The One That You Love

When you read a story from the gospel, put yourself in the story. Ask yourself which character you are. Are you just watching it all take place, or are you a main player in the tale being told?  Look around the scene and observe what it would look like, smell like, feel like, taste like. If you could pause the scene and talk with Jesus, what would you say? Father Chris spoke just a little about this Ignatian Imaginative prayer in Mass today, and I am all about it.  Be warned, if you are an imaginative person, it's gonna be intense.  If you're NOT an imaginative person, try to pretend someone just slipped a pair of VR glasses on you and you're suddenly immersed into this whole new scene.  Except it's in your mind.  (Imagination...) 

Try it.  The gospel reading at Mass today was John 11:1-45. It's the lengthy story of Lazarus getting sick, his sisters letting Jesus know, Lazarus dying, Jesus coming to see them, ---Jesus wept--- and Lazarus being raised from the dead "for the glory of God, that the Son of God may be glorified through it.” 

Now read it for real and live in it. Read the whole thing, then come back to the beginning with me.  The beginning of this chapter tells us who we're talking about.  These are his friends. He's spent time with them and shared meals with them.  Can you feel it?  Jesus and the guys hanging out with Lazarus and Mary while Martha makes some food. Mary rubs his feet with expensive oil and wipes them with her hair.  They're laughing and talking and Jesus is sharing the important things with them. He LOVES them. They know it. It's not because of the food or the wine, or anything particular. It's friendship. It's just... Jesus. He just loves them.    

"So the sisters sent word to him, saying, “Master, the one you love is ill.”"-John 11:3

So, using our imaginative prayer, Who am I in THIS verse? I am definitely not the Master.  I'd mess that up in a hurry.

I am sometimes the one who is ill. I do have a heart condition. It's also that time of year when the inhabitants of the elementary school where I work share every possible germ and virus, They're pickers and lickers, but I love them. (More about them another day.)  

It feels vain to say it, but I know I am the one he loves. Even so, am I fully trusting that he will help me? If his help is long in coming, or if it isn't playing out the way I think it should happen, can I trust that the outcome will be for the Glory of God? Can the Son of God be glorified through MY illness? I'm working on it. 

The only other option is to be one of the sisters. This is it. It's real and raw and sometimes brutal, but this is where I am. I don't just sense or imagine the desperation in Mary and Martha's message, I remember it. I remember being in the hospital with my mom as she was dying. I remember visiting in the hospital with Levi, my grandson, before and after his heart surgery.  In all of those moments, I remember "sending word" to Jesus in prayer.

"Master, the one you love is ill."

"Master, the one you love has cancer."

"Master, the one you love had a stroke."

"Master, the one you love is lost, broken and scared."

"Master, the one you love is fading, losing strength and hope."

"Master, the one you love has a heart that won't work right."

"Master, the one you love is barely holding on." 

"Master, the one you love is dying."

"Master, the one you love is grieving."

"Master, the one you love, I LOVE TOO, and I can't fix it."

That last part breaks my heart. As I'm sobbing over here, I am encouraged by some other words in this reading... Jesus wept. Same. 

But also, 

"Master, the one you love is encouraged!"

"Master, the one you love is redeemed."

"Master, the one you love loves you back."

   

Father Chris challenged us to ponder these words as our homework from Mass. I think you just read my homework.  I recommend you do it too! Write your own words to the Master, and remember that YOU are the one Jesus loves!

The Poor Kitty

I can't imagine what she thought when her son brought me home.

She probably had that same feeling a mother has when her son chooses the kitten with a gooey eye that doesn't open all the way, missing parts of an ear and the tip of a tail, and breathes like a heavy smoker.  He picks it up, which is fairly easy, as the poor thing limps around with one leg shorter than the other three (an old wound never properly healed) and declares this bony ball of fur and sickness "the most beautiful, perfect kitty in the whole world!" I AM that kitty!

I was broken down, used up, devalued, starved, pitiful, and hopeless.  I"d been played with for a minute, then thrown out the window of the moving car.  I was worthless and pathetic.  And sad. I was just another stray in a vast sea of strays who are lost and looking for a home. I'm sure she could see it and feel it and sense it.  I will never be good enough for her son, We both know it.

