Good morning. After a night full of dreams of Mayor Ray Nagin I am embarking upon a surprisingly busy day, so I thought I'd do a morning blog. This is most likely the first and last occasion for that sort of nonsense. Mornings are for eating, reading, bathing, and running after children. Mornings are also occasionally the time to go back to bed. Mornings are not for blogging.
Mayor Ray Nagin?, you ask.
Yes. I did all four hours of Spike Lee's "When the Levees Broke" yesterday. As a result, I spent my sleeping hours back in Mississippi and New Orleans. Mayor Nagin was my tour guide. The carpenter and I are considering imminent return to Mississippi. My husband hasn't been, but agrees that I should get there as much as I can before the camps close. With or without Ray Nagin.
Speaking of rebuilding, I read Rev. Chris Buice's article in Newsweek this morning. It is a good way to start the day.
I have not been sharing my sabbatical discernment in these last few posts. I have been collecting them, however, and here are some in no particular order.
Discernment:
Youth is the age when you make memories that later provide the stamina for putting up with the disappointments of adulthood.
What people think about in hell: why they spent so much time making money, keeping the house perfect, and being right when they could have been clumsily but freely sharing their love.
At the end of every shift at a fast food restaurant, there should be a receiving line of hugs for the workers.
No one ever tells you that consistently preparing healthy home-cooked meals for your family can be harder than writing sermons.
When you have a hard day at work, think of Mayor Ray Nagin in 2005.
Reading:
I put down No Matter How Much You Promise to Cook or Pay the Rent You Blew it Cauze Bill Bailey... and I have no intention of ever picking it up again. No, I did not finish it. I have a cardinal rule about fiction and movies: no brutal rape scenes. I could write a chapter or two on why I have this rule, but most people I know, particularly women, say it's a good rule and it stands alone.
Instead, I have been reading the paper, Music USA - the Rough Guide, Yes!, Tricycle, McSweeney's, bedtime stories, quilting magazines, and assorted tracts from animal welfare agencies. I also read three collections of poetry in an effort to find a poem for my son's oratory contest.
The reason I have been somewhat tracking what I read is Nick Hornby. Nick Hornby writes a column in the Believer about what he reads, as well as how and why. It is oddly fascinating. I am no Nick Hornby. Hey, Nick - stay away from the euthanasia guidelines. Trust me.
Friday, January 16, 2009
Thursday, January 15, 2009
Day 15 - A Day of Saved Life, Sad Death, and You Were There, too
You can take the minister out of the pulpit, but you can't get the drive out. You can't take out that desire to connect, to listen, to walk with someone if only for a little while on their hard journey.
Ministry to me has never been about the pulpit, the robe, "the REV" (although I must say that over a decade of being called Miss or Mrs. while all the men get called Rev. is making it ABOUT the REV.)
Ministry is what we all are supposed to do with that little extra bit we have. Ministry is when you have something left over at the end of the day and you pass it on. Ministry is the time to listen, even if there isn't a damn thing you can do to change anything. Ministry is the baking and delivering of food. Ministry is sweeping someone else's porch. Ministry is using your little bit of power for someone else.
I don't have to be getting a check to be a minister. Neither do you. Sure, to get the robe, the pulpit, and the Rev. you gotta' go through the boot camp of training, evaluation and professional expectations. But to provide ministry? You just need to think about someone else without expectation that they are thinking of you.
Turns out there's been a whole lot of ministry going on in my social circle lately.
The one kidneyed bandit was released from his detention at the hospital today. He left considerably lighter from not having eaten since Sunday and missing one kidney and a baseball sized tumor. I told him that on day one he looked like a victim of the organ harvesting urban myth: man goes into a bar, wakes up in a bathtub full of ice, shivved and missing a kidney. He said he knew that the bartender with a surgical mask looked fishy.
He left wearing his "kidney cancer surivor" t-shirt and grateful for the stream of well-wishers who have kept him afloat in the month when he was diagnosed, fully tested, treated, and probably cured. He has six weeks recovery ahead of him. He's only known about the cancer for five. I am pleased to say that he begged me not to make him laugh no less than three times today. Ministry of long term friendship accomplished, for today at least.
