Truth From Ashes

A few years ago, a friend committed suicide.  It was well planned out.  His papers were in order and individual notes were left for ex-wife, son, daughter, and business partner.  Before pulling the trigger, he called the police and told them what he was about to do and where they could find him.

Shocking? Some of us might be tempted to say that he was selfish.  I don't; I think he was lost.  Unless you have lived in the darkest place and saw no value, no purpose, no point to your life, then you cannot understand what drove him to make this decision.  At some point, his mind fractured.  He was broken.

My friend made a decision to abandon his family and friends.  I still cry over this loss of life.  So many of us are fighting to live another day and he decided to stop fighting.  It is understandable that he would want to end the pain but it is incomprehensible that he could not see the pain he caused others.  He no longer took his thoughts captive.  He was blinded by the night.

Before this tragic end, he persisted in following a failed dream.  Slowly, he was poisoned by despair because his plans did not come to fruition.  Literally, his life was unraveling and he was facing prison time.  His life vision was distorted but he held it in high regard.  Oh, the energy he spent chasing the what could have beens.  

Was his life in vain?  No.  Even though he left a legacy of emptiness, truth can be formed from his ashes.  As we sift through what remains, we can find answers to our own despair.  All of us will face pain and failed dreams.  Most of us will not choose such an abrupt end but we may instead drift along without thinking.  It is its own type of death.

As I faced my loss of mobility and the resulting loss of dreams, I too faced choices.  At first, I was frustrated at how little I could do and how little I felt understood.  Over time, it occurred to me that I needed to examine my thoughts, challenge my mindset, and make decisions that provided a legacy worth leaving behind.  My struggles would serve a purpose beyond the vision I had for my life.  Each light and momentary tribulation would work a deeper truth within me and, as a result, carry the potential of life-giving gifts to those around me.

Hope keeps me going through my darkest struggles.  As I encounter challenges, I have the option to face my tribulation with faith.  In truth, the greatest moments are those where I have suffered with purpose.  For suffering produces patience, and patience character.  As character matures,  hope emerges.

The Erroneous Logic About Silence

One benefit of being mobility challenged is that I have the gift of time.  So, lately, I have been thinking about the turmoil and reactionary hate that is all around us.  For me, it seems that much of the conflict is derived from defining what is true and real.

I am the Narrator of my life.  In every moment, I give contextual meaning of who I am, what I am about, and why I am doing it.  My interpretations and inferences about people and events are what defines my personal reality.  How I choose to understand myself and the world around me is how I choose to live and, ultimately, die.

You are a narrator, also.  And, not only you but every person determines the script of their life's story.  We live our lives within our story and this story is the foundation for our reality.  Our narration extends to our public world as well as our private world.  In our family of social relationships, we define our ethics, mores and norms.  It is a cooperative attempt to create a set of values for living together.  This is a political activity — deals and compromises are part of the group dynamic until eventually there is a consensus.  (An example of this is to think about how your social group understands what it means to be an American.)

When we encounter a group whose ethics deviate from ours, most often there is conflict.  The clashing of ideals and mores can cause disharmony and escalate to violence and war.  Rather than finding a way to mediate, we disparage one another.  We fail to see that reality is our personal and social construct; it is not objective; it is not fact.

However, we must understand that our group's consensus does not confer an absolute.  For example, let us look at a hot topic: are police servants of the community or abusers of power? You probably have a definite opinion and most people within your social group will have a similar belief.  This belief not only co-joins you with your social circle but determines how you will respond when you encounter police or hear about an incident reported in the news.  It is your reality of police and their behavior.

So, if I create my own reality based on my beliefs, expectations, and mindset, is truth a mere construct as well?  There is most assuredly a social construct of reality and truth but how far does this permeate each individual's existence?  We seek like-minded people who reinforce and affirm our foundational mores.  Sometimes, in the discovery phase of a new relationship, we find that our differences drive us away from further intimacy.  At other times, philosophical differences breakdown previously intimate relationships.  (Think about a time when you said, "I thought s/he was different from that.")

If we can look at ourselves objectively and see how reality is fluid, then we can become aware of the dynamics of the subtle changes in the social construct of reality.  In other words, what we say and do can influence how others perceive the reality of events.  The media does it all the time.  We can bring about change by setting clear boundaries and differentiations.  When we stand in silence and we allow another person (or group) to say or do something that is contrary to our morals or ethics, we are permitting them to redefine us.  Most often, the erroneous logic that silence implies consent comes into play and they (those that we disagree with in silence) group us with them.  By default, we become a party to something that is contrary to our ethics, our beliefs, our reality.

So, silence is no longer an option.  All around us decisions are being made and reality is being redefined.  We need to find our voice.  Be silent no longer.

"The only thing necessary for the triumph of evil is for good men to do nothing." - Edmund Burke

The Bridge Between

Grabbing the handrail parallel to the stairs with my left hand and holding my cane in my right hand, I push off with my right foot and try to lift myself up to the first stair.  It doesn't work.  I try a second time and then a third.

"Okay, Valerie," I say.  "I can't do it.  Please help me."

She has been standing guard behind me, waiting for me to ask.  Knowing that I want to try, that I need to try, she is patient with me.  Valerie places her hands on either side of my torso at the waist and as I press off on my right foot, she lifts me to the first stair.

One step down and another to go.  Facing forward and reaching out, I grab the handicap bar first with one hand and then the other.  This time, I am able to pull myself up to the second stair.  One final step over the threshold and I am on the breezeway that links the studio to the house.

Doing my own special walk of shuffle, step, shuffle, I am transported to the safety of a home with handicap accommodations.  In this place, I have a gentle, kind caretaker who sees her employment as a calling by God and a loving husband.  Even so, it is a harsh reality.  Every movement is a reminder of what I cannot do, an acute awareness of how much is done for me.

My fairytale home is a Disneyland wonder of peace.  Yet, the poison apple is waiting there, also.  Do I give in to temptation?  The impulse to reach out and take a bite of despair churns within me as I cross over the threshold.  Here, I am reminded of everything I can no longer do and everything I have been forced to leave behind.  There is always an "I cannot," now.  Sometimes, in the early morning, I want to cross that bridge.  I want to go to my studio above the garage.  I want to but I cannot.

