Home

Fields of life.  Our spirits respond.  We long for home.  I long for home.  My wheelchair describes my days: outlining for me what activities are permissible, allowable.  Before . . .before my life changed, before I was imprisoned, I could wander. Taking long walks, Enjoying the freedom.  Color everywhere.  Nature's palette the most profuse.  The mystery of life.  My spirit responds.

 

LOST and FOUND

Near the end of my mother's life, she needed help eating. For unknown reasons, she forgot how to eat.  At times, she even forgot how to swallow.  It would follow that most of the time, she forgot who we were - her daughters.  She lived in her own world - an imaginary place.  She would talk about her work and what she had done that day.  The concreteness of her wheelchair never impeded her reality.  The fact that she did not know where she was never bothered her.  Her reality was her perception.  She was lost.

Nursing homes are warehouses for the lost.  Most of the elderly and sick in nursing homes are not visited by family members; they are not remembered.  Most of the elderly have lost and are lost.

 

But, my sister found a way.  Taking account of her life, she knew she could not abandon the sick, the frail, the lost.  Sacrificing her time and energy and money to care for someone who could not call her by name. The nursing facility provided what was required - legally.  My sister provided what was required - morally.

 

Caring for the lost is always costly to the caregiver:  thinking about others first; finding a way to supply.  Stories from World War II are abundant with examples of heroics efforts to care for the lost.  It is heart-rending to read about people like Oskar Schindler or Corrie ten Boom.  My sister should have a book dedicated to her: a book about sacrifices made, about battles fought, about tears cried; a book about the quiet, unacknowledged hero of the everyday.  My sister, Sharon, made her choices for reasons greater than you would think.  She fought for my mother's dignity not because she was our mother, but because my mother was a human in need and should not be abandoned.  My sister fought to find a way.  Even though my mother was lost, she was found.

May you never be lost; and, if you are, then, may you be found.

Carried Along

A year ago, my precious granddaughter arrived. What joy!

It is amazing to me that a child's child can stir within me a rushing river of love. If only I could live each moment with the same intensity of gentle love!

The physicality of life is demanding. As we age or struggle with illness and disease, the balance between mind and body totters. We fight through the fog that clouds our minds. I have seen it happen to those around me as they toil to eat or drink or breathe. I have felt it happen to me. 

I fight to live another day above the fog. As I look at her beautiful face and I feel that rush of love, I am carried along. 

Spending Spoons

One Saturday last month, the day started off hectic.

First, shower. Shower?  By myself, I wonder, "Can I do it?"  Slowly, I manage to get the water turned on. Gingerly, I step into the shower - clinging to the grab bars. Finally, I step back onto solid ground exhausted but clean.  I feel as if I have washed energy away as well.
 

Wet, I lie down on the bed, letting the towel absorb what it can.  Closing my eyes, I rest.   Then, time to get up and dressed.  More energy spent. 

Next, out the apartment door and down the elevator.  Riding my scooter to the car so that Vicky (kind, generous security guard)  can place the scooter into the trunk.  Precious energy spent on simple tasks. 

 

Two hours after my shower, I finally arrive.  As I wait for my son-in-law to retrieve my electric scooter from the car trunk, I try to rest - vainly trying to find my lost energy.  Everyone is gathering to watch my grandson play baseball. He is only 4 years old, but he has a natural, athletic ability.  Energy still oozing out of me.

After the game, it is time to gather over a meal. This is part of the ritual: first, watch the game other; second, eat and fellowship.  This is what matters.

I have spent all my energy (spoons). 

Time is sacred.  Family is sacred. Family time is sacred.

Walking a Straight Line

As I roll through the crowd, I call out, "I am right next to you."  The man hops a small step to his right.

 "I didn't see you," he says quickly. 

"No problem. I am short these days.  It seems I shrunk quite a bit," I quip. 

He chuckles at my lame joke as I roll pass. 

Commuting by wheelchair requires more attentive concentration than driving. The able-bodied are unaware of their environment as they walk along. Many are distracted with window-shopping, talking with friends, or listening to music. The most dangerous are those talking or texting on their phones. But, they all wander down the street. 

When I was a walker, I was a wanderer, also.  Never did it occur to me that I was not walking in a straight line. Not until I started to roll did I become aware of how often people really do a small weave as they walk.  They wander.  They wander and they fail to see.  The wheelchair rider does not exist to them.

If we fail to see God, is it because He does not exist? 

The next time you see someone in a wheelchair. . .