Eschewing the normal, straightforward list of demands, I got into the spirit of both the season and the workplace earlier this month with this email directed at my office Secret Santa:
MEMO
To: Santa
From: Floyd
Date: 9 December
Re: North Pole initiatives
Circling back on our facetime Saturday last at your mall locale, the following deliverables are actionable items that will incent buy-in for non-naughty core competencies in your key demographic (me):
▪ Gift cards (Home Depot, iTunes, Ace Hardware, Dunkin Donuts) -- highly scalable
▪ Cleveland sports paraphernalia (Browns, Indians, Cavaliers) -- guaranteed not to be repurposed
▪ Items related to animals (30,000-foot view); cats, ducks, elephants, polar bears, rhinos (granular view)
▪ Baked goods -- but let's ramp down the candy for minimal pushback from the dentist next week
▪ Alcohol -- a robust solution to roll out a quick win
At the end of the day, our mission-critical takeaway is that whatever low-hanging fruit we bring to the table, productizing the joy of the season should not gain traction over established best practices, i.e., a full-on go-live of peace on earth, good will toward human capital.
Saturday, December 20, 2008
Wednesday, December 17, 2008
Things are looking up
Another visit to the hematologist, another dose of good news.After four months of good eating and right living, my white-cell count is about the same, but my platelets have crawled into the normal range. I guess I can thank my daily vitamin D supplement and weekly serving of red meat for that.
And here's a shocker: My weight was 154.3, a personal record. That's 22 pounds higher than the low I hit in 2007 that sent me to the doctor in the first place.
All is well!
Thursday, December 4, 2008
Claim and proclaim
You may remember a series of posts I wrote in February and March about healing. The focus then was mainly on physical healing, but the principles apply to all kinds of healing, including emotional and relational.
The second part of the series was based on the passage in the Gospel of Luke about the woman with "an issue of blood" and how she received healing by pushing through the crowd to get to the source of healing, Jesus. And he so overflows with healing that all it took for her was to touch the edge of the back of his garment.
I love the last part of the story, as told by Luke:
This passage is so loaded with messages, I'll have to go a phrase at a time. Pay attention now; this is for you.
This woman had tried to disappear into the crowd, but Jesus easily singled her out as the one among the many. She had been shunned by the crowd because of her problem, but now she was trying to blend in.
How many times have you found yourself alone in the midst of a crowd, surrounded by dozens or even thousands of people, not one of whom knows you or understands your pain? One place where it happens to a lot of people is in church. You show up on Sunday, dressed in your finest clothes and burdened with your darkest secrets, and just hope no one notices you or discovers your uncleanness. Most of the crowd won't take any note of you because they're too busy worrying that someone will notice them and discover their uncleanness. Or they're just there to find a mate or to see the spectacle or to kill a couple of hours on a slow weekend.
But Jesus notices us. We can't avoid him or evade him. He sees that monkey on your back, that baggage in your hand, that cloud over your head. And he knows why you're really there.
This woman had spent years in forced isolation, totally shunned by society – particularly by the rigid religious types. The society and the sanctimonious had no sympathy for her, only revulsion and rejection and condemnation. But now at last she had found someone who had compassion for her, and who had already healed her.
So she did the only two things she could do: She surrendered and she worshipped.
Those are a couple of tough things for us -- any of us, but especially us Americans (and particularly us of the male persuasion) -- to do. We're so self-sufficient and self-actualized and self-reliant and self-centered and self-worshiping that we find it very difficult or indeed impossible to acknowledge a force greater than our will, much less submit to it.
But let's face it: Surrender and worship are the only appropriate responses to an encounter with Jesus. Compared to him we are nothing, and to pretend otherwise is not only blasphemous, it's downright ridiculous. Your refusal to worship at the feet of Jesus is like a little poodle yapping at a Great Dane; to anyone with any perspective it's just silly.
So quit yapping and worship the God who stands before you.
Not in reverent silence, not in her private prayer closet, not anonymously over the phone. In the presence of ALL the people. Yes, those people. The people who had condemned her and rejected her and recoiled from her. The people who didn't have what she had. The people whose faith and commitment were not sufficient to draw Jesus' attention. In the presence of those people,
The sister testified. She told the story of how she got over. She said she wasn't gonna talk about it but she couldn't keep it to herself. It was like fire shut up in her bones.
When you find a good dentist or a good pediatrician or a good barber, don't you tell everyone you know about it? When you receive a healing from the Good Shepherd, should you do any less? Shouldn't you tell everybody about it, so they can get in on the action too? You're not ashamed to refer someone to your car salesman; why are you ashamed to refer them to your Healer and Redeemer?
She told why she had touched him. She acknowledged her uncleanness before all the people, and she was not ashamed. She was not ashamed, because there was a second clause in that sentence: "how she had been instantly healed." Jesus had taken away her reproach, and now there was no condemnation. She could speak freely of it because now, thanks to the healing power of Jesus, she was free of it.
Free at last! Free at last! Thank God Almighty! I'm free at last!
Daughter. ... My child. ... My flesh and blood. ... My baby. ... Possessor of my heritage and bearer of my future. Now you are all this. You used to be all that -- dirty, unwanted, untouchable, unclean -- but now you are all this. What a remarkable, miraculous, sudden reversal. But how?
Notice that Jesus doesn't take credit for what had just happened. It happened because of her action, driven by her faith. She reached out to him because she believed. He didn't do anything but show up. He didn't wave his hand or utter a prayer or lay his hands on her. Heck, he wasn't even facing her when she reached out and grabbed the healing that was there waiting for her.
It was available to her as long as she was willing to push through that hostile, disapproving, sanctimonious, celebrity-mad, profane, faith-challenged crowd, which represents the world and the church. She said, "I don't care what they all think about me or believe about him, I'm going to reach out and claim my healing."
Are you ready to claim your healing today? Are you determined enough to fight your way through the obstructing crowd and get close enough to Jesus to receive his readily available healing? Are you prepared to surrender your ego and your pride and your failed efforts to fix things yourself? Are you ready to worship at the feet of the Great Physician and admit and declare that he is King of Kings and Lord of Lords? If you will do these simple things, then and only then will you be able to do as this woman did:
The second part of the series was based on the passage in the Gospel of Luke about the woman with "an issue of blood" and how she received healing by pushing through the crowd to get to the source of healing, Jesus. And he so overflows with healing that all it took for her was to touch the edge of the back of his garment.
I love the last part of the story, as told by Luke:
Then the woman, seeing that she could not go unnoticed, came trembling and fell at his feet. In the presence of all the people, she told why she had touched him and how she had been instantly healed. Then he said to her, “Daughter, your faith has healed you. Go in peace.”
This passage is so loaded with messages, I'll have to go a phrase at a time. Pay attention now; this is for you.
Then the woman, seeing that she could not go unnoticed,
This woman had tried to disappear into the crowd, but Jesus easily singled her out as the one among the many. She had been shunned by the crowd because of her problem, but now she was trying to blend in.
How many times have you found yourself alone in the midst of a crowd, surrounded by dozens or even thousands of people, not one of whom knows you or understands your pain? One place where it happens to a lot of people is in church. You show up on Sunday, dressed in your finest clothes and burdened with your darkest secrets, and just hope no one notices you or discovers your uncleanness. Most of the crowd won't take any note of you because they're too busy worrying that someone will notice them and discover their uncleanness. Or they're just there to find a mate or to see the spectacle or to kill a couple of hours on a slow weekend.
But Jesus notices us. We can't avoid him or evade him. He sees that monkey on your back, that baggage in your hand, that cloud over your head. And he knows why you're really there.
... came trembling and fell at his feet.
This woman had spent years in forced isolation, totally shunned by society – particularly by the rigid religious types. The society and the sanctimonious had no sympathy for her, only revulsion and rejection and condemnation. But now at last she had found someone who had compassion for her, and who had already healed her.
So she did the only two things she could do: She surrendered and she worshipped.
Those are a couple of tough things for us -- any of us, but especially us Americans (and particularly us of the male persuasion) -- to do. We're so self-sufficient and self-actualized and self-reliant and self-centered and self-worshiping that we find it very difficult or indeed impossible to acknowledge a force greater than our will, much less submit to it.
But let's face it: Surrender and worship are the only appropriate responses to an encounter with Jesus. Compared to him we are nothing, and to pretend otherwise is not only blasphemous, it's downright ridiculous. Your refusal to worship at the feet of Jesus is like a little poodle yapping at a Great Dane; to anyone with any perspective it's just silly.
So quit yapping and worship the God who stands before you.
In the presence of all the people,
Not in reverent silence, not in her private prayer closet, not anonymously over the phone. In the presence of ALL the people. Yes, those people. The people who had condemned her and rejected her and recoiled from her. The people who didn't have what she had. The people whose faith and commitment were not sufficient to draw Jesus' attention. In the presence of those people,
she told why she had touched him and how she had been instantly healed.
The sister testified. She told the story of how she got over. She said she wasn't gonna talk about it but she couldn't keep it to herself. It was like fire shut up in her bones.
When you find a good dentist or a good pediatrician or a good barber, don't you tell everyone you know about it? When you receive a healing from the Good Shepherd, should you do any less? Shouldn't you tell everybody about it, so they can get in on the action too? You're not ashamed to refer someone to your car salesman; why are you ashamed to refer them to your Healer and Redeemer?
She told why she had touched him. She acknowledged her uncleanness before all the people, and she was not ashamed. She was not ashamed, because there was a second clause in that sentence: "how she had been instantly healed." Jesus had taken away her reproach, and now there was no condemnation. She could speak freely of it because now, thanks to the healing power of Jesus, she was free of it.
Free at last! Free at last! Thank God Almighty! I'm free at last!
Then he said to her, "Daughter, ..."
Daughter. ... My child. ... My flesh and blood. ... My baby. ... Possessor of my heritage and bearer of my future. Now you are all this. You used to be all that -- dirty, unwanted, untouchable, unclean -- but now you are all this. What a remarkable, miraculous, sudden reversal. But how?