My studio - what a wonderful place of paints and brushes.  The walls are covered with paintings - each one a story of some moment in my life.  It is in this place that I am not handicapped.  Rather, I am not.  I do not exist for I am in the moment of color.  It is a pure, virginal time.

Then, it is over.  Valerie helps me clean up and put away my brushes.  It is time to cross the bridge between and set aside my dreams but never my hope.

Of What Story Am I A Part?

Recently, a small town near my home held their annual "Wine and Harvest Festival."  This is a big deal for the community up here in southwest Michigan with the festivities all culminating in a parade down the main street of the town.

Truth be told, it is quite a small production and major cities, such as New York and Chicago, have the upper hand when it comes to throwing a party.  That being said, there is something more precious involved in this high school play rendition of a party.

Sitting in a golf cart decked out with purple streamers with stacks of candy ready to hand out as we trailed my church's float, I watched the community, my newly adopted community,  prepare for their big moment.

Now, I am a "big city girl."  Raised in Chicago, lived in Manhattan for three years, and then spent a few years in the San Francisco area.  Rather, I should say I was a "big city girl."  After moving to this tiny, little town in Michigan, I changed.  To my surprise, it took only three years for my conversion to a "small town girl."

Sure, I miss the conveniences and variety that big cities offer.  But, all their glitter pales in comparison with the hearts of the people I have come to know here.  In large communities, anonymity rules.  The number of people who have time to develop relationships is significantly smaller.  Why?  Because of time.  Time is a commodity.  Time is money.  Time is limited.

Those hearts that I mentioned in the previous paragraph are genuine and tender.  Most of them, I found in a local church.  Again, reflective of the community, it is a small congregation in comparison to churches in the big city.  Small in size, big in every other way.  To them, I am not a handicapped (aka limited, helpless) woman.  I am valued and loved.  I am a part of their story and it is a good one.

Their story is part of the metanarrative of the Bible.  A story of loss and redemption.  A story of love and acceptance.

This is my story, too.

A Gift From The Heart of Two Heroes

Just two weeks ago I encountered two heroes, seems longer and shorter.  Funny how time has its own way of moving.  We track it, tally it, waste it, use it, and make it.  Still, we can only experience it as moments.  This time, two weeks ago, 15 minutes and life changed: Dennis had a heart attack.

Luckily, we were on the highway headed west from Battle Creek towards Kalamazoo.  Suddenly, Dennis said he did not feel well; his arms hurt; he felt as if someone were trying to inflate a football in his chest.  I asked him if he wanted me to drive (not a terribly good idea because I have been having some dizziness problems lately).  He said, "Yes."  Non-verbal communication: something was seriously wrong.

We were a mile away from an exit - a very long mile.  Everything slowed down.  Finally, the exit loomed before us.  Seconds ticked.  I watched him.  He seemed confused.  Realizing that he was not going to stop, I said, "Pull over.  This is a good spot."  Knowing that I could not ambulate around the car on my own, Dennis got out of the car and walked over to the passenger's seat while I scooted over to the driver's seat.  As the passenger door closed, Dennis slumped into the seat and said, "I need to go to the hospital."

Following Siri's directions, we arrived at the hospital 15 minutes later.  During that time, Dennis appeared to have passed out.  How long?  Time had stopped.  Then, he was back.

We had our two grandchildren in the car - seven year old Samuel and three year old Rosie.  Both children were quiet and attentive.  Too young to understand but wise enough to know what they needed to do.

As I put the van into Park, I turned to Samuel and said, "Samuel, go into the Emergency Room and tell them that your grandfather is having chest pains."  My Little Hero walked into the sliding doors and returned immediately with a nurse pushing a wheelchair.  She opened the van door and whisked Dennis away.  I do not know what we would have done if Samuel had not been with us.  The fact that he was in the car with us and able to act in such an adult manner and with such composure was a blessing from God, my Big Hero.

Abandoning the van in the no parking zone with the two children in tow, I rolled into the Emergency Room.  It was packed.  Both waiting areas were full and people were standing around for lack of seats.  Checking in at the front desk, they hurried us through the crowd to an area where Dennis was in a glass-enclosed room with at least seven to nine people hovering around him.

Immediately upon my arrival, a man came out of the room and introduced himself as Doctor "Somebody" and said, "Dennis is having a heart attack.  We are waiting for the stent team to arrive."  I took note of the present perfect tense of the word "have."  The three of us waited patiently.

At that moment, I became acutely aware of my surroundings and that I had options of how to behave, how to interpret my situation, of how to define myself.  I chose to be calm, to trust the doctors, and to trust God.  "I am not in control of this situation.  I can do nothing to change the outcome.  My story is intertwined with Your story.  I have peace." I prayed.

Two days later, mere moments of time, Dennis was home.  The cause of the heart attack: one of his arteries had been blocked 100%.  Because of my two heroes, we were able to get Dennis to the hospital in the early stages of his heart attack.  Consequently, Dennis has no heart damage nor brain damage from the lack of oxygen.

According to an article in the New York Times, "Dr. Kenneth L. Baughman, section leader in the division of cardiovascular medicine at the Brigham and Women's Hospital n Boston, stresses the importance of quick treatment in the case of a heart attack, which leaves the heart muscle starved for oxygen. 'Time is muscle, he said.'"

Time is muscle.  Time was the gift given to us by my two heroes.

Little Bits

For a long time now I have been thinking about the dilemma of life.  Social media has taken our lives from individual, personal communication and replaced it with a forum to voice whatever transient thought crosses our minds in the moment.  No longer do we think before we talk.  Reaction is the new mode of action; response has been thrown into the trash.

Slowly, little bits of tolerance, love, compassion have been lost.  Our society cries out against the senseless slaughter of a lion (which I happen to agree with; it is horrific).  However, we do not raise a voice against the practice of selling fetal tissue acquired from abortion clinics for medical (stem cell) research.  I believe that part of the problem stems from the controversy of abortions.   To put it plainly: abortions are legal, selling body parts of aborted babies is legal; stem cell research is advancing knowledge.  So, there is a false sense of justification for the practice.  On the other hand, trophy hunting of large animals is also legal but there is no overarching sociopolitical benefit to the slaughter.

