Lessons from Crutches

Lessons from Crutches …

Riding up the ski slopes on a snowmobile had never been on my bucket list. But being pro-active in life, I check-marked that experience even before it got on the list. The beauty of the mountains were subdued by a ski induced knee fracture. And now crutches, and other devices are temporarily part of my day to day activity.

When I was sixteen, my five-years-older-than-I sister headed back to university after a weekend at home. I worried for her safety because she was traveling an hour and a half in a severe prairie snowstorm. My stomach twisted tight as visibility reduced, and I was afraid because I had recently been saved at an evangelistic meeting. As my sister drove into the city, I bargained with God promising that if she would make it safely, I would send her a letter. I don’t remember my exact words, but I’m fairly certain I included a salvation option with the fire insurance policy. Likely I tossed in a four spiritual laws gospel tract for good measure. I’m not sure if she responded by mail, or in person the next time we met. But, bolstered by her university secular insight, she suggested that she was fine and if I needed religion as my crutch that was also fine. She assured me she did not. Nearly forty-seven years later I recall that reference to a crutch as I am hobbling about the house after my ski injury.

And I have come to appreciate the value of a crutch. Technically I’m not even supposed to let my left big toe touch the ground, and I am not strong enough to stand on one foot all day. In fact I need two crutches. By definition crutch means:

a long stick with a crosspiece at the top, used as a support under the armpit by a lame [yes they use the word lame] person, a thing used for support or reassurance.

And I am feeling rather lame. It’s lame that I can’t brush my teeth without wobbling. It’s lame that going up three stairs causes me to rethink where I will go. It’s lame that the auto doors at the grocery store almost knocked out my left crutch, causing a near face plant into bananas. But, I am glad that I have some thing for support and reassurance. I’m also kind of curious as to what kinds of things people use as crutches to prop them up. Drugs, alcohol, religion and technology appear the easy ones to pick on. What about our over busy-ness? That might not be a crutch, it might just be a way of avoiding ourselves. Why does the idea of a crutch carry a negative undertone? 

 

At the beginning of a small self pity episode, my husband kindly reminded me that prior to the G-2 knee brace (that has become my new best friend) I would have been in a full leg cast, from upper thigh to ankle for six to eight weeks. Try that on for size. Over a decade ago after a profound loss, in a time of deep grieving, I expressed to those around me, that people with a physical injury knew what type and length of recovery process to expect. But, neither grief, nor long term illness has the benefit of a well defined time period. I am very aware that I can expect a full return to activity, granted I am in my sixties and likely will have a stiff knee, but I still hope to ski again. Shattered dreams this is not, by comparison to what some Canadian hockey families are going through. Many crutches and supportive communities are needed for restoration of that magnitude. We often don’t know what to say other than that: Our thoughts and prayers are with them.

Spring is in the air, although with reluctance. On a day like today, I breathe deep, feeling very grateful that there is much to be thankful for, many moments to laugh at myself and most importantly, that it is okay to use crutches for this crazy thing we call life. We all need somebody to lean on.

Here’s the lean on me song … Playing for change, song around the world.

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=LiouJsnYytI

In the month of April, Jocelyn is offering a complimentary copy of her book on grief: Who is Talking Out of My Head, Grief as an Out of Body Experience.  Contact her at jbmarietalking@gmail.com

 

The EASTER STING

My church background did not focus on the Lent season … other than the passion week, or Holy week, where my fasting attempts usually left me feeling a little less holy. This year I’m out of the chocolate bunny’s reach and left to ponder anew the central meaning of the old story. Does it translate into reality in the wanderings of faith?

Recently on a fast paced walk with my sister-in-law, I told her I needed a poem for Easter … I’d already purchased two new poetry books at the thrift store. A cup of coffee and further conversation at her house followed that walk. As the last drops were sipped, she went to get something and said, Here I think this is for you, as she handed me Malcolm Guite’s book of Poetry and Lenten readings; a poem-a-day with explanations. Reading these daily poems has brought a new freshness to the Lent season for me. Not only that, some poetic writing happened … my apologies to those who are less likely to read poetry. Many of these thoughts originated while walking along an Ontario spring river where thin sheets of ice break into pieces, these pieces rise up and for a brief moment the broken edges shine brilliantly. The topic of reflections initiated ideas both as mirror images and of bending back what has been sent to the recipient. I appreciate the idea that a mirror image on water reflects what it is shown, while a prism bends the light.

