A Fulfilling Living

     An amazing day.  An amazing week.
     January's ice box has moved into St. Paul today.  Yet, the sun shines.  Nary a cloud in the sky.  Cold hard facts.  I am warming to perfection.
     Monday's moments?
     Personal training.  New swimming equipment identified.  Noodles.  Paddles.  New exercises.  A stronger right hand perhaps?  Volunteering.  Research.  Pay dirt.  Struck gold.  Hit the jackpot.
     Tuesday's treasures?
     Catholic Church reform.  A new council.  The first of its kind.  Supporting researcher.  A witness to history that has yet to be made.  An invitation--a special invitation.  Do you want to share your story as part of a retreat on transition?  Amazing.
     Wednesday's wonders?
     Twenty-one Council members.  Twenty-one life stories.  Twenty-one crafters of a more democratic Catholic Church.  Wonder-filled.  Awe-inspiring.
     Thursday's triumph?  The noodle--the white noodle.  A hand clenched for a lifetime.  Through no fault of her own, my hand clenched tightly nonetheless.  Past efforts to open my clenched hand met with unwilling resistance from a stubborn soul.  There was just no possibility of an Open Hand--Outstretched Fingers, a Strong Wrist with a Firm Grip.
    An Open Hand.  Outstretching Fingers.  A Strengthening Wrist.  A Firming Grip.
    Amazing.  Wonder-filled.  Awe-inspiring.  Simple to some.  Amazing to me.

A Changing of the Guard

     This week, a pronounced changing of the guard came clearly into view.  Two lives--two people--who have given me immeasurable strength were changed.  One by illness.  The other by death.
     Sunday.  Imminence.  Foreboding.
     How is it possible to owe more to someone than your life?  I don't know how.  Yet, I do.
     Sunday morning.  A voicemail system flashes the unnerving red signaling a call missed.
     A quart of blood lost.  Unknown cause.
     Wednesday.  Tests done.  A relatively clean bill of health.  With equal parts exhaustion, and relief, she returned home.  Yet, a huge toll has been taken on her.  Physically.  Emotionally.  Psychologically.
     Wednesday.  A gentle soul died.  Not before living very fully for many years.  Not before giving me, and many others, strength from his weakness.  Not before teaching me, and others, how to live quiet dignity.
     Thursday morning.  A never-before heard call.  A call to offer my hour's swim in thanksgiving to him--for him.  Unfamiliar though the call was, the message was clear.
     Friday.  The quart of blood lost to the woman to whom I owe my life, and so much more, is being restored more slowly than it was lost.
     My sense of imminence--forboding--has been calmed.  Yet, the strength has passed to me to offer.  The time for me to offer something back for all of the strength she has offered to me for more than a lifetime is now.    
     What will my offering be?

A Mermaid's Tone

     Muscle tone.  Not of a body builder.  Muscle tone.  A Mermaid's Tone.
     I hope for it.  I will it to be.  I pray with fervor that it be--all mine.  Yet, hope, will, and prayer are not God's promise to me.  Yet, I must hope.  I must will it.  I must pray.
     Arms arise skyward.  Into the pool's water they plunge.  Alternating.  One, then the other, as oars in a river's current.  From my shoulders, this mermaid's oars are anchored.
     Arms outstretched.  Wrists pulled together.  With the force of a magnet, their cymbals clash.  With a strong will, her wrists resist the temptation of a lifelong embrace.  The force of her forearms cry out.
     "Strengthen me.  Use me.  Believe in me.  Do not waste my muscles.  Use me.  Do not will my muscles to be withering, dying willows.  Use me.  Teach me to reach outward--to branch out-- to blossom  in full glory."  
     The Mermaid's biceps believe.  Though not her eyes, the Mermaid's biceps believe in the vision--A Muscle's Tone.  With their tissues, the biceps connect the oars to the force of the forearms.
     The Mermaid's calves circle on the water's unicycle.  On her back, she floats.  The Mermaid's ankles pedal.  Her feet flutter.  The Mermaid's thighs push toward a toned spirit.  Not atrophy.  The Mermaid paddles toward a Muscle's Tone.
     I seek not the strength of the Bodybuilder.  I am the Mermaid.  I seek the strength of a Muscle's Tone.  No boorish bravado do I seek.  I seek a softer strength.  Not submissive.  Not boastful.
     I am a Mermaid.  I seek a Mermaid's Tone.

