Today of all days, with the entire world embroiled in a real live pandemic, I will not write out of political bias. Instead, I want to open our eyes to some very troubling present realities. My focus is on the coronavirus pandemic in the United States and how circumstances have transpired, both on a logistical level and a human one. I read a Huffington Post article this morning revealing that last year the U.S. Department of Health and Human Services conducted a months-long exercise that showed that the nation was unprepared for a pandemic. The exercise, code named “Crimson Contagion,” had chilling similarities to the current real-life coronavirus pandemic. That fact got my attention!
This pandemic has taken a toll on so many Americans. Mothers are struggling with children being at home, some having to learn on the fly how to home school them. Families grieve the loss of loved ones who died from the virus. Older adults fear their increased vulnerability and their body’s inability to fight the virus. Immunosuppressed persons like I am are terrified to leave home and are incessantly washing their hands, wearing masks and using hand sanitizer. Many people have lost their jobs while businesses all over the country have shut their doors. Churches have suspended worship services and other gatherings indefinitely. That is merely a tiny snapshot of the human toll the coronavirus is taking.
On top of any list we could make describing loss, inconvenience or isolation, there is widespread, overwhelming fear that has made its way into our very souls. This is a pandemic that has descended upon all of us — real people with real fear.
I’ll get back to the human toll of this virus, but I want to say a bit more about the “Crimson Contagion” exercise, which involved officials from more than a dozen federal agencies. The Huffington Post described the “Crimson Contagion” scenario:
. . . several states and hospitals responding to a scenario in which a pandemic flu that began in China was spread by international tourists and was deemed a pandemic 47 days after the first outbreak. By then, in the scenario, 110 million Americans were expected to become ill.
The simulation that ran from January to August exposed problems that included funding shortfalls, muddled leadership roles, scarce resources, and a hodgepodge of responses from cities and states . . . It also became apparent that the U.S. was incapable of quickly manufacturing adequate equipment and medicines for such an emergency . . .
According to a New York Times report, White House officials said that an executive order following the exercise improved the availability of flu vaccines. The administration also said it moved this year to increase funding for a pandemic program in HHS.
But Trump’s administration eliminated a pandemic unit within the Department of Homeland Security in 2018. And weeks after the first real coronavirus case was diagnosed in the U.S., Trump submitted a 2021 budget proposal calling for a $693.3 million reduction in funding for the Centers for Disease Control and Prevention.
There you have it! In the throes of our real time pandemic, we hear of a “play-like” pandemic — a simulation conducted in 2019 that might have prepared us all, including our nation’s leadership. That didn’t happen, and those of us who have been in the world for so many years know the saying well: “Don’t cry over spilt milk.”
So we wipe up the milk that’s all over the table in front of us, and then we go about making our way through the dark, murky waters of this pandemic. We wash our hands, distance ourselves from others, stay at home, figure out how to handle our children who are now at home, cancel our travel plans, mourn those who have died, pray for those who are ill from the virus, grieve the loss of the life we knew before and pick up the pieces of what’s left.
What’s left? Well, what’s left is our ability to find ways to help our neighbor, to feed the hungry, to comfort the sick, to reach out to the lonely, to love the children and to pray for one another without ceasing. We may have to learn to do those things by phone or online chatting, but we will find a way.
Those of us who are religious will pray without ceasing — imploring God to be merciful, asking various saints to intercede for us, lighting candles to express devotion and sitting for a moment in the flickering light that reminds us that God’s promise is about light overcoming the darkness.
The light shines in the darkness,
and the darkness has not overcome it.
In the end, perhaps we will have discovered that, through this terrifying and expanding virus, that we have learned how to care more and to love deeper. Perhaps we will find that we have a more heartfelt capacity for compassion. For that, God will pour out grace upon our weariness and renew our eternal hope.
If you pour yourself out for the hungry and satisfy the desire of the afflicted, then shall your light rise in the darkness and your gloom be as the noonday.
(Isaiah 58:10 ESV)
May God make it so. Amen.
I have observed, at this year’s beginning, as in past years, that humans are more introspective than usual. It may begin with intentions or resolutions for the new year. What I observe is that people are revisiting the past, trying to reinterpret it, digging for the meaning the past held for them and trying to find ways to heal the wounds of the soul theyp have hidden inside them for a long time. Those woulds live in us so long that they become scars, hardened in our spirits and thus more difficult to heal.
