Little Bits of God

So, having a lot of time to think can either be a good or a bad thing for me.  Last week, it was bad.  I spent most of the week praying for death and feeling deeply isolated, in pain, angry and frustrated about YET ANOTHER setback.  I bemoaned getting delayed in preparation for my walk on the Camino in Spain.  I worried about work projects with looming deadlines. I fretted about backsliding from not being able to exercise.  Just this morning, as I sat in the doctor's office waiting for test results and more antibiotics, my heart was crying about the injustice of it all.

This week, God decided it was time to cut through the fog.

God Moment #1: in discussing the Camino with someone over the weekend, he asked me how I was preparing.  I launched into the whole walking a lot, gathering necessities, etc, and he interrupted me. "This is a spiritual thing for you, right?  How are you preparing spiritually?"

First time in 8 months anyone has asked me that.  My answer was a sheepish, Not Much.

God Moment #2:  I went to confession on Saturday morning and the very odd penance I received was to pray Psalm 8 for a week, and every time it said "man" or "he" to say  "Amy" or "she."

When I consider your heavens, the work of your fingers, the moon and the stars which you have set in place, what is Amy that you are mindful of her, the daughter of man that you care for her?  You have made her a little lower than the heavenly beings, and crowned her with glory and honor.

God moment #3:  this afternoon I was laying in bed after dear Lori left, and thinking, I wonder if I ought to be praying?  I was sad and tired and felt really foggy.  I saw an incoming call (my ringer was off) and I did not recognize the number.  When I answered it was a guy from a Christian radio station I support, calling to thank me for my support, and asking if there was anything I would like them to pray for. I have never in my life gotten a call from anyone like that. (It was Steve Wright from Family Life Radio, if you are curious.)

Okay, God. I hear you.  It took a deep depression, my back going out a few times, a potentially fatal illness and finally an actual phone call, but I hear you now.

This was never about my tasks at work, the physical effort of the Camino, where I live or how much I work out.  This was always about my relationship with Him that I have been sorely neglecting.

I think He missed me, to go to such lengths to get my attention.

So after the nice man prayed with me over the phone, I got out of bed, walked over to my also neglected art supplies and got started.

My easiest way to pray has always been through art.

For three hours, it was me, God, Psalm 8, some colored pencils and a big sheet of paper.

I forgot how much I missed Him, too.  I did not realize how I had allowed the noise of this crazy life to drown out His voice in my heart.  I did not realize that the person I used to turn to in every moment was shoved away and out, leaving me unstable, shaking, falling.  I did not realize that I had walked away from the heart that was always my home.

I never rejected Him.  I simply let other things, good things, take priority.  My time was full.

I do not think for one moment that it is a coincidence that this lightening bolt struck on the feast day of St. Martha.  You may recall that in her determination to do good deeds, she overlooked that she was in the presence of God who was speaking to her sister, and her, if she would stop to listen.

Without being filled and revived by His love, mercy, peace and wise counsel, good deeds will drain you, life will overtake you, and exhaustion will eventually break you.

Well, it did me, anyway.

Sometimes I drift away from the path and drift back.  Sometimes God says, "Enough!" and yanks me back by my ear.

Oh, Lord, our Lord, how majestic is your name through all the earth! 

Heading to Spain?

I have a ticket to fly to Spain and walk the Camino de Santiago in just a few weeks.  I bought the ticket in January and have been thinking about doing it for quite a while before I even bought the ticket.

I do not really know why I chose to do this.  I just know I'm supposed to.

My GOD, this past year has been a challenge.  Okay, two years.  Wellll, closer to three.  Beautiful wonderful things happened.  Some devastating things happened.  I want to be able to pick out a few months where NOTHING dramatic happened, but can't do that.

Between physical issues, health issues, family issues, work issues... this has been a roller coaster.  This last bit with the pain in my jaw being so incapacitating I was plotting my own death, had me just finally say, Really, what I am I thinking??