Epilepsy Chronicles: The Other Side

      I turned the corner.  Sixth and Cedar Streets.  The 14B bus stop.  I have arrived.  1:30 P.M.   I am ready.  A 2 P.M. appointment with my college adviser.  My purpose?  To enroll in a pastoral ministry program.  I am prepared.
     As I round the corner, a man in his mid-60s is struggling to stand up an unresponsive woman from the ground.
     "Is she having a seizure?" I ask.  I know the answer.  I need my question's time to marshal strength.
     Is she having a seizure?  I think she is having a seizure.  This is strange.  Not unfamiliar, but strange nonetheless.  Never have I been on this side of a seizure.
     I grabbed the older man's arm firmly.
     "She seems so helpless.  Are they ever going to get here?" the man cried plaintively.
     "Let the woman sit here on the bench.  The police are on their way.  I know it seems like a long time...
      You have no idea how much I understand...the time warp...I understand...seconds seem like minutes...minutes seem like hours...I understand...believe me, I understand.
     Several minutes later, help arrived.  Finally, help has arrived.  She will be safe now.  The paramedics arrived.  She will get medication in her bloodstream immediately--anticonvulsants.  They will minimize recurrence of such seizures.
...
     Moments later, the 14B bus arrived.  I was off to meet my college adviser.  I was off to explore enrolling in a pastoral ministry program.
     I boarded the bus.  I sat down.  Suddenly, tears came streaming down my face.  I lost my composure completely.
     My witness at the bus stop was no accident.

The Mermaid Chronicles: The Right Way

Upward this mermaid's arm rises,
Right wrist bent, fingers tight-fisted.
In the pool, this mermaid moves.
With bent right wrist, her left-bent elbow lowers,
They break the water's calm.
Through the waterway,
Her forearm rows forward.
Upward her right arm ascends airborne.
Rightly, she aims upward.
Straight to the sky she stretches.
Seeking no splashing,
She strives a straight, uplifted stroke.
Yet, with right wrist bent, and elbow left bent,
All she may do is sway.
Downward her left leaning elbow lowers,
Below the water's top, she skims.
She stirs, and showers surrounding swimmers.
Yet, no mind the gulped water--the blinding showers.
Her firming forearms, beefing biceps, and circling shoulders,
Will triumph.

The Glass Doll

As the reed of the oboe cries out with music,

My heart yearns

To break the glass doll

Others have chosen to encase me in.

I am a strong being.

My strength is welled up deep within my soul.

I do not trumpet my strength

For the ears of others to hear me.

Such brassy notes are wasted,

When life demands of me an attentive ear.

My attention is focused on this day,

On the task before me at this moment.

My memory

Fortifies my resolve

To ensure my reputation

As a glass doll

Is shattered,

Now and forever.
                           Patty Thorsen, July 1993
                           First piece written reflecting on my disabilities

Epilepsy Chronicles: In the Throes...

     I fear the worst.  My body is out of control.
     Relieve me of my consciousness.  At this moment, relieve me of my consciousness.  Help me.  God, help me. Help me to hang on.
     My right arm and leg are falling off my body.
     God, help me. ... Mom, help me.  I need you.  Mom, help me.
     Home alone, I cry as though Mom can hear me from the next room.
     Mom, help me.  I need you.
     "You will learn to live independently," she said.  "You will learn to live independently."
      My roommate is gone.  I need you.  How dare you leave me in my time of need!  How dare you leave me in my time of need.
     I am alone.  Someone has been here, always someone has been here--within earshot of my cries.  However embarrassed, or shame filled I have been that I have not taken my medicatiion, someone has been within earshot. 
     I am alone.
     Maybe if I turn on my right side, my arm and leg will stop shaking.  Maybe, they won't fall off my body.  What else can I do?
     Relieve me of my consciousness.  Let me sleep.  My head is throbbing.  Let me sleep off my throbbing headache.  My head is throbbing.   
     Finally, without my knowing, sleep is given to me.  My consciousness relieved.