This post is not about the debate of rights and wrongs.  Rather, I want to focus on a bigger issue:  How we perceive ourselves and our world.   Often, we become trapped into a line of reasoning because it justifies our sense of being.  Facts are twisted or ignored to fit our worldview.  We want tolerance for our point of view but rage against someone with an opposing view.  We are lost in skirmishes of hate.  Does it really matter if a man decided to change his outward appearance to a woman?

Little bits of my life are eroding away.  My body continues to waste.  I do not want to spend my time worrying about transient issues.  My faith in God deepens.  As I look around me, I am pained by man's inhumanity to man.  Put down your phones.  Look around.  Reach out to the person in need.  Find yourselves by losing yourself.  Trust God.  Choose love.

The Gift of Hope

One morning, she was riding her bike along the lakefront, enjoying the day.  Being the lead rider, she looked back at her companions to signal where she planned on turning to stop for a rest.  Suddenly, as she turned to look over her shoulder, her daughter screamed, "Mom, look out!"  In the next instant, she was on the pavement.  A speeding biker had hit her front tire and launched her into the air.  In that moment, her life changed.  For the summer, there would be no morning rides along the lakefront.  At the hospital, she learned that she had a fractured tibia.

Now, more than a month later, she is still hobbling around on crutches and is looking at another month of the same.  My friend is experiencing a taste of what it means to be physically challenged.  In fact, she said, "I am always moving at a fast pace and patience is not my strong suit.  But, I am learning."

Yes, learning.  This is a key ingredient to adjusting and adapting.  Contrary to her current sedentary life style, she still identifies herself as a fast-paced mover with little patience.  Living in the land of in-between, the purgatory of not quite healthy and not quite disabled, she is hopeful that she will be able to re-enter the land of the fast-paced.  Although cognizant of her temporary status, in order to process the always accompanying frustration that is a companion to the loss of her life as she designed it, she is being forced to learn a new way of life.

When I first read of her accident, my immediate concern was for her well-being.  She and I are both glad that she did not need surgery.  However, I was saddened to hear that she is suffering from a fractured tibia and the associated pain and discomfort.  After some time, I came to appreciate the underlying story:  the loss of an identity, the need to learn a new identity, and the hope of restoration.

It is this loss of identity - moving from independent to dependent - that has been the most difficult for me, as well.  Being forced to re-create myself, at times, I am at a loss for words.  How do I define myself?  Who am I?  What am I capable of doing?

Just this week, I had plans to attend the Master's Degree graduation ceremony of a young lady.  This woman managed to finished her undergraduate and graduate degree while facing extremely difficult challenges.  Her accomplishment deserves recognition.  It is an exciting time.  I had a driver/attendant lined-up.  Then, his work associates called a meeting.  So, I asked my caretaker to work over-time.  After some planning (her husband has a brain injury), we worked out the timing of getting to Chicago and back to Michigan.  The night before, I found out that the ceremony would be three hours long.  Specifically this meant that I would leave my house in Michigan at 9:30 a.m. and not return until 8:00 p.m.  This would translate into six hours of driving time and a very long day.  It would be too late for me and much too late for my caretaker.

Disappointed is a much too mild word to describe my feelings as I realized that my plans to attend would not come to fruition.  As I contemplated other options, I played with the idea of going by myself.  "I will just drive myself and figure out how to take care of myself," I thought.  Immediately, I realized that this was not an option.  That was the former Rose, the current Rose cannot drive for three house each way by herself, cannot eat alone, and needs help with her daily living activities.  The new me lives in a purgatory, also.  I am no longer an adult.  Rather, I have been relegated to "child" status.

In order to process the always accompanying frustration that is a companion to the loss of my life as I designed it, I am being forced to learn a new way of life.  Just like my friend with the fractured tibia, I have hope, also.  It is a God-given hope that permeates my present and future life.  "For in all things God works for the good of those who love him, who have been called according to His purpose."  (Romans 8:28)

The Missing Puzzle Piece

They promised rain and 80°F.  They promised.  Instead, the day greeted us with fog and a cold wind blowing off the lake.

Believing that the day would turn around and a humid 80° would sock us midday, I dressed for the promise.  So, there I sat; sitting in the shade, wearing a rain jacket and no socks, shivering as I watched the game.  Admittedly, I watched the crowd more than the game.

Not understanding the underlying interest in sports, I found the experience puzzling.  What is the attraction?  Weak beer, bad food, and loud speakers blaring unintelligible announcements seemed to be a major part of the crowd's enjoyable experience.  All of which would keep me away from an event rather than draw me to one.  I did not fit in.

As a handicapped, physically challenged, special needs, disabled person, not fitting in is part of my empirical experience.  If I remember to take the time to analyze how this feeling can play havoc on my psychological well-being, I am better able to combat the emotional toll.  Not feeling part of a crowd whose interests lies in affiliation with a sports team does not impact me.  I do not identify nor hold any attachment to our culture's gladiators.  However, feeling separated from the community as a whole does have an affect.

Resigning myself to being challenged by society's lack of understanding of what it means to navigate life in a wheelchair requires a determination to be forgiving.  For example, at times I get frustrated as I wait (once again) for an able-bodied woman as she uses the only handicap stall in the restroom when there are at least 10 other unoccupied stalls for her use.  In those moments, I tell myself to be patient because I know that their ignorance is born out of inexperience.  It is not difficult to forgive the uninitiated - for I once belonged to that group.

But, from where do I draw the emotional strength to combat the disconnection with society.  What do I do when I am overwhelmed with the knowledge of the gap between those who have and those of us who have not?  Sometimes, I fail at being able to avoid the emotional pitfall.  Then, slowly, I make my way back to the path least traveled.  Ultimately, I once again know that being part of the community is not defined by what I experience in the physical world.  Rather, being part of the community has two components:  (1) We are all the same and face struggles.  No matter what our beliefs, we are connected.  (2)  We belong to subgroups.  One of my most important subgroups is a community of believers in Jesus Christ.

For those of you who do not believe that God can make a difference in the life of someone who has  faith in the Supreme Being, I hope that my struggles, failures, and successes will give you a sense of what it means to bring the unknown into the known.  I do not avoid my life with an opiate to dull my soul and my senses.  Rather, God is the missing piece that completes the picture.

This missing puzzle piece can bring a wholeness to your life.

Chronic?