When faced with the kitty, most Mom's are thinking, "Right.  I'll give this poor wretched thing two weeks, and if it doesn't die of this respiratory infection, I'm sure it's intestinal worms will work their magic and put the poor dear out of her misery." Then, because she loves her son and her son CLEARLY loves this kitty, she helps him nurse it back to health. She may be secretly hoping he loses interest in this poor wretched thing, but his love heals this desperate, broken soul.  His love feeds her and returns the shine to her eyes, and the softness to her fur.  His love softens Mom's heart, and soon Mom sees his beloved through the son's eyes.

Mothers-in-law have a certain reputation.  For a reason.  It is the mother's job to protect the son.  This child is the fruit of her womb!  His care and protection is no small feat!  This particular son is not like any other man on the face of the earth!  He is her beloved son!  It is his mother's job to protect him.  It is the mother's job to keep away the rabble and those women who would suck the Spirit right out of him until he's a shell of the man he was intended to be.  It is the Mother's job to make certain that his lady understands how special and wonderful he is.  He deserves to be loved and appreciated for all of the wonderful things that he IS, and adored for the way he loves so completely.

And in the case of Mother Mary, it is her job to see me, her son's beloved stray kitty (me), through Jesus's filter of love.  What an incredible job for a human woman.  Even one full of Grace.

So now I have the responsibilities of a daughter-in-law, where it comes to her. I will learn the traditions, the recipes, the history of his family through her.  I will ask her to share the stories of him as a child, and learn the special language that each family has to communicate with each other. I will get to know them because I love him.  She and I will share him lovingly.  We will mourn together remembering his crucifixion, and rejoice together on Easter remembering his Resurrection.  We will each hold a beautiful and perfect place in his heart.

We will love each other. His love makes me worthy, and his love makes her accepting of me. We will love each other for love of him.  I hope that all that I do gives proof to my loving intentions towards him.  I hope that my words and actions illustrate my affection and adoration.

I hope to live up to my Mother-in-Law's expectations.


 ***Any discussion of daughters-in-law must come with a disclaimer.  I have been one, and I have some.  I've walked this path from a variety of directions, and I know that I have been blessed by both of my Mothers-in-law, and both of my Daughters-in-law.***

The 'Dirt Blessing'

Two years ago I waited in the hospital in Alabama for my granddaughter to make her entry into the world.  She arrived as scheduled, and promptly made us wait to get to hold her.  Her lungs didn't inflate well when she was first born, which reminded us all of a great lesson...we are not in control.

Yesterday she received ashes on her forehead for Ash Wednesday.  I should say, she and a good deal of the earth's population received these ashes as a reminder of that great lesson also.  We are still not in control.  We get to make choices and decisions, but the truth is exactly what the priest or deacon says as he traces the cross of Christ on our foreheads "Remember that you are dust, and to dust you will return."

Jordan told me Evie was all excited that she got a "dirt blessing".  She's right, it looks like dirt.  It's actually the burnt remains of the palms from last year's Palm Sunday Mass.  That was the one where we were all excited by the triumphant entry of Jesus into Jerusalem and the people were SO excited that he was there and laid palm fronds on the road before him as he rode in on the colt of an ass. Just before my sins nailed him to a cross.  Mine, yours, all of ours, because he didn't have any of his own.

Evie's right!  It is a dirt blessing.  We started as dirt and we'll end that way.  The important part is what we do while we are MORE than dirt.

For that brief moment of time between when our lungs inflate with the breath of God until we give back our last breath of God when our time here is over, we are more than dirt.

I have been taught that the breath of God contains within it some of His divinity, which is in each of us.  So maybe our job while we're here is to give it away.  Give your divinity to every person you meet by acknowledging theirs.  Give away the stuff that really matters.  Give time.  Give Love.  Give kindness and gentleness.  Give forgiveness and acceptance and find the beauty that this world is searching for and can't seem to see. Share your vision while your eyes are still able to see.  Share your laughter while your mind is still able to see the humor in life.  Share your song as long as your voice holds out.  Then just love.

Evie's a big girl now with her very own dirt blessing, and even though she's only been with us for 2 short years, it seems like she's always been.

