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required reading for this advent

Do yourselves a favor and click on my link at right to The Anchoress’s blog. Through several heartwrenching, transcendent posts, she invites us to visit the lingering, awesome, and “awe-full” deathbed of her beloved brother-in-law. As you soak up these posts, you’ll feel a deep hush still your spirit. Start with her December 1 post, “At Journey’s End.” The story continues with “The Kindness of Strangers,” “A Moment of Grace,” “In the Spirit of Christmas…,” and “Slouching Towards Bethlehem.”

I wish I could set up direct links on the posts I’ve mentioned, but my computer won’t let me. (Another possibility — I haven’t figured out how to do it yet. But let’s pretend that’s not true, shall we?) Search through her archives. Truly, you will be richly rewarded.

Just go there, with haste.

A Child is born in the manger.

A loved one lays dying.

And our spirits say, “Shhhh …. shhh ….”

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the crush

“Come,” says The Harvester.

“And see the olive, crushed for the purest oil.”

“Come,” He says again.

“And see the grape, crushed for the sweetest wine.”

“Come,” says The Harvester, at last.

“And see the heart, crushed, for the fine things inside.”

“Not for naught. For the fineness inside.”

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a christmas wish

To know — just to know — that where I’ve sought man’s forgiveness, I’ve received it.

Because, in truth, I feel a failure. Can you fail at seeking forgiveness? I don’t know.

But I do know this: It IS a costly gift, the most costly. To give or receive. The gift that, given truly and completely, takes the giver’s heart with it, tears it out. And who am I to ask such a thing?

Perhaps, though, we’re not meant to finish forgiveness with our flesh intact.

But I can’t expect. I can only hope. Because I know. It’s the most costly gift.

Still, it’s the one I know I’d never return or exchange.

Because it costs too much.

Everything.

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the tub (or, no shame)

I was on the phone with my sister when she shared this story about my four-year-old niece, Piper.

She was taking a bath the other evening, singing those little-girl-in-the-tub songs quite loudly and happily. My sister was working in the next room.

“Mommmmmmy!”

My sister sprinted.

“What’s wrong, Piper?”

She was sobbing, heaving. The words — still charmingly unchanged by speech classes — came in gulps.

“Mommmy, I pooed in da tub. I sawwy, Mommy. I sawwy.”

It was true.

“Oh, Piper. It’s okay. Don’t worry.”

“But Mommy, it’s poo! In da tub! I so sawwy!” She wailed, unconsoled.

“Piper, it’s okay, sweetie. Mommy will take care of it.”

Instantly, there was a barrage of questions regarding the fate of the offending “poo.”

“Mommy’s going to fix it. And it’s okay to get out of the tub if you need to go to the bathroom.”

“Okay, Mommy,” she snuffled. “I so sawwy.”

Looking straight in her daughter’s eyes, my sister said:

“You know what, Pipey? It’s okay. Sometimes that just happens.”

Bawling blue eyes and dripping blonde hair soon dried as my sister scooped her up in a cozy towel. The next morning at breakfast, Piper apologized yet again.

“Mommy, I sawwy I pooed in da tub.”

My sister had barely opened her mouth to reassure her when Piper continued:

“But ya know what, Mommy? Sometimes dat dust happens.”

I hung up the phone and just sat there, thinking. I thought how shame comes knocking, even in seemingly small situations. We can either invite him in, give him a home, or we can throw him to the curb.

Some words can instill shame. Some silences can, too. But some words …. ah! …. some words can breathe life to our spirit and bring death to our shame.

Oh, how I want my words to be words that say, “Take that, shame!”

And (sigh) I’m just not there yet.

“A word aptly spoken is like apples of gold in settings of silver.” Proverbs 25:11

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to be a good samaritan, part 3

So how do I mingle compassion and respect here? And by "respect" I mean not just deference for his person, his dignity, but also for his privacy. He may very well want to be left alone. And if someone desires that — however convinced we may be of their rampant "needs" — musn’t we, as Christians, respect that? Or do we charge in like marauding spiritual warriors, crying, "We’ve got the Lord’s work to do. Dignity and privacy be damned!"

Let’s face it. Just because you have the Holy Spirit doesn’t mean you’re not annoying. I’m annoying. So in this situation, I’m just as capable as the next well-intentioned Christian of mucking things up. Probably more so. Possibly irreparably. Which is why I’m blogging about it instead of banging on Bill’s door.

Because … if I think I’m loving someone, but he feels bothered, have I loved him? If I think I’m serving someone, but he feels burdened, have I served him?

