Nearer, Still Nearer

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Transplant Day Seventeen
November 28, 2019

Sometimes an old hymn — a hymn the contemporary church has discarded from its worship — can eloquently speak to the heart. There are many hymns I call hymns of the heart because they touch me so deeply. In these days of recovery when I find myself away from home and separated from friends and family, a particular old hymn comforts me. One line specifically inspires and moves me — “Shelter me safe in that haven of rest.”

The hymn, “Nearer, Still Nearer” was written by Lelia N. Morris and published in 1898. Here are two stanzas of the hymn text.

Nearer, still nearer, close to Thy heart,
Draw me, my Savior — so precious Thou art!
Fold me, oh, fold me close to Thy breast;
Shelter me safe in that haven of rest;
Shelter me safe in that haven of rest.

Nearer, still nearer, while life shall last,
Till safe in glory my anchor is cast;
Through endless ages ever to be
Nearer, my Savior, still nearer to Thee;
Nearer, my Savior, still nearer to Thee!

Finding myself away from my communities of support, I feel the separation acutely. I feel the loneliness of “apart” time. I feel a breach of relationship and the loss of my covenant community. I know it is necessary to be near Mayo Clinic in Jacksonville, Florida for this month so that the transplant team can closely monitor my care. But I miss my home and my faith community and my friends and family, and even my stray cat. I feel isolated at a time when I most need their support and encouragement. And although I strongly feel their prayers from afar, the “afar” part is not so great. I feel vulnerable and I need to feel nearer to my people.

So this hymn that expresses nearness to God is for me a timely expression of my faith and a picture of my current reality. In your contemplative time today, may you be inspired by listening to this beautiful hymn.

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=gCF2D98szaU

 

 

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“Nearer, Still Nearer”
Lelia N. Morris, pub.1898
Copyright status is Public Domain

Numb!

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Numb! It’s not a very emotive feeling like other emotions. It seems so much more appropriate to feel ecstatic, elated, overjoyed — or even terrified — at receiving the call from Mayo Clinic saying a kidney is available and the transplant is scheduled for November 15th. But numb is all I can get to right now. After all, this is a very tangible way of announcing an end to five years of illness, uncertainty and dialysis. Five years does not seem like such a long time, but it feels in some ways like a lifetime.

So in the immortal words of Pink Floyd, “I have become comfortably numb.” It’s not such a bad way to feel. The journey has been a long one, an emotional one, and now I think it’s time for calm. Numb is actually pretty darn calm, and after traveling this wild and fantastic journey, numb is okay. There’s something about numb that feels like serenity.

So many people have walked alongside me on this journey and, at times, carried me when I could barely take the next step. No one — and I really mean no one — could have been as dedicated and loving a caregiver as Fred. He is forever faithful as he has always been. 

And oh, my friends, my friends nearby and far away from many lives past to this very day! Thinking of them just now and knowing how faithfully and deeply they have prayed for me brings tears to my eyes. I am grateful for extended family who cared for me and Fred enough to urge us to Georgia. They have supported us in so many ways.

No person could have had a more dedicated and caring staff of dialysis professionals as I have had. They have missed nothing, not a change in a blood test, not the signs of an infection, nothing! And they are the ones who have kept me healthy enough to get to today.

My friend who is donating a kidney on my behalf is living a life of selflessness, giving a very precious gift of immeasurable value. I think of him today with such unfettered gratitude.

God’s grace and protection have been near, so near at times that I felt a palpable sense of the holy — within me, surrounding me, above me and below me, behind and before me guiding me on the unknown path.

As I said at the very beginning, I am numb, and although numb is acceptable and appropriate right now, numb is not such a good crucible for words. So I have no more words right now. Except this good word:

I thank my God every time I remember you, constantly praying with joy in every one of my prayers for all of you . . .

— Philippians 1:3-4 (NRSV)


For all that has been — Thanks.        
For all that shall be —Yes!

― Dag Hammarskjöld

Inner Warrior

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I got in touch this week with my inner warrior. She was in me all along, in a deep place inside, just waiting for the summons that I needed her. If you have read many of my blog posts, you know that I have been terrified at the thought of having a kidney transplant. For almost five years, the frightened part of me was able to put the transplant possibility away, tucked in a place inside that kept it off my mind. When I did consider transplant — like the times when my nephrologist told me that it was by far the best treatment for me — I reasoned that it was not something I was willing to do.

Why would I want to change anything? Dialysis has been good to me and, most of the time, I have felt well. So I have struggled with the transplant decision, but at the same time, I went through the medical evaluation that kept me on the transplant list. My nephrologist has insisted for years that I would feel better and live longer with a transplant. I remained unconvinced, and then I participated in a webinar that pushed my decision. The physician who was presenting said something that got my attention. He said that patients with end stage renal disease must be on dialysis, and dialysis is essentially end of life care that includes palliative care. If a patient has an illness that cannot be cured, such as end stage renal disease, he explained, palliative care keeps the patient as comfortable as possible by managing pain and other physical challenges, and by providing psychological, social and spiritual support. He went even further by saying that patients who stop dialysis live about two weeks on average.

I have been on the transplant list for five years, and in that time there has been no movement toward a transplant. The last time I went to the transplant center to update my medical evaluation, they told me that a transplant was not likely to happen in the next two years. I was okay with that. Nothing to get anxious about. The transplant decision was not going to happen in the near future. 

And then, out of the blue, I hear from an old friend who tells me he is contemplating the possibility of being a living donor for me. That was March 12. As of Monday, April 15, he had completed the thorough donor evaluation at Piedmont Transplant Institute in Atlanta, and by Wednesday of that week, Piedmont had called me in for testing.

My heart began to race this week and has continued, on and off. I would describe my current state as much, much more than anxious. I texted this week with a friend of mine and shared my fears. She told me about her multiple back surgeries and about how frightening surgery was for her. Then she said this: “I was really afraid before each back surgery, but I somehow dug down deep to a warrior place inside of me.”

Oh my! How well she described my current emotional place! I am certain that, indeed, there is a warrior place inside me. I reached it this week after the racing heart episodes eased up a bit. It is a surprise to me that now I find myself in deep peace, with a sense of calm. Not always have I been able to let God take control of my path. I am a person who will do almost anything to stay in control, to the point of fairly powerful wrestling with God for the proverbial reins of my life.

Not this time. This time, in this season of my life, I have taken a hands off approach, replacing my tendency to hold tightly to the reins with a sense of trust that has covered me like a soft blanket. I have thought in the last few days of the many passages of scripture about trust, but the one that stands out is the simplest one, the short one that we learned to recite as young children.

What time I am afraid, I will trust in you.

— Psalm 56:3

I am certain that there is a warrior place deep inside me. It brought me out of my year of life-threatening illness in 2014. It pushed me to get stronger. No doubt, it will be in play as I move closer to a kidney transplant. I am grateful that my friend reminded me this week of that deep, down warrior place. But I am also comforted in the assurance that, along with my inner warrior, there is in me a heart that can still trust God.