Reflections

Do I reflect back to you what you reflect to me?
And if not, why not?
Can the fractured glass hold back its prismatic beauty?
Catching the rainbows
as the Light shines upon it.
Waters dark and deep glisten in the rays
The echo returns not a new song,
but a muted variation of what has been heard.
If the truth be that I only know what I’ve been shown,
would there be a point to the search,
or is the journey of the question,
the quest that causes our hearts to burn within us?

John Donne said in his poem:
… and mysteries
Are like the sun, dazzling, yet plain to all eyes.

Death and resurrection are powerful and painful thoughts focused on before Easter. This next poem recalls the first Easter when that resurrection promise did little to alleviate the painful loss of two children. I have long given up the giving up for the lent season. For people bereaved, the Lent is too long. I admit I was happy to receive Lent readings halfway through the forty days. I do not feel a need to manufacture any more heaviness in my Lenten contemplations. I long to experience the joy and hope that Easter brings, the busting out of new life after the frozenness of winter.

The EASTER STING

That Easter years ago
When thoughts that the promise of resurrection
would be the comfort, the
Power to overcome the weight of grief …
     Vanity of vanities, all is vanity

Death, where is thy sting?
Where is thy sting?
Who dares ask me that question?
That sting
Is in my heart
It relentlessly courses down my cheeks
It darkens a sunny day
It knots my stomach tight
It robs my sleep of dreams by day or night.
Powerfully absent that Victory o’er the grave,
The grave too fresh, too wrong, two young the spirit
My numbed heart shrouded in death’s dark vale.
     Vanity of Vanities, all was vanity

And so as time heals all wounds,
It also wounds all heals
As it wears down the sharp edge of the grave
It also mutes the vibrancy of the spring flowers
Victory, when will you come?
When will you thaw grieved hearts
When will spring resurrect dreams of life?
     Is it all vanity? …

(The silent church pause)
The heavens remained quiet
Victory comes in battle, it skirmishes the mind
It cries out in the night, cries out to those seemingly silent heavens
It pleads the prayers of resurrection.
Greater things than these shall we also do …
Overcoming sorrow by
Hope-filled prayers in the night,
by candles lit, by songs sung
by moments of awareness as our
  H-hearts are
     O-open and the
       P-power of the risen Christ
         E-envelops our stricken souls

May it be as you have said … (I believe) help me in my unbelief …

Wishing you Hope for this spring season.

Jocelyn is the author of Who is Talking Out of My Head? Grief as an out of body Experience, during the month of March and April she is offering a free copy of her book to those who ask. If interested please contact me at jbmarietalking@gmail.com and I will mail you a copy. People that bought the book, have told me it has been a powerful help for understanding deep grief and how to support someone in that time.

The Advent Adventure

IMG_8685Even before the Hallowe’en masks disappeared, Christmas merchandise appeared in the stores. Every time fresh snow fell the song, It’s beginning to look a lot like Christmas jingled in my head; and we had snow in September, so it’s been awhile. Thinking about the season of advent, I wondered if adventure shared the root word. With the ease of Google search, I found out that  advenire ‘arrive’ meaning the arrival of something is at the core of both.

Advent is defined as: the arrival of a notable person, thing, or event, while adventure is an unusual and exciting, typically hazardous, experience or activity. For many children Christmas is exciting, while parents can dread the season. The expectancy of something big happening fills the air. But, for people in grief, or challenging life circumstances, it is not the most wonderful time of the year. And if Santa Claus is the only one coming to town for December 25, I’m not sticking around for it. (Bah, Humbug!)

In the far past, I thoroughly enjoyed December, and more hope-beach-sunset-quotes-quotesrecently I have rekindled a love of the Christmas season, coming out of a ten year mark of a world turned upside down, with personal catastrophic events that made the Christmas of 2005 my most dreaded ever. The Christmas that mocked me with All hearts come home for Christmas, the first Christmas that two of my three children were not on this planet, the first Christmas without my husband … I feel a strong kinship with the Biblical descriptor of  The people walking in darkness have seen a great light, on those living in the land of the shadow of death a light has dawned …   The dawning of light, is the beginning of hope. The beginning of the great adventure of Emmanuel … God with us … through thick and thin, through darkness and light.