This year, for Lent, use your days wisely.  Be a blessing, even if you're a dirty one.    

I Am What I Am....

Once upon a time I was a goofy crazy little child with chubby knees, big brown eyes, and a sense of adventure and imagination that never slowed down from the moment my eyes burst open until the minute I finally fell asleep.  I wasn't a pretty little girl in frilly dresses, but if you needed to find a lizard or a snake, there was a good chance I might have a spare one in my pocket, or at least knew a good spot to find some.

If a food fight was needed in the school cafeteria, I was your girl! I wasn't afraid to go fishing with the boys, since I could bait my own hook AND take the fish off with no problem, but I wasn't dumb enough to bite the head off the fish to join Jimmy and Rusty's fishing club either. I may have been the brother MY brother always wanted...except I was a sister.

But by the grace of God I am what I am!

For a while, I was a very awkward band geek that could play the bass clarinet despite having a mouthful of braces, and a very large white-girl fro that my Mom swore was "adorable".  (I have pictures. Don't make me share them.)  I had this weird new body with no operators manual and no clue what to do with all these...curves... and emotions.  So I covered them with T-shirts and jeans, and just kept being that crazy, goofy child inside, but knowing that I couldn't stay that little child broke my heart a little, and I needed something to ease that pain.

  But by the grace of God I am what I am!

I didn't know those words then.  I may have read them, but they didn't really speak to me like they do now.  

Some time later, I awoke to find myself married with a couple of kids.  "Worthless." "Ugly." "Ridiculous." When you hear them enough you begin to believe them.  Turns out he has a problem with lying.  


But by the grace of God I am what I am!

Then in another stop along the timeline of my life, I find myself surrounded by beautiful people, except they don't know their own worth.  Like me, they're broken.  "Queer." "Fag." "Homo." They've heard it all.  They know you don't approve, so they put up a shell.  Inside they are dying to know the truth, that they are wonderfully and beautifully made in the image and likeness of their Creator. Just like you. Just like me.  My best friend wears a mustache to hide the scar on his lip where he was beaten in the face for trying to feel beautiful. I'd love to go back to that time and yell with them from the rooftops: 

 But by the grace of God I am what I am!

Through the times when a bottle was my friend, and the times when I had no joy left in my soul save the tiniest micro-dot of love. In the times when I was completely alone and scared and learning to care for myself again.  As I nursed my wounded soul back to health and started looking, tentatively at first, into the mirror, I began to learn the truth about myself:

   But by the grace of God I am what I am.

I spent a few minutes of "quality time" with the Creator when my heart stopped.  Just long enough to feel the most perfect, complete, flawless, all-encompassing, forgiving, rejuvenating, renewing, joyful Love that ever existed. Love so intense in that one moment that it's enough to last forever!    

Now I can hold my head high because I don't just think I'm loved.  I KNOW that I am the beloved child of my doting Heavenly Parent! Lizards and perms and braces, and sadness and brokenness and all!  Loved!  

All that I was.  All that I am.  All that I will EVER be is a gift of grace from God.      

...and his grace to me has not been ineffective..."- 1 Cor. 15         

Feast your Eyes!

New York City was a feast for the eyes!  It was full of amazing architecture, beautiful skylines, and gorgeous people!

I was blessed with the opportunity to represent WomenHeart at the Red Dress Collection Fashion Show, which was attended by tons of people far more fancy and famous than I will ever be.  The gowns were lovely, the hair and makeup was impeccable, and the love in the air was palpable.  It's this last part that I found so incredible. Many people were at this event, not just to see and be seen, but because they legitimately care about women's heart health. They have mothers, sisters, aunties (and lots of men, too) in their lives who have been affected by heart disease, and they showed up to support all of us!  Kudos, and thanks to all who support those of us living with heart disease, and working to make the world a healthier place!    

