Some years ago, a friend of mine drove me to Orlando so I could meet with a neuro-oncologist and discuss the small, benign tumor growing in my spinal cord. The question was whether or not the tumor needed to be removed. Doctor after doctor told me that these tumors always grow, eventually compressing the spinal cord enough that paralysis occurs.
This particular doctor told Jen and me that when he was working at a hospital in South Carolina, he had a patient who was paralyzed from the waist down. As they tried to determine the cause of his paralysis, the doctor noticed that the man had calluses on his elbows and forearms. The paralysis had not occurred recently, but had been going on long enough that the man was getting around by dragging himself on his arms across the floor.
As it turned out the man had a spinal tumor like mine.
On the way out of the doctor's, I turned to Jen and said, "That guy with the calluses--don't ever let me get to that point."
In other words, don't ever let me get to a point where, due to stubbornness or pride or delusional thinking, I refuse to accept that there's something wrong that needs immediate treatment.
The good news is that over the past seven years my tumor hasn't grown and so surgery has not yet been necessary.
But the story of the paralyzed man who dragged himself around on his arms long enough to develop calluses is a story of wholeness, is a story of what makes us whole and how we know when something is wrong and that we need help.
Yesterday I wrote about how I walked carefully around Hope, trying not to disturb the wildlife, trying not to add any more stress to their lives.
This morning was nothing but disruption as soon as I stepped out of the car. After some nice crisp, clear mornings, this morning was humid and the air around the church smelled of smoke, most likely from a brush fire, but it was so misty, I couldn't pinpoint the source. But breathing in the smoke filled air made me cringe.
Later, I moved toward the front of the property when the lawnmower men pulled up. These are the men not employed by the church but who use church property to roll out their lawnmowers like it's the Daytona 500. I had actually parked my car in their spot and I could feel their eyes on me. I had disrupted their routine as they had disrupted mine.
I left finally, disgusted that between smoke and man and my own lack of patience and physical weakness, I had not had a "whole" morning at Hope. I had not experienced that spiritual holiness among the trees. Instead I had walked through one spider web after another, looking for flowers that had already left for the winter and trying to ignore the wrongness in the air.
There was one moment, before the lawnmower men came, that I noticed the deep earthy smell of pine in the air. The humidity had been good for something. The wet pine smell reminded me of Christmas.
Being whole means being aware, means noticing the details of your life and the things around you.
It is wholeness, it is holiness, it is connection to every living thing we live in community with that makes us safe, that protects us, that allows us to take better care of ourselves and appreciate life.
This particular doctor told Jen and me that when he was working at a hospital in South Carolina, he had a patient who was paralyzed from the waist down. As they tried to determine the cause of his paralysis, the doctor noticed that the man had calluses on his elbows and forearms. The paralysis had not occurred recently, but had been going on long enough that the man was getting around by dragging himself on his arms across the floor.
As it turned out the man had a spinal tumor like mine.
On the way out of the doctor's, I turned to Jen and said, "That guy with the calluses--don't ever let me get to that point."
In other words, don't ever let me get to a point where, due to stubbornness or pride or delusional thinking, I refuse to accept that there's something wrong that needs immediate treatment.
The good news is that over the past seven years my tumor hasn't grown and so surgery has not yet been necessary.
But the story of the paralyzed man who dragged himself around on his arms long enough to develop calluses is a story of wholeness, is a story of what makes us whole and how we know when something is wrong and that we need help.
Yesterday I wrote about how I walked carefully around Hope, trying not to disturb the wildlife, trying not to add any more stress to their lives.
This morning was nothing but disruption as soon as I stepped out of the car. After some nice crisp, clear mornings, this morning was humid and the air around the church smelled of smoke, most likely from a brush fire, but it was so misty, I couldn't pinpoint the source. But breathing in the smoke filled air made me cringe.
Later, I moved toward the front of the property when the lawnmower men pulled up. These are the men not employed by the church but who use church property to roll out their lawnmowers like it's the Daytona 500. I had actually parked my car in their spot and I could feel their eyes on me. I had disrupted their routine as they had disrupted mine.
I left finally, disgusted that between smoke and man and my own lack of patience and physical weakness, I had not had a "whole" morning at Hope. I had not experienced that spiritual holiness among the trees. Instead I had walked through one spider web after another, looking for flowers that had already left for the winter and trying to ignore the wrongness in the air.
There was one moment, before the lawnmower men came, that I noticed the deep earthy smell of pine in the air. The humidity had been good for something. The wet pine smell reminded me of Christmas.
Being whole means being aware, means noticing the details of your life and the things around you.
It is wholeness, it is holiness, it is connection to every living thing we live in community with that makes us safe, that protects us, that allows us to take better care of ourselves and appreciate life.
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