…and life itself is grace

If you were aware of how precious [today] is, you could barely stand to live through it.  Unless you are aware of how precious it is, you can hardly be said to be living at all.

- Frederick Buechner

Life and living have been very much on my mind of late. Right now, Melissa is fighting bravely and beautifully in a small room across the water. Prayer is constant, spoken and silent – but it’s not really as if I have a choice. Often (I am ashamed to admit this) my promised prayers go forgotten, but she is on my heart in every quiet moment.

It was this time a year ago that my grandpa died.

My mind is tired and my heart is a little raw, to tell the truth.

Last night, I hit pause and let myself be for a moment.

I turned the stereo on low and walked out on to the deck, breathing deep of the still-warm night air. Leaning against the railing, I stared out through the trees at the Brothers, watching in reverent silence as the sun sank beyond them, turning all the sky rosy there in that fleeting moment just between daytime and dark. I just stood there for a few, letting myself soak in what I miss most days. Glancing down at my too-often-neglected flower pots, I discovered with absolute joy that my marigolds are not only not-dead, but about to bloom again. (This is a miracle in and of itself).

Ran inside right quick – water for the flowers, a Killian’s for me.

Threw my bare feet up on the table outside, leaned my head back on my plastic chair, and closed my eyes. I listened. I relaxed as my fan droned on in front of the screen door. Not too far away, a bird was singing the last of its song for the evening. Heard a woman laughing loud out in the parking lot. I let my eyes drift back to the mountains again, purple now. Then – a flash of white, and a group of happy, giggling voices belting out Happy birthday to you… happy birthday to you… from the apartment below. A few more flashes of light, and cheers and applause as the candles were, from what I could tell, successfully blown out on the first try. Wish big, girl.

Took my last sip just as the first of the stars were coming out.

For me, to be alive is to always be aching just a little. (Sometimes, in weeks like this one, a lot). But there are good aches as well as painful ones. Watching the day come to an end. Singing in a hospital room. Laughing with a friend, on the phone long-distance. Smiling for no reason. Having your hand held. Being held.

In all of these moments, I sense God up close.

This is the life I get to live. Even though it means deep sorrow as well as deep joy, I wouldn’t trade it. Not a moment of it.

Live your lives today, friends.  You only get once.

update

I returned from an amazing (quick) camping trip to a message on my cellphone telling me the following:

1.  There were complications following Melissa’s surgery, and they were trying to get her stable.

2.  The cancer has advanced past her leg, into her uterus, bladder, and most likely her kidneys.

I am heartbroken.  I’m no oncologist, but I realize that unless God does something big here, I am going to lose my friend.

Five days ago I laid next to her on her bed as we were packing her stuff for the hospital.  I held her hand and told her everything was going to be ok.  She said that I get to think about my future — she doesn’t really get the luxury of taking for granted that she’ll get to watch her kids grow up.  I told her that of course she has a future, it just looks different than the one we’d planned.

I told her it would be ok.

And it’s not ok.

My heart hurts.

Please, PLEASE pray for God to intervene; for him to guide the doctors.  They want to do additional surgery, but have to get her stable from the first surgery in order to do so.

Pray for me also.  I’m headed over to Seattle this afternoon to visit her… and I… I just don’t know even what to ask you to pray for, other than that I’d be a comfort somehow. 

Thanks.

half-price pedicures

God’s timing amazes me.  Sometimes it frustrates me, but more often, it leaves me with my jaw hanging open, a la how the heck did You do that?

A-like so:

The week I busted my knee, I bumped into Melissa three times. 

I never bump into Melissa three times.

But I did that week.  Which doesn’t really seem like anything big, until I tell you that this was also the week that Melissa found out her cancer was back.

Melissa and I have known each other since we were nine years old, as we grew up in church together.  Camping trips, youth group, birthday parties… there aren’t very many memories I have at the old church that don’t involve her somewhere in them.  There was probably a year or two in there during junior high when we were “BFF” (translation for the layperson: best friends forever).  I remember many times out at her family’s house, goofing off, laughing loud.  Melissa has a HUGE personality — she has always been vivacious and a little crazy.  And, by her own admission, yeah, she talks too much.

As we got older, our lives took different paths, and they look very different now: she is married with three kids, and I am, well, not.  Over time you just sort of lose touch.

But all that seems to lose importance when something big happens.  Something big like cancer.  A little over a year ago, I was sitting around gabbing after church, and saw Melissa’s younger sister, who lives in California now.  I ran up to say hello, excited and happy to see her.  I couldn’t understand why she wasn’t more enthused, until people, my folks included, began gathering in a circle to pray for Melissa.  As soon as I heard the word cancer, my mind stopped registering words.

