My nephew, Keegan, recommended a really excellent book which has been out for a while but I'd not yet read. I read it yesterday and found it to be one of the best books I've read in its genre. It's comparable to JRR Tolkein's and CS Lewis' books (Lord of the Rings and The Narnia Chronicles), but I find it especially interesting because it was written by a fifteen year old home-schooler. It's one of those books one reads which makes one feel as though one could never write anything like it; it's somewhat discouraging, but also awe-inspiring.
The book is much better, in my opinion, then the Potter series. It has magic in it, but not so strong a focus on "dark magic". The only part which bothered me a bit, initially, was a witch he incorporated into the story. I felt better, tho', when I found out "Angela", the witch, was meant to be a satire of his older sister, Angela. Anyway, it's a sweet story, vibrantly told with incredible detail and wonderful vocabulary. I highly recommend it, especially for readers who enjoy the Tolkein trilogy. I was really blown away at the thought of a person so young writing so beautifully. The book's web-site is: http://www.randomhouse.com/teens/eragon/
Sunday, May 22, 2005
Saturday, May 07, 2005
New blog in the Oberg menagerie
Check out the latest blogger in the Oberg family! It's really cool. It's at ozwick.blogspot.com
Wednesday, April 13, 2005
Had to share this, 'coz it cracked me up so!
I came across the following quote on my brother Steve's blog (http://www.familymanlibrarian.com/); to say the least it gave me the giggles! I can picture my nephew, Keegan, saying this very soberly, then breaking out into his quirky grin for the last part.
"A donkey doesn't even know it has a tail until it's bit!" Wise words from Keegan, followed by: "Man, I should be a fortune cooker writer!"
Of course, you need to know Keegan and what a great kid he is, with what a silly sense of humor he has, to really enjoy it.
"A donkey doesn't even know it has a tail until it's bit!" Wise words from Keegan, followed by: "Man, I should be a fortune cooker writer!"
Of course, you need to know Keegan and what a great kid he is, with what a silly sense of humor he has, to really enjoy it.
Tuesday, April 05, 2005
Ray's Story
I’ve been thinking lately about a child I took care of when I was working as a Pediatric ICU nurse in the Chicago-area a few years ago. “Ray” (a made up name to protect his confidentiality) was 22 months old and had suffered severe abuse.
“Ray” was being baby-sat by an aunt/cousin who decided he was old enough to be potty-trained. After “Ray” had had two accidents (after all it WAS his first day in training), the baby-sitter became so enraged, she ran a bath with scalding hot water and placed him in it. He suffered severe second-degree burns (the most painful kind of burns because they burn through to the nerve layer) of his lower legs and privates. When his dad (who was working two jobs despite being only 19yo) came to pick him up after work, the aunt blamed the child, saying he’d run the water and then climbed into the tub. This is, of course, ridiculous but it’s a frequent tactic by the abuser to blame the victim. Even though a child might run hot water in a tub, they would not deliberately sit down in it. It was obvious, from the burn pattern, “Ray” had been placed into the water; all of the burns were below the waist.
“Ray’s” dad brought him immediately to the nearest ER where he was admitted to the PICU for evaluation and treatment. Initially, sad to say just because “Ray’s” dad was sole-caregiver, he was suspected of the abuse, especially when the aunt stated the child had arrived at her home that morning with the burns! Fortunately, it was obvious the burns had occurred more recently than that and the only person who could have done it was the aunt. Despite days of accusations and being suspected of such a heinous crime, “Ray’s” dad just quietly and patiently stayed by his bedside, day and night, caring for him.
The incident I want to write of occurred one night when I was caring for “Ray”. By this time, he was in what’s called the Step-Down Unit (an area of the hospital where the child is too sick for the regular unit but not sick enough to be in ICU). When I went in on my nightly rounds, I found “Ray” had a dirty diaper. His dad who was deeply asleep in a chair by the bedside, had had to quit his job by then because he couldn’t stand for any other family members to care for “Ray” (who can blame him). As I reached for a clean diaper, “Ray’s” dad awoke and stood by the bedside watching me. When I went to clean “Ray” with a baby wipe, his dad stopped me and said, “Let me do it, please.” He took the wipe in his hand and held it until it was completely warmed through before using it to clean “Ray’s” terribly burned bottom. It was one of the sweetest and most loving gestures I’ve ever seen.
It probably seems silly in some ways for me to be so touched by this small gesture of love on the part of a teen-age dad, yet it was profoundly moving. All this dad cared about was that his son not experience any more suffering, even the touch of a cold wipe on his skin.
I think the reason I've had this memory on my mind is it reminds me of the love of our Heavenly Father Who is concerned His children not have to go through suffering and loss resulting from sin (whether our own sin or the sin’s of others upon us), and has provided the way of escape through His Son, Jesus Christ. This escape comes about only because His precious Son was willing to sacrifice His life so that we might have eternal life and to know His nearness in His Kingdom today. Because this world is such a broken, sin-filled place we can never completely escape suffering while living in it (much as our Abba wants us to be free of distress), but when we know Jesus as Lord, we always have the Comforter, the blessed Holy Spirit, on which to call.
It’s hard to sit by and watch family members experiencing suffering, especially when they are so undeserving of it, and have already suffered through extensive illness through this past year. It’s my prayer that they may know the nearness of our Father’s love and the Comfort of the Holy Spirit as they pass through this period of affliction. May it be your prayer, too.
“Ray” was being baby-sat by an aunt/cousin who decided he was old enough to be potty-trained. After “Ray” had had two accidents (after all it WAS his first day in training), the baby-sitter became so enraged, she ran a bath with scalding hot water and placed him in it. He suffered severe second-degree burns (the most painful kind of burns because they burn through to the nerve layer) of his lower legs and privates. When his dad (who was working two jobs despite being only 19yo) came to pick him up after work, the aunt blamed the child, saying he’d run the water and then climbed into the tub. This is, of course, ridiculous but it’s a frequent tactic by the abuser to blame the victim. Even though a child might run hot water in a tub, they would not deliberately sit down in it. It was obvious, from the burn pattern, “Ray” had been placed into the water; all of the burns were below the waist.
“Ray’s” dad brought him immediately to the nearest ER where he was admitted to the PICU for evaluation and treatment. Initially, sad to say just because “Ray’s” dad was sole-caregiver, he was suspected of the abuse, especially when the aunt stated the child had arrived at her home that morning with the burns! Fortunately, it was obvious the burns had occurred more recently than that and the only person who could have done it was the aunt. Despite days of accusations and being suspected of such a heinous crime, “Ray’s” dad just quietly and patiently stayed by his bedside, day and night, caring for him.
The incident I want to write of occurred one night when I was caring for “Ray”. By this time, he was in what’s called the Step-Down Unit (an area of the hospital where the child is too sick for the regular unit but not sick enough to be in ICU). When I went in on my nightly rounds, I found “Ray” had a dirty diaper. His dad who was deeply asleep in a chair by the bedside, had had to quit his job by then because he couldn’t stand for any other family members to care for “Ray” (who can blame him). As I reached for a clean diaper, “Ray’s” dad awoke and stood by the bedside watching me. When I went to clean “Ray” with a baby wipe, his dad stopped me and said, “Let me do it, please.” He took the wipe in his hand and held it until it was completely warmed through before using it to clean “Ray’s” terribly burned bottom. It was one of the sweetest and most loving gestures I’ve ever seen.
It probably seems silly in some ways for me to be so touched by this small gesture of love on the part of a teen-age dad, yet it was profoundly moving. All this dad cared about was that his son not experience any more suffering, even the touch of a cold wipe on his skin.
I think the reason I've had this memory on my mind is it reminds me of the love of our Heavenly Father Who is concerned His children not have to go through suffering and loss resulting from sin (whether our own sin or the sin’s of others upon us), and has provided the way of escape through His Son, Jesus Christ. This escape comes about only because His precious Son was willing to sacrifice His life so that we might have eternal life and to know His nearness in His Kingdom today. Because this world is such a broken, sin-filled place we can never completely escape suffering while living in it (much as our Abba wants us to be free of distress), but when we know Jesus as Lord, we always have the Comforter, the blessed Holy Spirit, on which to call.
It’s hard to sit by and watch family members experiencing suffering, especially when they are so undeserving of it, and have already suffered through extensive illness through this past year. It’s my prayer that they may know the nearness of our Father’s love and the Comfort of the Holy Spirit as they pass through this period of affliction. May it be your prayer, too.
Monday, April 04, 2005
Michele & Steve
Michele & Steve are really poorly. I know they'd appreciate your prayers (whoever out there is reading this(?)). Steven called tonight to say they are both suffering from what the doctors think is food poisoning, on top of Michele's worsening neurological problems. Michele may be able to get into see a Neurosurgeon (or Neurologist-->I'm not sure which) in Indianapolis tomorrow because she is getting so much worse; she has almost constant tremoring now, as well as slurred and shaking speech. Obviously it is terribly frightening for them both, and to be sick with this severe stomach ailment on top of things is overwhelming!
I don't know when I've been more frustrated; to have to sit here, a three and a half hour drive from them and not be able to help is really difficult. Am trying hard to leave matters in my Heavenly Father's hands, but am not as restful as I should be. I just want to help them so much. It broke my heart when Steve called tonight to ask if I (or Mother, or anyone else) could come over tonight, and I had to tell him that though I am working only part-time, I'm scheduled to work tomorrow, Wednesday and Friday. The desperation in his voice made me want to cry. Thankfully, Michele's Mom & Dad are going to drive over first thing in the AM to be with them. This will be good because they've only just spent a week with Michele's parents, so the kids are comfortable being with them, etc. It's been confusing and difficult for the children to see both parents so unwell, so please pray for them, as well (Keegan 13yo, Tristan 4yo, Brinley 2yo, and Cohen 1yo).
Pray especially that Michele (& Steve because he finds it so hard to watch her suffer) have a sense of the Father's arms of love enveloping them, and with that enveloping love, peace.
I don't know when I've been more frustrated; to have to sit here, a three and a half hour drive from them and not be able to help is really difficult. Am trying hard to leave matters in my Heavenly Father's hands, but am not as restful as I should be. I just want to help them so much. It broke my heart when Steve called tonight to ask if I (or Mother, or anyone else) could come over tonight, and I had to tell him that though I am working only part-time, I'm scheduled to work tomorrow, Wednesday and Friday. The desperation in his voice made me want to cry. Thankfully, Michele's Mom & Dad are going to drive over first thing in the AM to be with them. This will be good because they've only just spent a week with Michele's parents, so the kids are comfortable being with them, etc. It's been confusing and difficult for the children to see both parents so unwell, so please pray for them, as well (Keegan 13yo, Tristan 4yo, Brinley 2yo, and Cohen 1yo).
Pray especially that Michele (& Steve because he finds it so hard to watch her suffer) have a sense of the Father's arms of love enveloping them, and with that enveloping love, peace.
"To a Lady with Whom I've Been Intimate, Whose Name I Do Not Know" by Walter Wangerin, Jr.
Here’s the other story; it’s not well known (like “Ragman” is) but is as beautiful. Pastor Wangerin writes with such love and a perspective I'd like to one day know with my whole-heart. It's a state of being which can only be termed Christ-like. The story is especially precious because I can see myself in it…
"To a Lady with Whom I've Been Intimate,
Whose Name I Do Not Know"
You. I saw you in the Great Scot Supermarket tonight, and now I can't sleep on account of you--thinking that, perhaps, you're not sleeping either.
Ah, you! You count your coins with bitten nails, not once but again and again. This is the way you avoid the checker’s eyes, as though ashamed of the goods you buy, as though they declare your loneliness at midnight:
Two six-packs of Tab, because your buttocks, sheathed in shorts, are enormous and hump up your back as you shift your weight from foot to foot. You sigh. I think that you do not know how deeply you sigh, nor yet that I am behind you in the line.