Betty Ford

     Oh, gosh.  Betty Ford died today.
     My heart skipped a beat--sank--upon reading that former First Lady Betty Ford died today at the age of 93.  She served in office--as the First Lady--when I was a teenager.  Several years after my grandmother died of breast cancer--at a time when breast cancer ravaged the spirits of women, whose tissues it invaded--Betty Ford gave voice to the disease.
     Betty Ford was not an abrasive woman.  She abided by the expectations of her generation. She lived the realities of a demanding political life--the wife of a long-time U.S. Representative.  She raised four children.  She did not do so begrudgingly.  She was not seeking a career beyond her young family.  Her public career--her sphere of influence--would be broadened beyond what could have been imagined by anyone, thanks to the Ford family entry into the nation's history.
     Yet, at the same time, Betty Ford was hardly a spineless wallflower.  In the best sense of the word, Betty Ford was an opportunist--a graceful opportunist.  She took her life experiences--her personal challenges--and transformed them into sources of help from which others so challenged could find practical help, and personal strength.  Just as Betty Ford was the face of a country learning how to articulate what Gloria Steinem, and others advocated--women's rights.  Betty Ford was comfortable giving voice to uncomfortable social realities of our time together--marijuana, addiction, premarital sex, and abortion, among others.  Betty Ford gave a face--literally--to putt
     Obituaries, and memorials offered for individuals, who have died recently--Betty Ford, can seem maudlin.  Yet, maudlinness survives only when we fail to ignite in our spirits the essence of Betty Ford in our own lives.  How did we know her? When did we meet her?  Did Betty Ford give voice to values--issues--of import to us?  Did Betty Ford teach us anything about ourselves--about our world?

Getting It Right

     For a lifetime, balance has been an issue for me.  I am not so different from everyone else.  Each of us struggles with finding balance.  Be it work, money, chemicals, emotions--whatever it may be, each of us has struggles with balance.  For me, physical imbalance is my struggle--what I strive to surmount.
    I am drawn to the picture of me in 1966 dressed as a ballerina.  The little girl dressed in a pink tutu and tights, and carrying a pink, purple, and fuschia parasol is concentrating to keep her balance.  Although the beam is unusually wide, she is maintaining her balance.  A proud grandmother looking on probably didn't hurt.  That little girl wanted to be--believed that she could be--a ballerina.
     At some point in the last ten years, I had to have her in front of me at work each day to remind me that balance was possible.  Work seemed hopelessly out of balance with no hope of reconciling the imbalance.  The ballerina tiptoed past my forlorn eyes to remind me that if I concentrated, and stayed on course, I would find my way to balance.
    Much has changed since 1966.  Much has changed since she sat on my desk as a sign of hope.  Not that her meaning to me has changed.  It has grown.  She twirls in front of my imagination, to remind me how far I have come.
    Today, my struggles regarding balance are quite different.  More basic than in much of my adult life.  Physical balance.  Two years ago, chemical imbalances co-opted with emotional balances to leave me physically unbalanced.  I doubted whether I would regain any of the strength, and balance I had had previously.
     Fast forward two years.  I knew what needed to be done to work back to physical balance, if it was meant for me to have in my life.  Four mornings a week, I return to an activity I did once a week, as a child.  As many went to church on Sunday morning, I went swimming.
    This morning, something very special happened.  To the casual observer, the woman with short, brown hair, who was wearing the blue striped swimsuit, turned to her right side from her left side while doing the side stroke.  BUT....far more happened in that moment.  For the first time in her life, the woman had the strength in her right arm and leg to propel her forward.  Never before had she been able to turn to her right side.  There was not enough physical strength present--not enough confidence in any physical strength present in her right arm and leg to try to turn to her right side.
     My turn to the right side was not turned on as a light switch.  Weeks of concentration....focusing on the strengthening my right arm, and leg.....These preceded this morning's special moment.  Yet, as faith-filled, and hope-filled as I am, I did not know whether I would be able to strengthen my arm and leg by sheer exercise, and persistence.
     I do not know what is next.  Only my body...and my hairdresser....know for sure.
     I do know that this morning, I was getting it right.

Belittlement. Respect for Life.