Until we have done this spiritual and emotional inner work, we are hesitant, unwilling to move into the future. So we linger in the present and re-live the past. Usually what we revisit are past sorrows and losses, past disappointments and perceived failures, past pain that continues to pierce the soul. Seldom do we revisit past joys, because joy does not pierce like sorrow does.
It is a positive thing to linger in life review at the beginning of a new year. Just as the year is new, all of us hope that in the work of lingering, we will find newness in ourselves. The work of introspection is important for our well being and we have so many choices about how to strengthen ourselves, body and spirit. Many people use self-counseling, which may include searching their deep selves through personal contemplation and prayer. Others engage in spiritual direction, life coaching, trauma therapy or counseling. Still others tend to their souls through silent contemplation, labyrinth walks, yoga, nature walks, strenuous exercise, reading scripture, self-help books or poetry, and singing hymns or listening to music.
I want to suggest one other form of self-counseling that is unfamiliar to most people — working with Healing Runes as a part of your quiet time. Your first question probably is, “What are Healing Runes?” I want to begin by sharing an invocation written by Ralph H. Blum from his book, The Healing Runes.
Practice the Presence of God in all ways,
Both in your coming in and your going out.
In your prayers, invoke God’s Presence.
In your aspirations, stay mindful of the Presence.
In your meditations, breathe in the Presence.
Above all, let the Presence be reflected in your attitude,
For surely then God will sing in your thoughts,
Speak in your voice and shine through your acts.
Let the Presence of God be the medicine
To heal your life, lift your heart and renew your spirit.
Practice the Presence of God in all ways,
Both in your coming in and your going out. Amen
To answer the question, a Healing Rune is a tool that provides a way of deepening reflection and stirring the soul where we find life meaning and buried emotions. There is an interpretation of each healing rune in the book, The Healing Runes, written by Ralph Blum and Susan Loughan. They offer interpretations presented in graceful and sensitive language that allows the reader to take to heart what is appropriate for their own meditation and leave the rest.
The book adapts the sacred use of Runes as an alphabetic script used by the ancient Germanic and Norse peoples, creating a tool that could be helpful in the healing of body, mind and spirit.*
I suggest that we not fear the Healing Runes by considering them to be some sort of pagan artifact or something that seems like magic. They are more like mystery, something to guide our reflection and introspection. I suggest the we see Healing Runes as one way to guide us deeper into ourselves and into the presence of God, the ultimate healer of our souls.
I would like to choose a Healing Rune for us from my bag. Its meaning may not mean anything to you or to me. It may not open up any places in your soul that need attention. Or it may awaken us to a wound that we need to give some reflective time, some time for healing.
The Rune I have randomly chosen is the Rune of Trust. It is the Rune of restoration that calls for the rebuilding of belief in yourself, in your life and in your relationship with God. For some, drawing this Rune asks you to show trust in a present situation. For others, it calls for embracing the changes you are facing with trust and wisdom. In relationships of the heart, remember that I love you and I trust you are two stones for crossing the same stream. Most importat is that you ask your soul if Trust has something to teach you or somewhere to lead you.
Thomas Moore writes, “We separate, each from the other, the sicknesses of body, emotion, meaning and connectedness.” The soul must be moved, touched and healed, and that is why we linger at the door of our pain, trying every way we know to reconcile it, heal it, eliminate it (or just blast it with a sci-fi laser gun!) Thomas Moore has a better remedy than a sci-fi laser gun, a much more informed remedy:
I am convinced that all healing ultimately comes from a shift in deep imagination, grounding our own lives and anchoring our decisions in the very quick of the heart . . . not just relief from anxiety, but profound gifts that signal the presence of soul — intimacy, pleasure, beauty, love and piety.
As you and I explore what hides in our souls as this new year beckons us, may we not be afraid to linger directly in the presence of our fear or woundedness. Instead, let us consider that we are lingering in the comforting presence of God, in the gentle protection of Spirit. It is safe in that sacred space of Presence, safe enough for us to unearth whatever lies deeply in us and allow it to surface into the healing light.
God may be gently, lovingly calling us to do that work of healing and, in that introspection, to reveal our truth — the truth that will set us free!