Four frozen dinners whose cartons assure you that there is an apple dessert inside. Swiss steak, roast beef in gravy, chicken drumsticks, shrimp. Which one will you save for Sunday dinner? Do you dress up for Sunday dinner? Do you set the table neatly when the dinner thaws? Or do you eat alone, frowning?
Liquid breakfasts, a carton of Marlboros, five Hershey bars, Tampax, vitamins with iron, a People magazine, Ayds to fight an appetite, two large bags of potato chips. At the very last minute you toss a Harlequin paperback on the counter. Is this what you read at Sunday dinner? Is this your company?
What private wars are waged between your kitchen and your bathroom? Here I see an arsenal for both sides: the She who would lose weight against the She who asks, “Why?” and “So what?”—the She whose desires are fed too much, even while they are hardly fed at all. “It’s your own fault,” the first accuses; “two tons were never tons of love.” But the other cries, “If I were loved I would not need to eat.”
Ah, you.
Rubber thongs on your feet. The polish on your toenails has grown a quarter inch above the cuticle. I notice this because when the checker rings your bill, you drop a quarter which rolls behind me in the line. I stoop to pick it up. When I rise, your hand is already out and you are saying, “Thanks,” even before I returned it to you.
But I do a foolish thing, suddenly, for which I now ask your forgiveness. I didn’t know how dreadfully it would complicate your night.
I hold the quarter an instant in my hand; I look you in the eyes—grey eyes of an honest, charcoal emotion—and I say, “Hello.” And then I say, “How are you?” I truly meant that question. I’m sorry.
Shock hits your face. For one second you search my eyes; your cheeks slacken, then, as though they lost their restraint and might cry. That frightens me: what will I do if you cry? But then your lips curl inward; your nostrils flare; the grey eyes flash; and all at once you are very, very angry.
Like a snake your left hand strikes my wrist and holds it, while the right scrapes the quarter from my hand. I am astonished, both by your strength and by your passion.
You hissed when you hurt me. I heard it and remember it still. Then you paid, crunched the sacks against your breast, and walked out into the night, the thongs sadly slapping at your heels.
Ah, you. You.
How much I must have hurt you by my question. Was that mild commonplace too much a probe, too lethal, too threatening for the delicate balance your life has created for itself? Does kindness terrify you because then, perhaps, you would have to do more than imagine the Harlequin, but then would have to be?
I think so.
To cross the gulf from Life Alone to Life Beloved—truly to be real, truly to be worthy in the eyes of another—means that you are no more your own possession. You give yourself away, and then games all come to an end. No longer can you pretend excuses or accusations against the world; nor can you imagine lies concerning your beauty, your gifts and possibilities. Everything becomes what it really is, for you are seen and you know it. “How are you” triggers “Who are you.” And it wasn’t so much that I said it, but rather that I meant it and that I awaited an answer, too—this caused the lonely She to know her loneliness, even in the moment when I offered you the other thing: friendship.
It’s frightening, isn’t it?
To be loved, dear lady, you must let all illusions die. And since, between the bathroom and the kitchen, between People magazine and the Harlequin, your Self was mostly illusion—at least the acceptable self—then to be loved meant that your very Self had to die—at least the acceptable self.
Instead, you attacked, and my wrist is still bruised tonight. Ah, you.
A rich young ruler came to Jesus, desiring eternal life. He announced that he had kept all the commandments and wondered whether that weren’t enough. But Jesus told him he lacked one thing. He ought, said Jesus, to sell all that he had and give the money to the poor. Upon these words, two were made sorrowful: the rich, because he could not lose his riches, which were his identity and his elf; he turned away. And Jesus, because he loved and would not love this man; but the man turned away.
Riches. O my dear and lonely lady, how rich are you in your illusions. Ironically, you cling to the very loneliness which you despise. It feels safe. But love—God’s love—always comes in light. That’s what scares you. Light illumines truth; obesity, the foolish game between Ayds and potato chips, between cigarettes and vitamins. These things are the truth. These you hide. Yet it is only truth that Jesus can love. He cannot love your imaginings, your riches. Sell all that you have. Undress—
Not me, after all. It is Jesus who asks, “How are you?” And if you would then sell the false self by which you sustain the contemptible Self and die; if you would answer truly, “I’m fat, helpless and alone, unlovely,” then he would love you. No: then you would know that he has loved you all along. To see one truth is to discover the other—which is that he loves you not because you are loveable, but because he is love. And here is the power of his love, that it makes ugliness beautiful! To be loved of God is to be lovely indeed.
All night long I keep a quarter back and ask, “How are you?” I can’t sleep, waiting for the truth: “I’m just terrible.” For then I would cry, “Good! Now there’s a confession I can love!”
And the mighty God, the trumpet-voiced, cries, “I love a child. But she is afraid of me. Then how can I come to her, to feed and to heal her by my love?—“
(Both “Ragman” and this story are taken from the book, “Ragman and Other Cries of Faith” by Walter Wangerin, Jr.)
"To a Lady with Whom I've Been Intimate,
Whose Name I Do Not Know"
You. I saw you in the Great Scot Supermarket tonight, and now I can't sleep on account of you--thinking that, perhaps, you're not sleeping either.
Ah, you! You count your coins with bitten nails, not once but again and again. This is the way you avoid the checker’s eyes, as though ashamed of the goods you buy, as though they declare your loneliness at midnight:
Two six-packs of Tab, because your buttocks, sheathed in shorts, are enormous and hump up your back as you shift your weight from foot to foot. You sigh. I think that you do not know how deeply you sigh, nor yet that I am behind you in the line.
Four frozen dinners whose cartons assure you that there is an apple dessert inside. Swiss steak, roast beef in gravy, chicken drumsticks, shrimp. Which one will you save for Sunday dinner? Do you dress up for Sunday dinner? Do you set the table neatly when the dinner thaws? Or do you eat alone, frowning?
Liquid breakfasts, a carton of Marlboros, five Hershey bars, Tampax, vitamins with iron, a People magazine, Ayds to fight an appetite, two large bags of potato chips. At the very last minute you toss a Harlequin paperback on the counter. Is this what you read at Sunday dinner? Is this your company?
What private wars are waged between your kitchen and your bathroom? Here I see an arsenal for both sides: the She who would lose weight against the She who asks, “Why?” and “So what?”—the She whose desires are fed too much, even while they are hardly fed at all. “It’s your own fault,” the first accuses; “two tons were never tons of love.” But the other cries, “If I were loved I would not need to eat.”
Ah, you.
Rubber thongs on your feet. The polish on your toenails has grown a quarter inch above the cuticle. I notice this because when the checker rings your bill, you drop a quarter which rolls behind me in the line. I stoop to pick it up. When I rise, your hand is already out and you are saying, “Thanks,” even before I returned it to you.
But I do a foolish thing, suddenly, for which I now ask your forgiveness. I didn’t know how dreadfully it would complicate your night.
I hold the quarter an instant in my hand; I look you in the eyes—grey eyes of an honest, charcoal emotion—and I say, “Hello.” And then I say, “How are you?” I truly meant that question. I’m sorry.
Shock hits your face. For one second you search my eyes; your cheeks slacken, then, as though they lost their restraint and might cry. That frightens me: what will I do if you cry? But then your lips curl inward; your nostrils flare; the grey eyes flash; and all at once you are very, very angry.
Like a snake your left hand strikes my wrist and holds it, while the right scrapes the quarter from my hand. I am astonished, both by your strength and by your passion.
You hissed when you hurt me. I heard it and remember it still. Then you paid, crunched the sacks against your breast, and walked out into the night, the thongs sadly slapping at your heels.
Ah, you. You.
How much I must have hurt you by my question. Was that mild commonplace too much a probe, too lethal, too threatening for the delicate balance your life has created for itself? Does kindness terrify you because then, perhaps, you would have to do more than imagine the Harlequin, but then would have to be?
I think so.
To cross the gulf from Life Alone to Life Beloved—truly to be real, truly to be worthy in the eyes of another—means that you are no more your own possession. You give yourself away, and then games all come to an end. No longer can you pretend excuses or accusations against the world; nor can you imagine lies concerning your beauty, your gifts and possibilities. Everything becomes what it really is, for you are seen and you know it. “How are you” triggers “Who are you.” And it wasn’t so much that I said it, but rather that I meant it and that I awaited an answer, too—this caused the lonely She to know her loneliness, even in the moment when I offered you the other thing: friendship.
It’s frightening, isn’t it?
To be loved, dear lady, you must let all illusions die. And since, between the bathroom and the kitchen, between People magazine and the Harlequin, your Self was mostly illusion—at least the acceptable self—then to be loved meant that your very Self had to die—at least the acceptable self.
Instead, you attacked, and my wrist is still bruised tonight. Ah, you.
A rich young ruler came to Jesus, desiring eternal life. He announced that he had kept all the commandments and wondered whether that weren’t enough. But Jesus told him he lacked one thing. He ought, said Jesus, to sell all that he had and give the money to the poor. Upon these words, two were made sorrowful: the rich, because he could not lose his riches, which were his identity and his elf; he turned away. And Jesus, because he loved and would not love this man; but the man turned away.
Riches. O my dear and lonely lady, how rich are you in your illusions. Ironically, you cling to the very loneliness which you despise. It feels safe. But love—God’s love—always comes in light. That’s what scares you. Light illumines truth; obesity, the foolish game between Ayds and potato chips, between cigarettes and vitamins. These things are the truth. These you hide. Yet it is only truth that Jesus can love. He cannot love your imaginings, your riches. Sell all that you have. Undress—
Not me, after all. It is Jesus who asks, “How are you?” And if you would then sell the false self by which you sustain the contemptible Self and die; if you would answer truly, “I’m fat, helpless and alone, unlovely,” then he would love you. No: then you would know that he has loved you all along. To see one truth is to discover the other—which is that he loves you not because you are loveable, but because he is love. And here is the power of his love, that it makes ugliness beautiful! To be loved of God is to be lovely indeed.
All night long I keep a quarter back and ask, “How are you?” I can’t sleep, waiting for the truth: “I’m just terrible.” For then I would cry, “Good! Now there’s a confession I can love!”
And the mighty God, the trumpet-voiced, cries, “I love a child. But she is afraid of me. Then how can I come to her, to feed and to heal her by my love?—“
(Both “Ragman” and this story are taken from the book, “Ragman and Other Cries of Faith” by Walter Wangerin, Jr.)
"Ragman" by Walter Wangerin
Just wanted to share two of my all time favorite Walt Wangerin stories. I know I've been in a rut with his works but the Lord really has used them to help me to grow spiritually, especially into a deeper understanding of the love of God.
RAGMAN
(by Walt Wangerin)
I saw a strange sight, I stumbled upon a story most strange, like nothing my life, my street sense, my sly tongue had ever prepared me for.
Hush, child. Hush, now, and I will tell it to you.
Even before the dawn one Friday morning I noticed a young man, handsome and strong, walking the alleys of our City. He was pulling an old cart filled with clothes both bright and new, and he was calling in a clear, tenor voice: “Rags!” Ah, the air was foul and the first light filthy to be crossed by such sweet music.
“Rags! New rags or old! I take your tired rags! Rags!”
“Now, this is a wonder,” I thought to myself, for the man stood six-feet-four, and his arms were like tree limbs, hard and muscular, and his eyes flashed intelligence. Could he find no better job than this, to be a ragman in the inner city?
I followed him. My curiosity drove me. And I wasn’t disappointed.
Soon the Ragman saw a woman sitting on her back porch. She was sobbing into a handkerchief, sighing, and shedding a thousand tears. Her knees and elbows made a sad X. Her shoulders shook. Her heart was breaking.
The Ragman stopped his cart. Quietly, he walked to the woman, stepping round tin cans, dead toys, and Pampers.
“Give me your rag,” he said so gently, “and I’ll give you another.”
