Observations across the Kitchen Table of Loss

June 6, 2018

What the HELL!  Have I gone insane?  How insensitive, shortsighted, mind blowingly stupid can I possibly be… completely out of touch with my reality.

The culture of our language is permeated with death references.  It is not until you face a death itself that it becomes so blatantly, horrifically evident.  Such language is so hard to avoid and it creeps in when we least expect it.

Innocently speaking of her housekeeping deficits, one says:  “Well, I guess no one has died because of them.” Innocuous in almost any other setting.

Another remarks, “Well, I guess we won’t starve to death”

There’s discussion about well worn shoes:  “Looks like you’ve worn them to death.”…

But the wingdinging daddy of them all:  Gathering at my cousin’s table, with relatives I don’t know well, I sought to normalize the gathering; to ease the pregnant silences with regular getting to know you conversation.  

“So what kind of medicine do you practice?” I say

Joe replies, “Emergency Medicine.”

I use this as a launching pad to talk about regular things, to put us all at ease, but am quickly aware of my mistake.  Our words devolve into what Emergency Medicine is about… saving lives…

My cousin’s widowed husband is sitting at the table and we are talking about cardiac arrest and CPR!  Truly: OMG! What is wrong with me? What I had intended as polite, ease giving words have made me shockingly aware of my undeniable fallibility.

Perhaps he did not hear them, I hope; perhaps he didn’t understand the implications, I fervently` wish; please, I implore, make it that he is full of grace, knowing, as he does, that  our hearts mean him no harm, I pray.

I am aghast, ashamed, saturated with my own inadequacy, unable  to take back the implications of my words. And I am undone, once again.  

Please, Lord, erase my unintentional mistake. Please, Lord, let me be a comforter, a come-alongsider.  Give my words and actions healing power and forgive me of my ridiculous imperfections…as You do, please empower me, then, to forgive myself.

Marcia’s Goodbye

I was at a birthday party when my mom called yesterday.  My breath catches just a moment and my pulse quickens every time I first hear my mom’s voice calling at an unexpected time. Who now? I whisper as my heart closes in on itself.  Many times it is a light call and I begin to breathe again, embarrassed by my conditioned response. This day, my back to the bathroom wall, I slid down into a tight ball on the floor.  Her words inconceivable to me as they have been too many times before in this wretched millenium.

I felt like a character in a horror movie who having just escaped the monster turns a corner to be face to face with it again…

My precious, priceless foundationally essential cousin Marcia, gone in a flash on a Sunday; too soon; too abruptly; too maniacally wrongly.  The tearing of the sacred jaggedly cutting it’s swath across my heart. How can this be? How? How? How?

I fell asleep that night in a numb haze of disbelief and unwilling sorrow.

The next day, I woke up with an unformed song on repeat in my head. I knew the tune but couldn’t quite remember the words.  Google helped and it turned out to be “I AM” by Crowder:

“I am holding onto you. I am holding onto you.  

In the middle of the storm, I am holding onto you.”

“There’s no space that His love can’t reach

There’s no place where we can’t find peace.

There’s no end to amazing grace.

Take me in with Your arms spread wide.

Take me in like an orphan child

Never let go, never leave my side.”

In my sorrow, I was given a song from somewhere in my past, loud and clear to help me navigate in my present.  A gift simply there when I awoke.

The journey of grief is a sticky, painful mess. Death smacks of the wrongness in the world but the sweet gift of a song encouraged and bolstered my quaking self.  I AM is holding onto me in the middle of this storm. The whirling dervishes of my panic are slowing with that truth. Perhaps, now I can begin to do some holding myself.

The Fairyland Convocation

The victory of endurance accomplished yesterday spurs me on to walk amid the wonders of Bryce Canyon’s Fairyland trail.  It is a trail of undeniable delights and the undulating ups and downs of the path.

We begin in the muddy, snow scattered trail above the valley of wonders and I begin with the gratitude.  Gratitude for the richness of the view and company but, also, for a knee, still healing from an injury, yet able to traverse the towering tops of Zion Canyon.  I feel wary but strong and follow our crew into the mud.