* The Healing Runes, Ralph H Blum and Susan Loughan; Preface by Thomas Moore; St. Martin’s Press:New York, New York; ©️1995 by Ralph H. Blum.
Of all sounds of all bells, the most solemn and touching
is the peal which rings out the Old Year.
— Charles Lamb
We do get rather nostalgic at the end of a year, on the cusp of a new year. Perhaps we have regrets from the passing year. Perhaps the old year brought losses and grief. Perhaps we have fear at the thought of what the year ahead might bring. Nostalgia just seems to go along with year end and year beginning. I have been known to get teary-eyed during the singing of “Auld Lang Syne” in spite of the fact that I had no idea what “Auld Lang Syne” even meant.
Robert Burns wrote “Auld Lang Syne” in 1788. The poem soon became a song that was traditionally used to bid farewell to the old year at the stroke of midnight on New Year’s Eve. It was a ritual song that gave people a ceremonial way to express the discomfort of ending/beginning as well as to speak of the value of old friendships that should not be forgotten.
Another poem written by Robert W. Service (1874-1957) was entitled “The Passing of the Year.” Its seven poignant stanzas come across as a lament of the passing year, and yet the poet also expresses a juxtaposition between a somber response and an expression of fond farewell. Here are some excerpts:
My glass is filled, my pipe is lit,
My den is all a cosy glow;
And snug before the fire I sit,
And wait to feel the old year go.
I dedicate to solemn thought
Amid my too-unthinking days,
This sober moment, sadly fraught
With much of blame, with little praise . . .
And You, deep shrinking in the gloom,
What find you in that filmy gaze?
What menace of a tragic doom?
What dark, condemning yesterdays?
What urge to crime, what evil done?
What cold, confronting shape of fear?
O haggard, haunted, hidden One
What see you in the dying year?
And so from face to face I flit,
The countless eyes that stare and stare;
Some are with approbation lit,
And some are shadowed with despair.
Some show a smile and some a frown;
Some joy and hope, some pain and woe:
Enough! Oh, ring the curtain down!
Old weary year! it’s time to go.
My pipe is out, my glass is dry;
My fire is almost ashes too;
But once again, before you go,
And I prepare to meet the New:
Old Year! a parting word that’s true,
For we’ve been comrades, you and I —
I thank God for each day of you;
There! bless you now! Old Year, good-bye!
As for New Year’s Resolutions, the same poet wrote an expressions of regret in the year past and the resolve inherent in a phrase we know so well: “Just do it.”
Each New Year’s Eve I used to brood
On my misdoings of the past,
And vowed: “This year I’ll be so good –
Well, haply better than the last.”
My record of reforms I read
To Mum who listened sweetly to it:
“Why plan all this, my son?” she said;
“Just do it.”
Of her wise words I’ve often thought –
Aye, sometimes with a pang of pain,
When resolutions come to naught,
And high resolves are sadly vain;
The human heart from failure bleeds;
Hopes may be wrecked so that we rue them . . .
Don’t let us dream of lovely deeds –
Just do them.
Now that I have shared more poetry than you ever wanted to read, let me conclude with this thought: As a new year approaches, we greet it with all the regrets and losses and emotions of the old year still pressing on our spirits. That affects our attitude about the unknown year ahead, and when we look at the path that leads us into 2020, all we see is darkness. It is for us a journey into the unknown with no instructions for moving forward. We are sometimes not sure we even want to move into the new year.
That may be the very reason for the ball drop in New York, the champagne toasts with all the hugging and kissing, the elaborate party decorations including metallic pointy hats and horns blowing in the night. Maybe we celebrate so hard because we are so hurt, so filled with regret, so shamed, so afraid of the future. We stand at the gate of the new year holding all that we brought from the old one. Sometimes the burden we are carrying is a heavy, heavy burden to carry, but we simply don’t believe we can throw it off and start on the new year’s unknown path, unburdened and free.
Yes, we do leave all our memories behind in the year that has passed, and in the new year, we hope to realize fresh, new dreams. A wise person says that around us, we have those who love us and within us, we have all we need. But the most eloquent advice I know that addresses our old year/new year dilemma comes from yet another poet, Minnie L. Haskins:
And I said to the man who stood at the gate of the year:
Give me a light that I may tread safely into the unknown.
And he replied: “Go out into the darkness and put your hand into the hand of God.
That shall be to you better than light, and safer than a known way.”