Funny, isn't it?  How the word "chronic" sounds so debilitating?  It is, debilitating.  Chronic disease, chronic pain, chronic depression are all debilitating.  It is the on-going, never-ending, relentlessness of the condition that makes it so.  If you have one, chronic condition that is, then you are forced to learn how to live with it.  No way out.  No Cliff Notes available.  You must learn how to adjust, how to change.  Acquiring the skills necessary to live with a chronic disease are only grasped as you wade through the maze of discovering what works to better your experience.  For what we learn determines how we live.

During the last 6 1/2 years, I have had to learn and relearn the limitations that muscular dystrophy demands.  Because my disease is progressive, it continues to claim more from me.  As the muscle waste away, I lose strength and energy.  Tiny, little pieces of cells are eroding.  I know this is happening and I make accommodations.  Knowledge is power.  It helps me to adjust.  Although, the process is difficult, I can defend myself against the bumpy terrain.

What I cannot defend against are the hidden pitfalls.  They are the TNT in my gut.  Adding to the stress of the day, they rob me of precious energy.  One of my most challenging pitfalls is the way some people treat me because of my handicap.

Hearing the condescending voice with the accompanying patronizing words evokes irritation, which evokes agitation, which evokes anger.  I want to say, "I may be handicapped but I am not impaired.  Do not misinterpret my body's inability to walk as a sign of my mind's inability to function."  Well, I should probably say I want to shout it.  "Saying" is too gentle of an image for the way I feel.  I do not do it though.  I force myself to respond and not react because I believe that they are not aware of their chronic disease: Chronic Assumption.

In many ways, we are all guilty of making assumptions  Hopefully, we acquire knowledge which helps us to adjust, which helps us to change.  However, the disease of Chronic Assumption is debilitating.  It prevents the person afflicted to learn.  Thus, they are blind to their treatment of others.  They continue to make errors in judgments.  It is truly a chronic condition for many people:  they are unaware of the assumptions that are making about others.

Today, I had a telephone conversation with a woman for whom I was doing something kind.  During the first half of our conversation, I felt as if we were on equal footing.  Then, in the midst of our discussion, she asked me if I had ever visited her facility.  When I told her I had not done so because I was of the understanding that the building was not handicap friendly, she replied in a syrupy, sweet, over-the-top voice, "Oh, sweetie, we do have some stairs.  Are you wheelchair-bound or bed-ridden?"

It stunned me as I wondered what difference it made.  Her facility was not accessible either way.  In the ensuing silence as I tried to figure out how to respond, she queried, "Sweetie?  Hellloo?"

Slowly, I said, "Wheelchair."

"Well," she replied with even more enunciation as if my IQ had just dropped below that of a snail.  "Sweetie, just... you... know... you... are... making... a... difference.  Okay??"

Before I felt the need to address her change in tone, I quickly ended the conversation.  I wanted to make no assumption.

Kicking the Bucket List

So often, when people talk about the things they want to do before they "kick the bucket," they focus on some thing or place, e.g., skydiving or seeing Paris.  Now, I think that having long-term goals and working towards accomplishing those goals is worthwhile and even commendable.  However, could the items being added to a bucket list hold some misplaced hope?  Do they think that their arbitrary goals will give their life meaning?

When faced with the reality of time running out, people may want to experience something unique or revisit a favorite place.  Often, children with cancer want to go to Disneyland or meet an iconic public figure.  What remains unspoken, because it is assumed to be part of the wish, is that the experience only holds meaning when it can be shared with others.

This past winter, I was having some heart symptoms that gave me serious pause.  Since then, "kicking the bucket" has become more of a reality to me.  Even though I am not in my twilight years, the sun is moving closer to the horizon.  As a result, I have wondered if there was anything that I wanted to do before I passed from this life.  Did I have a bucket list?  My answer, "No.   There is no thing that I need to do or see that will give my life meaning or satisfaction.  I am content."  So, if there is no thing, then what does have meaning for me?  Friendship. Plain, old-fashion, down-to-earth people.

It is a simple concept and you may think me silly, but you are on my bucket list.  I want to have a relationship with the people that God has put into my life.  Holding, touching, hugging, laughing, crying, and loving are what will last years beyond my time here.

If I can add a piece of comfort, love, or encouragement to those I meet along the way, then I feel accomplished at the end of each day.  No grand gestures: just little joys - tiny jewels added to the soul of another.

Relationships are at the core of our being.  We ordinary people need others to care for and to love, and we need others to love and care for us.  So, kick the bucket list and start living today as a sojourner.  Travel the path before you and into the hearts of all those you meet along the way.

The Myth of Status Quo

Throughout history, people have had to face change.  It is a constant state of being.  Unavoidable.  Yet, we behave as if the delusory theory of status quo were the norm.  We seek this unattainable living arrangement of "everything will be just as it is today."  I like to call it, "The Myth of the Status Quo."

Often, we seek status quo as if it were the preferred way to experience life.  We want life to be a series of comfortable "knowns."  If most of us were to have our way, we would want a life of ease:  no conflict, no change, and no challenge to our thoughts, our lives, and our ways.  Sometimes, people will even prefer to stay in a bad situation because they know what to expect.  (Certainly, you have heard the adage, "The devil you know is better than the devil you do not know.")

If we can accept the reality that change is inevitable, then we will find that our lives will play out with less stress, more peace, and more joy.  How we respond to life's transitions reveals our foundational faith about life.

For example, if you were to lose a loved one: How would you react?  What changes would occur as a result?  Would the grief become unbearable, unrecoverable?

For me, it was my husband, Allen, whom I lost when I was 30 years old.  Within six months of his diagnosis of CANCER, I had transitioned from a young mother to a young widow.  During that short period of time, Allen transitioned from a healthy, vibrant, young man to an unhealthy, weak, young man.  We were redefined.  Our focus changed.

For many, the battle is lonely and despairing.  Me, I was "lucky" enough to have a strong faith in God.  Allen, too.  As we prayed daily for his recovery, we extended our arms and drew a circle around our three year-old daughter.  Our time together was filled with laughter and love.  Even as he was facing certain death, we continued to pray for healing, for each other, and for our daughter.

Up to the moment his passing from this life, I continued to believe in God's healing.  Because of my faith in a benevolent God, I was able to grieve the loss of a wonderful man without the anger that consumes the soul.  I was transformed.