As I descend, the burn of my lungs yesterday is replaced by the burn in my calves. The sun is up in the valley, warming the juniper and releasing its fresh, well loved smell.  It beckons me downward.  The sky is once again a brilliant blue, the canyon in shades of reds and whites, I revel in the attitude of gratitude that fills my senses with God’s vast display of His handiwork.  I think of Romans 1:19-20, “Since what may be known about God is plain to them because God has made it plain to them. For since the creation of the world God’s invisible qualities: His eternal power and divine nature, have been clearly seen, being understood from what has been made…”  I am more than content as I allow the beauty of this place sink into my bones.

There are cathedral walls of narrow rock with random windows worn through by weather, gatherings of  the rich hues of red and yellow pinnacles seemingly calling the congregation of hikers to worship.  These are framed by the sometimes white dotted azure skies of the Southwest that penetrate to my very center.  God’s Word echoing His invisible qualities.  I walk in complete awe and amazement.

After several miles, I begin to feel an ache in my good knee.  I am not surprised because of course I have been favoring it.  I stretch and move it to work out the cramping and marvel at the tenacity of the other one.  It soon becomes evident, however, that no amount of stretching is making a difference.  It slows me as each step becomes more tenuous, requiring more and more effort.  Joe finds me a tree root which he manages, with help, to extricate from a withered tree.  It makes a light yet sturdy walking stick and empowers my ascent to the top.  I use the sleeve of my coat to soften the sharpness of its edge and off I go.

I send my friends ahead acknowledging that my pace is intolerable to those such as Joe.  They will retrieve the car and meet me at the top.  As my friends disappear beyond my sight so does the sun in its path behind the clouds.  I am left in the silence of the Fairyland.

My steps become a burden to me and I must stop every few of them to rest.  When my grip on the walking stick causes my hand to tingle and hurt, I realize my attention has focused away from the wonder and onto the effort it takes to negotiate the pain. I have been trying to will myself up the hill.  It is then I hear the echoes of the canyon calling me to pray, to refocus on He Who sustains me.

I am surprised as I look up to the stately sight of the castle like towering parapets.  It is the Fairyland Convocation gathering before me to render wisdom and encouragement for my journey.  They speak together in one booming voice.

“We have called you here today,” the fairyland towers exclaim, “to tell you of God and His glory.”

Each grand spire in turn imparting a piece of the story.  Their voices lyrical and melodious yet different from each other.

The first is a soft, giggling whisper, “You would not be here today had not your leg slowed you and called you to prayer.”

The next, an older, deeper resonant bass, “Step by step as endurance forms, you reveal His Glory, evidence of Who God is, within you, put there by God Himself.”  

And then a soft spoken Grandmotherly reminder, “Just as these canyons reveal the magnificent layering of time and beauty so do the steps of your life.”

“Each sometimes painful step, a reminder that the staff you lean upon guides and comforts you on the journey toward the infinite, displayed all around you here,” adds the next with a sturdy, firm authority.

“You are not alone though your friends have gone ahead,” says one with a bit of a squeak and is interrupted by another who, with childlike wonder, as if telling a just remembered secret, chimes in, “You are in the very double grip of your God like it says in John 10: 27-30.”

The last to speak seems to hush the rest.  “He has made this wondrous place to echo His truths into your heart and mind and soul. These pinnacles, parapets, cathedral walls, and all, are messages to you.”  

He pauses and is joined by the others: “God can be known.  He is Infinite: without limit/impossible to measure.  He is Eternal: existing without beginning or end.  He is Incomprehensible and though He cannot be fully known, still He seeks to be known.  He transcends all space, filling all space with His entire being:  His goodness, love, power, grace and kindness.”  “Look to the hills from whence comes your Help,  for He is calling out to you this very moment.”

As they fall silent, their message reverberating in the canyon, I feel the words of the Psalmist emerge within me.  How can this be true? How is it that this great place saturated with  beauty, majesty and immensity,  where I am small and hobbling, no more than speck in the canyon,  unseen from the heights, how is it that these walls talk to me?

My answer begins as a low hum, all around me but crescendos, building in intensity until its melody is clear and resonant.  It is the Fairyland Convocation singing: 

“To God be the glory, great things He hath done,

So loved He the world that He gave us His Son,

Who yielded His life our redemption to win,

And opened the life-gate that all may go in.