She had a tumor roughly the size of a papaya.  They soon did intensive surgery to remove the tumor and the bone it had attacked; the odds weren’t really all that great, to be honest.  We said many prayers.  I said many prayers.  I did what I could to help.  But I hung back from being personal.

Why?  I made it about me.  I didn’t mean to, but I did.  I was so afraid I would come across as so fake, so false: Hi, we haven’t really talked in about a decade, but you have cancer and you’re back at church now, so…!  Let me be your friend… let me help you and be a good Christian.  I was so sure I’d come across as nothing but a phony. 

When it comes to life and death type of stuff, the fact is, we just never know really what to say.  So, more often than not, we say nothing and let the moment pass us by.  I did that, fearful of how I’d come across, and I’ve always regretted it.  Always.

Fast forward about a year.  My roommate Amanda and I were talking to Melissa out in the church commons about doing the Relay for Life with her team.  Amanda asked her how long she had been cancer-free.  Melissa had it down to nearly the hour, as she said something like “One year, one month, 13 days.  I think.”

Six days later it was Saturday and I had busted my knee playing soccer and I was at Blockbuster Video trying to find something that would amuse me since I was confined to the couch.  Melissa was there, and we chatted for a few moments.  I inquired as to how her family was doing — her uncle, a well-known and well-liked store owner, had been murdered the week before by a friend who, as far as anyone can tell, was suffering from paranoid delusions.  We talked a few more moments and that was it.  She said she hoped the leg was better soon.  I said I’d talk to God about her family.

Two days later my mom called me at work to tell me that Melissa’s cancer was back, and that they would have to take her leg.

The day after that, I went into Starbucks with my new fancy knee-brace and ordered a tall iced-mocha.  Melissa was there, meeting with her Relay coach.  She asked if I’d have to have surgery on the knee; I said, “Probably not, I’ll just have to wear the brace for six weeks, which really, come to think of it, um, isn’t that big a deal…” I trailed off.

“Yeah, at least you get to keep yours!”

Laughter.

After her meeting, she came outside and sat at my table.  And we talked and talked and talked.  I heard about the anticipated unfairness of still having to buy pairs of shoes (I suggested finding someone on the internet who only requires a left size nine)… hopes of half-price pedicures… the inherent awkwardness of Melissa trying to comfort those who called her, crying, to console her.  We transplanted the party to a friend’s hair salon, where she had her hair bleached and purple streaks added, just in time for Relay.  (She said her mom would freak, but that she would just say, “Mom, you only live once, and I’m hangin’ on by a thread here, so…”)  We stopped at a gas station to grab some snacks, and laughed about the fact that people must wonder who the handicapped placard was for – her, with her cane, or me with my brace.  Cripples, both of us.

I apologized for not having been more present the last time, and told her my fears of being thought insincere.  She told me that she never saw me as the goody-two-shoes Christian, or well, actually, that it had been a really long time since she had.  Not since we were kids.  Didn’t matter.  We were glad to be connecting again now.  There’s a comfort in being around someone who’s known you that long, with whom you have so much history, even if it’s been a long time since revisiting it.

We hung out a few nights last week in the days leading up to Relay, and the topics turned more serious: how much her leg hurts her now, to the point where amputation almost seems like the better option.  Dealing with the anger that arises out of constant and searing pain.  Disappointment in people who don’t know how to be there, or just don’t seem to want to be.  Wanting God to make use of this.  Fear of what tomorrow brings.  Not taking life for granted.

What I went through following my car accident doesn’t even register on the same plane as what Melissa faces, but I remember all those feelings.  I remember how intensely lonely this road is.

It’s been a while since I just sat and shed tears with someone.  It’s such a painful and blessed and sacred place to be.

I didn’t know what the hell to say.

It didn’t matter in the least.  Through tears, as we sat there in the kitchen, both our legs propped up on a chair between us, Melissa said, “Thanks for coming.  I was so surprised when you called… a lot of people don’t… I just really needed a friend.”

And all at once, my heart broke and I was glad to be there and I was scared to death to be there, scared that I wouldn’t be able to be enough, that I wouldn’t be able to be the kind of friend that is the right kind of friend — strong enough, for instance — to see her through what lies ahead.  But I knew in that moment that no matter what, I would keep showing up, even if I wasn’t very good at it. 

Sometimes just showing up is all that’s needed.  Melissa doesn’t need me to be eloquent.  She needs me to be there.  So I’m going to do my best.  I want to make sure I keep on getting to hear that laugh.  It rings even more lovely because I know the depths from which it comes.

