Peeling A Mandarin Orange...and Other Impossibilities

I would have preferred an extraordinary heroic story to accompany the cast on my arm.  But in the vast majority of fractures, as in mine, it happened at home on the most ordinary of days. 

I broke my wrist in two places, not through rescuing 93 orphans from a vicious grizzly bear, but eating humble pie. I tripped over my slippers in the early morning darkness.

We do stupid stuff, and there are consequences.  “I didn’t mean to” does not exempt us. Nor blaming someone else. No one plans to have an accident. That's why it's called an accident:  noun:  an unfortunate incident that happens unexpectedly and unintentionally, typically resulting in damage or injury.  

A mishap, misfortune, calamity, problem, tragedy or misadventure. Oops! We may not have paid adequate attention.  Or thought we were invincible -- not going to happen to me.  And stuff happens just because we live in a broken world.  Stuff gets broken.  Including us.  Including our pride.  Lesson one in humility.

Restricted to the use of one hand, albeit my dominant hand, I have discovered the past seven weeks, the simplest activities border on the impossible.  Try opening a zip lock bag with only one hand. Pulling back your hair. Peeling a mandarin orange.  Tying your sneakers.

As one of my practical and philosophical daughters pointed out, “You never realize how much you need something ‘til it’s immobilized in a sling.”

I have deeply appreciated the care and concern of others as they observe my bandaged useless arm.  I am obviously wounded.  But my experience has made me even more sensitive to those who are chronically hurting, even with pain that is not so visible, the deep injuries of the soul.  How can I care for them?  How can I love them through this?

It is not a shame to ask for help.  Nor a sin to accept it.  

Indeed our selfishness and so-called self-sufficiency are what turn away another’s opportunity to love us.  I heard a story on NPR yesterday about a man who also had a broken arm. He was picking up his dry cleaning.  He carried part of it to his car.  A woman he did not know approached him in the parking lot, "Could you use some help?" the woman asked him.  "No, I'm fine," he replied.  While he struggled to put the load in his car, the woman went into the dry cleaners and came out with the rest of his order.  After she placed it in his car, she turned to him and said, "You have been helping people your whole life.  It's your turn to accept it now.  It makes people really happy to help you."

“I don’t want (or need) your help” is not a sign of strength at all.  “I can do it myself without you” is the slam of a door in the face of a relationship. 

A willing heart, which the Bible emphasizes, goes both ways.  Willing to help and willing to accept. 

Let us then with confidence draw near to the throne of grace, that we may receive mercy and find grace to help in time of need.  Hebrews 4.16  When we draw near to Jesus, we do not just find grace to help in time of need. We find the grace to accept it too.   And as a result, we discover the nurturing of a deeper relationship, a stronger realization that we need each other.  And that goes both ways.

Those who offer assistance, encouragement and help are not just being nice. You are not a burden. Nor weak. Let others love you.  Let someone peel your mandarin.

Gonna Be Epic -- Inktober 31 #landmark

It was not what I expected, because frankly, I had no idea what I was getting into.  And that was probably a really good thing.

A few years ago, with just days to spare, my brother-in-law Jon called to offer us two vacant spots on a three-day mountain biking trip to Canyonlands National Park in Utah.  Like next weekend. Were we interested?  

My husband started packing within minutes of the call.  I was invited to come, not as a cyclist -- which I am not-- but to ride shotgun in the support vehicle, run parts of the infamous 100-mile White Rim Trail, and enjoy the camaraderie of wilderness camping and speechless views.  

When I hesitated. my husband encouraged me.  "It's gonna be epic."

Within days, we were on the road, some 1520 miles each way.  We left Friday evening, drove straight through the night and staked our tent in Moab on Saturday night.  

On Monday morning, we convened at the dirt road entrance to the White Rim.  Looking down at the incredibly steep switchbacks of a extremely narrow gravel two-way "road," I realized it was only wide enough for one vehicle.  Yikes.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

A few minutes later, the ten cyclists decided that the group really needed more than one support vehicle.  They handed me the keys to a small 4 wheel drive pick-up.  I've never driven a truck before.  Keep your eyes ahead and don't look down. 

The Bible says to pray without ceasing.  There was no problem with that.  I vacillated between "O LORD, have mercy" and "Thank You, LORD" for getting me through.  I learned that trusting God involves facing sheer fear.

The route could have been adequately named the White Knuckle Trail.  There was rarely an indication of a defined road.  It was more like guess where it goes, avoid the abyss three feet from your wheels, and try not to scrape the side of the vehicle as it ascends the narrow squeak of a rock-hugging cliff.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

"Who led you through the great and terrifying wilderness, with its fiery serpents and scorpions, and thirsty ground, where there was no water...? Deuteronomy 8:15

All ten cyclists, both trucks, and the drivers survived.  And epic was not big enough to describe it.  When we returned home, everyone responded, "You did what?!?"