I got off the phone with him and called my carpenter buddy to see if he wanted to come over and watch Spike Lee's documentary "When the Levees Broke" with me. What do Katrina construction volunteers do on their free time at home? Watch Katrina movies, of course.
My carpenter sounded terrible this morning. I thought he was sick again. He doesn't have health insurance, like too many of my friends and family. So I worry about his health in the same way I worry about my children - never fully at ease.
He's not sick. Turns out he found one of his buddies dead.
Bill. Bill died. Bill died in a not very nice natural way, and my buddy found him.
If I could, I would put a big long blank space here. A big wordless space representing the fifteen hours between when I found out and when I found words to say. I don't know how to do that so you will just have to imagine it.
Bill.
Would it surprise you to know that Bill was a character? I knew him from my door girl/bouncing days. I assisted three involuntary evictions from the premises in my brief career as the paid person at the door of a local dining/dancing/imbibing establishment. Bill was the only one I threw out solo. He was wearing his golfing clothes, his snappy professor glasses, and a lot of alcohol. He was in his late 50s then. After I tossed him, he hung around because he wanted to chat with me. That's Bill for you.
In the years since, Bill has been known to send me a drink just to say hi. If I am dancing when he comes in, he takes a turn with me on the dance floor. He has nice things to say to me, mostly. He thinks the new hairdo with the natural gray makes me look old. He's right. He thought it was great that the carpenter and I went to Mississippi to rebuild. He told me that my kids are adorable. In other words, in spite of Bill's many faults that were all from his drinking problem, Bill ministered to others. He had something left over and he shared it. A drink, a twirl around the dance floor, some encouragement, some kind words.
I hate that he died poorly. I hate that he died alone. I hate that my buddy found him. Most of all, I hate that his quality of life was so dependent on the alcohol that helped destroy his life. But that was Bill. It was his demon to wrestle and part of who he was. Often it worked for him. Equally often it did not. I can say that about all of my coping mechanisms, too.
As for the carpenter, he has one of the biggest, most loving hearts of anyone I know. Bill slept on his couch a lot. Bill fed the carpenter's dog gorgonzola and salami. The dog needed that to the same degree you do. The carpenter teasingly threatened Bill with a hockey stick on many occasions. I did not witness these events but know both well enough to imagine they would have been pretty entertaining; full of blustering, posturing, and oddly used English vocabulary.
The carpenter not only put up with Bill, but he gave him a LOT extra at the end of the day. He loved him. He loves him. And Bill knew it. And Bill loved him, too, though I can't really imagine either of them saying it like that, hockey stick or no. Now Bill has died and the carpenter and his band of wise fools are mourning him.
Why tell you?
There always seems to be confusion about why I write these things out; about my honesty about health, grief, parenting, my own conflicted emotions. One woman I know said she felt like she had been spying on me from reading the blog.
Honestly, if I were not a minister I would not do this. I don't write this about me. Yes, it is my point of view, my crazy huge family, my congregation, my living with chronic illness, my interest in healthy grief and meaningful death. It is my honesty and my experiences.
But I write this stuff down for you.
I have this impression of you, this picture of who you are and what you might be going through. I think about what makes you open this up and read this when you could be dancing, mowing the lawn, trying that new avocado recipe or watching the Sarah Connor Chronicles.
I think you wonder how to give of yourself.
I think you sometimes feel like crap and you don't know whom to talk to or how.
I think you worry about the people you love.
I think you are not comfortable with the idea of people you love dying, or your own dying.
I think you like to laugh.
I think you have dreams that give you comfort but you aren't sure how to make them come to life.
I think you prefer not to be told what to do.
I think you are curious about all kinds of things and you try to keep that curosity alive.
I think you have a big heart but that your mind can't always figure out the best ways to use it.
That's who I think you are. And then I have a day like I had today and I think, I bet you've had days like this. I bet you know what I mean. This is neither the worst or best days of my life but it was a crazy one, a memorable one.
So I write it down. Hope it all works out. It's the end of the day. I had a little something extra to give.
Maybe it is helpful and illuminating. Maybe it is salami and gorgonzola.
Long live the one kidneyed bandit.
Long live the kind-hearted carpenter.
Long live the memories of Bill.
Long live you.
Ministry to me has never been about the pulpit, the robe, "the REV" (although I must say that over a decade of being called Miss or Mrs. while all the men get called Rev. is making it ABOUT the REV.)