I do not know the purpose for me walking that pilgrimage.  I do not know why I am drawn to it.

When insecurity takes root and I start to think of all the things that could go horribly awry and that everything is NOT how I want it to be for the starting point (better at Spanish, better at walking long distances, more confident, more...) the ugly thought grows that this was in fact a TERRIBLE flight of fancy and I ought to be sensible, cancel the trip and use the funds for something like retirement.

Yet, there it is.  I am going.

I am going to show up in front of God exactly as I am, however prepared (or not) however messy, however confident, however able, however it is.  God knows EXACTLY what He is getting in this.

God isn't asking me to do this to show how awesome I am at trip planning.  Frankly, I am not sure why He is calling me to do this, but I do hope it will be more clear by the time I return.

So, there I plan to be, my first official step on the Camino somewhere in Sarria, Spain, and walking until it is time to stop.

Here is where the faith, trust and hope stuff comes in.  I just have to show up, in whatever condition my soul and my body and my mind may be in, and as always hand all that over to Him.

He always seems to handle that just fine.

Sick and Single

So, I debated whether or not to publish this one because I do not want anyone to feel sad or hurt, but I think this just needs to be out there.

I have been blessed with some amazing, amazing friends. This past week when I was out of my mind with pain from an infection in my jaw, a dear friend brought me my fav mac n cheese, and some gobble-worthy banana pudding, and another who dropped DVDs off for me to watch and another who brought food by.  I am very very grateful for these kindnesses, without which the week would have been oh so much worse.  The friend who brought me the mac n cheese also took Roxy home with her for a couple days so she could recover from the neglect of a dog mommy who can barely get out of bed to feed her.  My friend who dropped off the DVDs called me on the way to the grocery store to see if I needed anything.  All three of them texted or called to see if I needed anything.

I know how blessed I am. I also know that had two of them not been out of town for the worst part of this trial, it would have hit me a lot differently.

As it was, as I drove myself to the ER at 2am, waited for 2 hours and finally was given a shot of something amazing and given a lot of sympathy from the awesome ER staff for being in so much pain... I realized that suckiest part of being single is when you are sick.  Sick, and alone.

As I curled up on the cot and listened to the person in the next bed swear at the nurses, all I could think was, well if they won't give me just a little extra morphine like they did at the end of The English Patient (I asked, they said no) then at least for a little bit I was not completely alone.  They might be paid to care, but I could tell they really did, especially after they gave me the shot and I fell asleep briefly, and the nurse apologized for waking me up.

Jaw throbbing so bad I wanted to shoot myself to stop the pain while standing in line three times at the pharmacy.  No one to ask to go for me. Thankfully the other shoppers looked away politely when a particularly stabbing pain went right through my head and I started crying right there in front of everyone.

For six days I lived off mac n cheese and pudding cups.  Besides being, like, DELICIOUS, it required no thought from me.  Thinking and excruciating pain are rather incompatible.  No one around to help with the thinking. Did I already take the Percocet? The antibiotic? The other thing I can't pronounce? Fuck, who cares, take another and go back to bed.

Six days I was in isolation except for brief moments of stuff being dropped off or picked up or encountering medical personnel. Oh, and bawling my eyes out on Jayne's desk on Monday. I don't even really remember why I was there anyway.

I am not writing this to guilt any of my friends for not doing "more" or to make anyone feel sorry for me. (As much as I enjoy sympathy...)

What got under my skin were people who said, Why didn't you call me?

Well, you knew I was horribly ill, why didn't you call ME? I was the one that was sick! Or text? Or anything for six days??

Or the people who, when I mentioned it is hard to be single and sick, tried to dismiss my feelings with, "oh, you should have just asked people for help, they would have helped."  I can't argue with that, that is true.  But if you want someone to feel like you actually care, and are not just taking on a charity case, you OFFER.

A couple people basically said, Hey, have faith, pray, work on your relationship with God!  Well, I did have a lot to say to God, all right, in between begging for death.  Thankfully, He is very forgiving.