     Once again, this afternoon, belittlement reared its ugly head, or so it felt.  I try to live with respect for different religious perspectives than my own--there is good to be found in all world religions.  I try to resist temptation--the temptation to be defensive--to say, "don't you know me well enough to know the serious reflection I bring to living a life of faith?"
     Ironically, a discussion of "respect for life,"--mutual sadness that the breadth of the term does not seem to be a part of its use--led to the derivation of the story of Maundy Thursday, and the actual events of the story.
Our agreement regarding the narrow use of "respect for life" in some discussions was missed.  A precious opportunity was missed.
    Taking biblical stories literally, or symbolically became a "gotcha" moment.  My antenna went up.  "Quick, an attempt of entrapment is forthcoming."
    I succumb to defensiveness.  "Many Catholics take a broader view.  Not every Catholic view 'respect for life' narrowly."  A defensive volley was lobbed back at me--reference to those who do have "a simple faith--a simplistic Catholic view."
    I grieve.  I mourn.  Three people of integrity.  Trapped in different ages of the same Church.  Pushed away...Drawn into...a Universal Church.  Different faces.  The same heart.
    There is good to be found in all faith traditions.  "Affirm, defend and promote the supreme worth and dignity of every human [being].  I mourn.  All three are members of the Universal church.
     "Support the free and disciplined search for truth..."  Though packaged differently, at the core, Universalist, and Catholic search for truth with the same depth of commitment.
     There are differences--important differences.  I mourn.  Yet, in my mourning, I question--do important differences preclude unity?  Do important differences preclude a unified pursuit for truth made the stronger by the diverse perspectives of the same truth?  Do the important differences preclude embracing the truth in Paul's words to the Corinthians?
    "So faith, hope, love remain, these three; but the greatest of these is love."

Life Changes...A Changing Life...