Ministry is what we all are supposed to do with that little extra bit we have. Ministry is when you have something left over at the end of the day and you pass it on. Ministry is the time to listen, even if there isn't a damn thing you can do to change anything. Ministry is the baking and delivering of food. Ministry is sweeping someone else's porch. Ministry is using your little bit of power for someone else.
I don't have to be getting a check to be a minister. Neither do you. Sure, to get the robe, the pulpit, and the Rev. you gotta' go through the boot camp of training, evaluation and professional expectations. But to provide ministry? You just need to think about someone else without expectation that they are thinking of you.
Turns out there's been a whole lot of ministry going on in my social circle lately.
The one kidneyed bandit was released from his detention at the hospital today. He left considerably lighter from not having eaten since Sunday and missing one kidney and a baseball sized tumor. I told him that on day one he looked like a victim of the organ harvesting urban myth: man goes into a bar, wakes up in a bathtub full of ice, shivved and missing a kidney. He said he knew that the bartender with a surgical mask looked fishy.
He left wearing his "kidney cancer surivor" t-shirt and grateful for the stream of well-wishers who have kept him afloat in the month when he was diagnosed, fully tested, treated, and probably cured. He has six weeks recovery ahead of him. He's only known about the cancer for five. I am pleased to say that he begged me not to make him laugh no less than three times today. Ministry of long term friendship accomplished, for today at least.
I got off the phone with him and called my carpenter buddy to see if he wanted to come over and watch Spike Lee's documentary "When the Levees Broke" with me. What do Katrina construction volunteers do on their free time at home? Watch Katrina movies, of course.
My carpenter sounded terrible this morning. I thought he was sick again. He doesn't have health insurance, like too many of my friends and family. So I worry about his health in the same way I worry about my children - never fully at ease.
He's not sick. Turns out he found one of his buddies dead.
Bill. Bill died. Bill died in a not very nice natural way, and my buddy found him.
If I could, I would put a big long blank space here. A big wordless space representing the fifteen hours between when I found out and when I found words to say. I don't know how to do that so you will just have to imagine it.
Bill.
Would it surprise you to know that Bill was a character? I knew him from my door girl/bouncing days. I assisted three involuntary evictions from the premises in my brief career as the paid person at the door of a local dining/dancing/imbibing establishment. Bill was the only one I threw out solo. He was wearing his golfing clothes, his snappy professor glasses, and a lot of alcohol. He was in his late 50s then. After I tossed him, he hung around because he wanted to chat with me. That's Bill for you.
In the years since, Bill has been known to send me a drink just to say hi. If I am dancing when he comes in, he takes a turn with me on the dance floor. He has nice things to say to me, mostly. He thinks the new hairdo with the natural gray makes me look old. He's right. He thought it was great that the carpenter and I went to Mississippi to rebuild. He told me that my kids are adorable. In other words, in spite of Bill's many faults that were all from his drinking problem, Bill ministered to others. He had something left over and he shared it. A drink, a twirl around the dance floor, some encouragement, some kind words.
I hate that he died poorly. I hate that he died alone. I hate that my buddy found him. Most of all, I hate that his quality of life was so dependent on the alcohol that helped destroy his life. But that was Bill. It was his demon to wrestle and part of who he was. Often it worked for him. Equally often it did not. I can say that about all of my coping mechanisms, too.
As for the carpenter, he has one of the biggest, most loving hearts of anyone I know. Bill slept on his couch a lot. Bill fed the carpenter's dog gorgonzola and salami. The dog needed that to the same degree you do. The carpenter teasingly threatened Bill with a hockey stick on many occasions. I did not witness these events but know both well enough to imagine they would have been pretty entertaining; full of blustering, posturing, and oddly used English vocabulary.
The carpenter not only put up with Bill, but he gave him a LOT extra at the end of the day. He loved him. He loves him. And Bill knew it. And Bill loved him, too, though I can't really imagine either of them saying it like that, hockey stick or no. Now Bill has died and the carpenter and his band of wise fools are mourning him.
Why tell you?
There always seems to be confusion about why I write these things out; about my honesty about health, grief, parenting, my own conflicted emotions. One woman I know said she felt like she had been spying on me from reading the blog.