This year as I light the first candle of Advent, the candle of Hope I reflect on the Hope that has carried me through a passage of grief, to a new shore. A stumbling towards beauty and grace.                                                                           

Hope is a choice, Hope has given me my voice                                                                 to question to doubt, to scream and shout                                                                           Hope has been in the midst as a spark                                                                                 as a river, a cause to shiver                                                                                                      Hope behind, hope before as it opens and shuts the door.                                                The taste of hope and I want more …                                                                                      More of the source, more of truth, more of the grace it has given                                 I want hope on this earth   …   and a taste of Heaven.

best_hope_quotes_with_images

Emily Dickinson says, Hope is the thing with feathers/ that perches in the soul. Does that make hope flighty? Or does it means it visits, when I need it most? Hope is a choice I can make. For me the source of the Hope is the litmus test of its worthiness. It is easy to miss the meaning of Christmas; it has been turned into numbers of shopping days left, and pre-Christmas boxing day sales.           May you also have some adventure in your advent season … we settle for tinsel when we could have eternity … 

A favourite Advent song of mine is Ready My Heart by Steve Bell. My apologies if the link does not work.

http://redmp3.cc/13011993/steve-bell-ready-my-heart.html

Jocelyn is author of Who is Talking out of My Head, Grief as an out of Body Experience

Summertime Blues (the cure)

We unlearn desire. Quietly, over time, we succumb to the dependable script of the expected life and become masters of the middle way … after a while we no longer even notice the pathways off to the side … John O’Donohue (Beauty)

The summer is almost over,” my 91 year old mother declares with authority on our weekly Sunday IMG_4182phone call. I already know her next line: “Before you know it, it’s going to snow. It will be Christmas.”

A writing course had occupied my spring and when I hit “Submit” for my final paper on June 30, I also hit “Break Free” for the summer … and here she states the truth: Summer is Short.

In Canada it is very short, and also the reason it is full of outdoor activity. Canadians know its brevity. As if to verify my mother’s words the picture of last September’s snow came to mind. For the sake of the course, I had put off my summer and now my days were numbered.

Three days ago I picked up a friend from the airport, who is returning to be in the presence of an aunt in the final stages of cancer. The struggle was closing in. Last summer, another dear friend lost the battle with a heart issue, her family motherless before the end of August.

Oh the summertime blues. The life time blues … it comes and it goes. Life, breath, beauty, flowers, illness and departure; like the river current moving toward a final destiny.

My own grandchildren come to visit in a week. I have been anticipating this time for what seems ages, and before I write my next blog that moment-in-the-sun will have passed.

The elusive speedy nature has me either lamenting or rejoicing.

So what will I do now that the summer is almost over? … I plan to enjoy every remaining moment as much as I can. It begins with cleaning off of my small patio, setting up the deck water fountain, planting the flowers I got on the end of the season sale.

I want to build good memories that will warm those cold winter days. I want to connect with nature as much as I can. Listen to the music. Enjoy the richness with those that cross my path. There is only one summer of 2015. I want to smell the flowers.

Above all else, I want to practice gratitude.

IMG_4084That gratitude that started July first, where in a moment of unprecedented Canadian patriotism, I joined a small town crowd for the raising of the flag, the singing of Oh Canada, the picture taking with two handsome red-suited mounties. To quote my mother: “I am so thankful for the country that we live in.” She is thankful; she has health care, she feels looked after. She feels safe. My only on-the-planet daughter lives in a region where recent terrorism has taken a deadly toll.

Below a black squirrel hops across the traffic filled street, only mindful that he needs to live in this summer moment, oblivious to the cars that will soon sweep his path … he pauses in the middle of the street, I think he winks at me and scurries to his destination. My pot of recently planted petunias smile at me in shades of blue-lavender. A dahlia from a friend adds the exclamation mark.

Life like summer is brief.  Gratitude precedes the joy … The thunder heads will roll in, we had hail on Saturday, but for this moment, this brief spell, I want to Be in The Beauty, the beauty of a summer morning ripe with anticipation.

Hope is the Daily Choice

Hope is a Choice … Again and again

The holiest of all holidays are thosememorial

Kept by ourselves in silence and apart,

The secret anniversaries of the heart …

Henry Wadsworth Longfellow

The longer I live, the more I realize how unsettled life becomes. I don’t know if being settled is the divine plan for life. I think the plan is more likely for us to be disturbed. Disturbed into action, forced exploration.

It would be easier to find a comfortable place to settle, but life has a way of unsettling, of pushing me out of my comfort zone. Note to self—comfort is important in underwear and shoes! I need firm foundations and footwear to navigate the Life journey.

Ten years ago, this was the funeral day of my son and daughter. This day does not bear the emotional weight of the day of the accident, but March 5 always tugs my heart. It was also the same day of my father’s funeral, fourteen years earlier. And the words spoken that day as the woman in black knelt beside two caskets about to be swallowed by the earth. the graveside service concluded … she was the last to leave–this woman dressed in black turned out to be me, between gaping twin holes, pieces of her heart in caskets. And she whispered to the ground, to the air, to the emptiness, to the darkness she forced the words out of her mouth …

We do not grieve as those without hope … But would that hope carry her? She prayed it would. And I am here to tell you that she has fought for that hope, been graced by it and continues on the journey. Hope comes in different forms, in small glimpses, a sunrise, a flower in asphalt, a baby’s smile. Struggle is often hope’s companion.  It also arrives as a gift, and if hope is a gift, there must also be a giver of it. Gifts are meant to be opened and shared,  not to collect dust on a heart shelf. Hope carries many people through dark days.

