Enough Already: A Response to the Clancy Case, Part 2

Standing Alone

Travel back with me nearly 20 years ago. I’m working in education and have been asked to serve on a panel whose sole purpose is to hear and evaluate a twelfth grader’s senior project. The task is designed to be the culmination of this student’s educational experience. She must pass this hurdle in order to graduate.

She’s supposed to showcase her knowledge of a particular topic of her choosing. She’s expected to conduct herself professionally and demonstrate in depth familiarity with the topic at hand.

The young lady does none of those things.

It becomes obvious within the first few minutes that this presenter doesn’t know what she’s talking about. Sure, she’s nervous; who wouldn’t be? But there are criteria for her to meet, and she doesn’t hit any of them.

It comes time to make an assessment. The student’s instructors have provided guidelines for us to follow. I render my judgment accordingly and deliver a failing grade.

I immediately come under pressure from the other members.

“She has special needs! She has a tough home life! She was terrified to speak publicly!”

On and on the excuses go.

Granted, the student in question does have an IEP (individualized education plan), but the panel has not been instructed to offer any special accommodation due to this fact. If we had been, I would have taken that into consideration.

I hold my ground politely but firmly. I refer back to the written rubric in front of us. I reiterate time and again the ways in which the student didn’t measure up.

The pressure continues. When it becomes clear that I’m not going to change my opinion, everyone decides to break and resume discussion after lunch.

Except it turns out my services are no longer needed after the break. Another educator has been found to fill my position. This staff member rubber stamps the kid’s project so she can satisfy the course requirements.

It’s important to note that the student would almost certainly have graduated with or without my passing her. The only result of failing her first attempt would have been a redo. Much like when I failed my first driver’s test and had to try again.

Yes, I cried when the instructor flunked me. Yes, I had excuses why I screwed up the three-point-turn and didn’t stop all the way at the stop sign. Bottom line: the guy assessing me wasn’t concerned with the reasons for my mistakes. He was charged with delivering a safe driver onto the highway, and I didn’t make the cut.

You’d better believe I nailed those two things next time, and nobody rejoiced more than I did when I got my license on the second try.

I keep flashing back to these memories as I watch the aftermath of the Lindsay Clancy trial. Eleven jurors vote to acquit her; one man stands alone, holding her accountable for her lethal actions. The judge declares a mistrial. The defense attorney plays every card he has: he requests dismissal of the dissenting juror; files an emergency petition with the Supreme Judicial Court; suggests a retrial would constitute double jeopardy; even begs the President of the United States to try to influence the prosecuting attorneys.

Simultaneously, a little thing called juror privacy is on the chopping block. The dissenter’s personal information has been leaked, his reputation called into question, and his family harassed, in what his attorney is calling “a full-frontal attack on the U.S. Constitution.” The man has gone into hiding.

If such strongarm tactics aren’t squashed, we’ll have even more trouble populating juries than we do already, and the trial system as we know it will collapse.

Enough already.

Big Picture

Clearly, there are larger issues at stake than the fate of a confessed triple murderer.

To illustrate, remember the ending of Casablanca? Spoiler alert: Bogie doesn’t get the girl. He sends her packing, literally, back into the arms of her husband. Why? Not because he doesn’t love her. Not because he believes in the sanctity of marriage. His sole reason for sacrificing his great passion is because bigger forces are at play, and they’ll be tipped in the wrong direction if he thinks only of himself.

We could use a bit of that philosophy right about now.

I’ve tried hard to remain objective during the Lindsay Clancy trial. I detailed in part one of this series the difficulty I encountered in trying to formulate my opinion about this horrendous case. Like so many situations, this one is multifaceted and extremely complex.

It’s also heart wrenching.

After studying the facts and the footage pretty meticulously, I’ve finally arrived at the verdict I would have rendered if I were sitting on that jury:

Clancy should be found guilty and held responsible for murdering her children.

The reasons ought to be obvious. Three preschoolers were slaughtered by their mother, who claims a previously non-existent voice told her to do it and then went silent, never to be heard from again.