Come to the Father, through Jesus, His Son

and give Him the glory great things He has done.”

Ahh, I say with understanding is the love of Jesus which compels the rocks to sing.  Some do not hear them, others refuse to recieve their message but for some, small and hobbling, His message among the rocks is loud and beautiful.

He is mindful of me because He wants to be.  He wants to be known by me and though God cannot be fully known, still His truest desire is to be known.  He has gone to great lengths to get my attention.  He wants your attention too.  Will you choose to hear Him?

The Ascent of the Angels
Zion National Park

The canyon is chilled in the shadows of the morning. The sun rays warming the tips of the Patriarch Rocks towering above and surrounding me.

I am already winded and warming myself as I sit on a sandstone bench for a moment of praising God in this, a glimpse of His Magnificence.

The river falls away into the distant valley as I pause to remove my jacket. The wind is crisp yet the climb is elevating my temperature as each step does my body.

It is my breathing and not my knee that slows me today, yet a sudden flattening of the trail renews my strength.

I read from Oswald Chamber’s “My Utmost for His Highest”. A fitting title for such a day hike as this. He writes about the uncontainable love of God. How He loves me recklessly, abundantly, colorfully with unfathomable immensity. I see this reflected in every step I take.

I meet my lifelong friend Kate on the trail. “It is an easy hike except for the elevation,” she tells me on her way back down. The heights and sheer drops prompt me to consider how true this is for loving as well.

It is an easy path to love those who love you but it is a perilous cliff at times to love with the uncontainable, reckless, no barrier love of God, Jesus tells us, though I paraphrase His words.

The challenges of loving with God’s love can pull me down just as gravity pulls at my legs as the climb steepens. I begin to realize that I am fixated on my feet as I work to breathe and become suddenly aware of the closeness of the precarious edge. I become momentarily dizzy from the sheerness of the drop until I look up and the sight steadies me. I am held steady and securely by the towering wall beside me on which I rest my hand.

I revert to my foot fixation and catch my breath, climbing onward. My son, Joe, is far ahead of me on the path. I fear for his wildness and consider how his exuberance may cause his ‘downfall’ yet soon am reminded of the proper role of gravity. It will weigh him down with the steepness as it does me. Even youth’s folly is subject to the gravity of the steep.

A welcomed, joyous reprieve surprises me as the path turns unexpectedly level into a shaded slice between two towering sentinels of red rock, forest between. The nooks and crannies and mysteriously lighted from above caves within the canyon walls present a light show. Every turn, step and view offering a different textured pattern of light and color. It is cool in its embrace and my steps lighten as well.

The beauty of this almost slot canyon gives way to the steepness of the switchbacks cut from the rock. It is a winding (curving) and winding (breathy) adventure in endurance. My mind stops writing and becomes wholly immersed in the climb.

There is a wide gathering place atop the switchbacks before the last grueling climb to the summit. This trail provides rails of chain to assist in the final assault up the slippery sandstone trail. I choose a tree half way up to sit and consider my knees and the path to come. It is growing right out of the side of the incline but provides shade and security and a lovely waiting place for those already above me.

I breathe in the pure blue sky and immensity around me. As my words return, I rest immersed in the sweetness of endurance accomplished. So close in proximity to the heavenlies and in the refreshment of God’s step by step presence realized.

*

Christmas, 2017

“As a child I asked the man in red

‘Hey, Santa, what’s your Christmas wish?’

And this is what he said:

‘I’d like to teach the world to sing in perfect harmony.

I’d like to hold it in my arms and keep it company

I’d like to see the world for once all standing hand in hand

And hear them echo through the hills for peace throughout the land.’”

~The Tenors’ “Santa’s Wish”~

Anne’s Wish

Twas the months before Christmas and all through the house,

There were struggles with Shingles and knee cysts and flu,

And a sadness that pervaded right down to my shoes.

~~

Then, one night, sitting down alone with my Pap,

We had just settled down for an early night’s nap

When out on the lawn there arose such a clatter,

We sprang from our chairs to see what was the matter.

~~

Away to the window I flew like a flash

To find both my cars taken out in a crash.

And what to my wondering eyes should appear,

But a drunk driver, unconscious and in need of repair.

~~

I knew in a moment I must call 911

For her door was smashed in and she was undone.