"Your faith has healed you."
Notice that Jesus doesn't take credit for what had just happened. It happened because of her action, driven by her faith. She reached out to him because she believed. He didn't do anything but show up. He didn't wave his hand or utter a prayer or lay his hands on her. Heck, he wasn't even facing her when she reached out and grabbed the healing that was there waiting for her.
It was available to her as long as she was willing to push through that hostile, disapproving, sanctimonious, celebrity-mad, profane, faith-challenged crowd, which represents the world and the church. She said, "I don't care what they all think about me or believe about him, I'm going to reach out and claim my healing."
Are you ready to claim your healing today? Are you determined enough to fight your way through the obstructing crowd and get close enough to Jesus to receive his readily available healing? Are you prepared to surrender your ego and your pride and your failed efforts to fix things yourself? Are you ready to worship at the feet of the Great Physician and admit and declare that he is King of Kings and Lord of Lords? If you will do these simple things, then and only then will you be able to do as this woman did:
Go in peace.
Sunday, November 30, 2008
Monsters among us
A friend of mine who, for obvious reasons, will remain anonymous responded to my "Godfather's Day" post from last summer; it featured Steven Curtis Chapman's song "Cinderella." I've sat on this response for several months now, but what she has to say needs to be heard. A word of warning: It's not pretty. Here, edited, is what she wrote (and gave me permission to use):
I gotta say, the woman's got guts. She permitted me to publish this letter as a service to parents, to warn them to watch for signs of abuse within the family. Be fair, but don't dismiss any possibility -- the monsters among us are counting on your trust.
I'll have more to say in another post.
I've heard the song several times on the radio and always find it well-written and pretty tuned in as to the likely reality of a good father's perspective.
I'm regrettably a daughter who falls into the "or worse" category of father experiences. Begins with a "p" and most people go to prison for it.
Growing up I held the hope for myself that justice would be served during his time on earth - that's not gonna happen. He's a pillar of the church and his community, smart enough to know that maintaining that status will always provide him access to the young children of family and friends.
Years ago I brought his photo to the police, knowing they couldn't do anything about what he did to me but hoping someone who needed to identify him for their own child would have a way to do that. The detective I spoke with got a sad look on his face and said he would accept the photo but the reality is that people like my dad elude them forever.
I'm childless by choice - and when married, my then-husband and I agreed to remain so - but in my case the overarching reason for that is to not provide my father another victim - knowing that whatever precaution I could take to prevent that would not match his devilish, manipulative cunning. I'm sad at heart about it - even one instance of sexual abuse is soul-eviscerating, but years of it planted in me the seed of severe breakdowns for nearly two decades till I came to terms with the reality of its inception.
So the song - which I do like - and the subject route to profound pain ... the most vicious element being that I've never been anything but helpless as he wrenches children from a state of fairy tale of innocence to a life of pain and distorted perceptions.
That has always been the hardest part by far - and each member of my family watches the emotional disturbance of their own children by blaming their children rather than accept the claim I have made for years about my Teflon father.
For my part, I am now a reporter in the community in which my parents live. In my Father's Day column I included his photo and name - in the subterfuged, muted hope that they might again provide the aid for anyone who would otherwise not have it. My parents relocated to [my town] about 10 years ago from where I grew up, and it has been all tabula rasa for them since.For what it's worth, I believe most parents of young children fear for their safety from without - strangers, dangerous streets and playgrounds - and either by resolute intent or through ignorance never appreciate the hunting skill of the wolves in their own dens.
I gotta say, the woman's got guts. She permitted me to publish this letter as a service to parents, to warn them to watch for signs of abuse within the family. Be fair, but don't dismiss any possibility -- the monsters among us are counting on your trust.
I'll have more to say in another post.
Wednesday, November 26, 2008
Words? We don't need no stinking words!
I recognize that this blog has become little more lately than a series of video posts. I'm going to start writing more again soon. Two important (and related) messages have been simmering for a while and are about to reach a boil. So check back in the next few days.
Oh! Beautiful!
No disrespect to Mr. Ray Charles, but holy mama! His version of this song never left me stunned the way this one, by Donna McElroy of the Berklee School, did:
Here's hoping you have a safe, happy, blessed and grateful Day of Giving Thanks.
Love,
Jim
Here's hoping you have a safe, happy, blessed and grateful Day of Giving Thanks.
Love,
Jim
Wednesday, November 5, 2008
America the beautiful
I went to bed last night in a better country than the one I had woken up in.I'm so happy and so proud of America for choosing -- at last -- a truly good man to be president. For putting aside all the hate and fear and lies and bigotry. For setting aside prejudice and historical baggage and simply choosing well.
Congratulations, America. You got this one right. The world admires you for it, and well it should.
Bill Bennett on CNN was magnanimous in the defeat of his candidate. He's a staunch conservative, but he's fair-minded. "I'm going to pray for him, and I'm going to pray for our country," he said shortly after Barack Obama was declared the winner. "This is a great country, and I hope he's a great president."
Amen.
Friday, October 24, 2008
The Deacon is Freakin'
OK, this is pretty wild. We truly are made in the image and likeness of God. Watch this:
Wednesday, October 8, 2008
Thursday, October 2, 2008
Cheers
It appears I'm past due on my health updates.
In short, all is well.
Had a visit with the hematologist a few weeks back; all the numbers were still low, but almost exactly the same as last time. Dr. Jay loves that stability. Her practitioner said, "You are the picture of perfect health."
I even got permission to start drinking alcohol again -- though I'm supposed to limit it to one drink per week. Yeah, right.
Dr. Jay somehow came under the impression that I'm a problem drinker, which has never been true. I did tell her at our initial meeting that I went through a period after my second hernia surgery when my pain medication was not working, so I was drinking more than I should in an effort to dull the pain. But I also told her I had subsequently realized that was not a good strategy and had returned to my normal moderate habits.
I know health professionals are trained to take whatever alcohol consumption a patient self-reports and double it. But even that equation wouldn't add up to much in my case. Nevertheless, in her eyes I'm a drunk and always will be.
I'll just have to accept that and hoist a pint in her honor.
In a related note, I have regained all the weight I lost, and then some. Had to go out and buy bigger pants today.
Must be all that beer.
Saturday, September 27, 2008
On your feet
I don't know why I feel embarrassed to admit this, but I love this song. Maybe because it's country, or because it's pop, or because it's kind of schmaltzy, and of course I'm way too sophisticated for any of that.
But the doggone thing just gets me every time. It causes me to consider the opportunities I have passed up, and it makes me sad for those who make similar poor choices and fearful that children (and others) I care about will do likewise.
At the same time, though, it reminds me to seize joy when it comes around, and it serves as a kind of prayer for those I love. Every parent should give every child the message this song delivers.
I just heard a snippet of it on the radio the other day and had been thinking about it sporadically ever since, and then my "little sister" Terra -- who didn't know about my feelings about the song but obviously knows me -- just happened to e-mail it to me today.
So, enjoy. (Don't worry; I won't tell anyone.)
But the doggone thing just gets me every time. It causes me to consider the opportunities I have passed up, and it makes me sad for those who make similar poor choices and fearful that children (and others) I care about will do likewise.
At the same time, though, it reminds me to seize joy when it comes around, and it serves as a kind of prayer for those I love. Every parent should give every child the message this song delivers.
I just heard a snippet of it on the radio the other day and had been thinking about it sporadically ever since, and then my "little sister" Terra -- who didn't know about my feelings about the song but obviously knows me -- just happened to e-mail it to me today.
So, enjoy. (Don't worry; I won't tell anyone.)
Sunday, August 24, 2008
Out of the closet
This spook is coming in from the cold.
I can finally drop the cloak of anonymity I have worn since starting this blog, because I informed my bosses about it and they have approved it.
My employer (whom I will continue not to name for reasons explained below) has a policy that severely restricts blogging by certain classes of employees, especially my class. It can be done with approval, so I decided to be honest and tell my boss about The Freakin' Deacon.
He checked it out and ran it by some higher-ups, and the OK came down within a couple of hours.
I'm still not going to use my full name or name my employer to avoid being Googled by crackpots. (Present company excepted.) I'm not even going to write about my employer, because (a) they don't want me to, and (b) I don't want to. That's not what this blog is for.
So, feel free to call me by my name in your comments -- which, of course, means you're leaving comments. Please do that. I want to know you're there.
Love,
Floyd
Tuesday, August 12, 2008
Ten years on, Part 2
No, Tom, I didn't forget. I just missed my deadline, that's all.
I never will forget the day our father died, nor do I want to. Pain that deep merely ratifies love that is deeper. And that's something to be thankful for.
Dad died on August 11, 1998, after fooling us into thinking he would be OK after major surgery earlier that same day. The whole family had commandeered and occupied Sparrow Hospital's surgical waiting lounge all day while Dad had his cancerous kidney removed.
The surgery had been put off when Mom fell ill in July and then died on the 23rd. The doctors gave Dad a couple of weeks to grieve, but that tumor wasn't waiting around.
While Dad was in the so-called recovery room the surgeon told us it had gone well, and that while he was in there he repaired a hernia he'd noticed. He (unnecessarily, I thought) described the lengthy incision he'd made in Dad's abdomen, which produced a picture in my mind that I have never been able to shake.
The doctor said something like, "Later on we'll get him up to his room, get his butt out of bed and have him walk around a little bit." I've always wondered whether he came to regret the cavalier tone he took that day.
After that briefing most of us left the hospital, as it was early evening and we were all hungry. MLW and I met her father for dinner at Cheddar's; I don't remember what I ate but I do remember the big ceiling fans and that I had a beer or two, and I wasn't a drinker at that time.
After dinner MLW and I went to our hotel to freshen up, stopping off for a free cocktail in the lobby. I was feeling just slightly unsteady when we got back to the room. I noticed the message light blinking on the phone and knew in my gut that it was not good news.