The Twentieth Day of Advent
December 20, 2019
With a brief update on my transplant journey
Wouldn’t it be wonderful
if Advent came filled with angels and alleluias?
Wouldn’t it be perfect
if we were greeted on these December mornings
with a hovering of heavenly hosts
tuning their harps and brushing up on their fa-la-las?
Wouldn’t it be incredible
if their music filled our waking hours
with the promise of peace on earth
and if each Advent night we dreamed of
nothing but goodwill?
Wouldn’t we be ecstatic
if we could take those angels shopping
or trim the tree or have them hold our hands
and dance through our houses decorating?
And, oh, how glorious it would be
to sit in church next to an angel
and sing our hark-the-heralds!
What an Advent that would be!
What Christmas spirit we could have!
An angel-filled Advent has so many possibilities!
But in lieu of that
perhaps we can give thanks
for the good earthly joys we have been given
and for the earthly “angels” that we know
who do such a good job of filling
our Advent with alleluias!
— Ann Weems
I love the idea of an angel-filled Advent. It sounds like mystical, magical Advent and, most assuredly, an angel-filled Advent does have so many possibilities!
Reality is a very different state for us and, even in Advent, we whisper the word “impossible”. We live with “impossible” in our hearts and deep within our souls where all the pain lives, and all the disappointments, all the grief and all the impossibles. “That’s life,” the sages say, the wise ones who have lived every circumstance and held on their shoulders all sorts of mourning.
And so it is with me and with you. We hold mourning and utter, “This situation is impossible!” During Advent as we prepare to celebrate Christmas, the pain is deeper in us, the losses pierce our hearts, the life challenges seem impossible. When we mourn the loss of a loved one during this season, the mourning hurts more and the loss goes deeper. When we grieve because we struggle with serious illness, the grief is more intense. When we live in fear for our children, the fear is stronger. It is in those circumstances that we ask in frustration, “Where are Advent’s angels? Where is their music?”
I hope you will take a few minutes to enjoy John Rutter’s arrangement of “Angel’s Carol.”Here are the lyrics:
Have you heard the sounds of the angel voices ringing out so sweetly,
ringing out so clear?
Have you seen the star shining out so brightly
as a sign from God that Christ the Lord is here?
Have you heard the news that they bring from heaven
to the humble shepherds who have waited long?
Gloria in excelsis Deo!
Gloria in excelsis Deo!
Hear the angels sing their joyful song.
He is come in peace in the winter’s stillness,
like a gentle snowfall in the gentle night.
He is come in joy, like the sun at morning,
filling all the world with radiance and with light.
He is come in love as the child of Mary.
In a simple stable we have seen his birth.
Gloria in excelsis Deo!
Gloria in excelsis Deo!
Hear the angels singing ‘Peace on earth.’
He will bring new light.
He will bring new light to a world in darkness,
like a bright star shining in the skies above.
He will bring new hope.
He will bring new hope to the waiting nations.
When he comes to reign in purity and love.
Let the earth rejoice.
Let the earth rejoice at the Saviour’s coming.
Let the heavens answer with the joyful morn:
Gloria in excelsis Deo!
Gloria in excelsis Deo!
Hear the angels singing, ‘Christ is born.’
As for me, what kind of mourning am I holding this Advent season? What kind of pain, disappointment, loss am I feeling? I feel worry, of course, about my kidney transplant. When Mayo Clinic called yesterday insisting that I return immediately, I was concerned. My blood levels were dangerously high and I was experiencing a great deal of discomfort. The doctor ordered immediate ultrasounds of my kidney and right leg looking for pockets of fluid or blood clots. I am hopeful that both tests will come back with the word “normal” stamped on the report. In spite of the things that seem “impossible,” I hang on to hope.
That’s what Advent does — fills us with hope that begins on the First Sunday of Advent when we light the Hope Candle.
So to those questions about mourning, pain, disappointment, worry and fear, I have no adequate answers. No matter how much I want an angel-filled Advent and Christmas, I see no way out of the “impossible” seasons of life, but Ann Weems might:
. . . perhaps we can give thanks
for the good earthly joys we have been given
and for the earthly “angels” that we know who do such a good job of
filling our Advent with alleluias!
May Emmanuel — God-with-Us — make it so. Amen.