You may think I am foolish to believe that a loving God would deny my earnest request and "allow" a young father to die.  This is where the dichotomy exists.  However, it does not exist in God; it exists in us.  The truth is that from the moment we are born, we are transitioning to the moment of our death.  However, we behave as if death is avoidable.

Rather, if we can accept this harsh reality, we can begin to live with more joy.   Make no mistake.  I am not advocating giving up.  Rather, be transformed by the renewal or your mind.  Death is inevitable but it does not have to be the final word.  For we know that this life is momentary. Therefore, let us love deeply, forgive others, and find joy in each moment.

Theory of Happiness (Spending Time Outside of Myself)

Woke up feeling down today.  It happens, I know.   I suppose everyone has woken up with the blues — even when it is not a rainy Monday.

Luckily, I was by myself this morning.  (Hubby was out at a meeting and it was too early for the caretaker.)  So, I had time to mope around if I so desired.  But moping is not my style.  I do not like it in others and, certainly, not in myself.  Life offers too few opportunities to waste any days in a sulk, especially since my teenage years are in my dusty past.

Sitting down on the couch with a cup of coffee in my hand, I decided to take a dose of my own medicine (i.e., reroute the day's thought pathway).  As I sipped the hot brew, I made a mental list of five things for which I am grateful.  Immediately, the list was completed: husband, daughter, family, friends, church, caretaker, and Jesus.  (Okay, more than five.)  As soon as I finished this list, my mind turned to others.  I prayed for: Nathaniel, a young man courageously facing aggressive brain cancer; a little girl with unspecified health issues; my daughter, Shannen, and her family; my friend, Jim, who lives with the residue effects of a stroke and his wife; and for my friend's, Joyce's, daughter and grandchildren.  Another short list that sparked a longer time outside of myself and with my God.

Now, these actions did not magically remove the unwanted melancholy.  In fact, the only action that was intended to be "medicine" for the doldrums was taking time to enumerate things for which I am grateful (which happened to be people and not things at all).  However, that first decision turned out to be good medicine: a positive action in spite of the feeling.  One small action that turned things around, like a light switch that can flood a room with light in the middle of the night.

I believe that being bold and facing life with honesty and faith can produce changes in our life's journey.  Forcing myself out of my personal comfort zone and admitting to you, my companion, about these unwanted, unpleasant feelings is generating a psychological change.  The more time I spent this morning focusing on matters outside of myself, the more I felt the doldrums retreat.

Happiness is elusive.  For me, I have found that the more I stop focusing on me, the happier I am.  I am not advocating that you deny yourself to the point of harm.  There is a balance.  Taking care of yourself is a healthy behavior.  Although, in today's world, we often advocate “if it feels good, do it.”  The delusory philosophy that self-satisfaction is attainable through self-gratification has proven to fail the disciples of hedonism.  Scientific studies have shown that the more you have, the more you want.  Personal gratification and desires are insatiable.  My advice:  take time thinking, caring and doing for others.  Spend time outside of yourself.

Practical steps to happiness:

1. Be good to others;
2. Be grateful;
3. Exert self-control;
4. Practice; practice; practice;
5. Live a moral, ethical life;
6. Love everyone (friends and foes);
7. Love with abandon.

Restoration

One of my pleasures (and therapies) is oil painting.  This creative form affords me the freedom to live beyond the limits of my physical world and to express feelings that expand beyond the limits that words impose.  The more that I paint, the more that I feel compelled to paint.  It is an addictive (but healthy) habit.  As I work to bring an oil piece to completion, I am restoring little pieces of me.

Recently, on a sunny, winter day, I noticed all the beautiful shadows that trees cast on the snow.  Captured by the beauty of that which is often unnoticed, I started to think about people who are mere "shadows" of themselves.  How often do they think of themselves as unlovely, unworthy, unwanted?  If only they could see what I saw: the beauty of the shadow.

The more I thought about those shadows, the more I felt induced to paint their beauty.  Then, the clouds came and refused to go away.  Weeks passed without any sustained sunlight; brief moments were followed by long, gray days.  There were no shadows.  How symbolic!  How often we who have felt unwanted have taken the opportunity to hide.

Finally, the sun returned and the shadows could hide no longer.  Fearing that the shadows would quickly retreat again, I felt I had no time to waste.  Making changes to his day, my husband lovingly agreed to take some pictures with the hope of capturing those elusive beauties.  As soon as he returned home, I scrolled through the photos until I found the one that revealed their complex beauty.  Taking printed photo in hand, I went to work.  After some time, the painting was finished.  The shadows would forever declare their presence to the world.

Now, for the final step: varnish to keep the elements from eroding and dulling the paint.  Some artists advise that there should be a six month waiting period before varnishing a painting.  However, this time, I followed the advice of an expert who counseled that a painting could be varnished right away - if done within two weeks of the original drying time.  So, after a week-and-a-half, I started to brush varnish on my painting.  Suddenly, to my horror, I realized that the white paint was smearing and making the entire painting milky in appearance.  I stopped immediately,  

With painstaking effort, I slowly removed the varnish from the painting.  Using dry brush after dry brush, I wiped away as much of the milky, white paint as I could.  Then, I left the painting on the easel.  I wondered, "Could it be restored?”

Returning to the painting two days later, I assessed the damage.  There were a number of areas that needed to be reworked.  Mixing the paints slowly, I contemplated how to go about the process of showing those shadows how beautiful they were.  Could I remove the stains?  Would the shadows allow themselves to be restored?

No Fancy Cape Needed

As I type, I look down at the keyboard and see the hands of an older woman.  The aging process and the disease process both working together to take away my freedom, bit by bit.  Either one is quite the demanding master requiring a subservient attitude.  Knowing that no amount of railing against the injustice will produce any positive effect, I have learned to submit to these harsh masters - for stress is just another thief in the equation.

Living with Myotonic Dystrophy for the last six years, I have had to learn a new way of being me.  The old definition no longer works.  I have an active mind, but I am trapped in an inactive body.  To will my body to obey me has become futile.  As I lose the little, daily battles, I know that I am slowly becoming completely dependent.  Every minute of every day,  I am progressing (or, more aptly, digressing) into the needy.  It is a profound loss.

 As I contemplate the loss, I discover that within the loss there is a greater find:  Heroes.  People around me who offer me sacrificial gifts of time, energy, acceptance, and love.  All of you who read this blog, who support me in my journey to stay positive, who give me the gift of friendship, you are my heroes.