Those of us who are not "city dwellers" have a hard time understanding those who prefer the city life. It all moves so fast, and us Country Mice prefer things a little more laid back.  Everywhere you look in New York City there is something shiny or flashy or newer or bigger to see!  It would be easy for little old me to feel very small here, but instead, I felt strong and capable, and like things are truly possible for me.  Not on my own merit, or of my own accord, but because of where my hope lies. This may seem odd that I felt this in the middle of one of the largest "concrete jungles" in existence.  This place seems very much like "Babel" of old, with it's super towers climbing to Heaven, and the people below speaking a myriad of languages.  It sounds odd, but I kept finding God everywhere, even when I wasn't looking! In the middle of Times Square, is a smaller area known as Duffy Square. There's a big statue of a Celtic Cross and a man identified as Father Duffy.  Here's what the New York City Parks Dept. website says about Father Duffy.

   Father Francis Patrick Duffy (1871-1932) was a military chaplain and a priest in the Times Square area. Born in Cobourg, Canada, Father Duffy moved to New York City in 1893 to teach French at the College of St. Francis Xavier (now Xavier High School). He was later ordained as a priest and in 1898, he accepted a teaching position at St. Joseph’s Seminary in Dunwoodie, New York, where he remained for the next fourteen years.

Father Duffy’s military service began in the Spanish-American War of 1898, serving as First Lieutenant and chaplain of the legendary Fighting 69^th Infantry of the National Guard as well as Post Chaplain at the military hospital in Montauk Point, Long Island. In 1912, Father Duffy left St. Joseph’s Seminary and moved to New York City to establish the Parish of Our Savior in the Bronx.

In 1916, Father Duffy returned to the 69^th Infantry, serving in Europe during World War I as part of the Rainbow Division and earning a number of medals. After the close of the war, Father Duffy returned to New York, and in 1920, was appointed pastor of the Holy Cross Church, located at 237 West 42^nd Street. Serving the theater-district community for over a decade, Father Duffy died on June 26, 1932. In 1949 veteran character actor Pat O’Brien portrayed Duffy in the Hollywood film based on his life, The Fighting 69^th, which also starred James Cagney.

There he stands.  Right in the center of it all!  It's a reminder to me of exactly what St. Augustine was saying here in the passage at the top.  LOOK at all the beautiful things!  Look at the handsome young men and the beautiful women.  There's no denying that Kelly Osborne and Jillian Michaels are beautiful young women! See the beauty in the natural horizon behind the buildings that men dreamed of, then built with their hard work and sweat. See the beauty in all of it! Then remember who is the Creator of it all.  If my Creator can plan such undertakings as the Empire State Building and the Museum of Modern Art, just think of what He can do with the raw materials that are me?!? 

See the beauty.  Love the one who created it.  Lord, my God, please be my hope, too!    

       

A Blizzard of Blessings

The snow is plentiful this morning.  There is so much that it weighs down the branches of my trees, and makes my shrubs look like they are made of clouds.

But if you look really REALLY closely, what you would see are billions and billions of individual snowflakes.  Each one is a unique six-sided work of art, crafted expressly for the purpose of being a snowflake.  If only one were to fall from the sky, you'd never notice it, but when they get together they close schools, and make roads impassable.  If the "Mayhem" commercials are to be believed (and they're usually trustworthy) they also get heavy enough to collapse rooftops.

Together they change the world.  They turn green lawns white.  As they are blown and drifted, they determine which roads we can travel.  They cover all the stuff in my side yard, including the shovel I will need to move them. All because they came down together.

It hit me this morning that this is EXACTLY the reason we worship together.  Certainly we could pray alone at home, and we should, but if that's all we do, then that one prayer is like that one single flake falling alone. When we pray our prayers together we become a blizzard of blessings, changing the world!

Together our prayers can close roads leading the wrong way.  Together our prayers can weigh down the branches of our pride, reminding us to be humble and lowly.  Together our prayers can cause snow days from school (and life), allowing us time to stop and refresh and renew our spirits.

Jesus said that wherever 2 or more are gathered in His name, He will be among them. Come join Jesus and  your friends this weekend.  Let's pray down a blizzard of epic proportions!  

       

Snowy, with a chance of prayers.

I'm looking out my bedroom window at the snow falling in soft puffs, cheerfully and quietly racing towards the ground.

They are like millions of prayers and kind thoughts all fluffy and pure covering the dark, scorched ground of a tragedy.

It's been snowing for a while now, and only a few dark spots of sadness remain.  At first glance, all is well and light and pure in the world.  Choose to see only that.