The Eighth Day of Advent
Transplant Day Twenty-seven
December 9, 2019
When the Holy Child is born into our hearts
there is a rain of stars
a rushing of angels
a blaze of candles
this God burst into our lives.
— Ann Weems
It seems to me that there is no other way to thrive after a kidney transplant than by allowing God to burst into my life. Certainly, God was already in my life, and has been for many years, but this “Godburst” is a different sort of divine entrance. Godburst enters powerfully, often suddenly and without warning. It is always surprise when God plans a divine appointment, unimaginable surprise.
The other side of a Godburst requires that I intentionally give God access and admittance. It is just as Ann Weems describes it when she tells when to expect the encounter between me and God. Something happens — “the Holy Child is born into our hearts” — and as a result, I begin to believe deep within my soul that I really can face the challenges and difficulties ahead.
Still, I feel fear deep-down-inside. I fear the after effects of the transplant. The fear is in my mind in the daylight and often consumes my heart in the night. Friends ask me what I most fear, but I am hard-pressed to isolate just one fear. I think about all of them: an increased risk of infections, uncontrolled diabetes, high blood pressure, weight gain, abdominal pain, hair loss, swollen gums, bruising or bleeding more easily, thinning of the bones, mood swings and an increased risk of certain types of cancer, particularly skin cancer. And I cannot yet shake the thought of acute rejection of the kidney and the use of high powered, harsh immunosuppressant medications to prevent that rejection.
This fear has been my constant companion for many months, but since the transplant, the fear has been imminent, deeper and more severe. So last night I determined to try to get a handle on it by listing every fear that feels so ominous to me. I knew it would be a difficult endeavor, but I hoped for even a little easing of the fear.
I’m not sure it addressed the fear that much. What it did do is send me all the way back to the foundation of my being, to the source of my strength. It called my attention back to Godburst, where Ann Weems reminds me how it might look when it happens:
there is a rain of stars
a rushing of angels
a blaze of candles
this God has burst into my life.
With that kind of holy entrance into my life, I think I might just be strong enough to move into the unknown and risky future. Maybe unafraid. Or at least I could be free of the deep fear and anxiety that seems so present right now. Isn’t that a perfect picture of experiencing Advent?
In the end, after making and contemplating the list, I still may not believe strongly enough that Godburst will happen for me. But I believe that my faith will sustain me. I believe that the God who knew me before I was even born will know me still — today and forever.
I believe that Godburst is a deeply personal and powerful encounter between me and God. And I have no doubt that it can change my life!
The Second Day of Advent
Transplant Day Twenty-One
December 2, 2019
THE CHRISTMAS SPIRIT
The Christmas spirit
is that hope
which tenaciously clings
to the hearts of the faithful
in the face of any Herod the world can produce
and all the inn doors slammed in our faces
and all the dark nights of our souls
that with God
all things still are possible,
that even now
a Child is born!
What could this beautiful poem titled The Christmas Spirit possibly have to do with my recent kidney transplant? At first glance, not much. But lingering on the poet’s words made some of them leap from the page for me. I have to admit that the words most piercing to me are these: “. . . all the dark nights of our souls.”
Guilt overwhelmed me after the transplant was complete. I was back in my room six hours after the surgery — barely awake, a little confused, exhausted, in pain and, they tell me, very quick-tempered. I yelled at my husband, something I may have done twice in 50 years of marriage. The truth is I was feeling covered with a blanket of guilt. The nurses, my surgeon, my family were all celebrating the transplant miracle. I was in pain, second-guessing my decision to even have the transplant in the first place and feeling guilty for not acknowledging the miracle everyone else saw.
For the next two days, every person on my transplant team who came to see me entered my room with a large smile and expressed one word, “Congratulations!” said with joy in a most celebratory voice. All the while, I was often weeping pain’s quiet tears. I stared at each congratulating person with a little bit of concealed contempt. In my mind, if not on my lips, was a response that went something like this: “Congratulations? Do you have any idea what kind of pain I am experienced right now? And have you had this surgery yourself? Save your congratulations for another day!”
The physical pain was very real and very intense. The soul pain hurt even deeper. Body and soul — the physical, spiritual and emotional — were so intricately fused together that it was all but impossible to isolate or separate them. Is this just physical pain? Is part of it emotional pain? Am I experiencing, heaven forbid, a spiritual crisis? I found no way to tell. For me, it was pain in all three parts of me and that made it almost intolerable.