Please pray for Melissa.  The surgeons will take her entire leg and hip, and it’s not going to be easy going for quite a while.  The surgery is this coming Thursday.  Pray for her husband, for her kids, for her family.  Thanks.

#4

thanks for everyone’s thoughts here on this, guys.  me and carl have had a bit of off-blog conversation about all this, and I think we both walked away having learned a bit.  thanks for giving me room to ramble, and for sharing some stories of your own.

—-

In other completely unrelated news, just wanted to briefly mention that number four on my speed dial is now officially taken, as am I.  (1-Mom and Dad; 2-Mom Cell; 3-Kevo; 4-Usually empty).  I won’t mention much about it here, other than to say that his name is Jason, he’s a firefighter/paramedic, he treats me like gold, and we are having way too much fun together.  (Oh, and I’m very happy… in that way where everyone close to me keeps teasing me because I can’t quit grinning).   

the knife

I write much of this in response to the following, which I received a few days ago:

Kind of disapointed that you’d post this on the world wide web for everyone to read. This woman obviously has some mental issues and I’m sure it would humiliate her to know that you posted her embarrassing incident on the internet. I guess the sermon that night wasn’t on forgiveness, or grace. Tell me, was it on reaching hard for attention?

I know that I was being baited here, but I can’t help it.  I’ll bite.

[Please know, everyone, that I wouldn't post anything here that would ever intentionally hurt anyone.  Only one person from this particular church reads my ramblings here, and he watched the whole thing happen anyway. 

The way I deal with the crazy happenings in my life is to laugh about them.  People and life and situations in general are pretty stinkin' funny if you stop to think about it.  This story, although it was scary when it happened, quickly turned funny.  So I shared it in a medium where the story can be, with no risk at all to the woman involved, as she is lost in complete anonymity.  This has nothing to do with lack of forgiveness -- I harbor no resentment toward this woman and hope she gets help, as embarrassment will cease to be the biggest of her worries if she continues to be violent in public.]

OK enough trying to convince you folks that I’m not actually a terrible person.  The bigger issue here, and the one I really want to address, is this: why is it that the most harsh criticism a follower of Christ can expect is from another follower of Christ?

I don’t know Carl at all.  Maybe he was having a bad day.  Maybe he knows someone who struggles with mental illness and this is a sensitive subject for him.  I’ll give him the benefit of the doubt, and avoid judgments as to Carl as a person.  But I do want to talk about sentiments like the ones he shared — because I think at some point or another we’ve all been on the receiving end of — and when we’re honest, spoken — similar things.

You want to know the main reason I very nearly left the Church?  Pretty simple.  I got tired of getting knifed.  Luckily my memories of those years are starting to fade, and I’ve forgotten many of the things that were said to me during my formative years.  But they left marks all the same.  The scars show up now as little mental tics, where I have to work it all out in my mind how I’ll come across if I say or do such and such a thing (Will this person think I’m _____________?), where I have to walk through my fear that someone will judge me as unworthy all over again.  It takes all I am to leave myself unguarded.

What does it look like to get knifed?  Most often it involves “constructive criticism” that leaves you feeling torn apart inside… from a person who has no right or permission to give it.  You know.  You’ve been there.  Someone you barely know, who barely knows you, sits you down to tell you “what’s on their heart.”  If it’s a particularly skilled person, they’ll play the God card in there too.  So now, both God and this person feel you’ve blown it big-time.

Many people who leave the church are simply tired of getting ripped apart by other Christians who have such a keen interest in removing that plank in your eye that they don’t care how much of you they carve out along with it.  These folks didn’t have a problem with Jesus.  They had a problem with people who were so sure they represented him.  His reps may have even been right sometimes — but they were so damn mean about it that it sure felt wrong.

Call me a wimp, call me super sensitive, whatever — but is it really so impossible to criticize or disagree with someone without going for the jugular?  Why are we so ungracious in the name of Grace?  Why do I get the feeling sometimes that other Christians are the least likely to be for me; as if, the more they point out my flaws, the less God will notice their own?

Kids, that last sentence stung, even though it was from a complete stranger who, I’m certain, would probably not say something like that were he to know me better.  Grace and forgiveness are huge to me; it hurt to be accused of a lack of it, especially in a situation that genuinely stretched me.  And there’s not a very long span of time that goes by that I don’t fight insecurity regarding my self-centered nature.  I know this is a weak spot already, even without a stranger telling me so.  I mean, geez — I’m a writer and a musician — what a lethal combo. 