If someone had offered to just come keep me company for a half hour, I would have cried from bliss. Well, at least partly from bliss.

To have another person simply acknowledge that you exist and might want to have actual human interaction that does not involve a needle or a co-pay can mean everything.

I'm taking the risk of being misunderstood here, and I know it.  The thing is, this is something singles don't talk about much because of the risk of sounding whiny.

We know in the course of daily life, that we are not a top priority for any other human, except maybe our single friends who are in the same boat.  It isn't that we aren't loved, appreciated, happy, grateful, etc. it's that when things go wrong, there is no one else there unless requested.

This isn't because our couple friends don't love us and want to help!  It's just that when we aren't directly responsible for something, we tend to assume it is handled.  People will ask for the help they need, right?

Um. It depends.  One person I asked for help asked if I could have someone else do it.  That will be the last time I ask her for anything, esp not food.

Further, really, when it comes to going to the ER at 2am, unless someone has specifically said, yes, please call me at 2am if you need to go to the ER, most people will just drive themselves.

I am so, so grateful for my friends who helped me out and are so kind to me and so amazing all the time.

But this needed to be said, on behalf of over-30 singles everywhere.

So, I said it.

Little Cabin in the Woods

I really like my little house next to the forest. I rent, and it has been a cozy little place to be in this cozy little town.

Still, I've never given a lot thought into where I live.  I usually pick my cities by the job that sounds the coolest, and my housing there by what is the cheapest.

I really lucked out with this place.  Back when I was looking there wasn't much available for the end of March. My neighbors are reasonably low key and they don't care when I hang out on my back deck chain smoking to fight back against an ugly day, even though the houses are so close together they are probably getting a fair amount second hand.  I, in turn, ignore their parties and various quirks like taking their trash to the curb two or three days early.

I am hoping to make another move in the next few months. This time I am being much more picky about where I move than I have ever been. Being picky means things take more time.

But even as I think about the cities that seem attractive, I start to think about the housing itself. I do not want to buy a house, I am simply not an owner.

I like how quiet a house can be, and the natural space you get between you and other people. But even just renting a house is more work than a woman who travels a lot can really keep up with.

I'd like to be near water, and have some plants.  I'd like to live in an older place, built back when funny little details got some attention -like nickel doorknobs or wainscoting.

I think I want something smaller, too.  I moved from a nice sized house in MN to this smaller one here, and have since taken a lot of stuff to St V de P.  I'm not a stuff person. For my next move, most of this will also go somewhere.

This place has been a lovely cocoon for a period of my life that was meant for healing and re-creation.  Eventually, every caterpillar outgrows its cocoon.

I want my next space to be somewhere to rest and feel comfortable, but only as a launching pad to take flight.

I've done my time as a caterpillar.  I'm ready to try life as a butterfly.

Darn Teeth!!

Darn teeth!  Always needing something -brushing, flossing, dental visits... and now, a redone root canal.

Horrors!

The moment of truth was yesterday.

Now, just so you know, the problem tooth did not actually hurt.  I only knew it was a problem because the dentist showed me x-rays that brandished a nice dark shadow hovering around what used to be the roots.

I showed up to the endodontist armed with my iPod, a lumbar pillow and lots of questions, starting with: "If it storms and the power goes out, do you have a backup generator??" (Yes, was the answer to that one. So, I stayed.)

So, there I was for two-and-a-half hours, laying there helpless, immobile, mouth wide open and it all started with a giant needle pushed into my gums.

Fortunately, I dissociate easily.

The endo was astonished that up to that point I had never felt any pain.  Apparently, the dentist who did the original root canal five years ago had left a bit of the root in.  That ought to have sent the pain meter through the roof right away, much less 5 years later with the tooth practically rotting out.

God is very good to me.  Especially since if He hadn't sent angels to whisper in my ears that I ought to go to the dentist after a 2 year hiatus, this would have gotten much much worse.  It was fixable, thank you, Jesus!