It’s interesting. As I’ve prayed about this, the Lord’s graciously given me three things: the chance to see Bill again, an answer to prayer, and, because of the first two, an end to this story — for now. Here’s what’s happened.

The other night, my husband and I went for a walk. I confess we did stop at a nearby apartment complex and inquire after Bill. But if he lived there, no one knew him. A little dejected, we stepped back to the sidewalk …. and there he was, limping toward us with his cane in one hand and a bag in the other. He wore a white, floppy hat and a stained sweatshirt. His head was down. I was relieved to see him, so, impulsively, I spoke.

"Bill?"

He looked up, wary.

And I kept talking.

"Hi. Yeah. We met you — the other night?"

We reintroduced ourselves. He spoke then, remembering us.

"Oh, yeah. Hi."

This time, I smelled alcohol. I saw beer in his bag.

"So how’re you doing? You okay?"

"Oh, yeah. Everything turned out fine. I just hadn’t eaten. But I’m okay." He didn’t look directly at us. He fiddled with his cane.

"Well, we’re really glad to hear that."

"Yeah, you know. Thanks for everything."

My husband reminded him, "Hey, I’ve still got your beer. Do you want me to bring that by? You live right here?"

"Yeah," he gestured vaguely. "Up those stairs. But you can just keep the beer. That’s okay."

"You sure?"

"Oh, yeah. Uh, don’t bother. Save it for the Chargers game or something," he insisted.

"Okay. Thanks."

He spoke as he started to shuffle away.

"Well, it was good to see you."

We didn’t know what else to say.

"Yeah. Good to see you, too. Glad you’re doing okay. We’ll see you around, hopefully."

And that was it.

Awkward. Polite. But clear: "I feel humiliated. I like my privacy."

Back home after this encounter, I opened my Bible. The Lord led me to Proverbs 19:2:

"It is not good to have zeal without knowledge, nor to be hasty and miss the way."

Ah. My answer to prayer.

O Lord, temper my zeal with knowledge. I don’t want to be hasty. I don’t want to miss the way. I’ll wait for You to show me.

Wait and pray. Wait and pray.

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to be a good samaritan, part 2

So, at the end of part 1, I said that there’s another thing to consider here. I believe it’s this: In a split second, Bill’s private, medical need was thrust into public view. It was sudden, involuntary, and unwelcome. Nearly every day we can see the needy, desperate people on street corners, wielding their flimsy signs, proclaiming their naked need. Those who frequent shelters are openly admitting at least some of their needs. But Bill was just walking home from the store when neediness broke in like a thief, brazenly stealing his privacy and dignity. And I was just an unexpected witness trying to keep the thief at bay. So how, in this aftermath, do I proceed? Would Bill even care to see me again or would I simply be an unwanted reminder of that night he lay in the road, vulnerable and incontinent? How do I ensure that my presence serves as a restorer of dignity rather than a reminder of indignity?

When Jesus ministered, He restored wholeness and dignity without intrusion or condescension. When the woman with the issue of blood fought her way through the crowd, touched His robe, and was healed, Jesus stopped and spoke to her. The throng regarded her as a wretched, worthless outcast, yet Jesus showered her with praise and blessing.

"Daughter, your faith has healed you. Go in peace and be freed from your suffering."

In front of everyone who had ostracized her, Jesus miraculously restored more than her body. He restored her dignity. In an instant, the outcast was praised, blessed, and transformed.

Jesus ministered with perfect compassion and perfect respect. So, regarding Bill, how do I mingle compassion with respect, flawed and fallible as I am?

And since I don’t have time tonight to explore this further, I’ll do it in, yes …. part 3.

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to be a good samaritan

I’m just a little bit crazy about neighborhood Christmas lights and decorations. And somehow, I’ve managed to parlay this obsession into a nearly nightly holiday ritual. My Beloved and I, fueled by coffee, pile in the car and set off on our drive-by quest for Christmas magic.

We were driving home from this jingle bell jaunt on Saturday night when we met him. As we turned onto our street, he was staggering across the road, his cane barely keeping him upright. His grocery bag had been dropped in the middle of the road. We swerved to avoid hitting him. As we came to a stop, I rolled down the window.

"Sir, do you need some help?"

By that time, he’d stumbled across the street and was leaning precariously against the hood of a parked truck. His face ashen, his hair disheveled, he just stared at me and gasped, "No, I’m okay."

He clearly wasn’t. I hesitated.

"Can I get that bag for you?"

"No, that’s okay," he breathed, feebly.

I hesitated again. Our car was idling in the on-coming traffic lane.

"Well, why don’t I just get that for you? You stay there."