     On April 26, 2011, I will turn 51.  Had you told me two years ago that I would be living as I am now, I would have laughed at you.  Yet, in 2011, here I am.  This is the life I am called to live.
     When I left the paid work world, I was not at all sure what my life was supposed to be, much less than what I wanted it to be.  I was not retiring, yet, I did not know what to call my new life stage.  Retired, as I had witnessed it in my life, did not describe what I was entering.  In closest terms for me to describe, I was on disability.  But, what did that mean?
     My transition from full-time employment to on disability was abrupt.  Most people left their place of employment on a long-anticipated, established date.  Coworkers, and supervisors knew the date, and there was time to say thank you, to reconcile any short-term or long-term differences.  There were no conversations regarding, "What are you going to do, once you do not have to go to work each day," and "If I were leaving work, I would...."  There was no time to prepare for such a drastic change in living.  Retirees returned to work, and said, "I don't miss the work, I miss the people."  That was inconceivable to me.  How could 24 years of my life be erased from my memory?  Yet, that is what I would say now.  I do not miss all of the people I worked with for more than 24 years.  I do miss some of those people.  I am in touch with some people.  I do not miss the pressures of work.  I do miss the treasure hunt for information that I traveled with those who had questions, and needed answers.  That treasure hunt was not a daily journey, yet, when I loved that journey, and I am guilty of infecting many.
     When I tried to conceive what my life on long-term disability would be, I had no model to consult.  I felt guilty.  My conception of long-term disability was someone who was completely unable to leave their home.  Perhaps, the person's life circumstances were more drastic than that.  I had no idea.  As much as I told former colleagues that I would be "The next chapter will be to strengthen myself physically as much as is possible....I must discover opportunities that call upon my mind, rather than tax my physical abilities."  I had no idea what the words I had been given to express meant.  I had no idea.
    The physical weakening that led to my exit from the work world defined my life for the next year and a half.  I needed to embrace the Serenity Prayer.
    God grant me the serenity to accept the things I cannot change.
    I sought the courage to identify what I could not change about my new old self.  I needed to learn how to accommodate to my weakening body--my right ankle--and my capacity to stand up from the ground.  For a lifetime, I had resisted fiercely anyone who dared to say that I could not do a task that I was undertaking.  After all, I had never lived with the capacity to use both hands.  From birth, my right leg had been shorter than my life.  I did not undertake tasks that required a perfect balance.  OK, I dressed up as a little ballerina.  But, the balance beam was not narrow, by any stretch of the imagination.  I never was a gambler in any casinos.  The only challenge I undertook was that of a response to, "Do you think you can do that?" As much as I resented the comment--the lack of faith in me, all I could say was, "Do you want to make a bet?"
    Oddly, the suggestion that I consider going on long-term disability was made in Las Vegas.  In my mind, it was a long shot--the biggest gamble I had ever made.  The stakes were high--my future.  What was I getting myself into?  This gamble flew in the face of all that I had been taught.  "You will learn to live independently."
     Courage to change the things I can.
This entailed identifying what, how much, and how I could restore my compromised right ankle, my weakening left hand--I could not lose her strength, I just couldn't--and my capacity to stand up from the ground.  Accepting the things I could not change was more elusive for me to identify.  Yet, the things of courage were more concrete to identify.  Though identified more concretely, the things of courage were much more difficult to change.  Bending from my knees to the ground were not a part of my things of courage.  I knew better than to squander any courage I might be given on a youth's capacity that I had relinquished to an accommodating life.  My things of courage calling for attention were my right ankle--she was on her last leg--and my left hand--she was my sole source by which I could squeeze everything out of my life.
    How much?
    To what degree could I hope to be restored?  Before I could accept my compromised health, I needed to identify what my restored self would look like life--what would she feel like.  What was I praying to be restored was essential.  What was I not praying to be restored in my body?
    What did a resurrected body look like to me?  Others' conceptions--even those closest to me mattered little, if I did not have a strong sense of it in my own life.  I am not saying that my vision would be perfect, or what a resurrected body would look like--would be in my life.  But, if I was to have any hope than I better change resurrected body from a it--a thing--to an intimate in my life.
    I could not jump to the step of addressing the how before I understood the how much.  Though not fully understood by some who loved, and love me, by the grace of God, I knew that the answer to how could change on the basis of how much, my right ankle could be restored to her younger self.  My right ankle, my left hand, my left hip, each and every body part of my body is not an it.  They are my intimates.  They are she, they are her.  Only when I call them by their given names am I worthy to make decisions in their best interests--decisions in our best interests for a full life together.
    My vehicle to understanding how much was ankle surgery.  That action would reveal to me an answer to how much.
    How?
   This question frightened me.  To some, the concrete form of how--a scooter, or a wheelchair--seemed clear. Yet, I had not arrived at the concrete foundation I needed in order to wheel forward.  Others' attitudes, physical boundaries--navigating those physical boundaries--and my perceptions of individuals I had seen in my life were my biggest obstacles.
   Wisdom to know the difference.
   Before I could find solace, and embrace any wisdom, I needed to return to the matter of courage.  What of courage was I not addressing?  Now that I knew answers to today's things of courage was I not acting upon?  Only after I answered and acted upon those questions could I hope to be granted any wisdom.
    The Serenity Prayer is not a prayer to be navigated, and lived once and for all.  That might be nice, but, life doesn't work that way.
    On April 14, 2011, I was given a gift that I would never have imagined to be a gift--a wheelchair.  With the accommodations of recent years, I need to discover where I want to go outside of my home that I put out of my mind as unrealistic destinations.  With compromised stamina now restored, I may look at the outside world again, and try to get back into circulation once again.
     Had you told me two years ago that I would be living the life I am, I would have laughed at you.  Yet, this is the life I am called to live.  Yikes!
     What did a resurrected body look like to me?  Others' conceptions--even those closest to me mattered little, if I did not have a strong sense of it in my own life.  I am not saying that my vision would be perfect, or what a resurrected body would look like--would be in my life.  But, if I was to have any hope than I better change resurrected body from an it--a thing--to an intimate in my life.
     My vision is far from perfect.  Intimate though my resurrected body may be, if there is any hope of my intimate being perfected--fulfilled--such intimacy must be shared--respected, and embraced.
     Yikes!

Left With Fear

     I fear little.  Not because I am brave, or courageous, not be a long shot.  I fear little.
     Fear's expenditure lessens my deposits of strength to take on necessary human challenges.  My moment's challenges?  They are few.  Preserve my mind's vitality.  Nurture my spirit.  Treat my hand gently.  Preserve the gifts she gives me--the strength I have taken for granted--abused--for a lifetime.
     My vehicle's challenge?  There is but one.  Preserve the strength of my left hand.  Right-handed I am not.  Ambidextrous I am not.  My mind--my spirit--are conveyed through the strength of my left hand.  Friends, family, and a spiritual community revitalize my mind and spirit.  With them, my voice sharpens.
     Exercise might strengthen the hands of some.  Yet, my lifelong abuse of my left hand fertilizes this moment's fear.  Osteorthritis attacks with anxious fear.
     Writing is my voice.  I attend to my ankle--I accommodate her anxiety.  Yet, I fear threats to my left hand's grip--the strength she brings to me.  I must give her due gentleness, that she not be lost to me--to my mind, to my spirit.
     Am I alone in such piercing fear?  I don't think so.  Yet, I cannot say what for others is the unrealized piercing fear that awaits an honest revelation--a revelation that would bring a much more authentic life.  I don't know what my left hand's compromise is--or my compromise to my left hand's honor.  If I did know, I would challenge friends, family, and strangers to be open to their body's revelation--an invitation to authenticity.
     To sleep I go.  Healing--rejuvenation--I seek.