Honestly, if I were not a minister I would not do this. I don't write this about me. Yes, it is my point of view, my crazy huge family, my congregation, my living with chronic illness, my interest in healthy grief and meaningful death. It is my honesty and my experiences.
But I write this stuff down for you.
I have this impression of you, this picture of who you are and what you might be going through. I think about what makes you open this up and read this when you could be dancing, mowing the lawn, trying that new avocado recipe or watching the Sarah Connor Chronicles.
I think you wonder how to give of yourself.
I think you sometimes feel like crap and you don't know whom to talk to or how.
I think you worry about the people you love.
I think you are not comfortable with the idea of people you love dying, or your own dying.
I think you like to laugh.
I think you have dreams that give you comfort but you aren't sure how to make them come to life.
I think you prefer not to be told what to do.
I think you are curious about all kinds of things and you try to keep that curosity alive.
I think you have a big heart but that your mind can't always figure out the best ways to use it.
That's who I think you are. And then I have a day like I had today and I think, I bet you've had days like this. I bet you know what I mean. This is neither the worst or best days of my life but it was a crazy one, a memorable one.
So I write it down. Hope it all works out. It's the end of the day. I had a little something extra to give.
Maybe it is helpful and illuminating. Maybe it is salami and gorgonzola.
Long live the one kidneyed bandit.
Long live the kind-hearted carpenter.
Long live the memories of Bill.
Long live you.
Wednesday, January 14, 2009
Day Ummm... until 14
Yes, once again my brilliant scheming was undermined by my crapola body. (Crapola is one of my mother's personal coinages. I've always liked it. Rhymes with Crayola.)
My hand just hurt too darn bad to blog so I stopped typing. Guess what? My hand is better. Perhaps now is the time to return to my Luddite ways!
What did you miss while I went silent? After all, it is a sabbatical. Miracles, great truths, and cosmic energy should be abounding. Did I discover the next Rosetta stone? Translate the lost verses of the book of Job? Find oneness with the universe? Get interviewed by Oprah?
Let's see. I had some friends over for spaghetti. I threw in the towel on cleaning my son's room. I did the family budget, which was actually very interesting. Our spending patterns reveal that... we are frugal. Imagine that: frugal progressives without cable TV, fancy cars, or expensive hobbies. To complete the predictability I went ahead and paid my ACLU dues.
I had my hopes raised by a D'Angelo article in the local weekly. I had my hopes dashed when the news was - still no CD release. I thought about turning on the TV. In the daytime. By myself. But I got over it and read the American Veterinary Medicine Association's Guidelines for Euthanasia in laboratory animals instead. That led me to a lot of prayer and fasting.
I countered my exercise envy demons by going to the gym and then got a snazzy dose of double sciatica as a reward. Please laugh. There is no other option. I am typing this sitting on a blazing hot heating pad. Laughing is all I got on the coping tools. I am the MacGyver of the chronically ill set using dark humor, a heating pad, and some old issues of the Buddhist mag Tricycle to stave off insanity.
I drove past church twice. Just checking.
The most sabbatically significant thing that happened this week was that I acknowledged the gigant-enormo debt I've accrued in five years of parish ministry. I owe my friends face time and babysitting of their children. I owe my parents some yard work, hundreds of walks, and dozens of dinners. I owe my husband, my children, my house, my body, my neighbors. In giving to a congregation I have taken away, well, ME from my family and friends. The rewards have been immense, but having some time away I realize that there has been a higher price than I had calculated.
Part of this realization came when I discerned the impossibility of the tasks I had set for myself during the time off. Another realization hit when my friend of 36 years came out with me to sing karaoke and as we parted in the parking lot chirped, "See you next year!" Needless to say, she was invited for spaghetti within days. My phone time has been lengthy with some of the many loved ones whom I have not called in months, maybe years.
The biggest kick in the pants (hey maybe that sciatica is NOT from the gym!) came upon visiting one of my dearest friends in the hospital. He has kidney cancer. He has been a huge influence in my life, my ministry and in how I see the world. And we see each other maybe twice a year. I've seen him twice this week and he was mostly naked and missing a kidney. We agreed - next time Panera.