I’d still rather be self-centered than self-righteous, however.

Here’s the point of this, admittedly my worst post ever: there’s a fairly decent-sized list of folks who could have shared the above feeling with me, and I would have taken it just fine.  Of course, they would have left off that last sentence, and simply shared how they felt without telling me who I am.  But they even could have told me that it didn’t sound very gracious, and I would have been ok.  Want to know why?  Because they use their knife skillfully – for my benefit and not my harm – and they have permission to go in there in the first place.  Plus, they probably would have emailed me about it.

Jeanne Mayo shared a sermon once about wineskins.  She educated us on the entire process.  All the flesh has to be removed from the wineskin, or else the wine will take on the flavor of the flesh rather than retaining its own.  One step in the process involves a very fine, very sharp knife which is used to remove any small pieces of the flesh that remain.  It does its work very efficiently, but absolutely must be in skilled hands — rough or unsteady hands will puncture the wineskin and it will become useless.

She said two things:  1.  Give people permission to use the knife in your life – to call you on the areas of your life that still look more like flesh than wine.  Tell them they have that right; ask for it, demand it of them.  But only give this sharpest of knives to those you can trust, because harsh words of criticism can wound deeply and sometimes cause damage that’s near-impossible to repair. 

2.  If you’re not sure whether or not you hold the knife in someone’s life, and you feel the need to say something – ASK THEM FOR THEIR PERMISSION FIRST.  If you have the right, share your heart, after you’ve examined it.  If you don’t, keep your trap shut.  They – not you – determine whether or not you speak.  Very unpopular in our culture, but we’d have a whole lot less walking wounded if it were more common.

This might sound ridiculous, but I’ve done it.  I’ve asked for permission.  It’s pretty simple.  “Am I someone who has the right to speak into your life?”  Easy enough.  Lets them know that I am more concerned about them than I am about being right, or even having a say.  And it lets me know whether or not to speak.  It’s a big deal, and not to be taken lightly.  First, I’ve never had a person say no (not that I attempt this very often anyway)… and they know that I speak because I genuinely care, and not because I’m trying to out-spiritual them.

I’m not saying Carl should have asked my permission before disagreeing with me.  He needs no special okay from me to do so.  But he could have left the personal to those who actually know me personally, and who have the right – and the skill – to carve in a way that leaves me better rather than bleeding.

Just some thoughts here on a rainy Saturday morning.  Take ‘em or leave ‘em.

purple heart

OK.  I am finally ready to tell my tale.  This is, for the record, my BEST STORY EVER.  I’ve been telling it to everyone, and they agree.  (I am the hit of every party.  Every social gathering needs a story like this one… it’s a service I’m now happy to be able to provide).  Given the circumstances, I think I earned this puppy.

This past Sunday, July 3rd, 2005, shall forever be known as The Day I Got Attacked By A Paranoid Schizophrenic (At Church).  Take, that, JLP!

No, I am not kidding.  Torch can vouch for me – he witnessed the events unfold in all their glory.

Our scene: the worship band at good ol’ First Pres is running through its song list — I’m singing and playing keys.  (If I remember correctly, we were in the middle of Wonderful Maker).

Out of the corner of my eye, I notice mini candy bars whizzing by and landing on stage.  I look up, and a fifty-something woman is throwing them at us.  I chuckle to myself, thinking, slightly odd way to joke around with us, but no matter.  However, after a few chocolates hit me, I realized that she was not throwing Mr. Goodbar and Krackel and Hershey’s Special Dark at US, but at ME.

(By way of explanation, no, she did not bring her own mini-candy-bar arsenal.  The first few rows of seats in the community center have candy placed on them, to entice reluctant-front-row-sitters to sit close.  We are currently re-thinking the wisdom of leaving projectile weapons just lying there).

I didn’t have much time to reflect on this, however, because the lady, in a complete state of agitation, ran up to my keyboard, and began yelling the following (and pointing, just in case it wasn’t completely clear who she was referring to): “Adulteress!  Fornicator!  Don’t you laugh at me!  He’s MY husband!  You don’t deserve to be on this stage, you dirty whore!” at which point she begins trying to pull me off the platform.

(“MY husband” was an old dude playing percussion behind me on the platform.  He has long white hair and a long white beard — a true vintage hippie.  No offense to him, but he was completely safe from my tendencies toward foul temptressing).

She accused me of locking her out of the community center so I could bend over in front of her husband, show him my breasts, etc. etc. etc.  (One of the doors sticks.  Out of the corner of my eye, while we were playing, I had noticed her trying to get in, and having to come through the other set of double doors right next to the one she had tried). 