I tried to go straight to the pharmacy to get the painkillers and antibiotics filled right away. The pharmacy was closed for a lunch break (poor pharmacist only gets a half-hour lunch! Criminal!) so I headed home.

I figured I'd be fine with Tylenol and would try again the next day.  It didn't hurt really.

Then the numbing agents wore off.  At 7:30PM, as I was curled in the fetal position and praying for death, I realized I absolutely, positively had to go to the pharmacy before it closed and get the meds.  No choice. Had to.

I shoved shoes on my feet and a jacket over my pajamas (Not a normal look for me, but as a college town, not an unusual sight at all!) Accompanied by Roxy, I drove to Target.

Within 15 minutes of downing the hydrocodone, the pain blissfully eased, and I was able to sleep.  Sweet, sweet, sleep.

At work this morning, I astonished everyone by actually showing up and getting some work done!  The quality may be questionable, given my painless state, but hey, I'm here.  It's not like I have authority to sell the campus or anything.

Guess we will find out on Monday how well THAT went.

Testimony

Faith was rather a private matter in my formative years.  This seems to be the case for most Catholics I've come across.  Our Mass is centered around the Eucharist, and tend to be solemn, unlike most non-Catholic services I have attended.  And I have attended quite few.  Worshipping God is fun (for me, anyway!) and it is fun to see how different people do things.  Sometimes I encounter some really wacky theology, but we are all on the journey.

I used to go to daily Mass on my own as a little kid.  The awesome, awesome priests we had at Holy Cross in South Bend were kind and encouraging to me and let me wander through the church fairly freely.  Even when there wasn't a Mass going on, I'd wander in, 6 or 7 years old, sit in a pew and just bask in the quiet reverence that permeates holy places.

I loved the peace of that place.  I felt safe and calm and in complete wonder of this amazing Jesus, who seemed to want to hang out with me, despite that fact I never actually SAW Him.  Well, that's not entirely true.  I dreamed about Him and would sometimes wake up singing a hymn or chanting "Thank you, thank you!" much to the GREAT annoyance of my little brother, with whom I shared a room.  But I knew, simply KNEW, about the heart of the Savior.

I wonder sometimes where that completely trusting faith went.  Life happens and you begin to understand that the faithful sometimes fail, sometimes God seems remote, and sometimes you don't understand anything at all!  Sometimes you have to walk through the desert, a refugee, an exile, until Jesus whispers your name and in following that quiet call, you find your home.  In His heart, not a geographical location. In His people, as messy as that can be.

Talking about big stuff is very difficult for me. (Talking in general is certainly not -I can make social noise with the best of them!)  Writing has always been easier.  It's a bit of a buffer between my action and the reaction of others.

A failing I can recognize in myself and well as many other Catholics, is that in the desire for Truth and Rightness, we can skewer those whose theology is different than our own, and skewer each other in the quest To Be Right.  This shuts down any conversation and hope for the true intimacy found among the followers of Christ.  So, we simply stop talking about it too much, except with people we have carefully evaluated to be safe.

We are called first to love, then to be courageous and daring and spread the VERY Good News of the love, forgiveness and salvation of God.  Our lives are called to be an example of God's grace.  They shout it when we are loving as Christ loved.

As St. Francis, that most gentle of saints, once said, "Preach the Gospel at all times. If necessary, use words!"

Last night I was in a conversation that was both delightful and sobering.  Being honest and vulnerable often has that effect.

My trainer and I had decided to actually blow off a training session (the first time EVER in the 2-1/2 years we've been training!) and grab a beer. (I found a beer that I like, BTW.  I wish I could remember the name. Started with a "w.")

He said, when I mentioned how I appreciated that he was a safe place to let the ugliness of life show, "It's all because of Jesus. I could not do that on my own. That's not me or who I was."