Last year for Christmas I gave myself a personalized to-do pad that said "Get your priorities straight!" and had a picture of my kids on it. I found it this week under a stack of books I've been studying for sermons. It still has all the paper.
Ok, universe. I got it. Got it.
My hand just hurt too darn bad to blog so I stopped typing. Guess what? My hand is better. Perhaps now is the time to return to my Luddite ways!
What did you miss while I went silent? After all, it is a sabbatical. Miracles, great truths, and cosmic energy should be abounding. Did I discover the next Rosetta stone? Translate the lost verses of the book of Job? Find oneness with the universe? Get interviewed by Oprah?
Let's see. I had some friends over for spaghetti. I threw in the towel on cleaning my son's room. I did the family budget, which was actually very interesting. Our spending patterns reveal that... we are frugal. Imagine that: frugal progressives without cable TV, fancy cars, or expensive hobbies. To complete the predictability I went ahead and paid my ACLU dues.
I had my hopes raised by a D'Angelo article in the local weekly. I had my hopes dashed when the news was - still no CD release. I thought about turning on the TV. In the daytime. By myself. But I got over it and read the American Veterinary Medicine Association's Guidelines for Euthanasia in laboratory animals instead. That led me to a lot of prayer and fasting.
I countered my exercise envy demons by going to the gym and then got a snazzy dose of double sciatica as a reward. Please laugh. There is no other option. I am typing this sitting on a blazing hot heating pad. Laughing is all I got on the coping tools. I am the MacGyver of the chronically ill set using dark humor, a heating pad, and some old issues of the Buddhist mag Tricycle to stave off insanity.
I drove past church twice. Just checking.
The most sabbatically significant thing that happened this week was that I acknowledged the gigant-enormo debt I've accrued in five years of parish ministry. I owe my friends face time and babysitting of their children. I owe my parents some yard work, hundreds of walks, and dozens of dinners. I owe my husband, my children, my house, my body, my neighbors. In giving to a congregation I have taken away, well, ME from my family and friends. The rewards have been immense, but having some time away I realize that there has been a higher price than I had calculated.
Part of this realization came when I discerned the impossibility of the tasks I had set for myself during the time off. Another realization hit when my friend of 36 years came out with me to sing karaoke and as we parted in the parking lot chirped, "See you next year!" Needless to say, she was invited for spaghetti within days. My phone time has been lengthy with some of the many loved ones whom I have not called in months, maybe years.
The biggest kick in the pants (hey maybe that sciatica is NOT from the gym!) came upon visiting one of my dearest friends in the hospital. He has kidney cancer. He has been a huge influence in my life, my ministry and in how I see the world. And we see each other maybe twice a year. I've seen him twice this week and he was mostly naked and missing a kidney. We agreed - next time Panera.
Last year for Christmas I gave myself a personalized to-do pad that said "Get your priorities straight!" and had a picture of my kids on it. I found it this week under a stack of books I've been studying for sermons. It still has all the paper.
Ok, universe. I got it. Got it.
Thursday, January 08, 2009
Day 7 - Study Leave Grindstone
Enough already. 7! Day 7! I've got to get crackin' on this study thing, don't I? I mean what kind of brilliant mind massage and spirit sauna have I had in the past week? Pot roast in a cabin? Flunking hand therapy? Reading a novel in which everyone on earth appears to be a character. (He does a decent job on you, I thought, but I completely disagree with that thing he said about your ears. Just ignore it.)
I was a woman on a mission this morning. What says study leave to you? What two things embody the full breadth of possibility in a ministerial sabbatical, no matter how brief? What would the good minister start the day off with?
That's right.
Meditation.
And filing.
No kidding. From 8 AM until midnight I... no, not meditated. That was 20 minutes in the car parked in front of the house when the rain was pelting on the roof. For the bulk of 16 hours I sorted, organized, recycled, deciphered, and filed.
It was miserable. Tomorrow I am doing kitchen karaoke with the kids before school, crawling back into bed and reading or sleeping all day.
Sue me.
Discernment: Doing the expected thing is not necessarily doing the right thing.
Reading: Yes! magazine and two sentences to a paragraph on a thousand pieces of paper.
I was a woman on a mission this morning. What says study leave to you? What two things embody the full breadth of possibility in a ministerial sabbatical, no matter how brief? What would the good minister start the day off with?