Hold on to the vision in white, made whole by the praying of friends and those who love you and don't know anything else to do for you.  Don't seek out the dark patches where the broken pieces show through.  It's too easy to be drawn into them by their stark contrast against the purity of love, joy and happiness.

 The bare ground of sorrow will be covered by the billowy white softness of this snow until this season of coldness ends.

Soon, the warm rays of Divine Love will melt the snow of blessings into water so plentiful that we can't absorb it all.  Kindness, like soft rains will gently soak away the hardness of cold ground that we've become.  For a time, the  murky mud of our sorrows seems to be everywhere. It sticks to our boots, dirties up our homes, and tracks along behind us everywhere we go.

As we allow these blessings to flow deeper within us, and we absorb the warmth of God's love, we are transformed into fertile soil where seeds of hope can find nourishment and flourish.

The ground always remains, but as time goes by it can't be seen through the colorful blooms and dense foliage of the garden we've allowed ourselves to become.        


    

Live The Dream

At my house, we are living the dream!

It's not the dream where people feed you grapes while you lay on couches in Greek togas with golden leaves in your hair.

Even the "Cribs" dream of having more bathrooms than bedrooms, and a bowling alley and a movie theatre in your home seems a little unnecessary to me.

I'm talking about Dr. King's dream.  I'm specifically talking about his vision of a place and time that children can learn and play and pray together, regardless of the color of their skin, or the where their great-grandpa was from.  I'm talking about the fact that my kids care less about what color someone's skin is, and care more about what kind of person they are.  We're not perfect over here, but I believe we are living the dream.

One piece of evidence of this happened several years ago on this date.  The kids had been discussing Martin Luther King Day at school, and they came home with questions.

Them: Who is this guy?
Me: Dr. Martin Luther King.  Preacher, civil rights activist, he was shot for his beliefs.
Them: So, martyr?
Me:  I guess so, yes. He gave a very famous speech about his dream.
Them:  What was his dream about?
Me:  It was his hope for the future that people would just love each other and not judge each other by the color of their skin.
Them:  That's stupid.
Me: WHAT?!?!?!
Them: That's stupid!  Why would someone think someone was less or more important because of the color of their skin? That's just stupid!
Me: (Calming down.) Agreed.  But there was a time when black and white people weren't allowed to go to the same school or church or even bathrooms.
Them:  What!?! That's Stupid!  What difference does it make?

This is when I run out of answers for them, because I don't know.  I don't have all the answers for why  people feel that way.  I don't know why history was like that.  I don't agree with that way of looking at people.  Then the kids really got incensed.  They stopped thinking of color and started naming names.

We went to Cincinnati a few years ago and visited the Underground Railroad Museum.  It was awesome and I highly recommend it.  I watched my kids learn the history of former slaves and free people working together to liberate those born and sold into slavery.  As every cruel act was described, at every horrible disrespectful word they would look at me and ask "Why?"  It was the same response when we got to sit on Rosa Parks' bus.  Why?

Stay innocent, my children.  Don't look for reasons to separate and hate and disrespect.  Don't hate people.  The dream is that Love Rules!  Live the Dream!  Love One Another!  


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Closer than they Appear

My friend told me to think of your life like a car driving at night.  "You can't see any further ahead than your headlights."

This totally rubbed me the wrong way, since I am incredibly GIFTED at worrying about the things to come.  Not that I worry for no good reason, I am a sensible worrier.  I mean, I don't worry about the whole Mayan Apocolypse, or Zombies or anything senseless like that.

However, I was given the most incredible blessing of being the mother of 7 great kids. Hence the worrying.

Some of this worry is indeed, beyond the scope of my headlights.  I can't do much for my children when they are grown or when we are apart from each other.  I can't make my grown kids brush their teeth. (I trust Jordan's wife makes him do that now.)I can't make them change their socks.  I can't make them make good choices.  Sometimes, for no really good reason, they will cheer for the wrong football team.  (Sometimes that team will even win a game, which STILL does not make it appropriate to say "Roll Tide" at the dinner table.) I can't make the girls actually sleep when they have a sleepover at Aunt Chris's house, or Aunt Jenni's. I can't keep them from trying a drink or a joint.  I can encourage them in the right direction, but the decision is ultimately theirs. (And, kids, if you're reading this, KNOW that I will find out and that you WILL NOT like the consequences!)