He just stared again and I jumped from the car to retrieve the bag. As I dashed across the lane towards him, he crumpled to the ground, his cane clattering after him. And in that flashing moment as he fell, I panicked: "What if he’s having a heart attack? What if he’s having a stroke? What if he’s not breathing? Do I know what to do? And can I do it?" Scared out of my wits, I was sure my limited knowledge wouldn’t meet his needs. My husband pulled the car to the side of the street and ran towards me. It was then of all moments that I remembered neither of us had our cell phones. I couldn’t believe it.

"Call 911!" MB ran to the nearest house and started scaring neighbors.

I leapt towards the man on the ground, certain he was dead. Dropping to my knees beside him, I stared into his face. He was conscious, moaning. I grabbed his wrist and checked his pulse. I’m not sure whose heart was beating faster.

"Sir, are you with me?"

"Yeah. I’m here. I don’t know what happened. I just got dizzy."

I asked him if he was having chest pain. He said no.

I knelt there with my hand on his. "What’s your name?" I asked. I noticed the tips of his fingers had been amputated.

"Bill."

"Well, Bill, we’re calling 911. We’re going to have someone check you out."

He lodged a mild protest, but I pressed him, saying, "Well, I think there’s a reason you fell, Bill. Why don’t we let the experts make sure you’re okay? They’ll be here any minute."

And, just then, of course, My Beloved and Kind Neighbor Jeff ran up and announced that 911 had them on hold. Bill smiled a bit at this. "What a surprise," he managed. Realizing the wait would be a little longer than "any minute," Kind Neighbor Jeff retreated to get Bill a blanket, MB took some newspaper and fashioned a pillow, and I gently rearranged his legs into a more comfortable position. As I did so, I noticed his orthopedic shoes and wondered if his feet were as compromised as his hands.

He lay there, we sat there, and I chided him, "Well, Bill, you sure have an interesting approach to meeting your neighbors."

"Yeah," he chuckled.

MB asked, "When was the last time you ate, Bill?"

"I had breakfast …. yesterday. Maybe I need to rethink that."

We agreed. And as we continued our inquiries, we learned he had myriad medical problems requiring numerous medications. Silent prayers for him began flooding my heart.

"Is there anyone we can call for you? Any family nearby?"

"No, there’s no one. I live alone."

The ground was shiveringly cold. Sitting there, I had the nagging feeling that I wasn’t doing enough, that even with a blanket he must be far too cold, that maybe it hurt him when I moved his legs, that maybe he didn’t want my hand on his. I wanted to reassure him that he was in good hands, but he was just in my hands.

His forgotten grocery bag lay next to me. Peeking inside, I noticed some beer. Based on the situation, it would have been easy to make assumptions. But Bill did not smell of alcohol. He talked about the homeless and their camps in the nearby canyons. Without saying it, his dignity was pleading this clear point: "I am not homeless." As he lay there waiting, he spoke repeatedly of his embarrassment. And in that moment, my anxious heart did not know how to assuage his sense of indignity.

Finally, help arrived. Lots of help. Questions were fired in all directions. At one point, Kind Neighbor Jeff referred to Bill as an "older" gentleman.

Bill winced. "Older?"

"But with a youthful glow," I countered.

As the paramedics picked him up and loaded him onto the gurney, I heard one of them say, too loudly, "Oh, he’s also incontinent." I cringed, but involuntarily, my glance fell to the ground where Bill had lain. It was wet. I hadn’t known. None of us had. I knew the paramedics were just doing their job, but I wished — how I wished — they could have whispered. As we waved goodbye, MB promised to take good care of the beer. Bill responded, "You’d better. I’ll be coming for it."

This is lengthy, I know, but I relate the story because, since it happened, I’ve been mulling over what it means to be a good Samaritan. Mostly, I’ve been asking myself what now? What do I do now? I mean, I know approximately where he lives. I could go bang on some doors to find him. My heart feels a tug towards this. But more important than my heart are these questions: What does Bill want? And what does Bill need?

During our talk, I found myself making little life prescriptions for him. He said he hadn’t eaten since breakfast the previous day. Assuming hunger was an issue, I began planning the nice bag of groceries I’d take to him. But then I considered. Why is he skipping meals? Is it because he just isn’t hungry? because he isn’t feeling well? because he forgets? or is it because he doesn’t have enough food? He mentioned he had no family nearby, that he lived alone. Assuming loneliness was an issue, I began planning regular visits to see him. But then I considered again. What if a visit would be an intrusion to him? What if he likes his privacy?

