard to hear you through the noise.
But here in the quiet of the morning
You can be clearly heard.

Lord, how is it that you,
The Creator of the Universe
Care enough to be with me in this quiet room at this early hour?
For you are with me, I know.

I feel your love so distinctly,
It is as if you are enveloping me--
A blanket of tenderness that seeks nothing more
Than for me to recognize this quiet time together.

I can't see you, of course.
That won't come till later.
But right now, as we share this moment together,
I will share this cup of coffee with you,
And before I turn to mail
And news
And Facebook,
I will say the one thing that I know how to say,
Inadequate as it is,
Good morning, Lord!
I love you.

Weight Bias

This post is thanks to a friend, Mike James, who like me is overweight.  Like me, he had bypass surgery--his was gastric, mine was intestinal.  Like me, he has trouble getting doctors to listen.

Mike wrote today asking for prayers for his doctor's visit.  I'm saying this so that you can pray that doctors listen to him and there are answers for his problem.  He related the issue of weight bias and included a video, which I'm going to link to at the end of this.

I had no idea that there was a name for the problem that I have had all my life.  Weight bias is real, and it occurs all the time.  It is especially prevalent in the doctor's office.

I saw my doctor (see earlier post) for the second time in January.  Once again, he began to chastise me immediately.  Whether or not my weight was involved in the problem, my weight was blamed for the problem.  I asked for allergy meds with decongestant.  I was given a lecture on how the decongestant could interfere with my high blood pressure and could lead to stroke or heart attack.  I reminded him that my blood pressure is well within normal limits.  He then looked at the blood pressure, seeming to feel that I was either uninformed about my own pressure (!) or lying (!!).  As the exam continued, he chastised me for the results of my blood work.  He insinuated that my kidneys are shutting down because of protein in my urine.  I reminded him that I was getting over the Norovirus, and I've had earlier experiences of the same thing when getting over an intestinal bug.  Not even a reply.  He chastised me and threatened to put me on medication because my A1C (I think that's what it's called) was 1 point higher than before.  I reminded him that he asked for it in the beginning of January--I do tend to eat unwisely from Thanksgiving to Christmas (as do many others).  No reply.  He then told me that he needed to start doing blood work every three months instead of every six.  I said that we could wait and see.  He took that as being argumentative and chastised me yet again.

Please, if you are overweight, don't stand for this foolishness.  Do as I did--look for another doctor and don't stop till you find one who will listen to you, not your weight.  Refuse to be bullied by your doctor.  If we allow this treatment to continue, then continue it will.  We have the right to be treated with kindness and care, just like everyone else.

And if you're a doctor, nurse--healthcare worker of any kind--please stop looking at our weight.  Look into our eyes--you'll see a person who is forced to rely on you for help.  Please don't let us down.

Health care bias in the medical field

A bruised reed...

He will not cry out, nor raise His voice,
Nor cause His voice to be heard in the street.
³ A bruised reed He will not break,
And smoking flax He will not quench;
He will bring forth justice for truth.
⁴ He will not fail nor be discouraged,
Till He has established justice in the earth;
And the coastlands shall wait for His law.”  Isaiah 42: 2-3

I started this post with the story of the woman caught in adultery.  Got pretty far with it, too, before I realized that her story isn't the story that I need to write.  Once again, I need to write my story.

I first heard this verse (actually, simply "a bruised reed he will not break") when I was at First Baptist Church.  I was a shell at that point, bruised and broken and hurting over the loss of baby, father, husband, and the life I knew.  I heard it and it gave me hope.  Others heard it and knew immediately that it was a word for me.  

It wasn't until much later that I went so far as to look up the context for the verse (never let a verse stand on its own.  You always need to make sure of the surrounding verses so that you know what it is actually saying).  It begins clarifying that he is speaking of His Servant in whom He delights.  He goes on to say that he will neither cry out nor raise his voice.  He will not break this bruised reed; he will not quench smoking flax.  These two verses bring hope. He will not allow a suffering person to be broken; he will not allow his spark of grace to be quenched even though it is surrounded by corruption.