More rapid than eagles their coursers they came

As we whistled and shouted and called them by name:

~~

“Now, Coppers, now, Medics, now Tow truck please come.”

We have a great mess and we are now, the undone!

~~

It was there in the stillness that followed the crash

That my heart began crying with over-reacting abash.

Why was I so sullen, so bothered by this?

I wondered and muddled, for an answer I wished.

~~

As my red car was towed and drove out of sight

I began to understand it was about more than this blight.

It was about my friend Paula who had given the car

And each of the others who have left for the stars.

It was about Lettie and Ross and the rest

Who I no longer see but hold close to my breast.

~~

And then it came upon the midnight clearly

The answer I was longing for so dearly

As I heard the Tenors sing

And re-imagined the message they bring.

~~

The reason for this whole Christmas thing:

It’s about Jesus and the hope He brings

As from His promises, these words He sings:

~~

“I want to teach the world to sing

in perfect harmony

To hold it in my arms

And keep it company.
~~

I want to see the world for once

All standing hand in hand

And hear them echo through the hills

For peace throughout the land.”

~~

It’s why He came one Christmas morn

So that hope might spring from my own mourning

He has come into my neighborhood

To bring from harm, all that is His Good.

~~

He sits beside me in my troubled estate

And holds me through the sadness it creates

Because, you see, it’s not Santa’s wish

but rather Jesus’ Promises

He is the reason for the season

Even when life holds no rhyme or reason.

~~

One day the world will learn His song

And sing in perfect harmony

In the meantime, He will hold us in His arms

And keep us company.

~~

May He keep you company this Merry Christmas.

Love, Anne and boys

Sunday, November 19

I open to Psalms 19:1-2

“The heavens declare the glory of God and the sky proclaims the work of His hands. Day after day they pour out speech; night after night they communicate knowledge.”

God’s general revelation goes out to all the earth.  The heavens declare His glory, the sky proclaims the work of His hand.  Their message has gone out to all the earth as God says:  “I am here!  See Me!  Know Me! Pick Me!”

These are the same words He puts in us, every one of us, from the Haitian child waving from the road, to the witch doctor sitting for prayer, to the team member wanting to serve.  “I am here!  See me!”, we cry, “know me, love me!”  All that we are cries out to be seen, acknowledged, loved…

His desire to have us know Him is the same desire He has put in us to be known. What a wondrous thing.  God, Himself, longs for us to know Him and will stop at nothing to get us what we need to accomplish His task.  Romans 1:20 comes to life.  

I leave Haiti feeling known and knowing.  He continues to proclaim the work of His hands and woos us, everyone.  

He’s wooing you, even now.  Will you listen?

Saturday, November 18

Clinic has come to another end.  We saw roughly 600 people and I stand amazed knowing that means each provider saw 100 patients each.  I do not typically like to cite numbers but something my Pastor said before we left has me rethinking it.

“Every number has a face; Every face has a name; Every names has a story;  And every story matters to God.”    ~Des Wadsworth~

Every one of us matter to God and He, in His wonder, sent the 10 of us to make sure the 600 and all those involved and watching, including the team, could see His Truth in action.

How cool is that?

____________

It is a holiday in Haiti commemorating a famous battle in the fight for Independance.  We leave early for Port au Prince (PAP) to avoid the rallies, protests and crowds that might complicate our journey.  We arrive easily and without delay.

The Palm Inn is a sweet, little, gated  hideaway off a nondescript rocky road.  There are idyllic trees and a lovely pool and patio with sitting areas and peacefulness.

Some of the team decide to soak up the loveliness, while the rest go out into the city in the van to explore.  

We stop at the site of the Presidential palace that was eminent in my memories after the earthquake with its sunken, smashed edifice.  I, not realizing we are there, look all over to find it to see how they have rebuilt.  I am puzzled when I do not see it but find out later that it has been demolished because of the damage and not yet rebuilt.  

Next, we have a visit to the Hotel Oloffson.  It is an historic hotel from yesteryear where all the famous and dignified have stayed and movies have been made.  It is a grand, white wooden porched hotel with the flavor of a French Quarter or Casablanca beauty.  We sit on high backed chairs under the iconic ceiling fans and are treated to tea and coffee on the veranda.  The towering, flowering trees and palms in all their splendor redeem the raucous and creepy Voodoo art and statues that fill the garden and hallways.  

