A few months ago, all the oak trees in our area decided, in something called "masting," to shed all their acorns at the same time. It was at times a hailstorm of acorns and no one was spared, not pedestrians, not parked cars. The only happy animals were the now very fat squirrels and the very hungry bobcats who like their squirrels nice and plump.
One morning as I was walking and dodging the fallen acorns, I thought, I wonder if this is how Dorothy felt being pelted by apples from those scary-faced Oz-trees.
The truth is, whether it's acorns or rain, bad things happen to all of us every day, no matter who we are, no matter what good or bad we do in the world. People often ask why do bad things happen to good people, but really, bad things happen to everyone all the time.
Today was a rainy day, one of those days that the gods of irony send to me because I wrote some days ago about how there are no rainy days in Florida, how rain lasts only a few minutes and passes on by. Today the rain wasn't hard, but it was a constant gray mist. And because of that and a morning MRI on my liver, I did not make it to the Wetlands. I tried to make it to church, to check on the trail camera, but the lawn people were out and it was still raining so I didn't even get out of the car; I turned around and headed home.
I've being dealing with health problems for years, problems that put my journey to the priesthood on hold and have kept me homebound for long stretches of time. The health problems vary. It's always something. My doctor recently told me that it will always be something. And lately, it has been my liver.
I have had many MRIs in the past on my brain and spine and I don't suffer from claustrophobia. In fact, I have fallen asleep in the MRI machine before. When I was a child, I used to build blanket forts around my head so I could sleep at night, so being shoved into an MRI machine doesn't feel like being buried alive, it feels like being wrapped in a nice cocoon.
But apparently an MRI on the liver is a little more involved. They put me into the machine feet first versus head first. They started the IV line for the contrast immediately instead of waiting. I pointed out to the woman the best vein to use and after a minute, she asked if she could use the vein in my wrist instead.
"Only if you want to cause me a lot of pain," I told her.
She made the original vein work in the end.
Much like with a brain MRI where they put this cage-like mask over your face to keep you from moving your head, the liver MRI requires them to strap you down and put a heavy rib-cage like device over your torso. I told myself that it wasn't uncomfortable that I was like a dog given a heavy blanket to wear during a storm so it wouldn't get afraid. Weight can be calming.
But there would be no sleeping during this MRI. The robotic voice from above instructed me every minute or so to take a breath and then hold it. I was wedged so tightly into the machine that my right hand repeatedly went numb. And even when I wasn't being asked to hold my breath, the technician was telling me to breathe faster so that the machine could take the pictures at the right intervals.
"Breathe normally," she told me several times and by the third time I was beginning to think that maybe I didn't know what breathing normally meant.
I was relaxed and breathing deeply and with care. I thought this is why I go to the Wetlands. This is why I practice Centering Prayer so that I can be relaxed and take deep, cleansing breaths ... hyperventilating is not a good way to breathe.
One of the things I feel like God has been trying to get me to do over the past month is slow down. What am I in a hurry for? What is it that I think I need to be doing that is so urgent? Rest, relax, breathe slower, not faster.
Last night, I decided to dust. It's a rare occurrence for me, and mostly I dust so quickly that all I do is simply move the dust around. But last night, I decided to move more slowly, to treat the TV and the bookcases and the lamps with a tenderness that we don't usually reserve for inanimate objects.
But these things are a part of my home and therefore are a part of me and I am worthy of being cared for.
Some days it will rain and some days you will feel sick and some days it will be hard to find a reason to get up out of bed, but God loves you. He loves you. You are His beloved. So slow down, breathe deeply, practice, as Anne Lamott calls it, "radical self-care." You are God's beloved. You are worthy. You are blessed. Start acting like it. Start believing it.
One morning as I was walking and dodging the fallen acorns, I thought, I wonder if this is how Dorothy felt being pelted by apples from those scary-faced Oz-trees.
The truth is, whether it's acorns or rain, bad things happen to all of us every day, no matter who we are, no matter what good or bad we do in the world. People often ask why do bad things happen to good people, but really, bad things happen to everyone all the time.
Today was a rainy day, one of those days that the gods of irony send to me because I wrote some days ago about how there are no rainy days in Florida, how rain lasts only a few minutes and passes on by. Today the rain wasn't hard, but it was a constant gray mist. And because of that and a morning MRI on my liver, I did not make it to the Wetlands. I tried to make it to church, to check on the trail camera, but the lawn people were out and it was still raining so I didn't even get out of the car; I turned around and headed home.
I've being dealing with health problems for years, problems that put my journey to the priesthood on hold and have kept me homebound for long stretches of time. The health problems vary. It's always something. My doctor recently told me that it will always be something. And lately, it has been my liver.
I have had many MRIs in the past on my brain and spine and I don't suffer from claustrophobia. In fact, I have fallen asleep in the MRI machine before. When I was a child, I used to build blanket forts around my head so I could sleep at night, so being shoved into an MRI machine doesn't feel like being buried alive, it feels like being wrapped in a nice cocoon.
But apparently an MRI on the liver is a little more involved. They put me into the machine feet first versus head first. They started the IV line for the contrast immediately instead of waiting. I pointed out to the woman the best vein to use and after a minute, she asked if she could use the vein in my wrist instead.
"Only if you want to cause me a lot of pain," I told her.
She made the original vein work in the end.
Much like with a brain MRI where they put this cage-like mask over your face to keep you from moving your head, the liver MRI requires them to strap you down and put a heavy rib-cage like device over your torso. I told myself that it wasn't uncomfortable that I was like a dog given a heavy blanket to wear during a storm so it wouldn't get afraid. Weight can be calming.
But there would be no sleeping during this MRI. The robotic voice from above instructed me every minute or so to take a breath and then hold it. I was wedged so tightly into the machine that my right hand repeatedly went numb. And even when I wasn't being asked to hold my breath, the technician was telling me to breathe faster so that the machine could take the pictures at the right intervals.
"Breathe normally," she told me several times and by the third time I was beginning to think that maybe I didn't know what breathing normally meant.
I was relaxed and breathing deeply and with care. I thought this is why I go to the Wetlands. This is why I practice Centering Prayer so that I can be relaxed and take deep, cleansing breaths ... hyperventilating is not a good way to breathe.
One of the things I feel like God has been trying to get me to do over the past month is slow down. What am I in a hurry for? What is it that I think I need to be doing that is so urgent? Rest, relax, breathe slower, not faster.
Last night, I decided to dust. It's a rare occurrence for me, and mostly I dust so quickly that all I do is simply move the dust around. But last night, I decided to move more slowly, to treat the TV and the bookcases and the lamps with a tenderness that we don't usually reserve for inanimate objects.
But these things are a part of my home and therefore are a part of me and I am worthy of being cared for.
Some days it will rain and some days you will feel sick and some days it will be hard to find a reason to get up out of bed, but God loves you. He loves you. You are His beloved. So slow down, breathe deeply, practice, as Anne Lamott calls it, "radical self-care." You are God's beloved. You are worthy. You are blessed. Start acting like it. Start believing it.
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