I think about my pain and the pain of those around me--those whose pain I have observed and whose suffering I have shared in.  I have wondered how God could think that they could stand any more--why God doesn't intervene.  I think about others who have not been able to withstand their suffering--those people who have gone insane, committed suicide, or who have turned from God in bitterness.  I wonder about the truth of the verse in light of these examples.  No, I have no easy answers.  All I have is the picture of Aslan the Lion in the Chronicles of Narnia:  "That is not your story.  That is their story.  You do not need to understand their story, only your own."  Added to that, I think we have to admit that only God understands, and he will let us know in time--if we need to know.  If not, he will still comfort us.  That is what he does.

As for myself, healing took many years and the help of a faithful friend.  It took faith and love, both on my part and on the parts of those around me who knew my turmoil and prayed me through.  It took forgiveness and time and patience.  But it did happen.  I am still here and I can actually look back and say that I'm thankful for the experience.

That is the thing that is so wonderful about God's presence and his love during these times:  he does reveal himself.  I saw him more clearly after my husband's death than I ever did before.  I was able to depend on him more completely than ever, because there really was nobody else left.  I went through a lot, yes--so did my children--but I am glad that I did, because it left me stronger.  

Every time I write these words, I hear you say, "What?  You're glad your husband and child are dead?" Always before I have said that I'm not happy they're dead; I'm happy that God brought me through it as he did.  But just this once, I'm going a little further.  Yes, I'm glad.  I'm glad because they're with God.  I'm glad because they're together.  But most of all, I'm glad because I know that Tommy would in all likelihood have been severely brain damaged had he lived.  I know that Val would have been a vegetable.  I know that they would not have wanted to live like that--not compared to the wondrous things that they experience every moment their existence in God's presence.  So yes, I'm glad--for them--that they're dead.  But oh, how I wish they were here on earth for me.  And that's the truth of it.

Are you a bruised reed?  Are you suffering under a tremendous burden?  Take comfort in the fact that he has promised to be with you.  He has promised that his strength is there for you. Reach out to him and he will answer you and show you great and mighty things. Amen.

the tree in the glade

It stood alone, branches to the sky.  It waited day by day for someone to notice it.  It was one of many, but as was the case with all its brothers, they did notice.

Children climbed in its branches.  Young lovers took shelter under its leaves, relaxing against its trunk for the stolen kiss.  Old people would walk past, look up, and exclaim at how high it was now, remembering days gone by.  Dogs would come and…well, they would do what dogs do.

It didn't mind.  Each glance, each gesture was a treasure.  It felt the sunlight, exulted in the rain, glistened in the moonlight and waited.

One couple came to the tree daily.  They were neither young nor old.  The tree was special to them because of all they had shared under its canopy.  They first met when he helped her get a frisbee that was caught in branches and leaves.  The red cheeks and downcast eyes when she thanked him told him what he wanted to hear--she had noticed.  He had noticed, too, and the next day they came together--meeting under the tree as if drawn there by some strange energy that neither could explain.

It was under the tree that they had their first picnic together, under the tree that they shared the first kiss.  When he decided to ask the question that would change their lives, of course he did it under the tree.  She said yes, and at the wedding, bride and groom stood under the tree and said their vows while the couple's friends looked on, familiar with the story and smiling.

Years passed and the couple grew older.  Children came and the lover's trysts became family gatherings, full of love and laughter and delight in the beauty of nature.  The children didn't see what the couple saw, but they understood that for their parents, the tree was special.  They looked at each other with the "you know how they are" look that children reserve for aging parents.  But the request that they made took them by surprise.

"When we go, we want to be cremated, and we want our ashes to nourish our tree."  The children weren't even sure it could be done.  The parents didn't care whether it could or whether or couldn't.  They wanted it done and it would be done.  The children, by this time, were married themselves and understood the bonds of love.  Somehow, some way, it would be done.

