The Demon of Control
In my last post, I worried over things I
couldn’t control and fretted over the futile pride that causes me to try to change
things/people/events over which I am powerless.
Oy vey, as my father would say.
The Inevitability of Pain
This has been a month of fear and funerals. February seems to have that effect on
a lot of us. We slog through wind and ice and cold (at least in our part of
the country), and all we have to show for it is another day of the same - aching
muscles and weary hearts.
But I mean this post to be hopeful, not despairing.
As I said, my family (and here I mean both biological and spiritual)
has been doing its share of grieving of late. Loved ones are either sick – and I
mean sick – or have left this world to gain entrance into another. My
role in all of this has been more indirect than personal, i.e., I have served
as a supportive presence rather than an actual participant. In short, I’ve been
shoring up the troops.
Again, I’m striving to be upbeat but…
So far, not so much.
Let me switch gears.
The Value of Accountability
One thing that’s been useful during this period of semi-chaos has been to keep a ledger of sorts. Not to wax political, but I’m thinking of the current administration’s demand that government workers account for their activities on the job. I began tracking my own activities in 2020, when the COVID crisis kept me out of work for about six months. I decided at the outset that I wasn’t going to waste that period of enforced leave. I was well experienced in frittering away down time, having spent many a summer vacation and holiday break wiling away hours and regretting it after the fact. So, this time, when the government and my employer were paying me to “stay home and save lives,” I created a schedule for myself and tried to catch up on things I couldn’t get to during a regular work week.
I drafted a book proposal. The recipients didn’t bite, but them’s the breaks.
I joined and even cohosted nightly prayer meetings. Recalling the impact of corporate prayer in the wake of the 911 attacks, my prayer partner and I drilled down in this particular area. Our efforts resulted in the formation of a weekly women’s Bible study. I can’t say how much these activities impacted others, but yours truly gained a lot of spiritual ground.
The Power of Community
I reached out to other members of my church to see how they
were faring during this frightening time. There wasn’t much I could do to help,
as we were all simply trying to keep our own heads above water, but it gave me
a chance to go through the church directory and make contact with hitherto
unknown attendees.
My Aunt Carole had a wonderful practice of checking in often
by phone. She lived at a distance and didn’t drive. Her health was only so-so,
meaning she couldn’t do much but encourage. But encourage she did. Regularly. Even
forcefully, in the gentlest way possible, if you know what I mean. If a few
calls went unreturned, a more urgent request for an update would ensue.
This lady understood the power of caring and made it a
habit.
Aunt Carole’s earthly body has left this world, but her
lessons have not. On days when I feel lazy or uninspired, even defeated,
reaching out to others can bring me a sense of purpose. The vacuuming may remain
undone, but another soul can be touched.
While I’m on the subject of aunties, Aunt Doris promised to
be there for me after the death of my one remaining parent. Like Aunt Carole,
her age and limitations made it unlikely that she could do much more than
listen and maybe offer a few words of counsel. She did, however, coin a phrase
which made its way into my head, my heart, and even my novel: “Sometimes you just need to
talk to somebody with white hair.”
I realize this last comment is a bit of a digression from
the topic at hand, since Aunt Doris’s phone hugs began long before the COVID
era. Citing author’s privilege, I’m leaving it in anyway because it reinforces
the importance of community, and not exclusively from one’s biological family.
Community matters now, it mattered during COVID, and it will
matter whenever and wherever we find ourselves. My friend, Tina, figured this
out long ago. It’s taken me a little longer, perhaps because I’ve been blessed
with a close family. Having something as a given can make for a sense of
entitlement, or rather, expectation that it will always be there. Taking for
granted, I suppose. Tina has experienced many losses and thus realizes the need
to not go it alone. She is and always will be an example of casting one’s lot
with others and living by that concept.
The Slow Demise of Pride
All these goals are worthy and good, but just when I’m
feeling indispensable (yeah, right), I fall hip deep into a flareup of an
underlying condition which had been behaving itself for several months. Out comes
the cane and in go the NSAIDs.
Those palliatives may be little, but they pack a big punch.
It’s not the pain I mind so much. I know how to do rest and
relaxation, but I’m not too keen on helplessness. Check that. I’m not helpless;
I’m simply less able to be helpful, at a time when family and friends are
in need of all the help they can get.
Apparently, my heavenly Father feels I need a lesson in
humility.
So be it.
Accordingly, on this final day of February 2025, I offer up the
power I can still exercise in the midst of powerlessness. Power to call on a Power far greater than any I could boast. Power
to relegate pride to its rightful place – as so many people I love are involuntarily
having to do right along with me. Power to slowly but surely admit that divine
power overpowers, overshadows, and overcomes any perceived power I’m blessed to
possess.
What a Savior.