A landmark is not what we have done or endured, but what this endeavor does to us.  We cannot but be changed by it.

We shall not cease from exploration

And the end of all our exploring

Will be to arrive where we started

And know the place for the first time.

               T. S. Eliot, Four Quartets

Be There In A Minute. I'm Almost Done -- Inktober 30 #violin

 

 

I chuckled at the Inktober prompt for today, because the word violin pretty much invaded my childhood.  

My mom played violin for 80 years as a performer and violin teacher.  She practiced everyday, capturing every pocket of available time, sometimes even late at night in the bathroom, thinking that the vent fan masked the sound (which it didn't).

When mom was in the middle of practicing, she was in a different world.  We would sneak into the living room where she was ferociously working on a piece of music.  She'd look at us, her four children with a blank stare, as if wondering who we were. 

"Supper?" one of us would venture to ask.  I don't think it occurred to her that we would need to eat that day.  "Oh," she would finally reply. "Be there in a minute.  I'm almost done."  And then plunge back into the music, not missing a beat, often the exact measure where she'd left off.

We became really proficient at cooking boxes of macaroni and cheese. And heating up cans of Chef Boy-Ar-Dee ravioli.

She knew a lot of music, but continually practiced not just the notes or the melody, but the really hard parts of a piece over and over, driving the family crazy, until those impossible passages became her favorite parts. 

Practicing is not going though the motions, but a type of intense devotion.  It is an exercise in making us stronger, going deeper, learning something new, working on the unfamiliar, not "getting it right," but knowing it intimately, what is there and what it can do, a kind of falling in love with it, be it music, or another such pursuit, training for a marathon, discovering a cure, or practicing grace in volatile circumstances.  

Mom was a professional violinist.  But her violin had everything to do about ministry, whether as a soloist, orchestra member, playing at nursing homes, gathering together an ensemble for the evening service at church, or practically adopting her high school violin students.  As I witnessed throughout my life, her violin was not just about music. It was not just a carved piece of wood that brought forth beautiful sounds, but how she loved God and loved other people.   Her violin opened doors to building relationships and healing hearts. 

I will sing a new song unto You, O God. Upon a psaltery and an instrument of ten strings will I sing praises unto You.   Psalm 144.9 

She only had four strings, but she definitely made them sing.

When Mom met young people, she would not ask them if they played an instrument, she inquired, "What instrument do you play?'

If she were still here today, she would ask each of us the same.  "What instrument do you play?"  And are you practicing it daily?

Because God has given each of us an instrument of some sort to bring His glory to this world.  We all have ministries to pursue, to practice, and to share with others.   An instrument has nothing to do with having a special talent, but a willing and faithful heart. And working on it.

Practice these things, immerse yourself in them, so that all may see your progress. 1 Timothy 4.15

As St. Francis of Assisi wrote (1181-1226):  "Lord, make me an instrument of your peace...."

What instrument are we playing today in this situation?  It is a gift from God.

Never stop practicing.

One False Move And You Are Lost Forever -- Inktober 29 #navigator

It seemed like a great idea at the time.  A local half-marathon was scheduled for November 3.  That would give me a full eight weeks to train.  As the course meandered through the hills where I often ran daily,  it was no big deal, until it was.

The biggest challenge initially appeared just to figure out the convoluted map for the 13.1 mile poorly-marked route.  Turn right here.  Turn left there.  One false move, and you are lost, seemingly forever.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 In this familiar park, even through the vast number of times I've run it the past ten years, in shade and sun, heat and cold, humidity and more humidity, there were parts where I had never ventured before.  Although I printed out the map, folded it up, and stuffed it in the tiny pocket of my running shorts, I was not sure where I was going.  But every few miles, I found myself on a curve or at an intersection, passing by a field or copse of trees, that I suddenly recognized, Oh, I know where I am now. I just didn't realize how closely related these trails and paths were connected, like so many second cousins.

Over the course of the first weeks of training, and a few, well, wrong turns and detours, the course became engraved in my brain.  I would never have found my way around the loop without this well-worn navigator, carried in my pocket and screen-shot on my phone.  The tattered map did not eliminate the soul-crushing hills, increase my pace, or change the scenery, but I could run it differently because I was guided through it.

And your ears shall hear a word behind you, saying, "This is the way, walk in it," when you turn to the right or when you turn to the left.  Isaiah 30. 21 

At times, I took those words quite literally.  And once at the seven mile mark, I wish I had.  I won't miss that turn again.