For two nights, I did not sleep at all — awake all night, feeling alone, abandoned and in a wrestling match with my pain. As I went over and over in my mind all the reasons I had for getting a transplant, my thoughts morphed into a fairly clear “What have I done?”
It felt so much like a dark night of the soul as I grieved my aloneness and isolation, mourned the loss of my previous life and felt deep fear of the dark, unknown path ahead. And all of those points of crisis made me feel that guilt for not being grateful for the living gift of a kidney.
As Ann Weems’ expresses in the poem, “Hope tenaciously clings to the hearts of the faithful and announces in the face . . . of all the dark nights of our souls, that with God all things still are possible, that even now unto us a Child is born!”
Twenty-one days separated from my transplant, I am able to attest that hope does cling tenaciously in my heart, that hope announces in the face of the dark night of my soul that with God, all things are still possible. And most importantly, “Unto us a Child is born!”
Into me a Child is born, and that presence empowers me to walk through my soul’s darkest night into the light that Advent brings.
Thanks be to God.
Around 3:00 am this morning, I was awake and alert, having tossed and turned for hours, wishing for daybreak. I was also fasted and prepared for medical tests. But before I tell you about this day’s fasting, I need to reach back and call up some of my memories of other times. While wide awake in bed, I thought about some of the fasting times I have experienced, each a singular blessing making way for sacred space.
Fasting was a part of my early childhood. Being a Greek Orthodox child with a religiously devout Yiayia (grandmother), I learned early in life about fasting. Even though I was only 8-years old, Yiayia adamantly believed I was old enough to memorize prayers from the liturgy and recite them — in Greek. And a part of her plan was designed to prepare me for Holy Communion. I must give her some good-grandmothing credit — she did have a fasting experience for me that was age-appropriate, meaning it was not as long a fasting time as the adults observed and certainly not as stringent. No meat, of course, but some laxity on dairy and liquids because I was always an orange juice child that needed to drink a lot.
Yiayia accommodated my need for plenty of juice and chocolate milk. Still, I thought I might starve before my fast was over and I received the wine and, finally, the little square of communion bread that I scarfed down. I am pretty certain, though, that I did not fully embrace this sacred mystery of prayer, fasting and the sacrament of Holy Communion.
Years passed and young adult fasting times came in times of deep angst. There were troubled times when the only hope I thought I had came through prayer and fasting. Looking back on that time, I realize that I experienced just a glimpse of the meaning behind a fast. More awareness and appreciation of the sacred mystery would come much later in life.
Maturity and age created in me a seeking spirit that longed for deep meaning. I remember so vividly my time of fasting for my profession of vows before entering the novitiate of the Order of Ecumenical Franciscans. The occasion happened in the desert of Albuquerque, New Mexico, quite an appropriate setting for my introduction to a contemplative life. Dry, expansive desert and big skies that went on forever captured my imagination. It occurred to me at the time that I was experiencing just a tiny glimmer of desert spirituality. This fast in the desert was really the first time I immersed myself fully in the sacred mystery of fasting.
Now back to this day while waiting for daybreak after a night of tossing and worrying. This fasting morning was not religious at all, but necessary for information the kidney doctors needed from the 30 vials of blood The Mayo Clinic phlebotomist retrieved from my flimsy vein.
But come to think of it, today’s fasting may be the most sacred of all because it leads to the mystery and science of a kidney transplant. When a donor comes forward willing to give a gift of life from his or her own body, that feels very much like sacred mystery.
God orchestrated the entire experience. And by the way, God knows all about my tossing and turning in the wee hours of this morning. God understands my anxiety and fear. God understands the emotional place of anticipating a kidney transplant after five years of waiting.
I have always loved the imagery of this scripture verse written by the Psalmist. Today seems like a good day to ponder it.
You have kept count of my tossings;
put my tears in your bottle.
Are they not in your record?
— Psalm 56:8 (NRSV)
Tomorrow is the day. If all goes well, tomorrow I will get a new kidney. If for some medical reason, the transplant does not happen, I still know and understand the sacred mystery that God keeps count of my tossings and saves my tears in a bottle. And that’s enough for me.