Believing that we were created for relationships, I am aware of our need, my need, to feel part of a group.  Whether we acknowledge it or not, each one of us functions more effectively when we feel validated and appreciated.

Often, we marvel at beautiful sunsets or exploding fireworks. These sights heighten our awareness and we reach out to others in an effort to share those moments.  In our emotionally-laden events, we are connected to those around us.

More importantly, family, friends and caregivers are the creators of a more profound beauty and wonder than nature-made or man-made spectacles.  They bring me companionship and laughter.  Love is freely given.  I am included in their lives and, I know, they make sacrifices of time, money, and effort to provide me with emotional well-being.  In my former life, I was busy with busyness.  Now, the opportunity to talk with someone on the phone, eMail, or face-to-face is precious.  Even though I spend large amounts of energy to be able to participate in the social aspect of being with others, the relationships have deepened and changed me for the better.  My energy is well-spent.

So, you may not have a fancy cape but you do have superpowers:  Faith, Hope, and Love.

That Justice May Flow Like Water

Imagine, it is a warm, summer day and you are sitting on a park bench reading a book.  Suddenly, a man rushes up and pushes you off the bench and onto the ground.  For a moment, you are stunned.  Then, you realize what has just occurred and . . .  What do you do?  What do you think?  Now, imagine further that you are hurt.  What then?

Another scenario: Imagine you are disenfranchised.  Maybe, you are a veteran who is suffering from PTSD.  Your after-effects are so severe that you can no longer function in society.  Self-medication with alcohol and drugs are the ways that you cope with your anxiety and depression.  The streets are your home now.  Food, water, clothing, safety and security are scarce.  People either avoid you, patronize you, or abuse you.  Life is harsh; you are an outsider; someone who lives on the fringe.  To make matters worse, before you went off to protect your government's interests and the safety and security of your homeland, you were a functional member of society.  Somewhere along the way, you were shoved off your park bench.

Most certainly, for me, living with a chronic disease is akin to being shoved off my park bench.  My life has its share of daily challenges.  However, even the able-bodied individual faces daily trials, tribulations, and sufferings.  In fact, life could be defined as a continuum from equilibrium to disequilibrium to equilibrium.  Each moment is a seed of potential for joy or pain.  The homeless lives somewhere between the able-bodied and the chronically-ill individual.  Our homeless veterans are disabled without justice.

As Americans, we operate under the assumption that people are entitled to "liberty and justice for all."  However, we often fail to apply this philosophy as an action to others and we readily apply it to ourselves.  We would feel provoked if we were to be shoved.  Our sensibilities are offended if we are marginalized.  Yet, our disabled are often marginalized and our homeless veterans are ignored, avoided, patronized or misunderstood.

How do we combat our society's current treatment of the homeless?  How can we make a difference?  For me, giving the homeless money is not an option.  I have two suggestions.  Both of them are actions that friends are doing today.  Both of my friends are actively practicing the principle of justice.

Suggestion One:  Buy large storage bags.  Place different "goodies" in the bag, e.g., granola bars, hand wipes or hand sanitizer, tissues, some chocolate, tissues, a pair or two of socks, a pencil and some paper.  You get the idea.  When you encounter a homeless individual, give them the goodie bag.

Suggestion Two:  Put together a warm meal and place it in a secure container.  In addition, put plastic silverware, a napkin, hand sanitizer or wipes, and a pair or two of socks.  Leave your nice home and go to a location where the homeless congregate.  My friend meets a group of his friends and they go out together.  The impact is considerable when you are able to meet people where they are living.

May justice flow.

Clinging

My hands cramp as I claw my way upwards.  For a long time, I had hung at the lower edge but now I was forcing myself to move. Clinging to the wall, I blindly seek fingerholds in the dark crevices.  The jagged brick shards rip my flesh.   Moving slowly away from the black pit, I have made the choice to go forward.  Suddenly, I feel something woody touching my arm. Pushing off the wall, I lunge and grab the thick vine.  Now, my ascent is almost effortless as I am practically pulled to the top by this living vine.

Finding myself at the top of the pit, I am transformed from someone struggling through life to someone who is content. This transformation came about as I learned to let go of preconceived ideas. As I looked at the world with a new perspective, I found joy. Not because I set out for such but rather as a gift for letting go of tangled thoughts.

Many times, we choose our course of action by passive default.  If we do not consciously consider what we are moving towards or what we are moving away from, we just let the choice be made for us.  Maybe the poorest choice is not to move at all.

Yesterday, I was talking to a friend and she said something very astute.  "Often, we seek status quo and if it were the preferred choice."  How true this statement rings.  We look for life to be a series of comforts.  Even more so, we want no conflict, no challenge, and no change to our way of thinking.  At some point, once we consider an event, or people, or place and make our assessment, we come to a conclusion. Our minds are made up; then, we think we never have to consider it again.  Our minds become closed and the decision is firmly planted.  We tenaciously cling to our idea.

Rather than clinging to stagnant thought, let us begin clinging to movement.  Just as a flower clings to the earth but dances with the wind.

For more artwork by Rose, click the following link:  www.rosewolfe.com

Are You the Other?

Just as Christmas lights are a string of bright bulbs connected together, our life is a string of one event connected to the next event.  Our memories string together pivotal moments in which we determine who, how, and what we are to the world around us.

For me, I believe that every event can be placed into one of three general categories.  Events occur as the result of: (1) circumstances; (2) your actions; or (3) other's actions.  Further, we can subdivide these three categories into joyful occasions and sorrowful occasions.  Today, I am interested in the further examination of painful events.

Sorrowful events as the results of circumstances are not often easy to resolve.  We would like to blame something.  Finding the cause and placing blame can propel people into dark and dangerous thoughts.  The randomness of tragedy or disease cause many to cry out in pain, "Why me?"  They might jut out their jaw and clench their fist with the unfairness of it all.

When we suffer the consequences of our own actions, a myriad of responses are available to us.  Do we blame someone else?  Do we rationalize away our responsibility?   Do we think we should be given special treatment?

For me, the most difficult human suffering is that which we experience at the hands of others.  Without any effort, we can conjure up multiple images of man's inhumanity to man.  Often, the actions are perpetuated by those who think that their needs exceed the needs of others.  Mothers neglecting their children, spouses beating their partner, strangers planning evil against others are some of the most egregious examples.