But even then, "A truly wise person leaves plenty of room in life for disruptions, allowing things to go awry.  A person of faith knows that it is precisely in the unexpected that good things can emerge.  Great wisdom may be gained through adversities – or at least through surprises," wrote luthier Martin Schleske in his book The Sound of Life's Unspeakable Beauty.

God never intended us to stumble through the maze of this life without Him, but to walk with Him and not miss what is intricately woven into both the familiar and unknown. Where God guides, He provides His strength, footing in the slippery places, a path through an impenetrable forest, where there only seems to be no way.

In scripture, the word guide is both a noun and a verb.  The Hebrew word translates it as "an intimate friend," one with whom we can both walk and trust.  God never meant us to go it alone in this life.  He does not just throw us an impersonal printed map, but guides us personally to the nth degree, far more than we know, because our following Him step by step also impacts everyone around us. 

God dwells with us as an ever-present navigator.  He shows us the way, sometimes through the unexpected, unlikely, and impossible.  And in the process, we come to a deepening trust in Him we have never realized before.  God actually knows what He is doing.  Imagine that.

God's Word, prayer, worship, the community of believers, and the witness of others provide us with the tools to navigate this life.  We should both approach and navigate our circumstances differently because we are believers. Indeed, we can.

 ...that you may tell the next generation that this is God, our God forever and ever.  He will guide us forever.  Psalm 48. 13-14

A Lot Bigger Than We Imagined -- Inktober 28 #jumbo

 

The prompt #jumbo almost stopped me in my tracks as I am finishing up Inktober this year for the first time.  Inktober was, indeed, a much larger endeavor than I expected.  And so to complete this day's assignment, I tried to think of something so huge as to be defined as "jumbo," besides the mama elephant in the 1941 Disney movie and Costco.

Occasionally I come across Nightlytea postings that I never published.  The following is one of those, a reflection originally written in the sixth week of the covid pandemic in 2020.  We had no idea at the time how enormously it would impact us. We kept thinking of when it would be over, what was next, and as a result, we largely missed the present moment. But there are no insignificant days, just jumbo ones in so many dimensions. Even now. Even today, a time to plant, a time to heal, a time to build up, and even always, a time to laugh. (Ecclesiastes 3)

Almost from the very beginnings of the virus, when we were urged to stay home to save lives, when businesses were shut down, schools sent children home, when we woke up with all appointments cancelled, tickets refunded, no place to go, beware not just of strangers but of friends, staying clear of relatives, walking on the other side of the road, holding our breath.  From those very first moments, we jumped from now to the next, before we even realized what now was really going to look like, talking already about what was next, and if things will change, grasping for "the new normal" when we come out of this.

Are we so anxious for next, because we are uncomfortable dwelling in the now?  Is it too big and wobbly?  We want to rush through faster to the end of the ride.  We want to get off at the next possible stop, not even looking out of the windows, never sitting down, waiting for the doors to open.   Not driven by hope but fear.  Get through this darkness, pretend it is not here.  Mommy, make it better.  The fire-breathing dragon is under the bed.  When will the morning come?

Afraid we won't come out in one piece, afraid of this foreign land where people don't hug, smiles are hidden behind masks, and no one lingers anymore.  Hide in your homes.  Lock the doors.  Don't let anybody in.  Just leave the groceries on the doorstep.

Keep your head down, behave, follow the rules, and normal will return.

But God has no intention of back to business as usual.  It is not a question if we will be different. We already are being changed by this.

Life as we knew it is gone, so suddenly happening, not knowing where we were going, not knowing where we are.  But even now, we are more concerned about what is on the other side than getting ready for the other side of this.  It is a thousand piece puzzle with no picture to go by, all the pieces appear the same, all the days one after another.

We will get there.  Hurry, hurry, "we will get through this together!" But what will we have missed on the way, looking impatiently for the passage and missing what is here, right before us, that which will never return in our lifetimes.  What was it like? they will ask someday.  We won't know.  We haven't been looking.  Just getting through.  Keep moving.  Checking off the days.  What will we do tomorrow? What will we do this afternoon?

What is next?  Or what is now?

Life is looking very different.  It is not that God will redeem someday, but God is already redeeming.   Even the broken places.  Even this terribly hard stuff.  Even and always in the suffering, "I am with you.  Do not be afraid."

"It is actually liberating to have your plans shattered," says Andy Crouch, author and partner in Praxis, an incubator for redemptive entrepreneurship. 

"Our identity is not in our plans," he emphasizes. "Success is not just getting through this.  That is not good enough.  That is a huge wasted opportunity.  Faith is what holds grief and hope together.  When you cry out to God, He unlocks creative power, birthed out of pain."

My times are in Your hands ....

            Psalm 31. 15