Strength...Weakness...A Strong Will

     We must learn to pray out of our weaknesses so that God can become our strength." - Joan Chitister     

     I found this passage tonight.  It was posted in Sojourners' Verse and Voice.  Joan Chitister calls us to do much more than dig ourselves--individually, and collectively--out of a hole--a hole of bravado.  We shudder at--we deny--the very presence of weakness in our lives.

      Weakness.  "Not in my backyard."

      Weakness.  We don't know how to live with it--in our lives, much less in our selves.  

      Strength.  We cannot live without it in our lives--in our world.

      Weakness.  What does it mean?  Strength. What does that mean?

      We are at a defining moment in our lives--in our world.  Why?  What is so special about this moment? Is it just because Joan Chittister's passage was selected by Sojourners today?  I think not. 

     In my personal life, surgery prompted me to confront bodily strength and weakness.  Realizing that now I may walk without pain raises the question, "How long has it been?"  Last spring, perhaps?  If not, when?  I do not know.  I denied my weakness.  

     My surgery was designed to treat my "weak" ankle---my weak foot.  In four to six weeks, I thought should be at full strength. 

     A cure is resignation's salvation--pain's hope.  Yet, a cure is more elusive than salvation's promise to us.  A cure is a dangerous temptation.  His return on investment is shallow, at best.  Pain's hope must be deeper than a cure.  Pain's hope is far from easy.  Yet, openly willed each day, it is far more fulfilling than any cure could ever be.

     May we meet this day with a strong will--

     A conscious choice to embrace what is life-giving.

     May our strong will be a declarative act of living,

     Rather than a defiant part of speech.

I've Got to Hand It to You

    Until relatively recently, I have given my left hand little due attention--little credit--for her service to me.  Some were amazed at what I could do with the use of just my left hand--with little to no help from my right hand.  I felt no amazement--I was born this way--never have I had full use of both hands.  So amazement was not worthy of my energy's expense.  My occupational therapists were frustrated, if not angry.  I kept finding ways to do tasks they conceived to be two-handed tasks without calling on my right hand.
     My views toward my left hand have changed since July, 2009.  No longer working--living on long-term disability--I was called to a different view of my left hand.  She was shaky.  No longer was indomitable strength in hand.  Nor was it at arm's reach.
     My left hand still has some strength.  Yet, she has put me on notice.  She will not stand for any further abuse for my ego's sake.  Boxers may fear a right jab.  I fear my left's fist in my face.
     So, do I duck?  No. What do I do?  Wake up.  Look.  Listen.  Feel.  Accommodate.
     Habits are hard to break.  Yet, too much is at stake not to act.  Now.
     I am not alone.  We do not want to admit it, yet, we are aging.  Each of us is called to different accommodations.
     Outstretched hands.  Figuratively, I pray I have outstretched hands that welcome others into my life.  Yet, literally, I need to give care not to try to stretch my fingers so wide that they are strained by going beyond their natural limits.  I recognize when I try to grab too much weight, and in such a way that I compromise the palm of my hand--where my hand and thumb meet.
     I am further along in recognizing that I need to care for my right ankle.  She needs my loving care, so that she does not give out completely.  The temptation to be angry with her is present.  She has failed me.  Yet, will anger bring her strength back to me?  Will resignation to her disintegration make her strong?
     There must be a middle point between anger, and resignation.  The ballerina tries not to fall off her balance beam.  Am I alone on the beam?  Where are you?