Words that have challenged and encouraged me this past month, from the book of Blessings by John O’Donohue. To Bless the Space Between Us: From A Morning Offering

May my mind come alive todayIMG_2632

To the invisible geography

That invites me to new frontiers,

To break the dead shell of yesterdays,

To risk being disturbed and changed.

May I have courage today

To live the life that I would love,

To postpone my dream no longer

But do at last what I came here for

And waste my heart on fear no more.

A song by Phil Wickham – dedicated to many others who look forward to a reunion in Heaven:

Heaven Song, by Phil Wickham, album—Heaven & Earth, released 2009.

with lyrics:

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=jqLulbmdbLg

Heaven Song /same song with images:

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=-U-hOMunpWo

Artist: Phil Wickham Album: Heaven & Earth Released: 2009

Doubts re-All Hearts Come Home for Christmas

by debbiedoos.comThe voices in my head argue this one out: The Magic of Christmas pitted against the: ‘this is not what I expected for Christmas’ … but I can accept either position at any given time, even at the same time.  What is the beauty of Christmas? And why have I traveled thousands of miles to be with my daughter and her family for this Advent season? There is a part of me that hungers for connection, for beauty, for the fulfillment of a longing I cannot exactly put my finger on. I know that the bonds of love are a huge part of the craving, being in the same air space with those I love, rekindling memories and crafting new ones. Every recent December, my own mother expresses a wish that she could experience ALL her family to come home at Christmas. And my heart does a split in two again, as I am reminded that two of my children will never come home for the Advent festivities on this planet. Death acts the grinch at Christmas.

And yet, in a desert land of North Africa where the “Joy to the World” is not sung, I watch my daughter intentionally celebrate the season, the reason, I am reminded of the hope and the peace spoken of as my grandchildren light the Advent candles. Around the kitchen table small fingers glue tissue paper to make a lantern light craft.  And a song played in my head, from when my children were crafters at my kitchen table, One small child in a land of a thousand, one small dream of a Saviour tonight.(Sung by Evie) A knock from the back door lets us know the neighbour and her daughter arrived in the midst of glue and tissue, and speaking of light of the world … and then the flow goes Arabic, and I step back and keep glue on paper. The girl is invited to make a lantern and the head-scarved mother asks the reason for what they are doing. More Arabic, and messages about the light of the world are spoken, and a fourth tissue lantern goes to another home.   IMG_3196

One small child in a land of a thousand                                                                                                          One small dream of a people of light.                One small hand reaching out to the starlight

One small saviour of life

So each year as I think of hearts coming Home at Christmas, I try to focus on the meaning of where I am truly at home. I am a spiritual being, and my heart is at home within the embrace of my spiritual Father.        And my heart feels warmed by the light.

Missing Magic 29

Magic Twenty-Nine

Twenty-nine on the 29th IMG_4216
As hard as I try to make it palatable
The magic is missing for me.
Ten birthday cakes I could not make …
She may be having heavenly tea
Alongside Angel food cake with berries
Small comfort this day.
I see her as she was in the old photos
I remember her Little Mermaid birthday cake
Her shy smile, or vivacious big grin
She never knew her true beauty
I remember her as she sang in church,
Slight hands cupped upward
face glowing
I knew she was connecting to Heaven.
I miss her when the tulip tips poke through the soft April earth
She shared the gardener’s heart.
I miss her every Christmas,
Her CD brings me to tears
As (Hark) the Herald Angels sing to me her gift of Love.
I miss her when I see the three lovely ones
who never got to meet their precious auntie.
I miss the beauty and life she brought to the room by just being present.
And I always wonder?
And I think I will wonder that till the day I die.
DSCN7439But for this day
I choose again to remember her beauty
To remember her “gift of poverty”
Her ability to connect with those on the social edges
She loved life, and the author of it.
I choose to be grateful that I was blessed to have a daughter as lovely as her.

I always thought spring was a wonderful time to have babies, new life, new hope.
And for this day, I choose Hope.
IMG_4436
Happy Birthday Precious girl!

Two website on Hope in the grieving:
http://www.griefhaven.org/memory.html
http://www.opentohope.com/death-of-a-child/