I might perceive he has needs, but are they his actual needs or even his perceived needs? I shouldn’t assume — in the name of compassion — that my perceptions and his needs are identical. Because once I assume that and act on it, compassion crumbles, doesn’t it? Let’s say I take him some groceries, for instance, and he doesn’t actually want or need them. Now I’ve only left him with the burden of acting grateful when, perhaps, he’s just feeling embarrassed. In that instance, what I dress up as compassion is actually self-serving arrogance in disguise.

But there is another thing to consider …. in the "part 2" that I’ve just realized this very long post needs ….

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the end times, PS

My Beloved has taken issue with The Voice mentioned in the last post. He pleads complete sincerity and wants a “rebuttal.” (Personally, I think he just wanted to say “rebuttal.”) I told him he’s always welcome, of course. So stay tuned for that. Maybe.

(I also lovingly offered MB my Relationship Equation):

Lovely Intentions + Wretched Timing =

Just a dud, if you’re lucky

!!#@*?!, if you’re not

(He didn’t see the “love” in this offer. I think I was a victim of my own equation …. )

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the end times, part 2

Well, last weekend officially became "The Lost Weekend." In that movie classic, Ray Milland goes on a rather unproductive 4-day drunk. I wasn’t drunk, but kind of wish I drank, so I could have been drunk. Make sense?

Anyway …. Back to our story. Part 1 had ended with my query of shining stupidity and paranoia, followed by MB’s even shinier, clever rejoinder. I did laugh, then cringed as I heard the low rumble of laughter from "The Lady with the Elbow Problem" in the next curtain. (What?! These curtains aren’t soundproof?) As she chuckled, I pictured my hand slyly slipping through the crack in the curtains and just giving her, you know, a little slappy slap. Hmmm. Could these thoughts of mild violence have anything at all to do with the fact that my dignity and privacy were being robbed by The Man?!

Sorry.

Seconds later, a nurse entered our personal paradise, pushing The Cart. The Cart, as most of you know, is the subtle showcase for the tools of torture that will be featured in your all-too-near future. Swept up by the sadomasochistic glee of it all, I craned my head around for a peep, but saw only various potions that looked both stinky and sting-y. Turning away, I redoubled my efforts to "remain calm," as per Dr. Chang’s extra helpful advice. The curtains parted and the doctor entered again.

"Guess what?" I asked.

"What?" he said, with good, doctorly concern.

"Well" — I replied, in an "I-see-dead-people" whisper — "it’s still there."

(I do this to break the tension. I don’t know WHY I do it, because I ALWAYS shoot for clever and end up with stupid. I guess I was lucky that the doctor responded with any sound, even if it was a braying-like sound, which could have been a laugh. Or sinuses. I don’t know.)

He began to busy himself with The Cart. The obli was doused with the aforementioned stinky and sting-y potions. As I lay there, chewing pillow, Dr. Chang said, "Okay. Don’t look."

Now, please. What is the absolute, categorical rule whenever someone says, "Don’t look"? You look. What else IS "don’t look" except an invitation TO look? So naturally, I succumbed to irresistible impulse and …. I looked.

SWEET MOTHER OF MOSES.

In his hand was what doctor types call a syringe. I call it a GIANT, BUTT-KEBOB SKEWER.

"You looked!" he wailed. Yeah. And I was still looking. Bug-eyed. Coffee-sipping husband, bug-eyed. The doctor began to talk very fast.

"Okay. First, we need to numb the area, then make the incision, then …."

Blah, blah, blahdie BLAH …. all right, already. JUST. DO. IT.

"…. and I want you to know there’s going to be water involved."

Right. Because that IS the concern here, that water might be involved. I love a doctor who can sense my innermost fears.

Finally, the moment had come. He looked at me and said, "Are you ready? There’s going to be some pain." (Let’s not forget water.)

"You might want to take a deep breath and go to a happy place." I thought he was kidding with that, but he was quite in earnest.

Okay, playing along. A deep breath …. a "happy place" …. A Land Without Oblies …. help me, Lord ….

"Heaven?" I croaked out.

"Suuure," Dr. Chang laughed. "Okay. Deep breath. Here we go."

(Heaven, heaven, heaven, hea-vennn)

YEEEEE-OOOOOWWWWW!!!!

The offending obli was skewered dead center. All visions of heaven exploded as I descended into a fiery, butt-kebobbing hell.

Now, during the approximately 30 seconds of skewering, several things happened at once:

First, and fleetingly, I thought maybe this was payback for calling my husband "Burl Hives" a few years ago when his skin turned reddish and blotchy and he did, indeed, have hives. I felt quite sorrowful about this now.