That's right.
Meditation.
And filing.
No kidding. From 8 AM until midnight I... no, not meditated. That was 20 minutes in the car parked in front of the house when the rain was pelting on the roof. For the bulk of 16 hours I sorted, organized, recycled, deciphered, and filed.
It was miserable. Tomorrow I am doing kitchen karaoke with the kids before school, crawling back into bed and reading or sleeping all day.
Sue me.
Discernment: Doing the expected thing is not necessarily doing the right thing.
Reading: Yes! magazine and two sentences to a paragraph on a thousand pieces of paper.
Wednesday, January 07, 2009
Day 6 - Study Leave, Tongue Burp Boogie
Somebody engrave me a plaque. It is official: I have flunked out of hand therapy.
Let's not call this an omen.
As my buddies John and Vicky like to say: it is another $%# *&^% growth opportunity!
Have you ever noticed that growth opportunities don't seem to pounce on you in ways you would like? Why can't I grow in my clogging talents? Grow in a commitment to consistent skincare? Grow in my love of nature? Grow in my ability to sleep through the 7 AM sounds of bickering children? In other words...
AAAAAAAHHHHHRRRRRRRHHHH!!! Phhhhllllbbbt.
(For those who do not speak the native language of frustration: that was an exclamation of aggravation followed by a raspberry - aka tongue burp- of disgust.)
Before plodding on in a woeful and obstinate manner (that's me, not you) let's step back a minute and look at the big picture. That's what a rational awakened individual might do, yes?
The day before Halloween my hip gives out in front of my son's elementary school causing me to fall in an impressive act of physics, breaking multiple finger bones and ripping a bunch of soft internal hand stuff. It was beyond painful and nauseatingly noisy.
Some noises one cannot forget. On one end of the memorable sound spectrum is D'Angelo's suede and silk voice accompanied by lyric piano and a skillful rhythm section. On the other end is the crackling staccato of breaking and dislocating fingers. Horrible memories, yes, but in the interest of being open to growth and success, let us instead dwell on the miracle of that dismal day: I did not vomit on my son's principal's snazzy suit jacket.
In the beginning, all seemed well in the healing process. Yes, I almost passed out on Bourbon St. from searing pain, but going on a mission trip focused on manual labor not even two weeks after the fall was not one of my more well-thought out treatment plans. The dinner trip to NOLA after a week of said manual lablor may also be filed in this category.
Upon my return, I began hand therapy with the world's most delightful therapist, Heather, and all looked promising. I was buoyed by the daily success of not vomiting from pain on anyone. Then things started going downhill.
First, I flunked the grip strength test. I don't know what measurement system is used in strength testing but let's call them Ahnolds. On my left hand I gripped 14 Ahnolds (Not quite Terminator but above a Kindergarten Cop). On the broken one I gripped 2 (Governor grip). They'd ask me to do something different with my thumb and try again. On the left I gripped 12 in this new position (Almost Predator). On my right... well, she just wrote a dash (the grip of someone married to a Kennedy). I tried to imagine that as the dash of promise "to be filled in by amazing feats of squeeze later." She said it was actually a nice way of saying what my high school English teacher used to dramatically shriek, "YOU HAVE F!"
Oh well. I am a woman open to promise and growth. I will not be felled by some voodoo grip test with no scientific basis. After all, who's ever heard of Ahnolds? What are they trying to pull?
Then I saw my rheumatologist who looked at my hand and said something shockingly close to, "Ewww." On the noise spectrum that is too far away from D'Angelo for my taste. Soon Heather was clucking her tongue. My mother was hissing in displeasure and I compared knuckles with the fist fighting dishwasher/sous chef of my local dive and lost.
I guess I could have seen the flunkage coming if I had been paying attention. Instead it came as a depressing shock this morning.
Let's not call this an omen.
As my buddies John and Vicky like to say: it is another $%# *&^% growth opportunity!
Have you ever noticed that growth opportunities don't seem to pounce on you in ways you would like? Why can't I grow in my clogging talents? Grow in a commitment to consistent skincare? Grow in my love of nature? Grow in my ability to sleep through the 7 AM sounds of bickering children? In other words...
AAAAAAAHHHHHRRRRRRRHHHH!!! Phhhhllllbbbt.