The desk gave me a number to call and ask for Tom. Before I dialed I knew what Tom was going to tell me, but I didn't want to believe it.
I called. Tom asked me if I was sitting down. "Oh no," I said in that "Not again" tone. I was sitting on the arm of a couch.
Tom gave it to me straight: "Dad ... died."
I think I asked him for details and I suppose he told me, but I don't recall any of the rest of that conversation. I hung up the phone and kicked over a coffee table and started stomping around the hotel room, cursing and screaming and kicking and punching things. MLW put her hands on me, which had an instant (though temporary) calming effect. She gathered up her purse and our keys and we made for the hospital at high speed. I think I drove, though I was blind with unfocused rage, screaming and pounding the steering wheel. At least, that's the way I remember it.
We were among the last to make it back to the hospital. Almost everyone was standing out in the corridor instead of in the waiting lounge. I kept demanding that someone tell me what the hell happened because no one seemed able to explain it to my satisfaction. (It apparently was a pulmonary embolism that formed after the surgery.)
Someone, Maureen, I think, asked me if I wanted to go see Dad and led me back to where they had him. I think Pat came along too. I gotta say Dad looked pretty good lying there, all clean, covered with clean white linens neatly folded over at the chest with his arms lying exposed at his sides. He seemed to have a little smirk on his face.
"Dad ... What are you doing?" I asked him, almost expecting a reply. "What are you doing?" I touched his hairy right forearm with my right hand and his glistening pale forehead with my left. His arm -- that arm that I will always see stretched out to the top of the steering wheel of a station wagon -- was warm; his head -- that shiny dome that it seemed to me contained all the knowledge and wisdom in the world -- was cool.
After a minute or two of just laying my hands on him, taking in that sensation one last time and imprinting it, I leaned in close, kissed that cool, slightly clammy forehead and whispered to him the only words that came to mind: "Thank you. ... I'll see you there."
Sunday, July 27, 2008
Family circles
Looking back, I realize I failed to follow up on a line of thought in a previous post, and that loop needs to be closed.
I said that despite my pastor's gentle encouragement, I didn't cry when my mom died.
For the record, that situation was rectified on the Sunday after the funeral, when the freakin' dam burst.
That same pastor, Dennis Butts, had come over and sat down next to me. He asked me if I remembered what he had told me earlier, that it was OK to cry. I told him I did remember, but that's just not the way my grief was coming out. He just sat there with me for a couple of minutes, neither one of us saying anything.
Pastor Butts is a big bear of a man at better than 6 feet tall and better than 200 pounds. He carries a large, quiet, powerful presence, much as my dad did. That presence began to overshadow me that day on the front pew -- enveloping me, drawing me in, surrounding me, subsuming me. I felt like I was inside a small, dark closet, in the deepest shadows behind the long winter coats. I felt safe.
That's when I absolutely lost it, sobbing inconsolably on that front pew for 20 minutes after the service ended.
I could hear people chatting, some stopping to ask MLW what was wrong with me, random people placing a hand on my shoulder or offering a word of comfort, and the tears and snot pouring out. Someone finally had the good sense and compassion to stuff a couple of tissues into my hand.
That day it became clearer to me than ever that I had a new family. It didn't replace my birth family but augmented it. I felt safe enough to cry like a baby in front of these people, and they responded with love, comfort, empathy and compassion.
Less than three weeks later, when my father also died, my tears were warmed up and ready to go, and go they did. My hysterical reaction at the hospital remains one of the more memorable entries in my family's grief scrapbook.
But it's all good. MLW and my sister Sheila stayed with me to comfort me while I was treated (read: sedated) in the emergency room, and no one made fun of me when we eventually made it back to the house, where we sat around the dining room table in stunned disbelief.
Both my families had their finest hours in the days and weeks that followed. My birth family, without exception, demonstrated kindness and grace to a degree that I had never seen in many of them before, and it helped heal some old wounds in me. My church family, which I already knew to be full of kindness and grace, proved generous and gentle as well, weeping and grieving with us, taking on themselves the loss of two people they had never known.
I would be remiss if I didn't acknowledge as well the kindness of my co-workers, who sent stacks of cards and food and sent flowers to the funeral home and covered my extended absence from work without a word of complaint.
It's true that there's a lot of bad stuff and a lot of bad people in this world. But these moments and these memories remind me that God looks after his own:
I apologize for writing so much about death and grief lately. It's a season the Spirit has sent me into, and I'm walking through it. Which reminds me of something another member of my church family, a man named Brother Herman, said a couple of years ago:
"Psalm 23 says, 'Yea, though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death ...'
Notice that it says 'walk through'; it doesn't say 'set up camp in.'"
Thanks for that, Brother Herman. Thanks to all my brothers and sisters. And thanks, God, for them.
I said that despite my pastor's gentle encouragement, I didn't cry when my mom died.
For the record, that situation was rectified on the Sunday after the funeral, when the freakin' dam burst.
That same pastor, Dennis Butts, had come over and sat down next to me. He asked me if I remembered what he had told me earlier, that it was OK to cry. I told him I did remember, but that's just not the way my grief was coming out. He just sat there with me for a couple of minutes, neither one of us saying anything.
"It's OK to cry."
Pastor Butts is a big bear of a man at better than 6 feet tall and better than 200 pounds. He carries a large, quiet, powerful presence, much as my dad did. That presence began to overshadow me that day on the front pew -- enveloping me, drawing me in, surrounding me, subsuming me. I felt like I was inside a small, dark closet, in the deepest shadows behind the long winter coats. I felt safe.
That's when I absolutely lost it, sobbing inconsolably on that front pew for 20 minutes after the service ended.
I could hear people chatting, some stopping to ask MLW what was wrong with me, random people placing a hand on my shoulder or offering a word of comfort, and the tears and snot pouring out. Someone finally had the good sense and compassion to stuff a couple of tissues into my hand.
That day it became clearer to me than ever that I had a new family. It didn't replace my birth family but augmented it. I felt safe enough to cry like a baby in front of these people, and they responded with love, comfort, empathy and compassion.
Less than three weeks later, when my father also died, my tears were warmed up and ready to go, and go they did. My hysterical reaction at the hospital remains one of the more memorable entries in my family's grief scrapbook.
But it's all good. MLW and my sister Sheila stayed with me to comfort me while I was treated (read: sedated) in the emergency room, and no one made fun of me when we eventually made it back to the house, where we sat around the dining room table in stunned disbelief.
Both my families had their finest hours in the days and weeks that followed. My birth family, without exception, demonstrated kindness and grace to a degree that I had never seen in many of them before, and it helped heal some old wounds in me. My church family, which I already knew to be full of kindness and grace, proved generous and gentle as well, weeping and grieving with us, taking on themselves the loss of two people they had never known.
I would be remiss if I didn't acknowledge as well the kindness of my co-workers, who sent stacks of cards and food and sent flowers to the funeral home and covered my extended absence from work without a word of complaint.
It's true that there's a lot of bad stuff and a lot of bad people in this world. But these moments and these memories remind me that God looks after his own:
A father to the fatherless, a defender of widows, is God in his holy
dwelling.
God sets the lonely in families, he leads forth the prisoners with
singing;
... You gave abundant showers, O God;
You refreshed your weary inheritance. -- Psalm 68:5-6a;9
I apologize for writing so much about death and grief lately. It's a season the Spirit has sent me into, and I'm walking through it. Which reminds me of something another member of my church family, a man named Brother Herman, said a couple of years ago:
"Psalm 23 says, 'Yea, though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death ...'
Notice that it says 'walk through'; it doesn't say 'set up camp in.'"
Thanks for that, Brother Herman. Thanks to all my brothers and sisters. And thanks, God, for them.
Thursday, July 24, 2008
Ten years on
My mother died 10 years ago yesterday. Her given name was Catherine, but everyone -- everyone -- called her Honey.
Maybe that's why I was a sucker for this video:
http://www.emailthis.clickability.com/et/emailThis?clickMap=viewThis&etMailToID=1038394309
I feel like I should add some comment here, but I got nothin'.
Maybe that's why I was a sucker for this video:
http://www.emailthis.clickability.com/et/emailThis?clickMap=viewThis&etMailToID=1038394309
I feel like I should add some comment here, but I got nothin'.
Tuesday, July 8, 2008
Miss you, Mom
My sister told me that since I wrote about my dad on his birthday I'd better write about my mom on hers, or I'd never hear the end of it through eternity.
That's where Mom is right now: eternity. She left the confines of time 10 years ago this month. I remember my brother Tom calling with the news that morning; I think it was a Thursday.
Mom had been in the hospital for more than a week after developing a painful blood clot in her leg. The hospital gave her Heparin, a powerful blood thinner. It worked too well.
We were told the drug caused a rare reaction, breaking up the clot into thousands of tiny clots that bombarded her kidneys and destroyed them. After several days of dialysis, sometimes several times a day, the rest of her body just shut down.
It was probably for the best, given the circumstances, but it was painful for all of us who loved her and were loved by her.
MLW called one of our pastors, with whom we were pretty close. She handed me the phone, and he asked me how I was doing. I told him I was OK. "You know it's OK to cry," he told me. "I know," I said, unemotionally. "It's OK to cry," he repeated. "I know, I know," I told him. "I'm just not feeling that way right now."
We waited a day before heading to Michigan, which I later concluded was a mistake. I should have been there with my dad and the rest of the family as soon as I could get there, but we only got there in time for the viewing and then the funeral.
My best friend from high school, Gonz, showed up at the viewing. I was shocked; I hadn't heard from him in years. But Mom used to drive him and me to school every morning, and at the viewing he and I laughed as we fondly remembered her utter inability to make a right turn without clipping the curb.
She and Dad also attended Gonz's wedding in Muskegon. Although he is emotionally rather clueless, I think he was touched that they made the trip. And they -- especially Mom -- seemed to have a great time.