Adulteress and Fornicator were pretty much the terms of choice, however.  There were twenty or thirty people around, hearing this.  It was nice.

I would like to tell you that I was really tough about the whole thing, but as I was sitting there at my keyboard (I had to sit because of the bum knee) my eyes filled up with alligator tears and I just shook my head, saying “No… no…”

I am so not tough.  I am disappointed.

Like I said, she was grabbing me, trying to pull me down off the platform, which scared me a lot given that if my knee bends the wrong way it sort of feels like someone is snapping my leg in two.  I pulled my arm away, and got up, walking away from her to the other side of the stage.  I sat down for a second and the other girl singing with me came up and put her arms around me, but when the tirade continued, I got up and tried to leave.  At this point, Crazy ran up behind me and hit me as hard as she could in the back.  I had been surprised before, but now… this?  “OW!!  God!”

Everyone was sort of deer-caught-in-headlights… the whole thing happened pretty quickly… but they finally restrained her right after she hit me.  I didn’t stick around to see more… I headed out, crying and shaking, and hid in a corner as they physically removed her from the building.  (Matt later told me that at this point, he and everyone else in the place were all adulterers).

This, fifteen minutes before church begins.  In a service where I’m supposed to be singing a very challenging song the speaking pastor had requested (I’d been working on it for two or three weeks) and sharing a testimony right beforehand to introduce it.

Someone had called the police, so I had to give a statement about five minutes before the service began.  They had caught up with her about three blocks down the road, and had her in custody, so at least I didn’t have to really worry that she’d be back in to rid the church of the Adulteress or anything.  I didn’t press charges, I didn’t feel like making things worse (plus, I just didn’t feel like taking the time to deal with it.  I just wanted a few minutes to calm down so I could actually do what I’d traveled an hour and a half to do).

This might sound dumb — she was just a fifty-ish lady, and were it not for my leg and complete lack of ninja skills, I could have taken her — but I’ve never been so scared by a person in my life.

Again, no.  Not kidding.

Um, I felt a little conspicuous at this point.  (You tend to feel this way when you’ve been publicly called out as a whore).  But people were really kind.  Lots of people who had seen it came up to give me a hug… they all felt so badly about what had happened.  And, when it came time to sing, I’m happy to say that I think I pulled it together pretty well.  I don’t think anyone who didn’t already know what had happened would have been able to guess. 

In a way, what happened was almost a good thing, because it put me COMPLETELY in a place where I was vulnerable, and I knew it, and I really needed God’s grace to help me through that moment, and He knew it.  Ministry is its sweetest when we know we don’t have it in us, and God says, “Yeah, I know, let Me.”  The whole day was a sweet moment.

When I returned for the night service (watching my back like crazy), Matt informed me that he had just been told that she is a diagnosed paranoid schizophrenic who refuses her medication, and who has a tendency to fixate on one younger woman she’s sure is after her husband.

My response was thus: “Matt…?  DUH.”  He laughed.

So, I’ve been unofficially awarded the Purple Heart from the worship team at FP.  We’re considering options such as putting the drum shield in front of my keyboard… me wearing a kevlar vest, etc.  (On a serious note, that couple will not be back, so although I’ll have to be cautious, I think I’m ok).  And, other than people (my 80-year-old Grandma, my parents, various pastors) calling me an adulterous hussy every now and then, all has returned pretty much to normal. 

I wish I had a moral for this story, but the only one that’s coming to mind is “So make sure you bring your pepper spray to church, because you just never know…” 

miss me?

(only answer that if it’s in the affirmative)

Sorry for the absence.  Was busy!

Some of you have been asking about the knee — wanted to let you know that I won’t have to have surgery!  I did completely shred my medial collateral ligament (the one on the inside of your knee)… but it just so happens that this is the only one that can heal on its own, sans surgery.  So lucky me. 

I’m in a brace for five more weeks, and no soccer, softball, jogging, or gym in that time.  Which is a bummer, but as I’ll post more on coming this week, in the big scheme of things, it’s really not at all a big deal.  Perspective changes everything, and all things considered, I consider myself pretty damn lucky.

Please check back in the next few days – I have been blessed with the best story EVER, and am now ready to share it with the masses.  I’ll only say this – it involves me getting attacked by a paranoid schizophrenic.  In church.  (It was AWESOME).

Til then, be well, be blessed.

PS Angel, I just got your package.  You are a true dear, and your little care package fully made my day!  Much thanks!

PPS.  Check out my poor brother’s run-in with Terrible O’Rich Luck.