(For those who do not speak the native language of frustration: that was an exclamation of aggravation followed by a raspberry - aka tongue burp- of disgust.)
Before plodding on in a woeful and obstinate manner (that's me, not you) let's step back a minute and look at the big picture. That's what a rational awakened individual might do, yes?
The day before Halloween my hip gives out in front of my son's elementary school causing me to fall in an impressive act of physics, breaking multiple finger bones and ripping a bunch of soft internal hand stuff. It was beyond painful and nauseatingly noisy.
Some noises one cannot forget. On one end of the memorable sound spectrum is D'Angelo's suede and silk voice accompanied by lyric piano and a skillful rhythm section. On the other end is the crackling staccato of breaking and dislocating fingers. Horrible memories, yes, but in the interest of being open to growth and success, let us instead dwell on the miracle of that dismal day: I did not vomit on my son's principal's snazzy suit jacket.
In the beginning, all seemed well in the healing process. Yes, I almost passed out on Bourbon St. from searing pain, but going on a mission trip focused on manual labor not even two weeks after the fall was not one of my more well-thought out treatment plans. The dinner trip to NOLA after a week of said manual lablor may also be filed in this category.
Upon my return, I began hand therapy with the world's most delightful therapist, Heather, and all looked promising. I was buoyed by the daily success of not vomiting from pain on anyone. Then things started going downhill.
First, I flunked the grip strength test. I don't know what measurement system is used in strength testing but let's call them Ahnolds. On my left hand I gripped 14 Ahnolds (Not quite Terminator but above a Kindergarten Cop). On the broken one I gripped 2 (Governor grip). They'd ask me to do something different with my thumb and try again. On the left I gripped 12 in this new position (Almost Predator). On my right... well, she just wrote a dash (the grip of someone married to a Kennedy). I tried to imagine that as the dash of promise "to be filled in by amazing feats of squeeze later." She said it was actually a nice way of saying what my high school English teacher used to dramatically shriek, "YOU HAVE F!"
Oh well. I am a woman open to promise and growth. I will not be felled by some voodoo grip test with no scientific basis. After all, who's ever heard of Ahnolds? What are they trying to pull?
Then I saw my rheumatologist who looked at my hand and said something shockingly close to, "Ewww." On the noise spectrum that is too far away from D'Angelo for my taste. Soon Heather was clucking her tongue. My mother was hissing in displeasure and I compared knuckles with the fist fighting dishwasher/sous chef of my local dive and lost.
I guess I could have seen the flunkage coming if I had been paying attention. Instead it came as a depressing shock this morning.
Discernment: Hope can make you blessedly blind. Loss of hope makes the tongue burp.
In the interest of embracing this growth opportunity I embarked upon another issue of McSweeneys. (McSweeney's! It's what bookstore clerks, artsy grad students, and ministers on study leave have in common! That and weird shoes.)
In the interest of cheering up someone with bigger issues than a barely functioning hand, I took the children carolling at my grandmother's. A benefit of Alzheimer's - she has no idea that we are several weeks late on this event. When she started getting sick of the a cappella versions, the family band chimed in on New Year's party horn and clacker. When she tired of that, we curled her hair and my son's. (Growing here! Lot's of growing!) After forty-five minutes she kicked us out and went back to work. She had the evening wandering shift at the nursing home. At least her hair looked nice for it.
Discernment: There are always options. Three quarters of them may be completely ludicrous, but there are always options.
I know what you are thinking... I should just go back to work. Don't think it hasn't crossed my mind. But John and Vicky sang out "growth!" in my head so as a last ditch effort I called five friends and we went out for Karaoke. It's a whole nuther kind of ministry.
Wow. I could write a short story on that event alone. I'll just let you in on our karaoke rules.
1) You must have a stage name that causes people to stop what they are doing and look to see who on earth that is.
2) You must surprise the table with your selections.
3) Mostly upbeat tempo, please.
4) Be avid fans of every other singer in the place. Shout their names. Do the wave for them. Sing back-up from your seat with them.
That last one is a killer, let me tell ya.
Discernment: Cheering is the world's simplest act of compassion.
Reading for the day: That no longer nameable Hispanic mega-novel that I am becoming more enamored of as I let the title go. Another McSweeney's issue - circa 2004. My email.
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