There is a more subtle type of trauma that falls within this third category.  It is through the callous behavior that happens when we fail to consider someone else's feelings.  I have witnessed many times how people push aside another for the benefit of themselves.  Yet, if they find themselves in the less powerful position, they want to be the focus of care.

Since I suffer from the effects of Myotonic Dystrophy, you might think it strange that I would consider the affliction that is due to the actions of another more unbearable than an inexplicable, capricious disease.  However, my disease does not single me out for tribulation.  It is just a genetic fact.

However, when one person harms another person with intentional action, it is a choice to be evil.  If you think that evil is too strong a word, then I challenge you to reconsider your thinking.  To harm another, to hate someone, to think more highly of yourself, or to presuppose your entitlement to special treatment are all actions of a selfish coward.

Your Soul-Heart

Today, a friend and I found ourselves discussing choices.  Specifically, life choices and how they translate into our daily decisions.  Every day we decide who and what and how we will live our life.  Our soul-heart drives us forward.

As my friend and I looked back on our lives, we both acknowledged that we made unproductive choices when we were younger.  As our discussion continued, we also agreed that having children changed us for the better.  As mothers, the love for our children grew inside us and expanded to fill our world.  Time for wasteful partying had passed.   Desire to provide our children with love and safety drove us to assess ourselves and we found ourselves lacking.  Our soul-hearts changed our minds.

Hidden within almost all of us is a thread between our mind and soul-heart.  In school, we learned about how our brains and major organs, including the heart, are interdependent.  However, most of us graduated from school ignorant of how our minds and soul-heart are interdependent, too.

What is a soul-heart?  The embodiment of our emotions.  What we mean when we say, "I love you with all my heart."  What is our mind?  It is certainly not our brain.  Rather, it is that rationale that we use everyday to make decisions.

All this has become clearer to me as I face my daily challenges.  Sometimes, I wake up with no desire to do anything.  Really, I just want to lie in bed.  My mind wants to rationalize and justify this poor decision.  It is my soul-heart that stirs motivation within me.  I know that if I give in to the lethargy today, it will be more difficult to fend it off tomorrow.

Finding purpose spurns me on.  It was the birth of my daughter that first brought me back to God.  It is now God that keeps me fighting my disease so that I can be with my daughter.  Both God and my daughter transformed my soul-heart and, consequently, renewed my mind.

"Do not be conformed to this world, but be transformed by the renewal of your mind."  Rom. 12:2

The Essence

Pick an activity, any physical activity.  Now, imagine that you can no longer do it.  How much of your sense of worth, your identity, your very being is tied to that activity?


At first, you might think that the activity has very little to do with how you define yourself.  I challenge you to reconsider.  Until you can no longer do that activity, you might not realize how much it is a part of your understanding of you.

Living with muscular dystrophy has taught me about what is important.  Being robbed of my physical abilities, I felt robbed of my identity (my essence of whom I am).  Slowly, I realized that I felt that if I cannot do (fill in the blank with a physical activity), then I will not be loved.  I was changing my life's story into a disabled being, a "crip," a sideliner.

What a shocking thought!  The identity of my being was tied to what I could do for others.  The more that I needed someone to even do the most simplest activities, the more I felt unworthy.  Prior to my disease taking a stronghold, I loved walking in the woods.  The urging desire to go on walks with my grandson burned within me.  I wanted to do the little things, such as floating sticks in the stream, picking him up over a fallen tree trunk, or finding frogs in the mudbank.  Not being able to do these activities put me in a very dark place for awhile.  I felt invisible.

Knowing that I needed to climb out of the "what about me" pit, I looked to God for guidance.  There it was in 2 Corinthians 10:5: "...take your thoughts captive."  That was it!  I needed to take my thoughts captive.  As my sister Sharon would say, "Your mind is lying to you."

Following this advice, I have found joy again.  It was always there, waiting for me.  My focus was on what I could not do rather than what I can do.  My worth is not based on a fleeting activity, rather it is based on what God sees in me.

This is your essence:  Watch your thoughts, for they become words.  Choose your words, for they become habits.  Study your habits, for they will become your character.  Develop your character, for it will become your story.

The Walls

Imagine you are sitting on the cold concrete - watching the four walls approach each other as icy water seeps through cracks in the floor.  To make matters worse, the ceiling is grinding down towards you.  The space available is slowly decreasing.  At first, the movement was so slow, it was imperceptible.  Now, though, you are aware of the confinement.  Every moment, you are losing ground.  You are trapped!  What can you do?  How can you get out?

I have been living with Myotonic Dystrophy for six years.  My active mind, trapped in an ever decreasing physical world.  Aching, my muscles cramp as if I am sitting in arctic water.  Once upon a time, I was an independent woman.  Walking trails in the woods, painting outdoors, and enjoying sightseeing trips were some of my beloved activities.  Today, I am a dependent woman whose simplest needs are met by other people, machines, and equipment.

"What can I do?" Everyday, I have to ask myself this question because the answer is ever changing.    I confess: my response to this question will determine the outcome of my day.  As my body loses strength, I know that my mind must increase in strength.  After all, the mind is tricky.  It can be a friend or foe.  Being heedful of what I tell myself will determine not only my mental well-being but my physical well-being as well.  How can this be?  The mind can create walls, too.

Our thoughts will determine what words we use.  We talk to ourselves all the time.  If we tell ourselves we cannot do something, then we will not be able to do that which we told ourselves we could not do.  (Self-fulfilling prophecy.)  Thoughts become words, words become behavior.  Our behaviors become habitual.  Our habitual behavior is how we define ourselves and are defined by others.  Ultimately, our behavior defines and determines our character.  Your character will determine your story.

What story do I want to tell?  If my character will determine my story, then I must take my thoughts captive.  So, i tell myself:  "Yes, you are trapped and the walls are closing in on you.  Yet, you are free to move about the unlimited landscape of your mind.  Be grateful, be happy, be gracious and giving."  My independence has been re-found.  I have a way out.

Stone Thrower

Rolling into the classroom with art supplies and caretaker in tow, I assessed the best place for me to set up.  Twenty easels bordered the room with four easels in the middle.  It was quite crowded and there was little room between the easels.  I needed a place relatively easy in which to maneuver.  Having an electric scooter required some space behind my easel.  Since this was only my second week in class, I was still figuring out how things would work best for me and my classmates.