Compassion's Cavern

     I try to comprehend the impact of the quake--of the tsunami in Japan.  What nuclear problems exist?  Never have I experienced an earthquake, much less a tsunami.  Yet, I did know a college classmate, who grew up near the Three Mile Island nuclear power plant in Pennsylvania.  In 1979, following a nuclear incident at Three Mile Island, if memory serves me, my classmate went home.  Details have faded over 30 years time.  Yet, I remember her fear--her apprehension.
     Though personally untouched by such major natural disasters, I am mesmerized by the pictures--the descriptions of the experience.
     How is it possible to comprehend such an enormous force of nature?  As a human being--as a person of conscience--I care to close the gap that hinders my compassion.
     Some say that in order to show a compassionate response to such devastating events, it is necessary to denigrate the scale of our own problems in relation to the dramatic events--the devastating earthquake, the turbulent tsunami.  With all due respect, I beg to differ.  Rather, I offer to you another response.
     When destruction strikes, we are called to live our own lives with increased dedication equivalent to the intensity of the destruction.  We are called to discernment.  Do we have the requisite resources of money, time--commitment of talent, or spirit--to improve the situation in some way?  If not, do we have the requisite strength of spirit to live with greater intensity--with deeper commitment--to the passions of our own lives?  We are called to discernment.
     God help me--God help us--to resist the temptation to compare our lives with the people and situations in need as a means of escaping our responsibilities to help.  We help no one to speak of others as being less fortunate.  Such talk only deepens the cavern that separates us from one another, when we are in most need.

What Will Independence Include?

     What will independence include?
     This has been a lifelong question that I have rushed in to answer before anyone else dared to define it--to deny its possibility.  Age has called me to question my irrefutable, infallible lifetime's answers.  Defiance was my youth's inseparable companion.  Age severed friendship.  The strain was too costly.
     My child took on faith my mother's inheritance to me.  You will live independently.
     Though neither of us knew the details, we accepted on faith that her commandment could be--would be--followed.  Her inheritance to me was that commandment.  Her inheritance to me was defiance--a commitment to defiance.  She defied doctors' doubts of my life's capabilities.  She defied educators' questions of my mentality.  She defied all doubters of my life's potential.  She would hear nothing of doubts, or questions.
    She committed herself beyond defiance.  She committed herself to action.  Unsupported defiance was hollow.  It still is.
    To doctors, she used knowledge of her two older children to call on her advocate's spirit.  She demanded diagnosis, when no need for such diagnosis was recognized.
     To educators, she committed herself to identify needed services. To counselors, she refused doubts.  She committed her time, her energy--her determination--for her commandment's adherence. She committed her strength to fortify her mantras.
     To me, she instilled the mantra. You will go to college.  I responded.  Passion about world events.  Pursuit of an undergraduate degree.  Graduation resulting from my pursuits.  Not a star student by a grade's measure of my mind.  But, graduation nonetheless. An inquisitive mind was nurtured.  In defiance of all expectations--mine included--I pursued graduate-level education.  I was granted graduation as a master.
     Not a boasting.  No.  Defiance.  Faithfulness.
     Mom, I bet you never thought I would take you so seriously.
     Family pride.  Friends' celebration.
     You will learn to live independently.
     I had no idea of its details.  Yet, I adhered.  On faith, I adhered to this commandment.  I adhered to this commandment.  For 24 years, I adhered.
    Then....then....a life's body of work died at the hands of a desperate body--a ravaged body demanding healing.  Mom and I are called to question her commandment--her mantra.  It worked for a lifetime.  Not without its serious imperfections.  But, it worked, nonetheless.
    Now what?
    What will independence include?

Fleeting Gratitude

     This morning I came to church conflicted as to how to express myself.  My sense is that I am not alone.  I felt extremely grateful to everyone for their tremendous support--their prayers--as I find solutions to my physical problems walking.  Expressing gratitude is usually quite natural for me to do.  I hate being needy--at least expressing my needs has been something I hated to do.
   This morning, a reversal of those two inclinations presented itself to me.  I knew that I felt grateful  that I have courses of treatment I can pursue--surgery, and a motor scooter.  Yet, I was not ready to relinquish expressing my needs for support.  I feared that if I expressed too much gratitude that I would lose the right to express my needs for strength and support in the future--or that my gratitude might drown out my appeals for support.                
   I fear I may be experiencing fleeting gratitude.  I wanted what seemed unattainable--a diagnosis for my problems walking.  I could have wanted anything.  The point is, once I got what I wanted--a diagnosis, and a course of treatment--my appreciation for that diagnosis was a distant memory.
   I have three questions.  Do you ever experience fleeting gratitude?  Is fleeting gratitude a side effect of the pace that we live our lives?  Is fleeting gratitude a sign of disproportionate expectations we have for our lives?