Second, a voice came to me from behind the doctor’s back: "How ya doin’, hon?" Are you kidding me?! It was that dratted Burl Hives. Daring to speak to me. At this precise moment. In That Voice. You know. That fakey, lovey voice that husbands whip out at ill-timed moments to assure us of their undying support and adoration. (Hmmm …. I’m touched, Burl…. that you took the time to care between your sips of coffee!) You KNOW. That Voice that gives normal women the murderous thoughts of a mafioso: "Oh, yeah? You tawkin’ to me, Slappy? Yeah? You goin’ down. I don’t cayeh how big you ahh. When I’m done heeya, I’m stawtin’ wichyoo."

Then, third, Elbow Lady’s cell phone started ringing …. and ringing …. and ringing. And not a normal ring, either. Oh, no. It was that tinny, cell-phony version of Beethoven’s "Fur Elise": Nee-nee-nee-nee-nee-nee-ree-ree-ree. The tune that is the bane of many a young, pudgy-fingered pianist. Instantly, I flashed back many years to my own wildly unsuccessful 8-year-old piano recital — the one where I sat there, pudgy-fingered and crimson-faced, as my unruly digits sabotaged me by playing the opening strains of "Fur Elise" over and over and over again. Ah, yes. The recital where, mid-performance, I heard my dad’s tape recorder ominously click OFF. Well, let’s face it, two minutes of the same five seconds over and over? There was only so much I could bless people with my repetitive gift.

Now thus far, I had not screamed. But, oh, mommy, I wanted to. However, I think screaming in hospitals is no good for anyone — no good for me, no good for the doctor skewering me, and no good for anyone still waiting their turn to be skewered. But Elbow Lady and her "Fur Elise" cell phone were driving me to the brink. I felt seconds away from bellowing one of those self-serving "words from the Lord" that everyone’s so gaga for these days: "Elbow Lady, I FEEL the Lord is telling ME to tell YOU to answer your freaking cell phone! It’s driving Him crazy!! " (And you know …. the ringing did stop. Maybe it really did drive Him crazy.)

So where are we? Ringing: Stopped. Butt Kebobbing: Stopped. LBUT: Numb. Incision: Imminent. It was then I discovered the one — and I mean only one — advantage of the LBUT obli: I couldn’t see what happened next. Dratted Burl Hives described the gruesome entertainment factor for me as “pure CSI.” Wow. Really? I felt strangely proud of my obli then. Later on, though, he mused, suddenly all-knowing, "I really thought the incision was too big."

Hmmm. Didn’t really want to know that, so I drily replied, "In your expert opinion because your mom’s a nurse?" He scowled at me. I deserved it.

"Procedure" over, the bandaging began. It seemed alarmingly poofy. My Beloved, pleased with himself, remarked, "Your ass looks like it’s packed for international shipping."

I thought momentarily how I’d miss him after I killed him.

It couldn’t be that bad, could it? Doctor gone, I reached back and gingerly felt the area. Was this a joke? My husband’s comment was actually an understatement. It seemed as if that maniac Dr. Chang had just gone to the nursery, grabbed a stack of folded Huggies, and slapped them to my butt cheek. I was aghast.

With MB’s help, I wobbled up and put on my baggy pants. Baggy, that is, except across my beleaguered, be-Huggied butt cheek, where the pants’ worn fibers strained to hold me in. Dressed, I looked like some poor woman who forgot the dryer sheets and now had her husband’s entire sock drawer statically clinging inside her pants’ arse. My bum was lumpen, distorted, misshapen — a walking nightmare. I wanted to cry. Once again, I longed for A Hat To Hide The Shame Of It All. I glanced at My Beloved and wondered if he did, too.

Moments later, I was waddling out to the car. My Beloved shortened his long stride, grabbed my hand, and waddled with me. I stared glumly down at the large plastic bag the nurse had given me. Ah, my lovely parting gifts: a year’s supply of bandaging and tape, voluminous care instructions, including a tutorial on weatherstripping the area for showering, and lots of painkillers. I rummaged in the bag a bit, certain there’d be some Rice-a-Roni or at least a lousy lollipop. Nope. I sighed.

Then My Beloved said in his real voice, "Well, baby. You were a brave little soldier." I smiled and stopped next to the car. My swaddled keister stopped a couple seconds later.

Just then, I felt a lovely, warming glow. And it wasn’t just from the burning of my LBUT. But as My Beloved opened the car door, he said it:

"Let me help you in …. Olive Boil."

(Cue "Psycho" shower music)

All right, Burl Hives. GAME ON.