He slipped the handkerchief from her eyes. She looked up, and he laid across her palm a linen cloth so clean and new that it shined. She blinked from the gift to the giver.
Then, as he began to pull his cart again, the Ragman did a strange thing: he put her stained handkerchief to his own face; and then he began to weep, to sob as grievously as she had done, his shoulders shaking. Yet she was left without a tear.
“This is a wonder,” I breathed to myself, and I followed the sobbing Ragman like a child who cannot turn away from mystery.
“Rags! Rags! New rags for old!”
In a little while, when the sky showed grey behind the rooftops and I could see the shredded curtains hanging out black windows, the Ragman came upon a girl whose head was wrapped in a bandage, whose eyes were empty. Blood soaked her bandage. A single line of blood ran down her cheek.
Now the tall Ragman looked upon this child with pity, and he drew a lovely yellow bonnet from his cart.
“Give me your rag,” he said, tracing his own line on her cheek, “and I’ll give you mine.”
The child could only gaze at him while he loosened the bandage, removed it, and tied it to his own head. The bonnet he set on hers. And I gasped at what I saw: for with the bandage went the wound! Against his brow it ran a darker, more substantial blood—his own!
“Rags! Rags! I take old rags!” cried the sobbing, bleeding, strong, intelligent Ragman.
The sun hurt both the sky, now, and my eyes; the Ragman seemed more and more to hurry.
“Are you going to work?” he asked a man who leaned against a telephone pole. The man shook his head.
The Ragman pressed him: “Do you have a job?”
“Are you crazy?” sneered the other. He pulled away from the pole, revealing the right sleeve of his jacket—flat, the cuff stuffed into the pocket. He had no arm.
“So,” said the Ragman. “Give me your jacket, and I’ll give you mine.”
Such quiet authority in his voice!
The one-armed man took off his jacket. So did the Ragman—and I trembled at what I saw: for the Ragman’s arm stayed in its sleeve, and when the other put it on he had two good arms, thick as tree limbs; but the Ragman had only one.
“Go to work,” he said.
After that he found a drunk, lying unconscious beneath an army blanket, an old man, hunched, wizened, and sick. He took that blanket and wrapped it round himself, but for the drunk he left new clothes.
And now I had to run to keep up with the Ragman. Though he was weeping uncontrollably, and bleeding freely at the forehead, pulling his cart with one arm, stumbling for drunkenness, falling again and again, exhausted, old, old and sick, yet he went with terrible speed. On spider’s legs he skittered through the alleys of the City, this mile and the next, until he came to its limits, and then he rushed beyond.
I wept to see the change in this man. I hurt to see his sorrow. And yet I needed to see where he was going in such haste, perhaps to know what drove him so.
The little old Ragman—he came to a landfill. He came to the garbage pits. And then I wanted to help him in what he did, but I hung back, hiding. He climbed a hill. With tormented labor he cleared a little space on that hill. The he sighted. He lay down. He pillowed his head on a handkerchief and a jacket. He covered his bones with an army blanket. And he died.
Oh, how I cried to witness that death! I slumped in a junked car and wailed and mourned as one who has no hope—because I had come to love the Ragman. Every other face had faded in the wonder of this man, and I cherished him; but he died. I sobbed myself to sleep.
I did not know—how could I know?-that I slept through Friday night and Saturday and its night, too.
But then, on Sunday morning, I was wakened by a violence.
Light—pure, hard, demanding light—slammed against my sour face, and I blinked, and I looked, and I saw the last and the first wonder of all. There was the Ragman, folding the blanket most carefully, a scar on his forehead, but alive! And, besides that, healthy! There was no sign of sorrow nor of age, and all the rags that he had gathered shined for cleanliness.
Well, then I lowered my head and, trembling for all that I had seen, I myself walked up to the Ragman. I told him my name with shame, for I was a sorry figure next to him. Then I took off all my clothes in that place, and I said to him with dear yearning in my voice, “Dress me.”
He dressed me. My Lord, he put new rags on me, and I am a wonder beside him.
The Ragman, the Ragman, the Christ!
RAGMAN
(by Walt Wangerin)
I saw a strange sight, I stumbled upon a story most strange, like nothing my life, my street sense, my sly tongue had ever prepared me for.
Hush, child. Hush, now, and I will tell it to you.
Even before the dawn one Friday morning I noticed a young man, handsome and strong, walking the alleys of our City. He was pulling an old cart filled with clothes both bright and new, and he was calling in a clear, tenor voice: “Rags!” Ah, the air was foul and the first light filthy to be crossed by such sweet music.
“Rags! New rags or old! I take your tired rags! Rags!”
“Now, this is a wonder,” I thought to myself, for the man stood six-feet-four, and his arms were like tree limbs, hard and muscular, and his eyes flashed intelligence. Could he find no better job than this, to be a ragman in the inner city?
I followed him. My curiosity drove me. And I wasn’t disappointed.
Soon the Ragman saw a woman sitting on her back porch. She was sobbing into a handkerchief, sighing, and shedding a thousand tears. Her knees and elbows made a sad X. Her shoulders shook. Her heart was breaking.
The Ragman stopped his cart. Quietly, he walked to the woman, stepping round tin cans, dead toys, and Pampers.
“Give me your rag,” he said so gently, “and I’ll give you another.”
He slipped the handkerchief from her eyes. She looked up, and he laid across her palm a linen cloth so clean and new that it shined. She blinked from the gift to the giver.
Then, as he began to pull his cart again, the Ragman did a strange thing: he put her stained handkerchief to his own face; and then he began to weep, to sob as grievously as she had done, his shoulders shaking. Yet she was left without a tear.
“This is a wonder,” I breathed to myself, and I followed the sobbing Ragman like a child who cannot turn away from mystery.
“Rags! Rags! New rags for old!”
In a little while, when the sky showed grey behind the rooftops and I could see the shredded curtains hanging out black windows, the Ragman came upon a girl whose head was wrapped in a bandage, whose eyes were empty. Blood soaked her bandage. A single line of blood ran down her cheek.
Now the tall Ragman looked upon this child with pity, and he drew a lovely yellow bonnet from his cart.
“Give me your rag,” he said, tracing his own line on her cheek, “and I’ll give you mine.”
The child could only gaze at him while he loosened the bandage, removed it, and tied it to his own head. The bonnet he set on hers. And I gasped at what I saw: for with the bandage went the wound! Against his brow it ran a darker, more substantial blood—his own!
“Rags! Rags! I take old rags!” cried the sobbing, bleeding, strong, intelligent Ragman.
The sun hurt both the sky, now, and my eyes; the Ragman seemed more and more to hurry.
“Are you going to work?” he asked a man who leaned against a telephone pole. The man shook his head.
The Ragman pressed him: “Do you have a job?”
“Are you crazy?” sneered the other. He pulled away from the pole, revealing the right sleeve of his jacket—flat, the cuff stuffed into the pocket. He had no arm.
“So,” said the Ragman. “Give me your jacket, and I’ll give you mine.”
Such quiet authority in his voice!
The one-armed man took off his jacket. So did the Ragman—and I trembled at what I saw: for the Ragman’s arm stayed in its sleeve, and when the other put it on he had two good arms, thick as tree limbs; but the Ragman had only one.
“Go to work,” he said.
After that he found a drunk, lying unconscious beneath an army blanket, an old man, hunched, wizened, and sick. He took that blanket and wrapped it round himself, but for the drunk he left new clothes.
And now I had to run to keep up with the Ragman. Though he was weeping uncontrollably, and bleeding freely at the forehead, pulling his cart with one arm, stumbling for drunkenness, falling again and again, exhausted, old, old and sick, yet he went with terrible speed. On spider’s legs he skittered through the alleys of the City, this mile and the next, until he came to its limits, and then he rushed beyond.
I wept to see the change in this man. I hurt to see his sorrow. And yet I needed to see where he was going in such haste, perhaps to know what drove him so.
The little old Ragman—he came to a landfill. He came to the garbage pits. And then I wanted to help him in what he did, but I hung back, hiding. He climbed a hill. With tormented labor he cleared a little space on that hill. The he sighted. He lay down. He pillowed his head on a handkerchief and a jacket. He covered his bones with an army blanket. And he died.
Oh, how I cried to witness that death! I slumped in a junked car and wailed and mourned as one who has no hope—because I had come to love the Ragman. Every other face had faded in the wonder of this man, and I cherished him; but he died. I sobbed myself to sleep.
I did not know—how could I know?-that I slept through Friday night and Saturday and its night, too.
But then, on Sunday morning, I was wakened by a violence.
Light—pure, hard, demanding light—slammed against my sour face, and I blinked, and I looked, and I saw the last and the first wonder of all. There was the Ragman, folding the blanket most carefully, a scar on his forehead, but alive! And, besides that, healthy! There was no sign of sorrow nor of age, and all the rags that he had gathered shined for cleanliness.
Well, then I lowered my head and, trembling for all that I had seen, I myself walked up to the Ragman. I told him my name with shame, for I was a sorry figure next to him. Then I took off all my clothes in that place, and I said to him with dear yearning in my voice, “Dress me.”
He dressed me. My Lord, he put new rags on me, and I am a wonder beside him.
The Ragman, the Ragman, the Christ!
Prayer
Please pray for my sister-at-heart, Michele. She and my brother Steve are the parents of four very active children and Michele has been going through a rough time. The hardest part is the doctors aren't sure what's wrong, except that a CT scan of her brain showed "shadows" that were worrisome, so she is to have an MRI on Friday.
Michele is one of the strongest persons I know, in every way. I think she'd laugh at me for saying that, but given all she's gone through in her life, she's stronger than she knows. In a way, this is what makes it so hard to hear of her suffering. I wish I could help in some way, but feel utterly helpless, living so far away.
Anyway, when I mentioned this morning that we had lots to worry about, my Mum said, "No, we have lots to PRAY about!" I think that says it all!!!
Michele is one of the strongest persons I know, in every way. I think she'd laugh at me for saying that, but given all she's gone through in her life, she's stronger than she knows. In a way, this is what makes it so hard to hear of her suffering. I wish I could help in some way, but feel utterly helpless, living so far away.
Anyway, when I mentioned this morning that we had lots to worry about, my Mum said, "No, we have lots to PRAY about!" I think that says it all!!!
Sunday, March 27, 2005
The Gospel
Really enjoyed the Gospel today which was preached by my dear, childhood friend Gary C. He spoke simply about the Lord on the cross between the two malefactors, in Luke 23, v. 39-43. A few things Gary said really affected me. One was how, in the Darby translation, verse 42, the thief says, "And he said to Jesus, Remember me, [Lord,] when thou comest in thy kingdom." Gary pointed out that tho' the thief had never known the Lord Jesus before then, in the short time he DID know Him, he acknowledged Jesus as his Lord. Then Gary went on to say how Jesus' reply was, "Verily I say to thee, To-day shalt thou be with me in paradise." v. 43 and pointed out how the scripture says, not tomorrow, but "TODAY shalt thou be with me in paradise". He said our hope in Christ Jesus begins today, not in a future time. We don't have to wait to know our Lord Jesus in a living and intimate way. This relationship is meant for the present time. He also pointed out the malefactor didn't have to wait to be baptized or to do any thing else to make himself ready (or worthy) of redemption; he would be in the Lord's presence that DAY.
Some other thing's Gary spoke of were, first, Jesus, while hanging on the cross, was horribly brutalized; He would have hardly looked human. Scripture speaks of His face being "marred more than any man". Yet there was something in HIm which drew the good thief to HIm. It was just a really moving word picture for me to think about; the love of God shining out so brightly in a broken Man, others were forced to acknowledge Him as Lord. Gary also pointed out that Jesus, crucified, was reaching out the same distance to each thief (one on either side of Him), yet, again, only one turned to Him and knew Him as Lord; He's reaching out in the same way today.