Mom was a people watcher par excellence, which made wedding receptions and similar gatherings fun for her. While I wouldn't go so far as to say she spied on the neighbors, she did keep an eye on them and delighted in making up stories to explain what she saw in the absence of actual facts.
There's a lot I could tell you about Mom, but this post would go on forever. But I'll just say she's one of the funniest people I have ever known and illustrate the point with this one BBAA (Brief But Amusing Anecdote):
While Mom was in the hospital, MLW and I went to visit her. Mom wasn't always fully conscious or entirely present, but there were some exceptional moments. At one point while we were in the room she said she needed a Kleenex. The box was on her tray across her bed from me, so I reached across her to put it within her reach. As I did so, she noticed that my thumbnail was black.
"You hurt your thumb," she observed in a sleepy voice. I explained that I had smashed my thumb with a hammer.
"Oh," she said softly, "... stupid."
That's where Mom is right now: eternity. She left the confines of time 10 years ago this month. I remember my brother Tom calling with the news that morning; I think it was a Thursday.
Mom had been in the hospital for more than a week after developing a painful blood clot in her leg. The hospital gave her Heparin, a powerful blood thinner. It worked too well.
We were told the drug caused a rare reaction, breaking up the clot into thousands of tiny clots that bombarded her kidneys and destroyed them. After several days of dialysis, sometimes several times a day, the rest of her body just shut down.
It was probably for the best, given the circumstances, but it was painful for all of us who loved her and were loved by her.
MLW called one of our pastors, with whom we were pretty close. She handed me the phone, and he asked me how I was doing. I told him I was OK. "You know it's OK to cry," he told me. "I know," I said, unemotionally. "It's OK to cry," he repeated. "I know, I know," I told him. "I'm just not feeling that way right now."
We waited a day before heading to Michigan, which I later concluded was a mistake. I should have been there with my dad and the rest of the family as soon as I could get there, but we only got there in time for the viewing and then the funeral.
My best friend from high school, Gonz, showed up at the viewing. I was shocked; I hadn't heard from him in years. But Mom used to drive him and me to school every morning, and at the viewing he and I laughed as we fondly remembered her utter inability to make a right turn without clipping the curb.
She and Dad also attended Gonz's wedding in Muskegon. Although he is emotionally rather clueless, I think he was touched that they made the trip. And they -- especially Mom -- seemed to have a great time.
Mom was a people watcher par excellence, which made wedding receptions and similar gatherings fun for her. While I wouldn't go so far as to say she spied on the neighbors, she did keep an eye on them and delighted in making up stories to explain what she saw in the absence of actual facts.
There's a lot I could tell you about Mom, but this post would go on forever. But I'll just say she's one of the funniest people I have ever known and illustrate the point with this one BBAA (Brief But Amusing Anecdote):
While Mom was in the hospital, MLW and I went to visit her. Mom wasn't always fully conscious or entirely present, but there were some exceptional moments. At one point while we were in the room she said she needed a Kleenex. The box was on her tray across her bed from me, so I reached across her to put it within her reach. As I did so, she noticed that my thumbnail was black.
"You hurt your thumb," she observed in a sleepy voice. I explained that I had smashed my thumb with a hammer.
"Oh," she said softly, "... stupid."
Sunday, June 15, 2008
Godfather's Day
OK, so today is Father's Day. Kind of a neutral day for me most years. My dad died 10 years ago, and I'm not a father myself, so ... pfftht.
This morning our church put on a lovely little sketch, playing out the Steven Curtis Chapman song "Cinderella" onstage. Here's the official Chapman video on YouTube:
Let's just say I was glad I stuffed a couple of tissues in my pocket before leaving for church this morning.
The pastor at my former church makes a point every year of telling people we shouldn't glibly go around and wish every man we see a happy Father's Day. For some it's a very painful day because they didn't have a father or because the father they had was a lout (or worse).
And then there are those who, like me, feel a sense of loss at never having become a father, at knowing we'll never experience the reality of that song.
This certainly isn't a matter for pity or self-pity, since the no-kids decision was one MLW and I made jointly and consciously. And our reasoning for the decision -- there are enough mouths to feed on this planet already -- still stands up.
Nevertheless, I still feel a certain emptiness at not having had (or taken) the opportunity to raise a child.
But here's the thing. God isn't limited by our decisions or our ideas of what a family is.
And my God will meet all your needs according to his glorious riches in
Christ Jesus. (Philippians 4:19)
At the beginning of May, my nephew and his wife and their three children -- who had started in Michigan, lived the last three years in Florida and the last five months in Marietta, Ga. -- moved into a house three blocks from ours. The youngest of those three children is a 7-year-old blue-eyed blonde named Savannah who is my godchild. And she is CRAZY about her godfather. And I'm pretty crazy about her, too.
God has given me my Cinderella.
Don't you just love a happy ending?
Monday, May 26, 2008
Happy birthday
Today is Memorial Day, an especially poignant one because it is also my father's birthday.
Dad would have been 88 today. He died 10 years ago -- can it really have been that long?
When I think realistically about how old he would be getting now (and my mother as well), I realize it's a little absurd to go down the road of "If only ..." I mean, how many people live to be 88 anyway, and what would his quality of life have been at that age, with his diabetes and high blood pressure and brushes with cancer? And worst of all, no Honey (my mom).
But I still miss them both, and I'm not one bit ashamed about it.
We always had his birthday party on Memorial Day, whether it fell on the 26th or not. He would (over)cook hamburgers on the grill, and we'd have Jay's potato chips and baked beans and Vernor's ginger ale, and of course cake and ice cream. Some Frisbee, some Jarts, some "NBA" (that's what we called basketball the rough, physical way we boys sometimes played it in the driveway), a couple of shoving matches and lots of laughter until long after the sun went down.
And the flag hanging from the big front porch. My folks flew the flag every day, not just on national holidays -- one of those Bennington flags, with the big "76" on it. Dad was a Navy veteran of World War II. He served aboard the destroyer USS Patterson in the South Pacific, which thankfully didn't see a lot of heavy action. I'm sure they had their moments, but Dad didn't really dwell on it or talk about it much. He had a family to generate and raise and a God to serve.
I have a flag that has been furled in a corner near the front door ever since I moved here. Yesterday I finally got around to finding the mounting bracket and installing it on the front of the house. First thing this morning I unfurled the flag and set it out there to wave in the sun.
Yes, I did it for our nation's honored dead. But mostly I did it to honor Dad. Happy birthday. I still love you.
Dad would have been 88 today. He died 10 years ago -- can it really have been that long?
When I think realistically about how old he would be getting now (and my mother as well), I realize it's a little absurd to go down the road of "If only ..." I mean, how many people live to be 88 anyway, and what would his quality of life have been at that age, with his diabetes and high blood pressure and brushes with cancer? And worst of all, no Honey (my mom).
But I still miss them both, and I'm not one bit ashamed about it.
We always had his birthday party on Memorial Day, whether it fell on the 26th or not. He would (over)cook hamburgers on the grill, and we'd have Jay's potato chips and baked beans and Vernor's ginger ale, and of course cake and ice cream. Some Frisbee, some Jarts, some "NBA" (that's what we called basketball the rough, physical way we boys sometimes played it in the driveway), a couple of shoving matches and lots of laughter until long after the sun went down.
And the flag hanging from the big front porch. My folks flew the flag every day, not just on national holidays -- one of those Bennington flags, with the big "76" on it. Dad was a Navy veteran of World War II. He served aboard the destroyer USS Patterson in the South Pacific, which thankfully didn't see a lot of heavy action. I'm sure they had their moments, but Dad didn't really dwell on it or talk about it much. He had a family to generate and raise and a God to serve.
I have a flag that has been furled in a corner near the front door ever since I moved here. Yesterday I finally got around to finding the mounting bracket and installing it on the front of the house. First thing this morning I unfurled the flag and set it out there to wave in the sun.
Yes, I did it for our nation's honored dead. But mostly I did it to honor Dad. Happy birthday. I still love you.
Tuesday, May 13, 2008
Old friend, new life
So I was reading the local paper (the Atlanta Journal-Constitution) one day last month, and I saw an item about a band called Blue Flashing Light from Athens, Georgia, that had just completed a two-week tour of China.
The item quoted the band's frontman, Ian Schwarber, who said a Chinese cultural committee had sought out bands from Georgia to help celebrate Chengdu's peach festival. Apparently the famous Georgia peaches are in fact a variety that originated in Sichuan Province, where Chengdu is located.
(Chengdu is the place where Monday's devastating earthquake occurred. Please join us in praying for the folks there, and donate to a relief organization if you can.)
Accompanying the article was a tiny headshot of Schwarber. I glanced at it and kept reading. Then I stopped and went back to the photo. Then back to Schwarber's name. Then back to the photo.
I asked My Lovely Wife, who was sitting nearby, "What was the name of that kid who worked at that coffee shop back in Ohio and had a band?"
She thought for a moment but couldn't come up with it immediately.
"Was it Ian?"
"Yeah, Ian. Why"
I showed her the paper. "Isn't this him?" (I know, I should have said "he," but who talks that way?)
Her eyes grew wide and she grabbed the paper out of my hands. "That is him!" she confirmed. (Ditto.)
See, not only does Ian make a nice caffe latte and write pretty song lyrics, but he's a good-looking sonuvagun too. Here's proof:
The item quoted the band's frontman, Ian Schwarber, who said a Chinese cultural committee had sought out bands from Georgia to help celebrate Chengdu's peach festival. Apparently the famous Georgia peaches are in fact a variety that originated in Sichuan Province, where Chengdu is located.
(Chengdu is the place where Monday's devastating earthquake occurred. Please join us in praying for the folks there, and donate to a relief organization if you can.)
Accompanying the article was a tiny headshot of Schwarber. I glanced at it and kept reading. Then I stopped and went back to the photo. Then back to Schwarber's name. Then back to the photo.
I asked My Lovely Wife, who was sitting nearby, "What was the name of that kid who worked at that coffee shop back in Ohio and had a band?"