On another note, please pray for me as I look toward my kidney transplant tomorrow at Mayo Clinic in Jacksonville, Florida. I am so grateful that you are walking with me on this journey that often felt so frightening. Your thoughts and prayers mean so much. If you would like to rea the story of my illness, please visit the Georgia Transplant Foundation’s website at this link:
A “Go Fund Me” page is set up for contributions to help with the enormous costs related to the transplant, including medications, housing costs for the month we have to stay near the transplant center, and other unforeseeable costs for my care following the transplant. If you can, please be a part of my transplant journey by making a contribution at this link
Life can be swampy and murky at times, with not enough light to see the way forward. Not to mention the danger of being mired in the mud unable to move! You have probably been there. I know I have, and when the journey has taken me through those murky waters, I have despaired. So many circumstances can take us through rough places, but the circumstance that immediately comes to mind for me is indecision.
Indecision is that uncomfortably in-between place where you have no idea how to find the way forward, yet you cannot stay in the place you are. Waiting is born of indecision and waiting can be excruciating. Right about now, I wish I could report that one must simply pray and God will instantly change indecision into forward motion, out of any murky swamp.
I cannot say, however, that a single prayer can make that happen. At least for me, there have been no instant-miraculous-life-changing answers to my prayers. Not even once in my faith journey of many years! What I can tell you with deep assurance is that, although no single prayer has changed my life, continual prayer has changed my life. It is not the prayer of occasional consolation that changes the course of one’s life journey. It is the life of prayer that seeks God in prayer, abiding in God’s presence, for as long as it takes. Richard Rohr says this wise thing about prayer:
The only people who pray well are those who keep praying! In fact, continued re-connecting is what I mean by prayer, not occasional consolations that we may experience.
No doubt, life’s journey will take us through murky, swampy places without enough light to find our way through them. The murkiness of indecision is real, and with it we may experience confusion, fear, despair, desperation. We may even lose hope and question our faith. But we cannot stay there. People of faith are people of resilience and courage. We have within us all the resilience and courage we need. So we must believe in ourselves enough to take a step forward and out, through the mud and the sludge, trusting in faith that God’s light will light up the dark places and give us the strength to move through to the other side.
That’s what I have to believe about painful, oppressive places of indecision. That’s what I have to believe about getting through swampy, murky places. That’s what I have to believe about God.
In the beginning was the Word, and the Word was with God, and the Word was God. He was in the beginning with God. All things came into being through him, and without him not one thing came into being. In him was life, and the life was the light of all people. The light shines in the darkness, and the darkness has not overcome it.
— John 1:1-5
I don’t usually write about charts in my blog. I’m not really a chart person at all. But my friend, Kim Rosby, recently sent me a chart that is worth contemplating. The chart is a snapshot of what it might look like when we become our better selves. It’s entitled “The Comfort Zone,” which is a place most of us want to be.
That’s the problem. There is no growth and maturing in the comfort zone. It can become for us, not just comfortable, but also stagnant.
So I spent some time contemplating this provocative chart, and it definitely provoked some emotions in me. It appears that there are four zones that are possible for us:
- The Comfort Zone
- The Fear Zone
- The Learning Zone
- The Growth Zone
There you have it! So let’s unpack this chart a bit. When/if we manage to move ourselves out of the comfort zone, a place where we feel safe and in control, we will most likely enter the fear zone. In the fear zone, we are not at all sure of ourselves. We hang on the opinions of other people and use anything we can find as an excuse to remain frozen in place. If we don’t make a move, we can’t make a mistake. Right? We come to a point, though, where we do not believe we can move. We don’t believe we can change. We don’t believe we can seek another way.
Fortunately, some of us do make it out of the fear zone and thus find ourselves in the learning zone. What a renewing place to be, a place where new and fresh ideas are possible. It is in this zone that we realize we have moved at least a few steps past our comfort zone. We learn new skills and we discover that we can navigate challenges and solve problems. As long as we are learning, our path is clear and a future is possible.
So we move with courage into the growth zone, where we will re-invent ourselves in positive and exhilarating ways. As we conquer the objectives that were holding us back, we begin to believe in the possibility of new life goals, a deeper purpose. And then suddenly, we surprise ourselves with dreams and aspirations for something more in our lives, something fresh that inspires us to be our better selves.
I like my friend’s chart. I also like this promise that also says something very compelling about becoming our better selves:
. . . I came that they might have life, and have it more abundantly.