Finally, Gary also spoke of the scripture where the Lord Jesus says, "My sheep know my voice." (I wasn't the only visitor at the Gospel, we also had a Mexican immigrant by the name of Jesus who was visiting for the first time, apparently.) Gary mentioned how God is not limited and our Lord Jesus didn't speak English (G. mentioned, as an aside, what a shock this was to him when he first found out about it), yet His people of all languages recognize His voice and, by the Holy Spirit, they understand His will/instruction. He compared this to knowing a friend's voice on the phone, how through relationship and nearness came sensitivity to the Other's voice, in all it's nuances. Even tho' this is a scripture passage I've always known I was touched again by it, today.
Anyway, it was a joy to hear the Gospel preached; to hear the true Hope of our salvation. I've missed hearing this because, sorrowfully, most churches avoid it, preferring a "Friendship Gospel" approach. I felt as tho' I'd come home.
Some other thing's Gary spoke of were, first, Jesus, while hanging on the cross, was horribly brutalized; He would have hardly looked human. Scripture speaks of His face being "marred more than any man". Yet there was something in HIm which drew the good thief to HIm. It was just a really moving word picture for me to think about; the love of God shining out so brightly in a broken Man, others were forced to acknowledge Him as Lord. Gary also pointed out that Jesus, crucified, was reaching out the same distance to each thief (one on either side of Him), yet, again, only one turned to Him and knew Him as Lord; He's reaching out in the same way today.
Finally, Gary also spoke of the scripture where the Lord Jesus says, "My sheep know my voice." (I wasn't the only visitor at the Gospel, we also had a Mexican immigrant by the name of Jesus who was visiting for the first time, apparently.) Gary mentioned how God is not limited and our Lord Jesus didn't speak English (G. mentioned, as an aside, what a shock this was to him when he first found out about it), yet His people of all languages recognize His voice and, by the Holy Spirit, they understand His will/instruction. He compared this to knowing a friend's voice on the phone, how through relationship and nearness came sensitivity to the Other's voice, in all it's nuances. Even tho' this is a scripture passage I've always known I was touched again by it, today.
Anyway, it was a joy to hear the Gospel preached; to hear the true Hope of our salvation. I've missed hearing this because, sorrowfully, most churches avoid it, preferring a "Friendship Gospel" approach. I felt as tho' I'd come home.
Funked it
I didn't make it to the morning meeting this morning. What with getting very little sleep (the last two or three days have been really bad pain days, as well), I didn't go. I was afraid, too, of becoming overly emotional because of how hard it would be to sit back and watch, but not participate. I guess that's where pride comes in again because if I had faith, God would give me the grace and strength to overcome my emotions.
I'm glad to be going to the Gospel this afternoon, anyway.
I'm glad to be going to the Gospel this afternoon, anyway.
Going back to my childhood Fellowship
It's 2am and I'm too excited to sleep. Today is Easter Sunday and I've finally decided to go to the Breaking of Bread, with the Fellowship I was raised in, for the first time in over ten years; I'd like to commit myself to them as my home church because I believe this is where the Lord wants me to be. In saying this, I know I need to be more faithful and open than I've been, and have to prove myself to them (and myself). I've really struggled with the idea of returning to the Fellowship due to feelings of hurt and pride I've been unable to set aside, until now. Honestly, I am still struggling with this but my Lord is able to save and His Spirit lives within me.
I find myself deeply excited about going to the Lord's Supper and believe, wholeheartedly, if this is where the Lord Jesus desires me to be, then He will give me the grace to overcome the bitterness and hurt I've felt, and give me peace. It won't be easy, I know, especially to humble myself and take whatever comes, but He is able to give me the grace I need to do His will, praise His Holy name!
It's really a relief to give up the fight and put it all into my loving Father's hands. I can rest in HIs peace.
I find myself deeply excited about going to the Lord's Supper and believe, wholeheartedly, if this is where the Lord Jesus desires me to be, then He will give me the grace to overcome the bitterness and hurt I've felt, and give me peace. It won't be easy, I know, especially to humble myself and take whatever comes, but He is able to give me the grace I need to do His will, praise His Holy name!
It's really a relief to give up the fight and put it all into my loving Father's hands. I can rest in HIs peace.
Saturday, March 26, 2005
YAHOO! WHAT A COMEBACK!
Well, those wonderful Flyin' Illini have done it again! The beauty of this team is their wonderful teamwork; how they care for each other both on and off the court, and, as was obvious against Arizona, their 'never say die' attitude. What a great game. I have to confess, tho', I didn't expect them to win and couldn't watch it. My family has no TV so we are reduced to getting updates via the web, yet I couldn't even get those until there was only 0.03 sec left in regulation!
Wow! What heart they showed in coming back from 15 points down with only four minutes left and 7 points down with a little over a minute left! I am really impressed by there courage. Regardless of what happens next, I believe they're a team for the ages.
Wow! What heart they showed in coming back from 15 points down with only four minutes left and 7 points down with a little over a minute left! I am really impressed by there courage. Regardless of what happens next, I believe they're a team for the ages.
Tuesday, March 22, 2005
Another "Book of Sorrows" passage
Just wanted to share another passage that moved my heart from Walt Wangerin's "The Book of Sorrows". The story is similar to "Animal Farm" in that it's about animals that speak, but it is much better, I believe. Chauntecleer, as I mentioned before, is the lord over the land and is there to help and protect the animals, keeping order at the same time. Pertelote, a hen, is his wife and in his absence takes over the care-giving of the animals. During a great portion of the book, Chauntecleer goes away to ease his guilt by doing battle with Wyrm, a great and insidious evil that has caused much suffering and loss to the animals in general and Chauntecleer and Pertelote in particular (he killed their three sons, Pin’s One, Five and Ten).
During Chauntecleer's absence, seven little mice, nicknamed "The Tags", whom Chauntecleer saved from death, when they were tiny babies in the first book, "The Book of the Dun Cow", become concerned at how lonely Pertelote seems. They love both the Rooster and His Hen deeply and long to help in any way they can, so they devise a plan to help Pertelote not be so lonely. This is their plan:
"Mice and a midnight raid.
Pertelote (who is roosting in the branch of a Hemlock tree above the snowy ground*) had nearly tucked her head beneath her wing again when a change in the noises drew her attention and a curious activity held it. No, it was a very daring activity--for Mice. While six stood semicircle, staring straight up with their noses, their mouths hanging open, the seventh Mouse had begun to climb (the*) tree. He had all four legs extended as wide as they would go, like a daddy-longlegs on the wall; each paw had its little nip of bark; and he was trembling so furiously he looked like a plucked rubber band. But his expression was earnest. And somewhere inside of him was the conviction that he could climb a tree, and somewhere, too, the notion that he should climb a tree.
Pertelote forgot, for the moment, the torments of the day in watching this tiny test of fortitude: Well, can you do it, Wodenstag?
The Brothers whispered upward, “Are you going to fall? Should we get out of the way?”
But grand efforts are always performed in solitude. Wodenstag answered them nothing. What he did, stuck to the trunk of a tree; he trembled. His chin drummed the bark like a woodpecker—and lo! His eyes lit up. It must have been the chin-drumming that imparted him a flash of insight, because he suddenly called, “Bite the bark!” And Pertelote felt a little cheer in her throat. “Bite the bark. There’s the ticket!” Wodenstag bit the bark. So then he could let go successive paws to move them higher up—and what is that if it is not climbing? Why, it’s climbing of the finest sort! Pertelote wasn’t tired. She was enjoying a miniature triumph. Bite the bark! What a breakthrough.
So then up the tree trunk, one by one, with instructions from Wodenstag on a branch above, and encouragement from Brothers on the snow below, a constant buzzing of grunts and information, Mice climbed the tree. A string of thieves up a tree. And how they patted Samstag, and how they praised that youngest Brother when he had gained the branch with them. How they congratulated one another all around—and then!
Then they turned in unison to look down the branch itself, and the Hen at the end of it. So that stilled their jubilations.
“She’s probably sleeping,” they said in dreadful quiet.
“So much the better,” said Wodenstag. “She needs to sleep.”
Pertelote experienced a true softening in her breast, and her head inclined for gladness. Why, the Tags were thinking of her!
So Wodenstag came balancing along the branch, picking his inches with monumental care. And after him, frowning severely, Donnerstag. And Sonntag, and so forth, all staring at the wood in front of them as if the staring itself were gripping. And then this is what they did: they lined up next to Pertelote, side by side, sitting on two legs (aye, there was the peril: two legs) and facing south the same as she. And then they were done. This was it. This is what they came for. As solemnly as worship they sat still.
Rather, they tried to sit still. In fact, they had all begun independently of one another to rock. Forward and backward, in an effort to keep their balances, like round-bottom pepper-shakers. Too far forward (“Whoa!”), too far backward (“Whoa! Whoa!”), but all done with the greatest solemnity and an air that it was right to be here; no other place to be, amen.
Pertelote the Hen for whom they had come, she could only shake her head. There was a pressure in her heart that might have been laughter or might have been tears, either one.
“Tags,” said Pertelote.
“Ah, Lady. Ah, Lady, we didn’t mean to wake you up,” whispered Wodenstag as though she were still sleeping. He began to pat her side.
“But here you are,” she said.
“Yes,” he said, simply because it was the fact. “All of us.”
“What a remarkable thing for you to do.”
“It isn’t easy to climb a tree,” said Wodenstag.
“Whoa!” said Montag. And Sonntag said, “Whoa!” spinning is forepaws like whirligigs.
“But it’s night,” said Pertelote.
“Yes,” said Wodenstag, patting her, patting her. “And a very dark night, too, I think.”
“Aren’t you going back to sleep?”
“Whoa!” said Dienstag. “Whoa!”
“Maybe we could sleep right here, said Wodenstag. “We thought that this would be a very good spot for a sleep.”
“Who! Whoa!” It was Freitag who tipped too far backward, too far altogether. Up shot his hind legs, and down went the whole mouse, plump into a snowbank.
Pertelote seemed the only one to notice his departure. “I don’t suppose,” she said, “that it’s easy for a Mouse to sit this way?”
“Roosting,” Wodenstag explained.
Samstag went over head first—“Whoa!”—and plopped into snow.
“We talked it over,” said Wodenstag. “We agreed that this would be an excellent way to sleep sometimes.”
Donnerstag dropped.
Freitag had begun to climb the tree trunk again, whispering, “Bite the bark.”
“Whoa! Whoa!” said Montag and Sonntag together. They had locked arms.
Wodenstag himself still patted Pertelote. Sometimes he clung to one little feather; but then he patted her again.
“Why Wodenstag?” said Pertelote. “Could you tell me why you decided all these things?”
Samstag was on his way up the trunk again, and Freitag on his way out the branch.
“Yes,” said Wodenstag.
“Whoa!” roared Montag and Sonntag together. Together they hit the snow.
Wodenstag kept his earnest composure. “To keep the dear Lady company,” he said. “She’s got no easy day of it, and at night she’s lonely—don’t we know that? So we said—Whoa!”
Wodenstag’s turn. He flew out to emptiness. But he caught a feather and so was left dangling from her breast. “So,” said Wodenstag, gazing down at the ground, “we said, ‘Let’s keep her company.’ We have us. But she has no one special just now. We thought that we would give her a little bit of us, and since she can’t fit in the hole, we came to roost—“
Pertelote sobbed. It was both tears and laughter in her heart: she sobbed through an absolutely dazzling grin. And the sob felt good, but did no good for Wodenstag, who lost his grip and punctured the snow beside his brothers.
“The carefullest, kindest friends I know,” sighed Pertelote, “so special to me indeed.” She spread her wings and sank to the snow herself. Instantly all the ascending Mice became descending Mice, and Pertelote purely laughed.
“Don’t you think,” she said, “that you could sleep on the ground tonight, if I sat with you?”
“Oh, Lady!” cried Wodenstag. “What a fine idea!”
“Well, and what if you nestled beneath my wings? What about that?”