She thought for a moment but couldn't come up with it immediately.
"Was it Ian?"
"Yeah, Ian. Why"
I showed her the paper. "Isn't this him?" (I know, I should have said "he," but who talks that way?)
Her eyes grew wide and she grabbed the paper out of my hands. "That is him!" she confirmed. (Ditto.)
See, not only does Ian make a nice caffe latte and write pretty song lyrics, but he's a good-looking sonuvagun too. Here's proof:
Anyway, it turns out Ian and the boys moved from Ohio to Georgia about the same time we did, starting over in a booming college town known as a cradle of talented bands. And things seem to be going well.
You can learn all about Blue Flashing Light and hear samples of their songs at http://www.blueflashinglight.net/ or http://www.myspace.com/blueflashinglightEMup .
One of Ian's little secrets is that he is obsessed with Buffy the Vampire Slayer. A deeper secret is that it was My Lovely Wife who first turned him on to Buffy through some coffee-shop evangelism.
After we discovered they were here in Georgia, MLW Googled the daylights out of BFL and learned they had an upcoming gig in the ATL. We determined to go to that show and surprise Ian. MLW even had a T-shirt made that says "Buffy Y BFL."
By the time the show date came around (last Friday night), MLW had spoken with Ian and he
knew we were coming, so the element of surprise was lost. Yet and still, as they say down here, he was thrilled to see us and our faces were rocked.
You can learn all about Blue Flashing Light and hear samples of their songs at http://www.blueflashinglight.net/ or http://www.myspace.com/blueflashinglightEMup .
One of Ian's little secrets is that he is obsessed with Buffy the Vampire Slayer. A deeper secret is that it was My Lovely Wife who first turned him on to Buffy through some coffee-shop evangelism.
After we discovered they were here in Georgia, MLW Googled the daylights out of BFL and learned they had an upcoming gig in the ATL. We determined to go to that show and surprise Ian. MLW even had a T-shirt made that says "Buffy Y BFL."
By the time the show date came around (last Friday night), MLW had spoken with Ian and he
knew we were coming, so the element of surprise was lost. Yet and still, as they say down here, he was thrilled to see us and our faces were rocked.Then on Monday Ian went solo and competed in the famous open mic night at legendary listening room Eddie's Attic (http://www.eddiesattic.com/) in Decatur. There were 21 singer-songwriters, and Ian unfortunately went first. He wasn't chosen as a finalist, but Eddie took him aside and said he was exercising his authority to invite Ian back to the summer shootout as a wildcard.
I don't think Ian's going to make us any more cappuccinos, but he's making great music and that's even better. And we've reconnected with an old friend who is a really good guy, which is best of all.
Sunday, May 11, 2008
Fugly is as fugly does
I broke my fugly lamp.
This … thing … was sitting under a tree next to a huge pile of leaves when we moved into our house in December 2006. I think the previous owner had set it out there hoping that thieves or coyotes would carry it off, but no one would have it. It’s a big responsibility to bring that kind of ugliness into your home, and not everyone is up to the task.
Still, for some
reason I stuck it in my shed rather than get rid of it. That sort of bulky grotesqueness has a burlesque attractiveness all its own, and over time I began to believe someone out there might not only want it but be willing to pay for it.
While moving it out of the way for the tenth time last week, I noticed the base was stamped FALKENSTEIN 1919. Hey, I thought, maybe I do have a find here. A quick Google search revealed that Claire Falkenstein was a lamp designer from the late 1950s to the 1970s, and collectors aren’t especially impressed with her work.
Finally this week I took it to an antique shop in Decatur that specializes in mid-20th century furniture and décor. The proprietor there acknowledged that she had never heard of Claire Falkenstein and agreed that the lamp was, indeed, very ugly, and no, she would not be interested, thank you and have a nice day.
On the way home I stopped at another antique shop for a second opinion. The woman there also had never heard of Claire Falkenstein, also agreed that the lamp was, indeed, very ugly, and oh, by the way, it’s broken.
“Broken?” said I. “How can you tell?”
“There’s a big hole in the globe -- there, on the other side,” she informed.
And, sharp-eyed appraiser of antiquities that she is, she was right. Big hole in the shimmery red globe. Brand-spankin’-new one.
“Well, there goes that eBay lottery hit,” I lamented. My fugly dream had gone aglimmering.
But hey, now I have a lot more room in my shed.
This … thing … was sitting under a tree next to a huge pile of leaves when we moved into our house in December 2006. I think the previous owner had set it out there hoping that thieves or coyotes would carry it off, but no one would have it. It’s a big responsibility to bring that kind of ugliness into your home, and not everyone is up to the task.
Still, for some
reason I stuck it in my shed rather than get rid of it. That sort of bulky grotesqueness has a burlesque attractiveness all its own, and over time I began to believe someone out there might not only want it but be willing to pay for it.While moving it out of the way for the tenth time last week, I noticed the base was stamped FALKENSTEIN 1919. Hey, I thought, maybe I do have a find here. A quick Google search revealed that Claire Falkenstein was a lamp designer from the late 1950s to the 1970s, and collectors aren’t especially impressed with her work.
Finally this week I took it to an antique shop in Decatur that specializes in mid-20th century furniture and décor. The proprietor there acknowledged that she had never heard of Claire Falkenstein and agreed that the lamp was, indeed, very ugly, and no, she would not be interested, thank you and have a nice day.
On the way home I stopped at another antique shop for a second opinion. The woman there also had never heard of Claire Falkenstein, also agreed that the lamp was, indeed, very ugly, and oh, by the way, it’s broken.
“Broken?” said I. “How can you tell?”
“There’s a big hole in the globe -- there, on the other side,” she informed.And, sharp-eyed appraiser of antiquities that she is, she was right. Big hole in the shimmery red globe. Brand-spankin’-new one.
“Well, there goes that eBay lottery hit,” I lamented. My fugly dream had gone aglimmering.
But hey, now I have a lot more room in my shed.
Wednesday, May 7, 2008
Out to lunch
Dear Reader (you know who you are),
Please accept my apologies for not posting here for the last seven weeks. Today's excuses of choice include spring-related busyness and, paradoxically, an extended bout with fatigue.
While I'm not so foolish as to promise to post every day henceforth, I will pledge to be better about it than I have been lately.
Thanks for waiting me out.
Saturday, March 15, 2008
Tornado
We're fine. Friday night's tornado made a mess of downtown Atlanta, but out where we live there was just lightning and thunder. Getting to work on the train today wasn't just a ride, it was an adventure. But I made it, and everything at the workplace is working despite a few broken windows. All is well.
Wednesday, March 5, 2008
An issue of blood
The best example of someone going to Jesus and literally grabbing hold of his healing power is the woman with the “issue of blood.” Her story is told in the fifth chapter of Mark and the eighth chapter of Luke.
This poor woman had a condition that was not only physically painful but also socially stigmatizing, and it had been going on for years. She had nonstop menstrual bleeding, which under Old Testament law kept her perpetually “ceremonially unclean” (Leviticus 15:25-27).
Think for a moment about the isolation and loneliness this would mean. No one could touch her without becoming unclean, and anything she touched became unclean. Think what it would be like for you if you could never give or receive a hug, or even a handshake or a pat on the back. Or use a shopping cart. Or pick up produce at the market and put it back down. Or walk on a crowded sidewalk. Or get your hair cut. Or go to a concert or a game. Or a restaurant. Or school. Or work. Or church. And forget about meeting someone special, falling in love and starting a family.
Imagine the shame and degradation that would come with that kind of shunning, along with the fear of embarrassingly bleeding through her clothes. Not to mention the terrible cramps that must have been a source of constant misery.
The medical treatments of the day were probably quite crude and excruciatingly painful; the NIV says she "had suffered a great deal under the care of many doctors and had spent all she had, yet instead of getting better she grew worse."
And the Word says this went on for twelve years. A lot of people would kill themselves under that kind of stress, and who could blame them?
But this woman chose life, and she knew where to find it.
Can you imagine the courage it took for her to leave her house and venture to that crowded marketplace where Jesus was visiting? To press through the throng, this mob of strangers who would revile her and recoil from her if they knew her terrible secret?
But nothing else had worked, and she was desperate. This might be her only chance. She waded into the crowd and pressed through. She didn’t seek to speak to the man or ask anything of him, but just hoped to grasp the hem of his garment.
And she did it. The Bible says she was behind Jesus and touched the edge of this cloak, and immediately she felt healing flow from him into her body.
She thought that would be the end of it, that she could disappear back into the crowd and slip away, but with Jesus you always get more than you bargain for.
“Who touched my clothes?” he said (as if he didn’t know). His disciples practically laughed at him: “You have all these thousands of people pressing in on you, and you ask, ‘Who touched me?’”
Yes, thousands were pressing in on him, but only one had truly touched him.
Have you reached out to Jesus with a passion and a fervor that will make you stand out from the crowd?
I’ll have more about this in a future post.
This poor woman had a condition that was not only physically painful but also socially stigmatizing, and it had been going on for years. She had nonstop menstrual bleeding, which under Old Testament law kept her perpetually “ceremonially unclean” (Leviticus 15:25-27).
Think for a moment about the isolation and loneliness this would mean. No one could touch her without becoming unclean, and anything she touched became unclean. Think what it would be like for you if you could never give or receive a hug, or even a handshake or a pat on the back. Or use a shopping cart. Or pick up produce at the market and put it back down. Or walk on a crowded sidewalk. Or get your hair cut. Or go to a concert or a game. Or a restaurant. Or school. Or work. Or church. And forget about meeting someone special, falling in love and starting a family.
You are condemned to life in solitary confinement with invisible walls.
Imagine the shame and degradation that would come with that kind of shunning, along with the fear of embarrassingly bleeding through her clothes. Not to mention the terrible cramps that must have been a source of constant misery.