What worries me is that I can't keep them from harm.

Before they lived in Alabama or Kentucky or Louisiana, or even Michigan, they lived in my heart (and places south of that) and that makes my kids like the objects in my side mirror:  CLOSER THAN THEY APPEAR. At the moment, I have children in three states.  In the next few months, I will have children in three different countries. No matter where they are, they are always in my heart first.

When my sons deploy, I will worry.

I will also remind myself that they are closer than they appear.  I hope they will remember that I am closer than I seem also. It's hard to cuddle with half of a DNA strand, but just know I'm there, and not just me.

Our Creator is closer than he appears also.  The one who loves us most.  The one who can see beyond the headlights.  The one who tells us that we can't change a single hair on our heads by worrying.  

Alright.  So I guess I'll just be happy with what I can see right now, knowing that Love is much MUCH closer than it appears.    

           

30 Things About MY Invisible (but NOT Imaginary) Illness!

1. The illness I live with is: Arrhythmia.  My full diagnosis is "Ideopathic Ventricular Tachycardia/Ventricular Fibrillation which means we don't know why, but your heart goes too fast then stops!    

2. I was diagnosed with it in the year: 2008, after my cardiac arrest.  

3. But I had symptoms since: Well, the cardiac arrest was the first big symptom.  Unmistakable, really.  It was a really REALLY good symptom to have.  

4. The biggest adjustment I’ve had to make is: to SLOW DOWN and RELAX!

5. Most people assume: I'm cured.  There is treatment, and I'm doing very well, but I'm not cured.  

6. The hardest part about mornings are: getting moving.  But I've never been a morning person. 

7. My favorite medical TV show is: House. I keep hoping a real-life House will show up and diagnose me with something I can just take an aspirin for and be all better.  Then I would run a 5K, get skinny, and hit the talk show circuit.  Then the Unicorns start flying me over the rainbows...but a girl can dream.  

 8. A gadget I couldn’t live without is: the Maximo VRII AICD that lives in my chest and shocks me when my rhythm gets too fast.  

9. The hardest part about nights are: shutting down my mind as it races with thoughts and memories and fears about my heart.  What if this is my last day?  Have I lived it properly?  Will my kids have good memories of me if this is it?  Have I told everyone I love them.  Would God be pleased to see me?  Have I loved Luke well enough?  Do my friends know how I feel about them?  Have I apologized?  Have I prayed?  

10. Each day I take 13 pills & vitamins. (No comments, please)

11. Regarding alternative treatments I: do what I can to be healthy.  

12. If I had to choose between an invisible illness or visible I would choose: Sometimes it would be better to be visible, but I don't like pity. It would have been better to have a visible disability than when I was on the wrong beta blockers.  Mostly I looked (and felt) like I was on a bad drug trip, or having an extended "Woodstock-type" experience.  It would have been nice for people to see that I was medicated and not just bizarre.  

13. Regarding working and career: My heart event was the catalyst to becoming a published writer.  I am thankful for my heart disease reminding me that if I die now, I take all my thoughts and stories and ideas with me.  God's got lots of stories already, He wrote them all!  No point in taking them all with me!  

14. People would be surprised to know: how much control they REALLY have over their cardiac health.

15. The hardest thing to accept about my new reality has been: I have to be a little less critical of myself.  I've always been my own worst critic, and I've had to learn to give myself a break.  

16. Something I never thought I could do with my illness that I did was: Dance my socks off at the Symposium!  

17. The commercials about my illness: Don't exist. 

18. Something I really miss doing since I was diagnosed is: Dancing for hours with wild abandon.  I had to reel in the abandon, and cut the hours.  I do love to dance!  

19. It was really hard to have to give up: Running.  I know this surprises some of you, since I'm not a good runner.  I ran my first and second 5K the summer before my diagnosis.  It's not that I loved to run...it's just that I COULD run.  I don't like being "unable" to do anything!  I just can't run yet.  Maybe someday, but not today.  