Little Samstag couldn’t stand it. He began to laugh at the top of his lungs because his gladness was so great.
And Freitag said, “Just like the old days!”
And Pertelote whispered the nearly unspeakable profundity of Freitag’s words. “Just like the old days,” she sighed.
Then under her wings seven separate paws took to patting the down of her heart and her love, and she was not alone. Wodenstag popped his head out with an afterthought: “Don’t feel bad you sobbed and I fell,” he told her. “It’s okay if you cry.”
It was okay. She did cry. Pertelote bowed her head that night and wept the blessed tears of consolation."
Pages 272-276, Book of Sorrows.
*Added by me, to further explain the setting.
During Chauntecleer's absence, seven little mice, nicknamed "The Tags", whom Chauntecleer saved from death, when they were tiny babies in the first book, "The Book of the Dun Cow", become concerned at how lonely Pertelote seems. They love both the Rooster and His Hen deeply and long to help in any way they can, so they devise a plan to help Pertelote not be so lonely. This is their plan:
"Mice and a midnight raid.
Pertelote (who is roosting in the branch of a Hemlock tree above the snowy ground*) had nearly tucked her head beneath her wing again when a change in the noises drew her attention and a curious activity held it. No, it was a very daring activity--for Mice. While six stood semicircle, staring straight up with their noses, their mouths hanging open, the seventh Mouse had begun to climb (the*) tree. He had all four legs extended as wide as they would go, like a daddy-longlegs on the wall; each paw had its little nip of bark; and he was trembling so furiously he looked like a plucked rubber band. But his expression was earnest. And somewhere inside of him was the conviction that he could climb a tree, and somewhere, too, the notion that he should climb a tree.
Pertelote forgot, for the moment, the torments of the day in watching this tiny test of fortitude: Well, can you do it, Wodenstag?
The Brothers whispered upward, “Are you going to fall? Should we get out of the way?”
But grand efforts are always performed in solitude. Wodenstag answered them nothing. What he did, stuck to the trunk of a tree; he trembled. His chin drummed the bark like a woodpecker—and lo! His eyes lit up. It must have been the chin-drumming that imparted him a flash of insight, because he suddenly called, “Bite the bark!” And Pertelote felt a little cheer in her throat. “Bite the bark. There’s the ticket!” Wodenstag bit the bark. So then he could let go successive paws to move them higher up—and what is that if it is not climbing? Why, it’s climbing of the finest sort! Pertelote wasn’t tired. She was enjoying a miniature triumph. Bite the bark! What a breakthrough.
So then up the tree trunk, one by one, with instructions from Wodenstag on a branch above, and encouragement from Brothers on the snow below, a constant buzzing of grunts and information, Mice climbed the tree. A string of thieves up a tree. And how they patted Samstag, and how they praised that youngest Brother when he had gained the branch with them. How they congratulated one another all around—and then!
Then they turned in unison to look down the branch itself, and the Hen at the end of it. So that stilled their jubilations.
“She’s probably sleeping,” they said in dreadful quiet.
“So much the better,” said Wodenstag. “She needs to sleep.”
Pertelote experienced a true softening in her breast, and her head inclined for gladness. Why, the Tags were thinking of her!
So Wodenstag came balancing along the branch, picking his inches with monumental care. And after him, frowning severely, Donnerstag. And Sonntag, and so forth, all staring at the wood in front of them as if the staring itself were gripping. And then this is what they did: they lined up next to Pertelote, side by side, sitting on two legs (aye, there was the peril: two legs) and facing south the same as she. And then they were done. This was it. This is what they came for. As solemnly as worship they sat still.
Rather, they tried to sit still. In fact, they had all begun independently of one another to rock. Forward and backward, in an effort to keep their balances, like round-bottom pepper-shakers. Too far forward (“Whoa!”), too far backward (“Whoa! Whoa!”), but all done with the greatest solemnity and an air that it was right to be here; no other place to be, amen.
Pertelote the Hen for whom they had come, she could only shake her head. There was a pressure in her heart that might have been laughter or might have been tears, either one.
“Tags,” said Pertelote.
“Ah, Lady. Ah, Lady, we didn’t mean to wake you up,” whispered Wodenstag as though she were still sleeping. He began to pat her side.
“But here you are,” she said.
“Yes,” he said, simply because it was the fact. “All of us.”
“What a remarkable thing for you to do.”
“It isn’t easy to climb a tree,” said Wodenstag.
“Whoa!” said Montag. And Sonntag said, “Whoa!” spinning is forepaws like whirligigs.
“But it’s night,” said Pertelote.
“Yes,” said Wodenstag, patting her, patting her. “And a very dark night, too, I think.”
“Aren’t you going back to sleep?”
“Whoa!” said Dienstag. “Whoa!”
“Maybe we could sleep right here, said Wodenstag. “We thought that this would be a very good spot for a sleep.”
“Who! Whoa!” It was Freitag who tipped too far backward, too far altogether. Up shot his hind legs, and down went the whole mouse, plump into a snowbank.
Pertelote seemed the only one to notice his departure. “I don’t suppose,” she said, “that it’s easy for a Mouse to sit this way?”
“Roosting,” Wodenstag explained.
Samstag went over head first—“Whoa!”—and plopped into snow.
“We talked it over,” said Wodenstag. “We agreed that this would be an excellent way to sleep sometimes.”
Donnerstag dropped.
Freitag had begun to climb the tree trunk again, whispering, “Bite the bark.”
“Whoa! Whoa!” said Montag and Sonntag together. They had locked arms.
Wodenstag himself still patted Pertelote. Sometimes he clung to one little feather; but then he patted her again.
“Why Wodenstag?” said Pertelote. “Could you tell me why you decided all these things?”
Samstag was on his way up the trunk again, and Freitag on his way out the branch.
“Yes,” said Wodenstag.
“Whoa!” roared Montag and Sonntag together. Together they hit the snow.
Wodenstag kept his earnest composure. “To keep the dear Lady company,” he said. “She’s got no easy day of it, and at night she’s lonely—don’t we know that? So we said—Whoa!”
Wodenstag’s turn. He flew out to emptiness. But he caught a feather and so was left dangling from her breast. “So,” said Wodenstag, gazing down at the ground, “we said, ‘Let’s keep her company.’ We have us. But she has no one special just now. We thought that we would give her a little bit of us, and since she can’t fit in the hole, we came to roost—“
Pertelote sobbed. It was both tears and laughter in her heart: she sobbed through an absolutely dazzling grin. And the sob felt good, but did no good for Wodenstag, who lost his grip and punctured the snow beside his brothers.
“The carefullest, kindest friends I know,” sighed Pertelote, “so special to me indeed.” She spread her wings and sank to the snow herself. Instantly all the ascending Mice became descending Mice, and Pertelote purely laughed.
“Don’t you think,” she said, “that you could sleep on the ground tonight, if I sat with you?”
“Oh, Lady!” cried Wodenstag. “What a fine idea!”
“Well, and what if you nestled beneath my wings? What about that?”
Little Samstag couldn’t stand it. He began to laugh at the top of his lungs because his gladness was so great.
And Freitag said, “Just like the old days!”
And Pertelote whispered the nearly unspeakable profundity of Freitag’s words. “Just like the old days,” she sighed.
Then under her wings seven separate paws took to patting the down of her heart and her love, and she was not alone. Wodenstag popped his head out with an afterthought: “Don’t feel bad you sobbed and I fell,” he told her. “It’s okay if you cry.”
It was okay. She did cry. Pertelote bowed her head that night and wept the blessed tears of consolation."
Pages 272-276, Book of Sorrows.
*Added by me, to further explain the setting.
Friends in distress
My family found out early yesterday morning that some friends of ours, a family with several children, have lost their home to fire. Late Sunday evening before retiring to bed, the father, Gailin, asked one of the boys to get some more wood from the woodpile in order to bank the fire in the fireplace for the night. He came back into the house and told his dad there was a great deal of smoke coming from around the chimney, near the attic. When Gailin went outside to look, he found the attic was on fire. They were able to get everyone out and most of their clothes, but lost the house due to fire and water damage. If they'd gone to sleep or even waited another hour, they would have lost more than property, though, so we are thankful to God for this protection and His perfect timing! We're also grateful that, though they lost so much, their insurance will pay to replace their home.
Please keep them in your prayers, though. It is such a great loss for them, and they, as a family, have already gone through a great deal more suffering than any one should! Gailin's father-in-law, Karen's dad (Bob), was in a bad grain bin accident a few years ago. (Did I mention this is a family of farmers who live out in the country?) There was some question for several weeks as to whether Bob would live, but he came through, though he's a quadriplegic. He's the kind of strong and humble man who doesn't like people to worry about him, so will oftentimes live with pain rather than mention anythings wrong. Twice in the past year he's had severe injuries, including a broken leg, which he chose not to mention until he was seriously ill with a bone infection, because, "It didn't hurt much and why bother people?" I think it worries him to have to worry his family.
Despite all this family has been through, their faith is undimmed and they have been a great example to me personally, and my family as a whole. I know they would value your prayers.
Please keep them in your prayers, though. It is such a great loss for them, and they, as a family, have already gone through a great deal more suffering than any one should! Gailin's father-in-law, Karen's dad (Bob), was in a bad grain bin accident a few years ago. (Did I mention this is a family of farmers who live out in the country?) There was some question for several weeks as to whether Bob would live, but he came through, though he's a quadriplegic. He's the kind of strong and humble man who doesn't like people to worry about him, so will oftentimes live with pain rather than mention anythings wrong. Twice in the past year he's had severe injuries, including a broken leg, which he chose not to mention until he was seriously ill with a bone infection, because, "It didn't hurt much and why bother people?" I think it worries him to have to worry his family.
Despite all this family has been through, their faith is undimmed and they have been a great example to me personally, and my family as a whole. I know they would value your prayers.
Friday, March 18, 2005
"Book of Sorrows" passage, by Walter Wangerin, Jr.
I was recently rereading one of my favorite books by Walt Wangerin, called "The Book of Sorrows" (the sequel to "The Book of the Dun Cow"). The books are fantasies with allegorical and parable aspects. They tell the story of a rooster called "Chauntecleer" who is lord over the animals of the earth who finds himself engaged in an ongoing battle with evil in the form of "Wyrm" (an insidious evil, as wickedness and sin is in this age). In the pages running up to this passage, John Wesley Weasel (Chauntecleer's warrior and well-loved friend) is going to and fro about the earth searching for animals in need of help, because the world is embraced in a winter so cold the trees have petrified (a winter instigated by Wyrm's hatred of the animals and, especially, Chauntecleer), causing mass starvation. He's searching for these animals, not only to help them, but to help Chauntecleer. John Wesley, in his wisdom, knows that "the gloominesses" Chauntecleer is experiencing are not only from sorrow over friends lost in previous battles to Wyrm, but are a result of all-consuming guilt at his failure to save them. JW hopes that he can help Chauntecleer by providing him with other animals to help, so thus he roams the earth. (The following is one of the loveliest and sweetest passages I've ever read, and I’d like to share it.)
"Busy John Wesley Weasel was racing a long way around the lower apron of a barren moor, exulting in his energy, when one wild sound rang down the mountain and transfixed him.
Lonely, long, and full of anguish was the cry, a bugling that thrilled the Weasel to his loins.
But this was a bitterly empty fastness. This was the haunt of the northern winds. Who?--
The bugling rose up again. Oh, the voices in the wilderness! John Wesley peered to the top of the moor, and there saw a singular Stag with his head thrust toward the sky, his antlers embracing his withers--bugling.
Look at that! One black Stag on the mountainside, declaring himself against the universe!
“Hoopla!” breathed John Wesley at the sight. And he cried out, “Hey!” Here was courage he couldn’t help but respect. Who stands alone against the sky to challenge it? “Hey! Hey! Hey!” the Weasel shouted, darting across the moor and climbing with happy speed. “Hello, you somebody!” John has to meet the one he honors, and that right now. A Weasel of compulsions. Bt that is a Stag of aristocracy! One, maybe two, in all the world. “Hey!”