And I thought about that and how that is likely true.  I won't share his story, because that is his to tell.  But it was brave of him to admit it in words.  His life shouts it.

Because of Jesus.  Given the circumstances of my childhood and how I was living my life when I moved apart from Jesus, if he had not had His hand on my life from the very, very beginning, everything would look much different now, if I was even still alive.

I, too, owe everything good, transformative, beautiful and new in my life to His Grace.  I can say that out loud.  That quiet trust in Him is still there when I shut out the noise of the world, and simply listen.

He still leads me through all the scary places and confusion to His heart and allows me to shine forth from there.

God's Grace and Eating Disorders

"Running in Heels" is a book I THOUGHT would be fairly light chick-lit in good company with the Shopaholic series.

A bit into the book, it dawns on one that the main character is anorexic, and diving headlong into bulimia.  Much of the book deals with how her thinking patterns that resulted in this eating disorder almost destroyed her life and relationships.  The beginning of her recovery is rocky.

What truly astonished me was how WELL the author nailed what it is like to have (and begin the recovery from) an eating disorder.

The obsession with food and fat just masks feelings of inadequacy and being unwanted and a host of other neurotic issues.  It starts off as a discipline, or a way to control SOMETHING when everything else is beyond any control.

If I could only be more disciplined about food, then everything (read: life, family, job...) will be okay.

If I was skinny...

If I was pretty...

If I stopped needing anything at all...

I once went 3 weeks without eating anything at all.  After the first few days, you stop being hungry.  A few days later, the mere THOUGHT of food makes you nauseous.  A couple weeks later, you pass out in chemistry class and your little experiment in starvation ends when your chemistry teacher starts sitting with you at lunch and says he will do that every day until you show him you are eating again.

That's when I discovered bulimia.  They could make me eat. They could not make me keep it down.

The biggest shock of all, as I was reading this book, was knowing I really, truly, used to think and act that way... and that I do not anymore.

I honestly could not tell you the last time I shoved fingers down my throat because I felt terrible about needing to eat.  Or skipping eating for a few days just to prove I could.  Or using food to simply numb out and pretend I'm not hurt, angry, sad, afraid.

The author's description of white-knuckling through the beginning of recovery was so accurate, I felt she could read my mind. 

I ate both pieces of toast, with butter, resenting every single bite.  I felt horrible, bloated, greedy.  I think about the familiar feeling, the fast release and unthinkingly head to the bathroom. I stop myself at the door, thinking, no, you promised. You said you'd stop.  I walk away and sit in a chair.  Maybe if I read something. Maybe if I left the house.  The bread feels heavy. The bathroom is only a few steps away.  I rub my stomach to see if I can feel the lump.  I think that a quick run will burn off that 350 calories -better run farther in case I miscalculated. No, no, no.  That was normal food. I ate normal food.  Normal people do not intentionally throw up normal food.  You can be normal. Really.  I circle my wrist with my fingers, seeing how much they overlap and if my pig-like consumption of two pieces of toast with butter has caused the chain reaction of fat growth I expect...

It was a long rough road out of that.

So many, many people believed in me when I did not believe in myself.  God placed people in my life to help me work through all of this stuff that caused head-swinging weight losses and gains and messed with my metabolism and teeth and sanity.

I think I was led to that book that seemed so carelessly chosen at the time.  I've been wondering if all the effort I've been putting in the last couple/few years has gotten me anywhere.

I had forgotten so much about that part of my history.  I cannot imagine torturing myself like that now.

I think I am only bothering to write about it now to just let people know that there IS recovery, when you learn to love yourself enough to take good care of yourself.  We were ALL loved into creation.  God surrounds us with His love and support and GRACE that heals our lives.

However you are abusing food (or drugs, or other people, or...) -whether to numb out or prove control or punish or whatever... there is a way out.  A difficult, scary, windy road that you will occasionally find yourself face down on after tripping over something you didn't expect to find.

If you keep getting back up, eventually, you will get out.

I mean, I did, you know?