It is a holiday so many of our intended stops are not open but we manage to fill the morning with interesting history and shopping.  Haitian coffee, Rum and chocolate are on most everyone’s list and we accomplish this in the local grocery store:  The Caribbean, before going up the mountain to lunch.

We drive a narrow, winding road up, up, up out of PAP.  It is like the road to Flagstaff on a summer weekend, crowded and traffic jammy.  Lush, tropical glory falling away sharply into valleys with abrupt inclines on their other sides and crazy housing on the edges.  It is a marvel that there is any room for air on some of the curves.

At 1500 feet, we eat lunch at a restaurant on one of the more stable edges: The Observatoire.  It is owned by a friend of Suzette’s and has a breathtaking view of the city by the sea.  It is breathtaking in its beauty, not in its edgyness.

From a distance it all looks so blue and green with soft whisps of clouds blowing in from below.  Enormous freighters can be seen at the docks and the mountains of my heart rising from the plain just beyond the airport.

We have been in the mud and details and now we see it from above in its purity and beauty.  It gives me a bit of a glimpse of what it might have been like for Jesus.   Jesus saw the view from Heaven and chose to come down to the mud and details and mix it up with the locals. It makes me smile that the dust from which God made man has become the mud of life in the trenches and yet Jesus chose us any way.

Friday, November 17

Why does the chicken cross the road?  I’ll tell you later.

Our final day of clinic is always bittersweet.  Ready for rest yet reluctant to leave my new friends. It makes me think of my concerns of yesterday. The bittersweetness of trusting God and His power when I am feeling utterly powerless. I turn to Matt Redman’s song, “10,000 Reasons”.

“The sun comes up, it’s a new day dawning.  It’s time to sing Your song again.  Whatever may pass and whatever lies before me, Let me be singing when the evening comes.”  

The only route through is with an attitude of gratitude…10,000 reasons for my heart to find, singing like never before wherever He takes me.

It is an overcast, dim day, ready for rain as we arrive at clinic. We are greeted by a parade of sorts.  We are  told the proper name is a ‘Manifestation’.  I have a front row look as I wait to pass through to clinic.  Rows of brightly colored. fancily dressed women are marching down the road, each with a straw hat and purse of bows.  They are chanting and excited onlookers surround and follow them.  We see the Voodoo Doctor, with whom we prayed in clinic this week, leading the way. Apparently, this is a Voodoo thing.

Bas is my interpreter and I share my bench with Dr. Vic one last time. We examine our church volunteers first today.  There are 15 or so church members who have volunteered their time this week to assist us in the clinic. They range from young adult to old.  

Jacko comes to me.  He is 20 years old, tall and thin and works as a tailor.  He is my own son’s counterpart and I tell him so.  I anticipate that he will tell me he has the common complaint of fever, cough, “acid reflux” but instead I find that he has high blood pressure.  I take his blood pressure  on each side because I cannot believe this could be true for one so young yet so it is.

Once again, I hear my baby before I see him.  Bowden’s Aunt has brought him back to us and she is smiling.  He is dressed in a bright blue jumper and holds my finger with his tiny grip.  His breathing is less labored and he is more alert.  He is, indeed, better. As I hold him in my arms I rock and sing.  Bas comes over and he and I sing hymns together and our voices calm his fussing.  Bowden’s eyes look toward Bas at the richness of Bas’ deep voice.  Later, I hug Bowden’s mama and aunt and tell them what a faithful fine job they have done with him.  They tell the Pastor that they are grateful for our help.

Sweet 7 year old Nasquadia walks happily beside her mother and brother as they come to me.  She looks fairly well and so I am surprised when I find her tonsils and uvula to be so large there is only a small airway left; something we call kissing tonsils. Mama tells me she won’t eat. What an understatement!  Thankfully, the tonsils do not look infected only enlarged but nevertheless will need surgery.  Bas talks with mom and recommends a nearby hospital while I give her ideas about feeding and safeguarding her child.  

We end clinic early so that we can thank all those who made this week possible.  The rain gently begins on the tin roof of the church as we gather and sing.  It’s refreshing coolness blowing across the open air sanctuary.  As the rain becomes louder and more forceful, so do we, with Paul as our cheerleader.  We cheer and celebrate one another and overpower the sound of the rain.