The Stag saw him coming, dropped his head and didn’t move.
“Is okay!” cried the Weasel. “John, he’s no troubles. He’s a scrapper too, is John.”
Fourteen points, those antlers. Deep-chested, the Creature, and thick in the neck: marvelous. But his eyes were low and suspicious—and he did not move.
John Wesley was seldom in his life caught off guard. But he was taken by the great black Stag and didn’t see the lesser body leap from heath behind him. He was bumped and slithered forward. Up again in two twists, he tightened himself into a defensive posture and hissed, ready to rip a body apart.
“De La Coeur!” shouted the Stag.
A Fawn, a child wide-eyed and terrified, stamped out pitiful hooves in front of the Weasel, presenting her forehead as though it had horns.
This was the enemy?
“De La Coeur!”
Now John was perplexed. He could drop the Fawn with one cut at the fetlock and he told her so: “Lucky punch! Lucky punch!” he warned her. And he said, “Baby!” But she ignored the warning. In spite of her terror she charged him, and he had to scramble backward.
“Don’t hurt Papa!” she cried.
“De La Coeur!” bellowed the Stag.
“Baby!” squealed John Wesley, in the humiliating situation of running from a child, “John just come to say Hello!”
“Don’t hurt Papa!”
“Papas can fend for them own selves!”
“Leave us be!”
“De La Coeur! Lie down!” This was the Stag with final authority, papa and parent, imperious. The Fawn collapsed, so helpless, after all. The Stag said, “He could kill you.”
“Right!” said John Wesley Weasel. “Is stupidnesses to chase John Double-u.” And he sat down as well, to sort things out. “Why-come a baby, she’s fighting for her—“
He looked at the Stag, who still had not moved—and he understood. “Oh, Papa!” he said. And then he said, “Oh, Baby! What courageousness in you!”
This magnificent Buck stood four hooves frozen in a low lake of ice, immobilized and faint from his imprisonment. He couldn’t have defended himself. This dappled daughter of his had meant to protect him, with her life if she had to.
“Oh, Baby!” John Wesley’s heart nearly burst to see such heroism in an infant. The greymoor, peopled with two souls only, was a stage for the drama of defiance; and the Weasel was filled with awe. “John,” he said, “John wouldn’t hurt such fine somebodies, no.” But then, with the next thing he said—which he intended as nothing more than a homely and reassuring compliment—he hurt her anyway. He said, “Your Mama brung you up wondersomely brave.”
The Fawn drew a sudden breath, then turned her head aside and burst into tears.
John Wesley himself was smitten. He could murder Basilisks. But he couldn’t bear to make a baby cry.
“Well. Well. Not brave?” he stuttered. “Not brung up? Not?—“ So strong one minute, so weak the next. Can Weasels ever think up soft words to dry tears? No.
“Her mother, “ whispered the Stag, and his head was low to the ground, “died. She lost her teeth and couldn’t eat. And died.”
“Oh, “ said John Wesley. “Nobodies told me—“
And there matters stood for a long while, till the Fawn’s weeping subsided into quieter sadness.
Well: John should have something for sad Buggars. Sadness wants some action to perk it up. “Well!” said John. “Then here’s the reasons why John came. Yump! To set a fine somebody free.
He etched the ice around the Stag’s hoof, picked a groove there, gnawed the groove, cracked the ice and released that hoof.
“See? Does John want to hurt somebody’s Papa? Nope.”
The Fawn had raised her head to watch him.
He did the same for the second hoof. The great Stag sighed. Gladly, the Weasel attended to the third hoof, too; but while he made his rapid scratches, he felt a warm sensation on his back. He looked up and was immediately discombobulated. The Fawn had crept near and was licking him.
He coughed.
John Wesley Weasel, so skilled in war-craft and belligerence, had never learned how to handle affection. Therefore, he made a savage face and snapped, “Bite your tongue, Baby!” But he who couldn’t convince her that he was good, now could not convince her that he was bad. She dribbled all over him in gratitude, her eyes both moist and close and huge. He swore, but it made no difference. Thundering, rough-cut oaths, but she kept licking him. He fairly attacked the third and fourth hooves, damning the ice, intimidating the ice to speedy water, and the Stag stood free.
But then the great body could not support itself. The Stag toppled and fell—and then John Wesley was saved, because De La Coeur ran to the neck of her father and left him alone.
“Babies!” he said with a whole new meaning.
But the couple looked weak indeed, and he could not leave them merely to feed on one another.
John Wesley took a deep breath and hazarded again the dangers.
Warily he said, “Is Deers, might-be, hungry?”
They gazed at him. They were starving.
“Now, Now, “ he warned, “no thankings John, mind you. No slobberings on a Double-u, who’s a blood warrior, fightings, brawlings, and so forth—.“ He couldn’t stand another attack of sweetness out of the Baby. Nevertheless, he described the Lord-and-General-of-All, praising that Rooster extravagantly as foresighted and full of glory, and he directed both father and daughter south to the food bins and to health. And then he shut up.
The great stag whispered, “Black-Pale-on-a-Silver-Field.”
“What?” said the Weasel.
“It is my name,” said the Stag. “I give it to you whole, as a gift. We will go and find your Rooster.”
“Well.”
“Bloody warrior?” asked the Fawn De La Coeur, from her father’s neck.
John Wesley frowned like battle-axes. “What?”
“Thank you.”
“Spit to thanks.”
So he said. But she kissed him anyway, and the Weasel was gone across the moor like a shot, running on three legs, trying mightily with the fourth to wipe the sweetness from his face.”
(Pages 157-161, Book of Sorrows, by Walt Wangerin)
"Busy John Wesley Weasel was racing a long way around the lower apron of a barren moor, exulting in his energy, when one wild sound rang down the mountain and transfixed him.
Lonely, long, and full of anguish was the cry, a bugling that thrilled the Weasel to his loins.
But this was a bitterly empty fastness. This was the haunt of the northern winds. Who?--
The bugling rose up again. Oh, the voices in the wilderness! John Wesley peered to the top of the moor, and there saw a singular Stag with his head thrust toward the sky, his antlers embracing his withers--bugling.
Look at that! One black Stag on the mountainside, declaring himself against the universe!
“Hoopla!” breathed John Wesley at the sight. And he cried out, “Hey!” Here was courage he couldn’t help but respect. Who stands alone against the sky to challenge it? “Hey! Hey! Hey!” the Weasel shouted, darting across the moor and climbing with happy speed. “Hello, you somebody!” John has to meet the one he honors, and that right now. A Weasel of compulsions. Bt that is a Stag of aristocracy! One, maybe two, in all the world. “Hey!”
The Stag saw him coming, dropped his head and didn’t move.
“Is okay!” cried the Weasel. “John, he’s no troubles. He’s a scrapper too, is John.”
Fourteen points, those antlers. Deep-chested, the Creature, and thick in the neck: marvelous. But his eyes were low and suspicious—and he did not move.
John Wesley was seldom in his life caught off guard. But he was taken by the great black Stag and didn’t see the lesser body leap from heath behind him. He was bumped and slithered forward. Up again in two twists, he tightened himself into a defensive posture and hissed, ready to rip a body apart.
“De La Coeur!” shouted the Stag.
A Fawn, a child wide-eyed and terrified, stamped out pitiful hooves in front of the Weasel, presenting her forehead as though it had horns.
This was the enemy?
“De La Coeur!”
Now John was perplexed. He could drop the Fawn with one cut at the fetlock and he told her so: “Lucky punch! Lucky punch!” he warned her. And he said, “Baby!” But she ignored the warning. In spite of her terror she charged him, and he had to scramble backward.
“Don’t hurt Papa!” she cried.
“De La Coeur!” bellowed the Stag.
“Baby!” squealed John Wesley, in the humiliating situation of running from a child, “John just come to say Hello!”
“Don’t hurt Papa!”
“Papas can fend for them own selves!”
“Leave us be!”
“De La Coeur! Lie down!” This was the Stag with final authority, papa and parent, imperious. The Fawn collapsed, so helpless, after all. The Stag said, “He could kill you.”
“Right!” said John Wesley Weasel. “Is stupidnesses to chase John Double-u.” And he sat down as well, to sort things out. “Why-come a baby, she’s fighting for her—“
He looked at the Stag, who still had not moved—and he understood. “Oh, Papa!” he said. And then he said, “Oh, Baby! What courageousness in you!”
This magnificent Buck stood four hooves frozen in a low lake of ice, immobilized and faint from his imprisonment. He couldn’t have defended himself. This dappled daughter of his had meant to protect him, with her life if she had to.
“Oh, Baby!” John Wesley’s heart nearly burst to see such heroism in an infant. The greymoor, peopled with two souls only, was a stage for the drama of defiance; and the Weasel was filled with awe. “John,” he said, “John wouldn’t hurt such fine somebodies, no.” But then, with the next thing he said—which he intended as nothing more than a homely and reassuring compliment—he hurt her anyway. He said, “Your Mama brung you up wondersomely brave.”
The Fawn drew a sudden breath, then turned her head aside and burst into tears.
John Wesley himself was smitten. He could murder Basilisks. But he couldn’t bear to make a baby cry.
“Well. Well. Not brave?” he stuttered. “Not brung up? Not?—“ So strong one minute, so weak the next. Can Weasels ever think up soft words to dry tears? No.
“Her mother, “ whispered the Stag, and his head was low to the ground, “died. She lost her teeth and couldn’t eat. And died.”
“Oh, “ said John Wesley. “Nobodies told me—“
And there matters stood for a long while, till the Fawn’s weeping subsided into quieter sadness.
Well: John should have something for sad Buggars. Sadness wants some action to perk it up. “Well!” said John. “Then here’s the reasons why John came. Yump! To set a fine somebody free.
He etched the ice around the Stag’s hoof, picked a groove there, gnawed the groove, cracked the ice and released that hoof.
“See? Does John want to hurt somebody’s Papa? Nope.”
The Fawn had raised her head to watch him.
He did the same for the second hoof. The great Stag sighed. Gladly, the Weasel attended to the third hoof, too; but while he made his rapid scratches, he felt a warm sensation on his back. He looked up and was immediately discombobulated. The Fawn had crept near and was licking him.
He coughed.
John Wesley Weasel, so skilled in war-craft and belligerence, had never learned how to handle affection. Therefore, he made a savage face and snapped, “Bite your tongue, Baby!” But he who couldn’t convince her that he was good, now could not convince her that he was bad. She dribbled all over him in gratitude, her eyes both moist and close and huge. He swore, but it made no difference. Thundering, rough-cut oaths, but she kept licking him. He fairly attacked the third and fourth hooves, damning the ice, intimidating the ice to speedy water, and the Stag stood free.
But then the great body could not support itself. The Stag toppled and fell—and then John Wesley was saved, because De La Coeur ran to the neck of her father and left him alone.
“Babies!” he said with a whole new meaning.
But the couple looked weak indeed, and he could not leave them merely to feed on one another.
John Wesley took a deep breath and hazarded again the dangers.
Warily he said, “Is Deers, might-be, hungry?”
They gazed at him. They were starving.
“Now, Now, “ he warned, “no thankings John, mind you. No slobberings on a Double-u, who’s a blood warrior, fightings, brawlings, and so forth—.“ He couldn’t stand another attack of sweetness out of the Baby. Nevertheless, he described the Lord-and-General-of-All, praising that Rooster extravagantly as foresighted and full of glory, and he directed both father and daughter south to the food bins and to health. And then he shut up.
The great stag whispered, “Black-Pale-on-a-Silver-Field.”
“What?” said the Weasel.
“It is my name,” said the Stag. “I give it to you whole, as a gift. We will go and find your Rooster.”
“Well.”