The medical treatments of the day were probably quite crude and excruciatingly painful; the NIV says she "had suffered a great deal under the care of many doctors and had spent all she had, yet instead of getting better she grew worse."
And the Word says this went on for twelve years. A lot of people would kill themselves under that kind of stress, and who could blame them?
But this woman chose life, and she knew where to find it.
Can you imagine the courage it took for her to leave her house and venture to that crowded marketplace where Jesus was visiting? To press through the throng, this mob of strangers who would revile her and recoil from her if they knew her terrible secret?
But nothing else had worked, and she was desperate. This might be her only chance. She waded into the crowd and pressed through. She didn’t seek to speak to the man or ask anything of him, but just hoped to grasp the hem of his garment.
And she did it. The Bible says she was behind Jesus and touched the edge of this cloak, and immediately she felt healing flow from him into her body.
She thought that would be the end of it, that she could disappear back into the crowd and slip away, but with Jesus you always get more than you bargain for.
He took notice of her.
“Who touched my clothes?” he said (as if he didn’t know). His disciples practically laughed at him: “You have all these thousands of people pressing in on you, and you ask, ‘Who touched me?’”
Yes, thousands were pressing in on him, but only one had truly touched him.
Have you reached out to Jesus with a passion and a fervor that will make you stand out from the crowd?
I’ll have more about this in a future post.
Saturday, February 23, 2008
Take your healing
The Lord revealed something interesting to me this morning while I was doing my daily Bible reading.
When they [Jesus and his disciples] had crossed over [the Sea of Galilee], they landed at Gennesaret and anchored there. As soon as they got out of the boat, people recognized Jesus. They ran throughout that whole region and carried the sick on mats to wherever they heard he was. And wherever he went – into villages, towns or countryside – they placed the sick in the marketplaces. They begged him to let them touch even the edge of his cloak, and all who touched him were healed. -- Mark 6:53-56
What jumped out at me was the last phrase: “... and all who touched him were healed.”
When they [Jesus and his disciples] had crossed over [the Sea of Galilee], they landed at Gennesaret and anchored there. As soon as they got out of the boat, people recognized Jesus. They ran throughout that whole region and carried the sick on mats to wherever they heard he was. And wherever he went – into villages, towns or countryside – they placed the sick in the marketplaces. They begged him to let them touch even the edge of his cloak, and all who touched him were healed. -- Mark 6:53-56
What jumped out at me was the last phrase: “... and all who touched him were healed.”
He didn’t touch them, they touched him.
He didn’t touch them, they touched him.
Jesus went to “the marketplaces” – public places where everyone went every day. No one had to look very hard to seek him out. He made himself available where anyone – in villages, towns and countryside – could find him.
Those who needed healing – and doesn’t everyone need healing of one kind or another? – came to him. And those who were too weak to get themselves there were “placed” there by other people who cared about them.
We often hear complaints that Jesus didn’t intervene in this or that situation, and often he doesn’t, for his own reasons that we are incapable of understanding.
Jesus went to “the marketplaces” – public places where everyone went every day. No one had to look very hard to seek him out. He made himself available where anyone – in villages, towns and countryside – could find him.
Those who needed healing – and doesn’t everyone need healing of one kind or another? – came to him. And those who were too weak to get themselves there were “placed” there by other people who cared about them.
We often hear complaints that Jesus didn’t intervene in this or that situation, and often he doesn’t, for his own reasons that we are incapable of understanding.
We expect him to come to us, when what is needed is for us to come to him.
But I wonder how many times we miss blessings – how many times we don’t get healed – simply because we fail to reach out to him. We expect him to come to us, when what is needed is for us to come to him.
He isn’t hard to find. He makes himself available in all situations in all places at all times, out in the open. It’s up to us to go to him, to reach out to him and to take the healing. He carries the healing with him wherever he goes, but it takes action on our part, not his, for us to receive it.
He isn’t hard to find. He makes himself available in all situations in all places at all times, out in the open. It’s up to us to go to him, to reach out to him and to take the healing. He carries the healing with him wherever he goes, but it takes action on our part, not his, for us to receive it.
All is well
In case you missed it ...
My doctors have given me a clean bill of health. Praise God! Thank you, Lord!
I already gave the news in the "James at 5:16" post below, but I realize now that the headline is a little vague and I buried the lede. Mea culpa. There's never a copy editor around when you need one.
The paint can results are in now as well, and everything came out fine there, too, so to speak.
(By the way, I'd love to see some comments on these posts. You don't have to sign in or join up to leave a comment. Just use the "Name/URL" option under Comments and write in any name you like. I'd like it best if I knew who you were, though. And while you're at it, feel free to click on any of the links you see on the site. They're risk-free, I promise.)
My doctors have given me a clean bill of health. Praise God! Thank you, Lord!
I already gave the news in the "James at 5:16" post below, but I realize now that the headline is a little vague and I buried the lede. Mea culpa. There's never a copy editor around when you need one.
The paint can results are in now as well, and everything came out fine there, too, so to speak.
(By the way, I'd love to see some comments on these posts. You don't have to sign in or join up to leave a comment. Just use the "Name/URL" option under Comments and write in any name you like. I'd like it best if I knew who you were, though. And while you're at it, feel free to click on any of the links you see on the site. They're risk-free, I promise.)
Monday, February 18, 2008
James at 5:16
"Therefore confess your sins to each other and pray for each other so that you may be healed. The prayer of the righteous person is powerful and effective." -- James 5:16My hematologist told me today that my bone marrow biopsy and related blood work showed no sign of cancer, no sign of myelodysplasia, no sign of developing leukemia or lymphoma. They also did a chromosomal study to see if there are any genetic precursors of cancer or other diseases, and there are none.
I got nothin'.
Give God praise for his exceeding grace and mercy, and while you're at it give yourself a pat on the back for sending up some powerful and effective prayer. I thank you from the bottom of my heart and the depths of my spirit.
For a person my age, the makeup of the bone marrow should be roughly 50 percent marrow cells of various types and 50 percent fat. Mine is more like 30-70, but Dr. Jay says that's nothing to be concerned about. The low lymphocyte numbers we've been seeing could have been caused by exposure to some unknown toxin sometime in my past, or I might simply be made that way, she said. Either way, it doesn't seem to be a problem.
The vitamin D deficiency noted in my previous post could indeed be the culprit in my weight loss, but it is not related to the white cells; it's just a coincidence that it happened at the same time, she said. Dr. Jay at first suggested I add a vitamin D supplement to my diet, but backed off that idea when she learned I have a history of kidney stones. She said she would get back to me with a plan for addressing that problem.
Just eat a healthy diet and exercise, she said. See you in three months.
Again, I thank each of you for your love and prayers and support during this worrisome time. I can now exhale and get on with my life, more determined than ever to redeem the time.
Friday, February 15, 2008
What's D problem?
My primary care doctor's office left me a message yesterday to inform me that my most recent blood test showed a vitamin D deficiency.
This could explain my weight loss; one of my sisters lost a frightening amount of weight several years ago, and it turned out to be a vitamin D issue. She's fine now, thank God.
Whether this could account for my missing white cells remains to be seen Monday, when I return to the hematologist for the results of my bone-marrow excavation.
Wednesday, February 6, 2008
Canned
Another possible explanation for my weight loss, albeit remote, is celiac disease, a disorder of the small intestine.
At my brother-in-law's behest, I asked my family doctor about it the other day when I was in for a regular checkup. Although dubious, she went ahead and ordered (yet another) blood test, as well as something called a fecal fat test. The blood could be done in the office, but for the other thing I had to go to a lab and get a take-home kit.
The lab worker started to bring the kit out to me, but when she saw there were other people in the waiting room she had me come with her behind a closed door. I figured the kit would be like one of those smear tests you do to screen for colon cancer. Instead, what I got is what you see here:
I laughed. "A paint can??" I said. "Basically ... yes," said the woman, trying to keep a straight face but not really succeeding. She admonished me to follow the instructions carefully, make sure nothing gets on the outside of the container and bring the Pail o' Poop back to the lab when it's ready.
"Boy, I hope I don't get confused and accidentally paint my dining room with the contents of that can," I said.
"Yeah," she said. "That's a brown you don't want."
So off I went with my bilge bucket to my lovely wife, who was waiting for me in the truck. "Why are you laughing?" she demanded. "I gotta poop into a paint can!" said I. We sat there and laughed hysterically for several minutes while she read the instructions aloud:
PATIENT PREPARATION FOR COLLECTING STOOL FOR FECAL FAT
Adult patients should be on a standard diet containing 50-150g of fat per day for at least 3 days before test is started and during the 72-hour collection. ... The patient should not have had mineral oil as a laxative prior to specimen collection. Refrigerate specimen during collection and store at 2-8 degrees C.
INSTRUCTIONS FOR SUBMITTING STOOL FOR FECAL FAT
1. Can must contain fecal matter only (i.e., NO urine, toilet paper, diapers, plastic bags, cups, etc.). IF OBJECTS OTHER THAN FECAL MATTER ARE PLACED IN CONTAINER, SAMPLE WILL BE REJECTED.
2. Seal can by hammering lid down securely.
3. Place white plastic ARMLOK ring around can lid and press down with thumbs to "snap" seal.
CANS CANNOT BE SUBMITTED WITHOUT WHITE PLASTIC ARMLOK RING.
4. Do not punch holes in lid.
5. Indicate below collection time:
__ 72 hour collection
__ 48 hour collection
__ 24 hour collection
__ other __ hour collection
6. DO NOT FILL CAN OVER 2/3 FULL. Use additional cans, if necessary, and indicate this information here: CAN #__ of ___ cans collected. (ex.: can #2 of 3 cans)
7. Place can in leak-proof bag containing absorbent sheet and seal bag.
Brings a whole new meaning to "going to the can."
At my brother-in-law's behest, I asked my family doctor about it the other day when I was in for a regular checkup. Although dubious, she went ahead and ordered (yet another) blood test, as well as something called a fecal fat test. The blood could be done in the office, but for the other thing I had to go to a lab and get a take-home kit.