The tree went for several years with no sight of the couple.  People came and people went, and still the tree waited.  It cannot be said that it grieved; it was a tree, and trees don't grieve.  But it did notice.  Something was amiss.  What it could not know was that the wife fell victim to dementia and the husband stayed at her side, unwilling to leave for any reason.  Going to their special place was meaningless without her.  Just once, the two of them came to the glade.  The woman was in a wheelchair, fastened to it with a sort of belt.  But what tenderness was shown that day!  The husband drove as close as he could, gently carried her from car to chair, and wheeled her as close as possible to their tree.  He then stopped and braked the chair, making sure that his wife's unseeing eyes were towards him, just in case.  He spread a last picnic for them both, sandwiches and tea for him, baby food and tea for her.  When the repast was ready, he tied her bib, loosened the belt with loving hands, and carried her to the blanket, setting her oh-so-gently on the spot he had reserved for her.  He kissed her hair, her eyes, her lips, and then shared his meal with her.  Even though many would say that she was no longer present in her body, he still saw the beauty that he had met and married and loved and cared for for so many years.  What he didn't realize was that she knew it, too.  And so did the tree.

The next time the man visited the glade, he was alone.  No, not alone.  He had a box in his hands, a box which he held every bit as tenderly as he had held the wife that used to be.  He knelt down under the tree, said a prayer, and then he let her go.  The tree felt the ashes blown by the wind as they permeated the air, the leaves, the branches, and his heart.  He let them fly, watching them through eyes dimmed with tears.  He never came again.

Not long after, his children came.  Another box.  The box was held awkwardly, not tenderly, and there was nervous laughter.  But they had promised, and they were obedient to the end.  Once again the muttered prayer, once again the tears, once again the ashes permeating the atmosphere.  Only the tree understood.  Only the tree saw the two come together.  Only the tree felt the hands clasp within his soul and heard the woman say, lucidly at last, "I'm so glad you've come.  Welcome home.  I love you."

inky darkness

I had no idea where I was going. The darkness in the corridor behind the gym disoriented me, and I was completely at a loss.  I had thought that I would go to the bathroom really quick and then come back to my son's basketball game, but I had no idea that only the basketball area was lit.  As I cautiously felt my way along the inky hallway, I felt something squish beneath my feet. Immediately my mind conjured up a rat or mouse as blind to me as I was to it.  Too late now.  I stumbled on, hoping that whatever now stained my shoe would rub off before I had to see it. Not much chance of that, seeing as I could feel the little body sticking to my shoe.  At least it hadn’t screamed.  I hate it when mice scream.

As I continued along the corridor, I put my hand out to the side, hoping to encounter a wall or—please God—a light switch.  No such luck.  I continued to grope in the dark, blind and too dumb to turn back.  But when you’re over 50, turning back when you have to go really isn’t an option.  I continued groping-- that is, until I tripped over a body and found myself in the middle of the floor, hands full of a strange liquid.  Oh please, God, not blood!

Blinding light. The sound of my son’s cry, “Mom! Where are you?” I called back, “Here, Ryan!” and just stayed put, eyes shut, waiting for the crime scene to be discovered.  The sound of my son’s gym shoes hitting the floor was both a blessing and a misery to me.  Now he would see the body that I had inadvertently fallen over.  Would he survive such an ordeal? Would I?

“Mom! What the heck are you doing in the girl’s locker room?”  I hesitantly looked around myself, and then started to laugh hysterically.  The mouse on my foot was actually a peach-the yellow meat and red skin still stained my shoe.  The “body” that I had tripped over was a mound of gym shorts, towels, and sweaters, evidently left when the girls went to the game after using black paint to make signs.  The container of black paint was still there, and my hands were wet with it.  I looked at my son, he looked at me, and even though he gave me the familiar teen grimace, I couldn’t help but smile. He waited for me while I used the restroom, then I meekly followed him out to watch the game.