“Bloody warrior?” asked the Fawn De La Coeur, from her father’s neck.
John Wesley frowned like battle-axes. “What?”
“Thank you.”
“Spit to thanks.”
So he said. But she kissed him anyway, and the Weasel was gone across the moor like a shot, running on three legs, trying mightily with the fourth to wipe the sweetness from his face.”
(Pages 157-161, Book of Sorrows, by Walt Wangerin)
Vicariousness
I have a person very dear to me, (my sister-in-law, Michele) who is going through a difficult time right now. She is having a really tough time with her health, and, as she is the mother of four children (three under the age of five), it has been especially trying. Please pray for Michele, Steve, and the kids.
There such a feeling of desperation in wanting to help in some way, yet there is so little I can do, especially when they live so far away. (They live about three and a half hours away from me.) It's not as though I can pop over for the afternoon and do the laundry or make dinner to help out, or even spend time with the kids so Michele can have time on her own. It's a blessing that Steve, my brother, has a job only blocks from the house and can come home when needed, but it's still extremely stressful for each of them.
I've been thinking about how much harder it is to watch someone I love go through pain and suffering than it is to go through it oneself. I wish I could take on some of the suffering myself, just to give Michele a break from it. God doesn't work in that way, though, except for two thousand and five years ago when He gave us His only, well-loved, Son to take our place on the cross. In general, we are left to pray for those we love.
Praying is such a powerful tool, yet I find myself diminishing it's importance (and power?) by demeaning it. I say things like, "All I can do is just pray". Well, it's not JUST praying, and how blessed it is that it's "all" we can do! Scripture tells us that faith, expressed through prayer, can move mountains. I remember a poem by John Nelson Darby which contains the words, "Prayer can attain anything. It can open the gates of heaven and shut the gates of hell." I can't remember the rest of the poem, but this what I know to be true, from the word of God.
We have truly been blessed by the link we have with the Father through the gift of our Lord Jesus. His death on the cross made a bridge so that we could be for ever at rest knowing God is in control. Sometimes the hardest part is giving up this control, though! Most importantly, we've been given the gift of the Holy Spirit, the Comforter, as the Bible calls Him. I know from my own experience, when I'm feeling overwhelmed and lost, I have instant peace when I cry out to God, either through prayer or by singing hymns of praise. This is the gift we have in the Holy Spirit. Just writing of this has given me peace and hope, knowing "Our Times are in His Hands" as the old hymn says. My longing is for Steve & Michele to have this same peace.
There such a feeling of desperation in wanting to help in some way, yet there is so little I can do, especially when they live so far away. (They live about three and a half hours away from me.) It's not as though I can pop over for the afternoon and do the laundry or make dinner to help out, or even spend time with the kids so Michele can have time on her own. It's a blessing that Steve, my brother, has a job only blocks from the house and can come home when needed, but it's still extremely stressful for each of them.
I've been thinking about how much harder it is to watch someone I love go through pain and suffering than it is to go through it oneself. I wish I could take on some of the suffering myself, just to give Michele a break from it. God doesn't work in that way, though, except for two thousand and five years ago when He gave us His only, well-loved, Son to take our place on the cross. In general, we are left to pray for those we love.
Praying is such a powerful tool, yet I find myself diminishing it's importance (and power?) by demeaning it. I say things like, "All I can do is just pray". Well, it's not JUST praying, and how blessed it is that it's "all" we can do! Scripture tells us that faith, expressed through prayer, can move mountains. I remember a poem by John Nelson Darby which contains the words, "Prayer can attain anything. It can open the gates of heaven and shut the gates of hell." I can't remember the rest of the poem, but this what I know to be true, from the word of God.
We have truly been blessed by the link we have with the Father through the gift of our Lord Jesus. His death on the cross made a bridge so that we could be for ever at rest knowing God is in control. Sometimes the hardest part is giving up this control, though! Most importantly, we've been given the gift of the Holy Spirit, the Comforter, as the Bible calls Him. I know from my own experience, when I'm feeling overwhelmed and lost, I have instant peace when I cry out to God, either through prayer or by singing hymns of praise. This is the gift we have in the Holy Spirit. Just writing of this has given me peace and hope, knowing "Our Times are in His Hands" as the old hymn says. My longing is for Steve & Michele to have this same peace.
Sunday, March 06, 2005
Pain and Basketball
Playing basketball has always been a joy to me. When I'm playing I can endure almost anything. It's like I'm alone in my own world with no worries. It's the best analgesic I know of! About nine years ago, when I was having severe pain from recurring endometriosis, the docs kept telling me it wasn't possible to be having pain from endo since I'd had a complete hysterectomy about four years before. Despite the fact I'd had progressively worsening pain during the entire four years since the hyst, I couldn't get the doctors to believe me. One day, when I was having some of the worst pain I'd ever felt, over my left kidney, a friend challenged me to a game of basketball. I played him and won (in a game to 10) on a last second shot. I then played a friend of his and lost, but just barely. The second guy was about a hundred pounds heavier and kept driving to the basket when he discovered I wasn't a push-over girly-girl as a player. While we'd been playing, I didn't think about the pain; my focus was playing & beating these guys.
After we'd finished playing, I headed home in my car. The pain got to a point where I could hardly sit up straight, so I went to the nearest ER. Since I'd been there so often because of this recurring pain (as well as to my primary medical doctor), they treated me as though I was a drug addict. By this time, I was in a fetal position and screaming in pain. They made me wait an hour and a half until a friend (my basketball friend's wife) came to the hospital at my request. Finally, when she insisted they do something about my agony, they gave me a shot of demerol, and sent me home without doing any tests. The pain was back within a couple of hours, though. I held out for another seven to ten days, though, and finally couldn't handle it anymore. At 1am, I lay in my bed, crying out to God and begging Him to please help the doctors find out what was wrong with me. (I'd had Cat Scan after Cat Scan over the past four years which showed nothing.) I called my brother, Steve, to come and take me to a different hospital, in a nearby town. I was terrified about doing this, 'coz drug addicts do this sort of thing in order to feed their habits. I was afraid that it proved I was an addict, having been accused of this so many times in the past four years. (The docs said either I was "drug seeking" or it was "all in my head" every time they I went in & they couldn't tell what was wrong.) I just knew that if I went back to the hospital I'd always gone to, they'd not treat the situation appropriately.
We went to Edward Hospital, in Naperville, IL, and I was seen fairly quickly. When I spoke with the ER doc, I could hardly talk because it hurt to breathe even. I told him I wasn't wanting a narcotic, such as Demerol, or anything, because I was so afraid he would think I was "drug-seeking". I begged him for "just one Vicodin, to just help me to have a few hours relief from this pain". He smiled & said, "Debbie, Vicodin is not going to help you with this pain. We've done a urinalysis which shows you have blood in your urine. This is a strong indication that your problem is from a blocked ureter (the tube which runs between the kidney and bladder) from what is probably a kidney stone. You'll need some IV Demerol & Toradol to help with this pain because it's some of the worst there is!" Well, I could not then, and cannot even now, express the relief which flooded through me at hearing this! I finally had a diagnosis!! (It turned out to be the wrong diagnosis, but still it was something, at least! And a doctor was finally believing me! Instead of a kidney stone, the endometriosis had grown back &, like a cancer, had metastasized around the ureter, cutting off the flow to the bladder. However, the pain was EXACTLY like a kidney stone!)
I was sent home from the hospital later that morning with the kidney stone diagnosis & told to drink lots of water. This was about the worst thing I could have done, due to the obstruction (although it would have made sense to do it, if the obstruction was caused by a kidney stone). The next day I was admitted into the hospital with projectile emesis and earth-shattering pain. They placed a stent (a straw-like tube threaded through the ureter and into the bladder) to relieve the pressure in the kidney, but they still thought it was just a kidney stone. I'd been admitted to the hospital I'd always gone to, where my PMD was a staff member, and so had problems getting them to believe me when I told them the pain was still very bad. Finally, a CT scan showed a large mass surrounding the ureter. That afternoon, I had surgery performed by a gynecologist, a urologist and a general surgeon to remove the mass, along with 5-7mm of the ureter, which was then reattached to the bladder. They also removed a large endometrioma from my right side, which was near the bladder/ureter. My PMD came in the next day and apologized for not believing me all this time (he was a good Christian man, who was doing the best he could in a difficult situation, otherwise I wouldn't have continued seeing him). He said, "This explains all the pain you've had these past four years, but the good news is you'll never have to deal with this problem again because we got it all out. Plus, it is almost unheard of to have endometriosis grow back so aggressively after a complete hysterectomy."
Unfortunately, he was wrong and seven months later the endometrioma grew back on the right side and obstructed the right ureter!! I was a traveling nurse up in Wisconsin, just beginning an assignment, but I knew immediately what was wrong because the pain was so horrendous. It was difficult to be a long way from home, helpless & scared, being treated by people I'd never met before. Turns out, though, God was completely in control and I had fantastic care. I had the same surgery I'd had seven months previous, only this time on my right side. Since then, I've had severe chronic pain in my right kidney, but by God's grace, I am being treated by a doctor who believes me and is treating the pain appropriately.
Isn't it interesting, though, the only thing which made the pain bearable in any way, shape or form, was playing basketball? I suppose, when you play with your whole mind and heart, it distracts you from everything else... Oh the wonder of creation, as the Psalms say. This story is one of the reasons why Psalm 139 is my favorite, "I will praise thee, for I am fearfully and wonderfully made. Marvellous are thy works; and (that) my soul knoweth right well." (Darby Translation, v. 14)
After we'd finished playing, I headed home in my car. The pain got to a point where I could hardly sit up straight, so I went to the nearest ER. Since I'd been there so often because of this recurring pain (as well as to my primary medical doctor), they treated me as though I was a drug addict. By this time, I was in a fetal position and screaming in pain. They made me wait an hour and a half until a friend (my basketball friend's wife) came to the hospital at my request. Finally, when she insisted they do something about my agony, they gave me a shot of demerol, and sent me home without doing any tests. The pain was back within a couple of hours, though. I held out for another seven to ten days, though, and finally couldn't handle it anymore. At 1am, I lay in my bed, crying out to God and begging Him to please help the doctors find out what was wrong with me. (I'd had Cat Scan after Cat Scan over the past four years which showed nothing.) I called my brother, Steve, to come and take me to a different hospital, in a nearby town. I was terrified about doing this, 'coz drug addicts do this sort of thing in order to feed their habits. I was afraid that it proved I was an addict, having been accused of this so many times in the past four years. (The docs said either I was "drug seeking" or it was "all in my head" every time they I went in & they couldn't tell what was wrong.) I just knew that if I went back to the hospital I'd always gone to, they'd not treat the situation appropriately.
We went to Edward Hospital, in Naperville, IL, and I was seen fairly quickly. When I spoke with the ER doc, I could hardly talk because it hurt to breathe even. I told him I wasn't wanting a narcotic, such as Demerol, or anything, because I was so afraid he would think I was "drug-seeking". I begged him for "just one Vicodin, to just help me to have a few hours relief from this pain". He smiled & said, "Debbie, Vicodin is not going to help you with this pain. We've done a urinalysis which shows you have blood in your urine. This is a strong indication that your problem is from a blocked ureter (the tube which runs between the kidney and bladder) from what is probably a kidney stone. You'll need some IV Demerol & Toradol to help with this pain because it's some of the worst there is!" Well, I could not then, and cannot even now, express the relief which flooded through me at hearing this! I finally had a diagnosis!! (It turned out to be the wrong diagnosis, but still it was something, at least! And a doctor was finally believing me! Instead of a kidney stone, the endometriosis had grown back &, like a cancer, had metastasized around the ureter, cutting off the flow to the bladder. However, the pain was EXACTLY like a kidney stone!)