Arriving 15 minutes early afforded me some luxury of time in which to find the space that was functional for me.  Most people, it appeared, arrived when the class was scheduled to begin.  There was a smattering of people in the room in various stages of preparedness.  One elderly man was sitting in the middle of the circle.

I picked a spot near the door that had a walkway behind the easel.  If I moved the easel a little further into the circle, I could get my scooter behind me and leave room for people to use the walkway without having to scooch behind me.  Being mindful of the tricky business of using space needed without extending too far into the cramped room, I asked my caretaker to move the easel a little bit further up.

Suddenly, an angry voice said, "You can't sit there.  You are blocking the way.  I need to be able to get in and out."  I looked up in astonishment to see a red-faced man glaring at me.  Surveying the space around me, I could see a clear walkway to my left for those to have egress from the center and a clear walkway behind me.

Calmly, I replied, "I have left space to my left and rear.  I am not finished setting up and plan on leaving room for others."

Ignoring my statement, he said, "You CANNOT set up there.  I need room to get in and out."

Aware of the other classmates looking on nervously, I knew that my response was important to defuse the situation. Yet, I needed to stand my ground.  The space I had chosen was the only viable space for me and my scooter.  Looking him squarely in the face, I responded, "I need space for my scooter.  I am not blocking your pathway.  I am not finished getting my stuff set up."

Again, he ignored my replied.  Incredibly, he said, "YOU CANNOT SIT THERE.  YOU ARE BLOCKING MY WAY."

Realizing that this was now a serious problem with an irrational child-man, I asked, "Where do you suggest I sit?"

He continued his tirade and I continued to repeat the same question four times.  Finally, pointing to the corner of the room furthest from the door, he said, "You can sit over there."

Using my "let us be reasonable voice," I said, "I cannot get there.  It would require 10 people to move their easels forward because the space behind them is too narrow for me to get around."

He repeated his demand, "They can move.  You can sit over there."

Finally, I said flatly, "I cannot get there.  It is not accessible for me."

Turning away from him, I finished setting up my painting space.

Since this event, every time I roll into the classroom, I think about Mr. Angryman.  His outburst has affected my feelings about the class.  I have attempted to ignore the feelings, thinking time would make the uneasiness melt away.  Time has not healed this wound.  I have attempted to identify him as an unreasonable character given to narcissism.  Labeling him as such has just added to the anxiety.  After four months, I decided that I am acting as a "stone thrower."  Here, I am sitting in judgment of his character.  He may have acted in a selfish, angry manner but that does mean he is always such a man. Moreover, I need to look at myself.  Have I ever acted inappropriately?  If so, and without a doubt it is so, then I need to turn it around and find another way to tell the story.

The Distilled Life

Slowly, the atrophy claims more muscle mass.  I am relegated to accepting this erosion of my body.  Myotonic Dystrophy does not care that I exercise and force myself to go beyond - always beyond - my physical limitations.  It is not denial that forces me to always push, always try, always make every effort.  No, it is the belief that if I do not continue to use my wasting muscles, they will waste away faster.

Even though I push myself, the disease gains ground and gravity forces me to sit for long hours.  Thus, my life has taken a new course.  Recently, a friend said, "I use to think that God's plan for my life changed.  But, now, I know that God's plan has not changed.  My circumstances have changed."

Enlightening, right?  My circumstances have changed.  God is still right here, helping me.  As a result, I find quieter activities allow me more time with God.  I am still able to think, write, paint (with much accommodation), pray, read, and knit.  Rather than filling my days with physical activities that can serve as a distraction, I now am finding my life distilled; a noise-filter is in place.

The veil is torn from my eyes and I can see more deeply into my heart.  What matters?  Love.  The giving and receiving of love for which we were created.

2 Peter 1:5-7 provides a step-by-step guideline of how to develop more love in your life.  Distilling your day-to-day activities by making "every effort to add to your faith goodness; and to goodness, knowledge; and to knowledge, self-control, and to self-control, perseverance; and to perseverance, godliness; and to godliness, mutual affection; and to mutual affection, love."  Sounds almost impossible, but it is possible.

We have heard about the "Seven Habits of Highly Effective People."  I am recommending the "Seven Steps of the Distilled Life."  To reiterate Saint Peter:  Make every effort to add to your faith: Step One: Goodness:  Step Two: Knowledge.  Step Three:  Self-control.  Step Four:  Perseverance:  Step Five:  Godliness.  Step Six:  Mutual affection.  Step Seven:  Love.

These steps are applied one at a time. Little steps that will take a lifetime, but the reward is worth the effort.  Imagine your life being filled with these qualities.  A distilled life.

The Dash Between

Recently, an acquaintance in his 50s made a comment that struck a deep chord with me.  He mentioned that the previous day, he had attended the funeral of a friend who was younger than he.  The cause of death: heart attack.  Suddenly, his friend's life on earth was finished.  However, the remarkable comment was this:  a headstone makes note of two dates separated by a dash.  It is the dash between the two dates that matters most.

Earlier this month was the fourth anniversary of the death of a 25 year old woman.  A lady of great character.  At an early age, she was diagnosed with a brain tumor.  After many years, the doctors were able to perform non-invasive brain surgery that resulted in the shrinkage of the tumor.  Even though she was handicapped with paralysis from the tumor, she took dance classes and participated in dance recitals.  After high school, she started attending college.  She was a happy child whose physical challenges produced wisdom and, ultimately, peace.  As one of those who stood in her shadow, I was touched by her gentleness.  To our dismay, the victory was short-lived; in her early 20s, the tumor returned and finally claimed her life.  She was courageous and steadfast to the end.

Through it all, her faith in God and love of people pierced through the darkness.  Please do not misunderstand me, I am not brushing off the depth of her struggles or the continued struggles of her family.  Yet, she made a difference - she chose to make her dash a long one between a short time span.

It is not to what family in which we are born or where we die that has the deepest impact, but how we fare along the way.  Some of us may look around and think that others have comparatively easy roads, but we do not know the grief they have borne or the burden they are carrying.  I encourage you not to compare yourself one to another, but to seek to make your dash a long one.

We all have the opportunity to reach outside of ourselves and get involved:  One on one.

I reiterate: "May your dash be long."