It is a muddy drive home with laughing children splashing and the irrigation canals rising.  The roads in St. Marc are bustling and traffic is full.  Sue points out a chicken on the sidewalk who appears to be deciding whether he can make it across the busy road in front of us.  We watch to see if the chicken will cross the road. When he takes off suddenly, out of our sight, we all look to the other side to see if he makes but he is nowhere to be found…until he is spotted just outside the windshield on the hood.  He is stares at us as we stare at him and he stays there until we stop at his stop down the road where he hops off.  Even the vendors beside our van are curious and laughing.

So, why did the chicken cross the road?  He didn’t he took a taxi.

We end our daylight with a small clinic for some of the foster kids who live near the guest house and then it is off to ready ourselves for our trip back to Port-au-Prince tomorrow.

Test

Thursday, November 16

It threatens rain again this morning as we drive our now familiar route to clinic.  The protests of yesterday turn out to be no more than a fight between village members.  No police were called and it was over soon after it began.  I am grateful the leadership valued our safety enough to be insure it and yesterday, afterall, was an unexpected delight and blessing.

The verdant hills of the distance are a welcomed distraction from the muddy drabness of the city.  At the foot of the hills are acres of short palm trees ringed by fewer taller ones standing sentinel around them.  It reminds me of Feeding Hope, how the older ones surround and protect the little ones eagerly reaching for their potential.

It appears to be car wash day as we drive along the irrigation canals. We pass motorcycle after motorcycle shining as the light catches the glistening chrome.   

The pink, yellow and red lily pad like flowers flourish at the water’s edge and the goats of all sizes are finding their morning feasts.

Clinic begins with a lovely nine month old sweetie sweeter asleep in her father’s arms. He tells me that young Silvina pees all the time and it has a foul stench.  She is feverish and irritable when she is not asleep.  I take care to not wake her and treat her for what will turn out to be the diagnosis de jour again today.

Next, is two year old Wilvens who would just as soon scratch my eyes out as look at me. As I get close to exam him he reaches for my face with his long fingernails.  It is a complicated relationship but we manage to come to an understanding.  I tell him he is fierce and that quality will serve him well.  His father smiles.

Across the room I recognize the cry before I see the baby.  Bowden, from our first day, is back.  He is breathing more evenly with a more effective suck and is lying contentedly in his aunt’s arms. After much deliberation among the team, it seems evident that this darling has some underlying issues that will not be easy to treat and probably will not be cured.

When 13 year old Yguet (pronounced Egay) comes to me, he tells me he has sores in his mouth that bleed.  He is unable to close his mouth because of them and I see that there are lesions that intertwine with his teeth and tongue.  He had surgery before he could remember and had a tumor removed.  He bears the scars on his face and neck.  I recognize immediately that this is out of my scope and I take him to Dr. Greg.

Cases like these two cause me to dig deep.  They remind me of my struggle with my Mother-in-law Lettie whom I had the privilege to care for at the end of her life.  It is not easy to be powerless in the presence of suffering. It is heart rending.  It is also a time to realize I am not powerless.  The words of a Mercy Me song sum it up:  “I know You are able.  I know that You care.  You can bring me safely through the fire with Your mighty hand… BUT even if You don’t, My hope is in You alone.”  If I cannot trust Him in times like these, why would I bother to trust Him at all?  He is able to accomplish what concerns me today. Well,  Bowden and Yguet are my concern so I lift them up to the only Power that can truly heal what matters most and I continue to do what He has made me to do as I power on.

One of my last patients of the day is a 9 month pregnant Mama, Ylenia.  She is beautiful, tall and thin with her round belly, ready to pop.  I invite her to deliver here and now and she smiles.  She is here because she was due on Nov 9 and wonders why the baby lingers.  She is tolerating pregnancy well and really is the picture of health. I reassure her that babies come when they are ready and not to worry.  She will need all her strength when the day comes.  She allows me to pray for her and her baby as I lay my hand on her belly and take her other hand in mine.  It is a beautiful, life affirming moment to remind me of  Whose hands we are in.

Whose handsWhose hands we are in.