I was sent home from the hospital later that morning with the kidney stone diagnosis & told to drink lots of water. This was about the worst thing I could have done, due to the obstruction (although it would have made sense to do it, if the obstruction was caused by a kidney stone). The next day I was admitted into the hospital with projectile emesis and earth-shattering pain. They placed a stent (a straw-like tube threaded through the ureter and into the bladder) to relieve the pressure in the kidney, but they still thought it was just a kidney stone. I'd been admitted to the hospital I'd always gone to, where my PMD was a staff member, and so had problems getting them to believe me when I told them the pain was still very bad. Finally, a CT scan showed a large mass surrounding the ureter. That afternoon, I had surgery performed by a gynecologist, a urologist and a general surgeon to remove the mass, along with 5-7mm of the ureter, which was then reattached to the bladder. They also removed a large endometrioma from my right side, which was near the bladder/ureter. My PMD came in the next day and apologized for not believing me all this time (he was a good Christian man, who was doing the best he could in a difficult situation, otherwise I wouldn't have continued seeing him). He said, "This explains all the pain you've had these past four years, but the good news is you'll never have to deal with this problem again because we got it all out. Plus, it is almost unheard of to have endometriosis grow back so aggressively after a complete hysterectomy."
Unfortunately, he was wrong and seven months later the endometrioma grew back on the right side and obstructed the right ureter!! I was a traveling nurse up in Wisconsin, just beginning an assignment, but I knew immediately what was wrong because the pain was so horrendous. It was difficult to be a long way from home, helpless & scared, being treated by people I'd never met before. Turns out, though, God was completely in control and I had fantastic care. I had the same surgery I'd had seven months previous, only this time on my right side. Since then, I've had severe chronic pain in my right kidney, but by God's grace, I am being treated by a doctor who believes me and is treating the pain appropriately.
Isn't it interesting, though, the only thing which made the pain bearable in any way, shape or form, was playing basketball? I suppose, when you play with your whole mind and heart, it distracts you from everything else... Oh the wonder of creation, as the Psalms say. This story is one of the reasons why Psalm 139 is my favorite, "I will praise thee, for I am fearfully and wonderfully made. Marvellous are thy works; and (that) my soul knoweth right well." (Darby Translation, v. 14)
Tragedy :), & other tales
Sadly, the Illini Men's B-ball team lost today (last day of the season, even) for the first time (record is 29-1). I was really hoping they could replicate the '76 Indiana teams unbeaten, National Championship season! Oh well, at least the loss wasn't during the first or second round of the Tourney. That I don't think I could bear!
You may think it's weird that a 38yo, almost 39yo, spinster, such as myself, should get caught up in NCAA basketball. But anyone who knows me, knows I've loved basketball since I was an itty-bitty kid. I grew up with five older brothers who taught me to play b-ball the men's way, hard fouls and all. I loved it so much (being a true tom-boy), I went out for the boy's basketball team in junior high; there was no girls team at the time. I was one of two "3 point specialists", or so I like to think, anyway. My best shot was the wa-a-ay outside shot and when Coach. B. would put me in the game, he would ask me to shoot the ball outside the 3-point line. He'd get ticked when I didn't always take the shot, instead passing off to someone who might have a better shot. I think he was trying to prove to other people that I was as good as he believed me to be. One of my all-time favorite memories of Coach B. was one day during practice when I'd out-played a kid who was about two feet taller than myself and scored a basket. Mr. B. shouted, "Atta boy, Deb!" I loved it! It just seemed so cool that, in his excitement at my making such a good play, he'd forgotten my gender and just complemented me on my abilities. My twin brother & I were both on the team, and we had a great season, going on to State where we eventually lost. I wasn't allowed to play during the state tourney, 'coz girls weren't allowed. This was hard to take, but I didn't want to cause problems for my team-mates & just took on the role of manager, instead.
One of the things that was interesting, but tough, was how other teams responded to playing a girl. I would be spat at, kicked in the belly, or anywhere else they could reach, (whenever there was a scrum of players all going after the ball the other team would go out of their way to get dirty blows in) and cussed out more times than I can remember! The hardest times were walking out through the opponent's crowd, on my way to the locker room. The things that were said were really disgusting and, honestly, a little confusing, especially as much of it came from the parent's of the other team's players! Coming from a fundamental Christian household, I knew very few swear words, but I learned way more than I wanted to during those times!
The next year, the eighth grade coach decided, for the first time in the history of junior high basketball at our school, to have tryouts. (He'd never been very happy about my playing for Mr. B, the seventh grade coach. I heard from other students about how he'd said it was "an embarrassment" to our school to have a girl playing.) Of course, I didn't make the cut. A friend, who had dwarfism and was 2ft 11in tall, did make the team, but he, of course, was the correct gender. This was my first exposure to sexism and it was hurtful, to say the least. The coach didn't have the courage to tell me I'd not made the cut (being a little ashamed of himself). He sent his son, who was a year or two younger than me, to tell me. To give him credit, I think his boy was pretty ashamed of the whole thing, although it obviously had nothing to do with him and wasn't his fault. A year or two later, the Junior High started a girls b-ball team and it's had one ever since.
You may think it's weird that a 38yo, almost 39yo, spinster, such as myself, should get caught up in NCAA basketball. But anyone who knows me, knows I've loved basketball since I was an itty-bitty kid. I grew up with five older brothers who taught me to play b-ball the men's way, hard fouls and all. I loved it so much (being a true tom-boy), I went out for the boy's basketball team in junior high; there was no girls team at the time. I was one of two "3 point specialists", or so I like to think, anyway. My best shot was the wa-a-ay outside shot and when Coach. B. would put me in the game, he would ask me to shoot the ball outside the 3-point line. He'd get ticked when I didn't always take the shot, instead passing off to someone who might have a better shot. I think he was trying to prove to other people that I was as good as he believed me to be. One of my all-time favorite memories of Coach B. was one day during practice when I'd out-played a kid who was about two feet taller than myself and scored a basket. Mr. B. shouted, "Atta boy, Deb!" I loved it! It just seemed so cool that, in his excitement at my making such a good play, he'd forgotten my gender and just complemented me on my abilities. My twin brother & I were both on the team, and we had a great season, going on to State where we eventually lost. I wasn't allowed to play during the state tourney, 'coz girls weren't allowed. This was hard to take, but I didn't want to cause problems for my team-mates & just took on the role of manager, instead.
One of the things that was interesting, but tough, was how other teams responded to playing a girl. I would be spat at, kicked in the belly, or anywhere else they could reach, (whenever there was a scrum of players all going after the ball the other team would go out of their way to get dirty blows in) and cussed out more times than I can remember! The hardest times were walking out through the opponent's crowd, on my way to the locker room. The things that were said were really disgusting and, honestly, a little confusing, especially as much of it came from the parent's of the other team's players! Coming from a fundamental Christian household, I knew very few swear words, but I learned way more than I wanted to during those times!
The next year, the eighth grade coach decided, for the first time in the history of junior high basketball at our school, to have tryouts. (He'd never been very happy about my playing for Mr. B, the seventh grade coach. I heard from other students about how he'd said it was "an embarrassment" to our school to have a girl playing.) Of course, I didn't make the cut. A friend, who had dwarfism and was 2ft 11in tall, did make the team, but he, of course, was the correct gender. This was my first exposure to sexism and it was hurtful, to say the least. The coach didn't have the courage to tell me I'd not made the cut (being a little ashamed of himself). He sent his son, who was a year or two younger than me, to tell me. To give him credit, I think his boy was pretty ashamed of the whole thing, although it obviously had nothing to do with him and wasn't his fault. A year or two later, the Junior High started a girls b-ball team and it's had one ever since.
Tuesday, March 01, 2005
Wow, it's been a long time!
It's been way too long since I legitimately blogged (rather than cheating a bit by blogging photos). Part of the problem is I seem to be perpetually discouraged, from a spiritual standpoint. It's my fault because instead of focusing on my Lord and Saviour, I am looking everywhere else. I've recently gotten taken up with books which are unhealthy for me, from a spiritual perspective and, I think, morally, as well. It's funny but they were books I once found myself laughing about and wondering why anyone would read them, but I've found it to be like candy to the mind. While reading them wouldn't be bad in moderation, it's become an unhealthy excess.
I have so much to thank God for, especially in recent days. One of these things is a new mattress topper on my bed that's helped me to be able to sleep for more than an hour or two at a time-->am sleeping up to four hours without waking! (I've settled for sleeping not more than 90 minutes without waking for the past fifteen years, so you can see why this is a big thing for me.) I also had been accused of wrongdoing at a previous job and because of this, my nursing license was under investigation. Thankfully, I was found to have done nothing wrong, after two years of limbo and uncertainty, so I feel as though a great weight has been lifted from me. I've started a new part-time, per diem, job at the University of Illinois which gives me satisfaction (although not much money, yet). I have a loving family who've sustained and supported me throughout years of pain, surgery and frustration with chronic illness. With all of these things, why do I feel so unhappy?
I have such a longing to be near to God, to feel His presence. It's funny but when I left the fellowship I'd belonged to all my life twelve years ago, I felt more at peace than I do now. Yes, I felt lost, lonely and afraid (because I'd lost not only my life-long friends but many of my relatives, as well, because I was "out of Fellowship"), but, in my lost state, I became completely reliant on Jesus. My relationship with Him was more living and vibrant than it had ever been. I'd finally found what it meant to have a 'personal relationship' with the Lord Jesus. I believe He came in, in the way of tremendous blessing, during that time of such sorrow and loss, a time which, in some ways, was more agonizing than my daily bouts with chronic, physical pain.
In some ways the loneliness has never gone away. Yet the nearness and vibrancy of my relationship with Christ has grown cold. Don't get me wrong! I'm completely and utterly to blame, yet I feel at such a loss as to how to get it back! What I must do is turn back and began taking up the small steps which lead to Life in the Spirit, like daily times of communion with God, reading the scriptures, and, most of all, I think the Father is trying to show me my need for others in the Little Flock. Please pray for me in this regard...
I have so much to thank God for, especially in recent days. One of these things is a new mattress topper on my bed that's helped me to be able to sleep for more than an hour or two at a time-->am sleeping up to four hours without waking! (I've settled for sleeping not more than 90 minutes without waking for the past fifteen years, so you can see why this is a big thing for me.) I also had been accused of wrongdoing at a previous job and because of this, my nursing license was under investigation. Thankfully, I was found to have done nothing wrong, after two years of limbo and uncertainty, so I feel as though a great weight has been lifted from me. I've started a new part-time, per diem, job at the University of Illinois which gives me satisfaction (although not much money, yet). I have a loving family who've sustained and supported me throughout years of pain, surgery and frustration with chronic illness. With all of these things, why do I feel so unhappy?
I have such a longing to be near to God, to feel His presence. It's funny but when I left the fellowship I'd belonged to all my life twelve years ago, I felt more at peace than I do now. Yes, I felt lost, lonely and afraid (because I'd lost not only my life-long friends but many of my relatives, as well, because I was "out of Fellowship"), but, in my lost state, I became completely reliant on Jesus. My relationship with Him was more living and vibrant than it had ever been. I'd finally found what it meant to have a 'personal relationship' with the Lord Jesus. I believe He came in, in the way of tremendous blessing, during that time of such sorrow and loss, a time which, in some ways, was more agonizing than my daily bouts with chronic, physical pain.
In some ways the loneliness has never gone away. Yet the nearness and vibrancy of my relationship with Christ has grown cold. Don't get me wrong! I'm completely and utterly to blame, yet I feel at such a loss as to how to get it back! What I must do is turn back and began taking up the small steps which lead to Life in the Spirit, like daily times of communion with God, reading the scriptures, and, most of all, I think the Father is trying to show me my need for others in the Little Flock. Please pray for me in this regard...
Bj and Kirstie
This Bjorn (Bj) and Kirstin. Was taken at my brother Steve's marriage in 2000. Aren't they beautiful? Bj was ring-bearer and Kirstie was flower-girl
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