The lab worker started to bring the kit out to me, but when she saw there were other people in the waiting room she had me come with her behind a closed door. I figured the kit would be like one of those smear tests you do to screen for colon cancer. Instead, what I got is what you see here:
I laughed. "A paint can??" I said. "Basically ... yes," said the woman, trying to keep a straight face but not really succeeding. She admonished me to follow the instructions carefully, make sure nothing gets on the outside of the container and bring the Pail o' Poop back to the lab when it's ready.
"Boy, I hope I don't get confused and accidentally paint my dining room with the contents of that can," I said.
"Yeah," she said. "That's a brown you don't want."
So off I went with my bilge bucket to my lovely wife, who was waiting for me in the truck. "Why are you laughing?" she demanded. "I gotta poop into a paint can!" said I. We sat there and laughed hysterically for several minutes while she read the instructions aloud:
PATIENT PREPARATION FOR COLLECTING STOOL FOR FECAL FAT
Adult patients should be on a standard diet containing 50-150g of fat per day for at least 3 days before test is started and during the 72-hour collection. ... The patient should not have had mineral oil as a laxative prior to specimen collection. Refrigerate specimen during collection and store at 2-8 degrees C.
INSTRUCTIONS FOR SUBMITTING STOOL FOR FECAL FAT
1. Can must contain fecal matter only (i.e., NO urine, toilet paper, diapers, plastic bags, cups, etc.). IF OBJECTS OTHER THAN FECAL MATTER ARE PLACED IN CONTAINER, SAMPLE WILL BE REJECTED.
2. Seal can by hammering lid down securely.
3. Place white plastic ARMLOK ring around can lid and press down with thumbs to "snap" seal.
CANS CANNOT BE SUBMITTED WITHOUT WHITE PLASTIC ARMLOK RING.
4. Do not punch holes in lid.
5. Indicate below collection time:
__ 72 hour collection
__ 48 hour collection
__ 24 hour collection
__ other __ hour collection
6. DO NOT FILL CAN OVER 2/3 FULL. Use additional cans, if necessary, and indicate this information here: CAN #__ of ___ cans collected. (ex.: can #2 of 3 cans)
7. Place can in leak-proof bag containing absorbent sheet and seal bag.
Brings a whole new meaning to "going to the can."
Monday, February 4, 2008
Well, that sucked
On Wednesday I had my bone-marrow biopsy. Do not try this at home. When I showed up at Dr. Jaye's office, the nurse, Pamela, who took my blood asked me if I had someone to drive me home. I did not, as no one had told us what a mess I would be at the conclusion of the procedure. "I don't know if you'll need a sedative or not," Pamela said. "I've never had a bone marrow, so I don't know how painful it is." Oh well, no worries, said I. I'll just tough it out and it will be fine. Ha.
I was told to lie prone on a table and informed that
A woman named Maria came in and made small talk for a while before shooting my lower back and left gluteus full of numbing agent. "I'm putting lidocaine in here just like your dentist uses," she told me. "My dentist never works down there," I told her.
The procedure progressed pretty well, with just a couple of painful jolts like a Taser being applied to my pelvis. See, the problem with lidocaine is that the practitioner can't see where it's working and where it isn't, so she just has to start poking and hope for the best. Eventually everything was comfortably numb and Maria inserted the big needle (reportedly the size of a ten-penny nail, which I never saw -- intentionally on their part, I'm sure). She had to puncture the top of the pelvis bone and go into its spongy marrow. "This is going to be a very unusual feeling," she warned me before beginning the next phase, wherein she wiggled the needle around for a while to dislodge some marrow so she could extract it. "'Unusual,'" I said. "Good word. I must admit that is an 'unusual' feeling for me." Maria, a rather tall woman, was standing on a stool next to the table and leaning over me for added leverage, literally reaming me a new hole. I could feel the pressure all the way through to the front.
Just as Maria was finishing up that part and the procedure as a whole, I started to get dizzy and told her so. She leaned over to look at my face and saw that I was turning bright red. She told someone to go get a cold, wet towel and put it on my neck while Maria pulled out the needle and applied a bandage to the wound.
The towel didn't help. I felt close to passing out, so they rolled me over and put another towel over my whole head. My blood pressure clocked in at 148 over 110, which is sky-high for Mr. Mellow with the 90 over 64 baseline. They gave me a sip of apple juice, which I choked on.
Then it got really interesting when my abdominal and throat muscles started convulsing. A nurse named Connie tried to call my lovely wife (MLW) but had trouble figuring out how to use the speed-dial function on my cell, and I couldn't help much because my vocal cords were seizing. When she did figure it out, she couldn't get an answer because it was the one day MLW chose to sleep in.
Maria had the nurses give me IV fluids and left me alone in the room as the convulsions continued. I was pretty scared at this point and was praying, "O God, I don't want to die the way my father did.
My phone rang on the stand next to my table, and I answered it. It was MLW. She thought I had been calling earlier just to say I was done, but realized from my strained voice that something was wrong. I told her I needed her to find a way to get to the hospital and drive me home. She caught our next-door neighbor Marg just as she was leaving for work. By the time MLW got to the hospital, I had been moved to the chemo room and was pretty much back to normal. (Insert wisecrack here.)
We ran into Pamela, the blood-drawing nurse, on the way out. "By the way," I told her, "the next time you have a patient come in for a bone marrow, give the sedative, and make sure they have a ride home. It hurts -- a lot -- and bad things happen."
I was told to lie prone on a table and informed that
I "have a good butt for bone marrow."Why thank you! You really know how to make a guy feel special.
A woman named Maria came in and made small talk for a while before shooting my lower back and left gluteus full of numbing agent. "I'm putting lidocaine in here just like your dentist uses," she told me. "My dentist never works down there," I told her.
The procedure progressed pretty well, with just a couple of painful jolts like a Taser being applied to my pelvis. See, the problem with lidocaine is that the practitioner can't see where it's working and where it isn't, so she just has to start poking and hope for the best. Eventually everything was comfortably numb and Maria inserted the big needle (reportedly the size of a ten-penny nail, which I never saw -- intentionally on their part, I'm sure). She had to puncture the top of the pelvis bone and go into its spongy marrow. "This is going to be a very unusual feeling," she warned me before beginning the next phase, wherein she wiggled the needle around for a while to dislodge some marrow so she could extract it. "'Unusual,'" I said. "Good word. I must admit that is an 'unusual' feeling for me." Maria, a rather tall woman, was standing on a stool next to the table and leaning over me for added leverage, literally reaming me a new hole. I could feel the pressure all the way through to the front.
Just as Maria was finishing up that part and the procedure as a whole, I started to get dizzy and told her so. She leaned over to look at my face and saw that I was turning bright red. She told someone to go get a cold, wet towel and put it on my neck while Maria pulled out the needle and applied a bandage to the wound.
The towel didn't help. I felt close to passing out, so they rolled me over and put another towel over my whole head. My blood pressure clocked in at 148 over 110, which is sky-high for Mr. Mellow with the 90 over 64 baseline. They gave me a sip of apple juice, which I choked on.
Then it got really interesting when my abdominal and throat muscles started convulsing. A nurse named Connie tried to call my lovely wife (MLW) but had trouble figuring out how to use the speed-dial function on my cell, and I couldn't help much because my vocal cords were seizing. When she did figure it out, she couldn't get an answer because it was the one day MLW chose to sleep in.
Maria had the nurses give me IV fluids and left me alone in the room as the convulsions continued. I was pretty scared at this point and was praying, "O God, I don't want to die the way my father did.
"I don't mind coming home to you, but please, Lord, not like this."Then I just started thanking him over and over again and telling him how much I love him. A peace came over me and the convulsions eased, thanks to the Holy Spirit and saline solution.
My phone rang on the stand next to my table, and I answered it. It was MLW. She thought I had been calling earlier just to say I was done, but realized from my strained voice that something was wrong. I told her I needed her to find a way to get to the hospital and drive me home. She caught our next-door neighbor Marg just as she was leaving for work. By the time MLW got to the hospital, I had been moved to the chemo room and was pretty much back to normal. (Insert wisecrack here.)
We ran into Pamela, the blood-drawing nurse, on the way out. "By the way," I told her, "the next time you have a patient come in for a bone marrow, give the sedative, and make sure they have a ride home. It hurts -- a lot -- and bad things happen."
Sunday, February 3, 2008
Blood simple
During 2007 my white blood-cell count kept falling inexplicably. I was sent to a highly regarded hematologist, who didn't want to jump to any conclusions but cautiously told me there was a possibility of some pretty serious conditions, including lymphoma.
Dr. Jaye (that's her first initial; her last name is Srinivashia, but she's universally known as Dr. Jaye and is even paged that way at the hospital) chose a wait-and-see approach. She suggested adding a vitamin B-6 supplement to my diet because it plays a role in bone marrow development. She also suggested an iron supplement to boost my production of platelets, which were also marginally low.
My lovely and I had already changed our diet to eliminate almost all processed foods and junk food, as well as red meat. Dr. Jaye recommended eating red meat once a week or so, to get vitamin B-1, whcih simply isn't available from any other source. So we relented on the red meat but have stuck pretty well to the rest of the diet.
After my October visit, Dr. Jaye told me to come back in three months. That would give the diet and lifestyle changes time to have an effect on the bone marrow and blood counts. It would also allow her to observe any changes in the two spots on my liver that appeared on a CT scan.
They send in the warm-up act first, a very nice Nigerian PA (physician's assistant) who shows me the report on my most recent CT: The liver spots have become almost invisible and are harmless -- probably cysts.
(The report notes that "the stomach is completely empty," which isn't surprising since I was in the midst of a four-day total fast for spiritual purposes. Our church, Free Chapel, engages in a 21-day fast every January; it starts with a three-day total fast, then becomes a Daniel fast consisting of fruits and vegetables only. Our pastor, Jentezen Franklin, has just released a new book on the spiritual discipline of fasting.)
