Gifts Wrapped in a Sling

It's been six weeks since I careened over the mountain edge, spent a whole day lying in the hospital, waiting to be put back together. 

And in that wait they gave me oxygen, so I wouldn't hyperventilate; laughing gas, to relieve my brain in the throbbing onslaught; then morphine to dull everything except its own set of reaction pains. And finally, a sedative, clawing up my wrist till it blackened my cognizance—all these inhaled, injected, dripped into my circulating body. And they are gifts. 

Joint re-hinged, they put swollen limb in a fabric sling, just for a day or so. Elbow turns into water balloon, and sleep comes light as I try to hold still. My landlady, who doubles as spiritual grandmother, pins my hair back in the morning (bobby pins do NOT work with one hand). And it is a gift.

 Beau stays with me all day in hospital, then takes the next day off to help me buy groceries and fill anti-inflammatory prescription. Not a coincidence that we're shopping the first Tuesday of the month, and save 15%. 

 

My office landlord extends grace, and chooses gratitude for the timing of it all. It's no coincidence that the secretary goes on holidays and he needs a fill-in right when I'm unable to work my job. And I'm humbled, and fairly cry when he tells me he won't charge me rent this month. And he'll pay me more than we bargained on. And telling the happy news helps me share the gift, and the joy. 

And the . . . pain of healing, the humiliating time it takes. Is this too, a gift? Sharp knife telling me when I've pushed too far; protective spasm and scar tissue needing released; the exercises and grimaces and tears. The wondering if I will ever regain movement, or if I will always have a gimped wing; looking with longing at people who can tuck hair behind ear, brush teeth, carry babies with their arm . . . do they have any idea of the GIFT they carry in a functional limb? And the thought that mine could heal, is designed to heal, that I have this hope of recovery. Some people don’t. 

The perpetually truant ambulance bill, making me wonder if I would receive one at all. And it’s no coincidence that I’m back to work for three weeks and finish a massive contract job before the invoice arrives in my mailbox. And it is a gift. 

Clients who wait for me to return, welcome me back, cheer me on, even when they wince under my renewing strength: these are presents from my loving God. Longstanding projects scratched forever off my to-do list in the few days I have completely off leave me feeling light. 

And this wait of hope, this is a gift. I think of the tastes of resurrection power I can feast on, in these appetizers of God’s grace, these morsels of tender love, these party favour GIFTS of mercy. And I wonder how the giving of thanks, instead of the begrudging of obvious, humiliating need, is in itself, a gift.

And I thank the Giver, Who wraps treasures in elbow slings. 

Some photos from Google images

The Little Big Deal

The breathing fence stands basic and simple across our path. So we must jump it to walk on. No big deal. Except that in sailing over, signals fire confused, the mind unsure how to navigate, and I land tumbled. No big deal. Except that a horrible crunching pop murmurs from ankle which bore full impact of my falling body.

Immediate stiffness, numbing pain, and the mortifying embarrassment of the reality I now limp in: I just sprained my ankle. But it’s no big deal. I can still walk . . . hobble. I lean on his arm, and we shift home. My mind starts spinning . . . all the clients scheduled for the next days, and how I’ve nowhere to rebook them, and how I can’t run in the mornings now, and how awkward this oozing bulge feels.

And a new lens slides into place ahead of my eyes, and all the world looks different through this awkward healing. I awake to thoughts yet un-contemplated, and gifts yet unrealized . . . . the little big deals. 

I watch graceful pedestrians stride across intersection! I didn’t think there was glory in walking un-gimped, until I lilted. How amazing the coordination of a skateboarder, swinging leg wild as he propels headlong down the sidewalk. Does he know the glory he’s breathing?  

How fabulous the body’s capacity to heal! And what wonder to think I will be made well again. I drive past old men hobbling behind walkers. What humiliation to age and sink decrepit from prowess and physical usefulness. And I think . . . we must be so much more than just a body, because giving does not stop when the body stops, and living does not cease when a part loses function. 

And how do we grapple with life when we fall, and bodies fall apart, and our world crumbles into helpless bits before our eyes?  What of these little deals that loom impossibly large? And the big deals we lose in periphery when we focus on stuff that doesn’t really matter?

I see the middle-aged homeless man taking swinging, syncopated steps. How long has he limped so severe? What does he hope for life now?  What will he make with what he has been given?

And me? What have I been given? Grace. The hand to hold me, the shoulder to cry safe on, the shared tools for healing, the extra assistance and labours of love . . .  for me! And who am I to receive this? I could not earn these mercies, could not deserve this tenderness in light of my foolishness. 

Grace cannot be earned. The greatest gift, and deepest mystery. That I, who don’t deserve, HAVE been graced with this life, this pain, this poignancy to feel and see and love and live deeper. And it is a gift.

 

And I open hand and say Thank You. And I too, even I, can give this grace gift back to the Giver, and spill it out on an aching world, even in the simple gift of laughing at myself.

Because Grace brings it all into perspective. And grace IS the big deal.

Forfeit Shame

Emptiness haunts her footsteps, a gaping shadow threatening to engulf her present and paralyze her future. Hollow legacy, like wind sweeping through sterile plain gouged and filled its own chasm in her heart. What was the point of her life if she could not give life to another?

Taunted every moment by happy squeals of another woman’s children, their joy doubling her anguish, she suffered silent. Each successful pregnancy, each living child cut into her soul, the children’s mother knew it, and used it to mock and malign the devalued woman.

Her generous husband loved her, but supposed he could fill her void with himself. She knew he meant well, but his presumptive evaluation of his own worth slit her soul. He did not understand. He would not enter her grief. He would not go where he was not enough. She was still alone.

Her rival’s pride enshrined her in unattainable superiority, and her own shame thrust her into untouchable estrangement. Hot teary rivers stained her cheeks salty white; her stomach repulsed food—what was the point in nourishing this living isolation? Daily function kept her moving, a hollow, listless life.

Then, she capitulated. How it happened, and when, she did not know. It had something to do with Shiloh, the tabernacle, making the yearly trek to worship as a family. She neared the tent of The Presence, where God came to commune with His people. God . . . the Creator, the God-Who-Sees-me, the Covenant-Maker—stories of His intervention through history flooded into her soul. God: the One Who makes barren, and gives life, the One Who owns the fortunes and destinies of man. This God, it was about Him, it was up to Him. Her quarrel was not with her rival, her husband, her community, her culture; it was with her God.

And in worship, the dike broke: she wept liquid anguish, all the bitterness heaving from her soul. Convulsed, speechless, crumpled helpless before God, she remembered His reality: the Lord of hosts. God was God, and she was not.

And in worship, she found her place: a life forfeit, a life surrendered, a life from God, for God. That’s all she was. And it was enough.

And any fruit from her life would be forfeit. No echelon of pride, no pit of shame, no emptiness or fullness—nothing was hers to claim as her own. She lost distinction, and found identity in belonging to God. Here, nothing could touch her, nothing could destroy her, because her whole existence was bound up in the reality of God.

That’s what worship does—it frees us from our beneficial and detrimental confines, and draws our eyes up, to see the Reality beyond us. This God commands our worship, designed us for worship, because He knows it is where we will be fully alive.

Lord, help us, like Hannah, worship You, and succumb to Your utter reality washing, cutting, defining, and filling our entire existence.

Thoughts from 1 Samuel 1