20. A new hobby I have taken up since my diagnosis is: BLOGGING!!

21. If I could have one day of feeling normal again I would: just enjoy it.  I do have days when I forget about my heart disease, or at least tolerate the little things I need to do to feel like a real live girl.  I truly am blessed with lots of good days.  Bad heart days are terrible.  I wouldn't wish them on anyone.  

22. My illness has taught me: to forgive and forget.  Life is too short to stay mad.  Some things can be left on the salon floor.  I an learning to forgive my body for betraying me, but that's a work in progress.  We're talking.  We go to dinner sometimes.  We're working on getting back together.  

23. Want to know a secret? One thing people say that gets under my skin is: "I don't have heart disease, I just have..." then they list a myriad of cardiac problems a mile long that ARE heart disease!  I used to do this too. DENIAL!  "I don't have heart disease, I just have a rhythm problem." BUNK!  Dude, I was dead on the floor without my own pulse!  It's called HEART DISEASE!  A Dis-Ease of the HEART!  Now I say it.  Now I own it.  

24. But I love it when people: tell me they are glad I'm still here.
25. My favorite motto, scripture, quote that gets me through tough times is: "The light shone in the darkness and the darkness could not overcome it." Also, when I pray and ask God why, He always responds the same. "Because I love you!"

26. When someone is diagnosed I’d like to tell them: It won't always feel like this. Just hang in there.  You are not alone, you've got lots of heart sisters!  

27. Something that has surprised me about living with an illness is: how many others are walking around with similar issues that are living in fear and loneliness.  

28. The nicest thing someone did for me when I wasn’t feeling well was: Pray for me and with me. 

29. I’m involved with Invisible Illness Week because: I thought you'd want to know what it's like to look healthy on the outside, but not so much on the inside.  

30. The fact that you read this list makes me feel: Strong, loved, heard, blessed, and like maybe I'm taking one for the team!    

Falling Flat on my Face

The stitches have been removed, and the skin has healed, but I have a dark scar that everyone can see if they look me in the face.  For awhile I avoided looking straight at people because I was embarrassed.  

I felt ashamed that everyone could see my mistake literally written all over my face.  They knew my misstep the minute they  looked at me.  They would look at me with shock and disgust and say (aloud or to themselves) "What happened to you?"  The disapproving, curious looks only feed my self-consciousness.  Like it wasn't embarrassing enough when it happened.  

 I was doing great!  I was strong, healthy, and blessed enough to give to others.  I tripped over a little curb, and found myself windmilling out of control.  The harder I tried to get control, the closer my face got to the pavement, until that awful moment when teeth hit asphalt. There were about 30 people standing around, and they all heard the sound.  A collective "oh!" went up from the crowd as I lay there for a minute, praying that my front teeth would come off the parking lot still attached.

Instantly this man was by my side.  "It's OK, Little Mama.  I got you Little Mama.." He comforted me and lifted me off the ground, to my feet.  He carried me back inside Ministry with Community,  the day shelter where I had just helped serve the meal. He held me while I spit out the gravel and blood that were collecting in my mouth, told me it was okay, "Go on and spit it right out, Little Mama. I got you." He said, lovingly, and directed another member to get me a cold wet rag to wipe off my face. Within minutes, my friends (including this new one) loaded me in my van and took me to the ER to get 4 stitches in my upper lip.  I never saw his face.  

As I mentioned, the stitches are now gone, but the experience (and the dark scar) stay with me.  I've had the blessing of volunteering at MwC lots of times, but this time was different.  This was the day I officially became a member.   

My misstep (over the curb) left me flailing and fighting for control.  It's not the first time for me, or the other members.  Sometimes the curb looks more like a bottle, or an abusive mate, or a crack pipe.  Sometimes it's a curb of depression or loss that someone else put there and pushes you over, either way, there you are.  Falling fast, out of control, thinking you've almost got it.  Sometimes there's a crowd gathered, they're watching, but don't know how to help.  Sometimes, you think no one notices and you can quietly get a bandage and try to stop the bleeding on your own.   

I'm glad I wasn't alone.  

"I got you, Little Mama."  He said, and it was true. He physically carried me (although my feet were helping) back into the building, where I was cared for and doted on.  Looking back, the things I was worried about were foolish.        