The PA also notes that my platelet count has gone from 108 in October to 109 now. That's a bit below normal range (140-440), but it's stable and therefore nothing to get worked up about, she says.
So now I'm feeling really confident that all this nonsense is about over with.
During my very first visit with Dr. Jaye, she mentioned doing a bone-marrow biopsy, but didn't want to do it because it's invasive and painful. However, now she was stumped and out of options, so she said the biopsy was needed to find an answer.
The specific condition she's looking to identify or rule out is myelodysplasia, which she described as underdeveloped bone marrow. Untreated, it eventually can lead to leukemia, lymphoma or multiple myeloma, all of which are forms of cancer.
Research I later did on the Internet indicated myelodysplasia can be treated with medication, and if that doesn't work, a bone-marrow transplant is a treatment option. The preferred donor pool for transplants is siblings, since they are the only candidates with whom the patient shares both parents, which increases the odds of a tissue match. Should it come to that (and let's pray it doesn't), I am blessed with an unusually large pool of potential donors -- six sisters and four brothers, several of whom have already expressed their willingness to become donors. Thanks, you guys.
Dr. Jaye (that's her first initial; her last name is Srinivashia, but she's universally known as Dr. Jaye and is even paged that way at the hospital) chose a wait-and-see approach. She suggested adding a vitamin B-6 supplement to my diet because it plays a role in bone marrow development. She also suggested an iron supplement to boost my production of platelets, which were also marginally low.
My lovely and I had already changed our diet to eliminate almost all processed foods and junk food, as well as red meat. Dr. Jaye recommended eating red meat once a week or so, to get vitamin B-1, whcih simply isn't available from any other source. So we relented on the red meat but have stuck pretty well to the rest of the diet.
After my October visit, Dr. Jaye told me to come back in three months. That would give the diet and lifestyle changes time to have an effect on the bone marrow and blood counts. It would also allow her to observe any changes in the two spots on my liver that appeared on a CT scan.
Fast-forward three months to January 28, 2008.(You can read my last previous post if it helps fill the gap.) I'm feeling physically well and emotionally confident.
They send in the warm-up act first, a very nice Nigerian PA (physician's assistant) who shows me the report on my most recent CT: The liver spots have become almost invisible and are harmless -- probably cysts.
(The report notes that "the stomach is completely empty," which isn't surprising since I was in the midst of a four-day total fast for spiritual purposes. Our church, Free Chapel, engages in a 21-day fast every January; it starts with a three-day total fast, then becomes a Daniel fast consisting of fruits and vegetables only. Our pastor, Jentezen Franklin, has just released a new book on the spiritual discipline of fasting.)
The PA also notes that my platelet count has gone from 108 in October to 109 now. That's a bit below normal range (140-440), but it's stable and therefore nothing to get worked up about, she says.
So now I'm feeling really confident that all this nonsense is about over with.
Then Dr. Jaye comes in.My overall white-cell count came in at a low, low 2.9 per deciliter; the normal range is 4.8 to 10.8. That's not good.
During my very first visit with Dr. Jaye, she mentioned doing a bone-marrow biopsy, but didn't want to do it because it's invasive and painful. However, now she was stumped and out of options, so she said the biopsy was needed to find an answer.
The specific condition she's looking to identify or rule out is myelodysplasia, which she described as underdeveloped bone marrow. Untreated, it eventually can lead to leukemia, lymphoma or multiple myeloma, all of which are forms of cancer.
Research I later did on the Internet indicated myelodysplasia can be treated with medication, and if that doesn't work, a bone-marrow transplant is a treatment option. The preferred donor pool for transplants is siblings, since they are the only candidates with whom the patient shares both parents, which increases the odds of a tissue match. Should it come to that (and let's pray it doesn't), I am blessed with an unusually large pool of potential donors -- six sisters and four brothers, several of whom have already expressed their willingness to become donors. Thanks, you guys.
Saturday, February 2, 2008
The adventure that was 2007
The year 2007 started with a bang. That was the sound of my abdominal wall bursting open with a hernia the size of my hand. I had just had one repaired on my left side in August of 2006, but this time I opted for the larger, roomier model on the right side. Never settle.
Meanwhile, I was struggling a bit in the new job under the thumb of a certain supervisor. His constant badgering and efforts at public humiliation inspired nervousness in me that led to even more mistakes, and I actually had a panic attack at work one January night in anticipation of screwing up an important task. I truly feared I wasn't going to make it in this job, but a couple of key friends back home were praying for me and helped me get through. They convinced me that the Lord didn't bring me this far to drop me now.
Anyway, the body shop patched me up in mid-February, but
I soon noticed that I was rapidly losing weight -- 14 pounds in six weeks.The surgeon said people don't typically lose weight with hernia surgery, so I should see my primary care physician. So I had a complete physical and blood work, which indicated my white-cell count was a little low. The doc had it redone to make sure it wasn't a glitch, and it came out even lower, so she sent me to a gastroenterologist, Dr. Harris (I had also complained of getting full after a couple of bites), and a hematologist, Dr. Jaye.
Over the next few months I had an abdominal CT scan, a colonoscopy, an esophagogastroduodenoscopy (aka upper endoscopy or EGD), a pelvic X-ray, a capsule endoscopy (for which I swallowed a tiny camera and walked around all day with electronic equipment harnessed to my torso) and a gastric emptying study (for which I ate radioactive oatmeal and lay on a table while a sensor determined how quickly it moved through my system).
All of which led to exactly nothing in the way of diagnosis. Granted, I did learn that all those systems are in fine working order. But the question of my low white-cell count remained unanswered.
My first meeting with Dr. Jaye went well until she used the word "lymphoma." That got my attention, let me tell you.
After a difficult and disappointing search, we found and joined an excellent church with a terrific preacher. Free Chapel, led by the Rev. Jentezen ("Jensen") Franklin, is 45 miles away in Gainesville, Georgia, but it makes for a nice Sunday morning drive. The Spirit is present there and the teaching is Rock-solid. The music rocks, too.
During the summer, I read the book "What Would Jesus Eat" by Don Colbert. As a result, my lovely wife and I practically eliminated processed food from our diet, started living on whole grains and fresh fruits and vegetables and cut way back on the alcohol. We have stuck with that regimen, and guess what? Food tastes better and we feel better.
However, she has not lost much weight and I have not gained back much, and my white-cell count continues to drop and puzzle everyone. More on that in another post.
Just after my return to work in March after my surgery, God gave me the best birthday present ever: I learned that the evil boss, who is from another country known for bad teeth, was effectively being fired as the company had declined to renew his work visa. He would have to leave the country in late fall. Hallelujah! Thank you, Jesus!
Thou, O Lord, art a shield for me; my Glory, you lift my head!In August I got away from him even sooner than expected when I grabbed an opportunity to move to the morning shift after 16 years of working nights. He managed to avoid deportation and got his work visa renewed after all, but he's been removed from his supervisory position and our paths almost never cross anymore.
The year ended well as my lovely and I took 10 days around Thanksgiving to visit friends and family in Ohio, Illinois and Michigan. Then my 6-year-old goddaughter and her family moved in December from Florida to Marietta, Georgia, a scant 25 miles from our home. They went to church with us on the Sunday before Christmas and then came to our house, where we baked a birthday cake for Jesus.
All in all, I can't believe how blessed I am. Thank you, Lord.
Wednesday, January 30, 2008
My miraculous move
I figured I was going to live out the rest of my natural life in Ohio. After growing up in Michigan and then living in Indiana for five years, my lovely wife and I moved to Northeast Ohio for a new job. That was where Jesus kicked down the door to my heart and rescued me from depression, suicide and meaninglessness.
We loved our neighborhood, the park system, and the church that adopted us as two of its own. I moved up in responsibility at my employer and was good at what I did. Sometime around 2000, burnout began to set in and I felt a need to redeem the time by doing something significant with my life. I read a lot of books and prayed through a lot of nights.
That summer my company hit hard times, was sold twice and started laying people off and offering buyouts to more experienced employees. I called my acquaintance in Georgia to see if he knew of any openings anywhere, and he ended up hiring me. So in November 2006 I pocketed the buyout money and we headed to Georgia, within shouting distance of the Carter Center.
God had brought me to the doorstep of my goal, and made someone else pay my way. He's clever that way.
We loved our neighborhood, the park system, and the church that adopted us as two of its own. I moved up in responsibility at my employer and was good at what I did. Sometime around 2000, burnout began to set in and I felt a need to redeem the time by doing something significant with my life. I read a lot of books and prayed through a lot of nights.
God responded and gave me a destination and a deadline: The Carter Center in Atlanta and May 2005.I resigned from my supervisory position in May 2005 and took a lower role. This allowed me time to teach a class at a local college. In April 2006 I offered my students extra credit for attending a national conference that was occurring nearby, and attended myself just to verify their attendance. There I met a guy who works at a large company in my field in Georgia, and we hit it off.
That summer my company hit hard times, was sold twice and started laying people off and offering buyouts to more experienced employees. I called my acquaintance in Georgia to see if he knew of any openings anywhere, and he ended up hiring me. So in November 2006 I pocketed the buyout money and we headed to Georgia, within shouting distance of the Carter Center.
God had brought me to the doorstep of my goal, and made someone else pay my way. He's clever that way.
Allow me to introduce myself
Hello and welcome. I've been meaning to start a blog for more than a year now, ever since I moved to Georgia, and now I've finally hauled off and done it.
I'm not using my real name for now because I'm not sure what I might say about certain things and people. I work for a high-profile company that might look askance at certain things, so I'm erring on the side of caution. If you're looking for a certain person's blog and are not sure you've found it, check my profile; anyone who knows me well will recognize me in the details.
My plans for the blog are to tell about my adventure in pulling up stakes and moving to the South from Ohio; to document a health challenge I'm going through right now; and to share my thoughts about faith and other subjects.
I hope you enjoy it.
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