I was afraid to see my face.  Smiling really IS my favorite, and I was afraid mine was gone.  How can I smile with broken teeth?  They were cracked and chipped, but still attached. Then I thought of the members here.  They smile through broken teeth, missing teeth, even broken hearts and spirits.  The teeth don't make the smile, the love does.  That's what makes MwC what it is, too.  I was offered love and compassion when I needed help.  I was embraced and comforted by a face I won't recognize, because I was in the crisis of being newly broken.  This is what Ministry with Community does. They pick you up with a loving "I got you Little Mama," and hold you close, until you can look in the mirror and see your cracked teeth, and still smile.  I love this place.  

Think of your curbs.  

What trips you up?  What makes you lay on the ground, face to the asphalt in front of a crowd, and stops you completely?  Who calls you "Little Mama" and gently takes you in?  Are you still worried about what you look like?  Do you have scars that show when people look you in the face?  Are you hiding them, or choosing to embrace them as battle wounds in this epic challenge called life?  What are you going to do?   

I'm choosing to thank my Maker for all of it.  Thank you, God,  for the ones who were there to help. They provided me with stitches, a cool wet rag, and a warm smile through missing teeth.  I may not remember their faces.  I may not know their names, but God bless them, because whoever they are, they are helping me heal.            

     

   

Double-dipping Jesus

At Catholic Heart Work Camp we went to Mass in a hot stuffy room in the middle of the school with very little air flow.  It was 4:30 in the afternoon, after our work day, and we were sweaty and hungry and (at least me) a little cranky.  We were "making do" for the week, sleeping on classroom floors in a room with 15 other people.  It was, in a word, awesome.  


So anyway, back to Mass.  Several of the kids from our youth group chose to attend this particular Mass, which was very exciting since Mass is optional.  I thoroughly enjoyed celebrating Mass with these youths that I have come to love as my own.  So it comes to my favorite part of Mass.  The priest elevates the host and asks God to allow it to become the body and blood of Jesus Christ.  I accept to the core of my being that God says yes, every single time.  So the people at Mass line up, and we take our turn ingesting the body and blood of our Lord and Savior, as He asked us to do in memory of Him.  


I'm greedy for the body and blood of Christ.  On this particular day, I really REALLY need Christ in every cell of my being. I need Him to be my strength, because I'm tapped out.  I need his love, because as I mentioned, I'm cranky, and not being very loving.  I get to the front of the line, and the priest says, "The Body of Christ."  I have done this probably a thousand times since I was 7 years old, but today as I say "Amen" I am stricken with the truth of it. I tear up.  I accept the host into my mouth, feeling unworthy to touch the body of my Lord with my unclean hands, then I realize...he gave me two!  


I'm overjoyed!  Extra Jesus!  Bonus Savior!  It's a two-fer!  Score!  In the midst of my celebration, I catch the eye of Dawn, my dear friend sitting next to me, and she looks like she just stole something.  "I got two...is that okay?" She mouths silently.  I shake my head yes, realizing that her reaction was probably a better one than mine.  I'm still geeked.  


After Mass, a few of us converse about this "double-dip of Communion".  You usually only get one, you see, and there was some concern among us that we were hogging up the Jesus.  Usually in a church they have a Tabernacle, which is a lovely gold box that the body and blood of Christ left over from being consecrated in Mass resides in until it is used in the next Mass.  As you can imagine, this is a very special little house for these very sacred pieces of Savior. We are in a school which doesn't have a Tabernacle.  So the priest puts these blessed pieces of Christ in the most Holy receptacle he has available...us.  


This blows my mind.  


My body is the home of Jesus.  The Most High God becomes physically part of my body every single time I take Communion, and sometimes I get a double dose, because my body is the holiest place for Him to be.  Wow.  Do you think of your body as a holy place?  Yeah, me either. I realize that I am dust, and to dust I will return, but God breathed on this dust and gave it life.  Jesus found it lovable enough to die for.  I never thought of my body this way before.     


Now that I know, I feel a responsibility to treat myself like the temple God created me to be.  I feel I need to respect His home.  Thank you again, God, for giving me exactly what I need.