Misplaced Sympathy

Several jurors who served in the trial gave interviews after the judge declared a mistrial. Their primary goals seem to be a) excusing Lindsay and b) attacking the one juror who refused to vote for acquittal. One actually whined that the lone holdout “had the hardest time getting off the fact that Lindsay viciously killed her children.”

Um, yeah. Details like that used to matter in murder trials. Call me crazy, but justice for victims used to carry as much weight as murderers’ mental health. Go figure.

The aforementioned juror bemoaned the fact that the holdout stood his ground and insisted Lindsay be convicted. She railed that he should “forgetting [sic] about Lindsay killing her kids. Everybody knows it. The world knows it. But look at the doubt. That’s all we need to do to get this woman the help she deserves.” Her final word was, “I will support Lindsay to the end here.”

Apparently, we’ve evolved as a society. We no longer dwell on minutiae like children’s brains swelling and blood vessels bursting while their mothers choke the life out of them. In fact, the jurors who wanted to acquit Clancy complained that the prosecutors spent an overabundance of time on the grotesque details of the children’s deaths.

There’s empathy in action. Let’s not dwell on minor points like an eight-month-old’s “brain [swelling] to the point that it had ‘overwhelmed the capacity of the skull’ and was herniating through its base.” Or blood vessels rupturing from the pressure of those exercise bands, causing pain along with asphyxiation. Or the agony baby Callan likely felt while emergency staff taped needles and tubes and catheters onto his fragile skin to try to save him. His siblings had already mercifully died when doctors inserted intraosseous catheters into the bones of their little legs, but Lindsay’s youngest was still alive when that needle or drill pierced his tiny tibia. The medical examiner testified that doctors “attempted” this painful procedure on Callan. Maybe they tried more than once without success. Maybe it wasn’t having the desired effect, so they removed it. Who knows? What we do know is his little body was poked and prodded and punctured ad nauseam, to no avail.

But why pore over incidentals like the anguish an infant suffers when heroes fight to save the life his mom tried to extinguish? Those particulars should be glossed over so jurors can more quickly attend to the pressing need to acquit.

Remember, we’re here to support Lindsay.

I could have stomached watching the jurors opine about Clancy’s troubled state of mind if they’d given equal time to her dead children. That, apparently, was too much to ask. The overarching concern was and is the wellbeing of a woman who murdered her own babies.  

Societal Rot

Why do I get the feeling we’re entering into Hunger Games territory if we don’t watch our step? Seriously. Are we all that far from there? We have now reached a lower point in our collective thinking than I would have thought possible. We seem willing to throw children to the wolves even – maybe especially –   when those wolves are dressed in their mothers’ clothing.

Take, for example, the hundreds of women who supported Clancy throughout the trial. Go a step further and consider the moms who recorded themselves saying and doing outrageous things to vent their frustration at having to care for young children. My usual M.O. is to insert copious links to verify facts and assertions I make in articles, as I’ve done above. I’m deliberately not doing so here. Those videos are best relegated to the dustbin, unless attorneys retrieve them to prosecute women who make terrible choices.

Age-Old Problems

We’re acting as if mothering were something new. As if legions of women haven’t been doing it since time immemorial. I can get behind the viewpoint that women’s lives have become exponentially harder since society started demanding they be supermoms who bring home the bacon while raising children. I did it and can attest to how hard it is. I can agree that maybe we’ve so skewed the differences between men and women that neither sex has any idea how to behave, and that this blurring of role distinctions can cause confusion and even chaos, both of which may be exacerbated in the aftermath of childbirth.

However, I refuse to dismiss the murder of innocent children as a mere facet of mental illness and call it a day.

Zooming Out

Again, I’m having a bear of a time being objective here. The more I learn about the case, the harder it is not to feel tremendous rage for Cora, Dawson and Callan, while simultaneously experiencing great sadness for their tortured mother. But my own mother’s words echo in my ears. She used to say people who sit on the fence never really take a position; it’s better to pick a side and live with it. Reminds me of the rebuke Jesus gave the Laodicean church in Revelation 3:15: “I know your works: you are neither cold nor hot. Would that you were either cold or hot!  So, because you are lukewarm, and neither hot nor cold, I will spit you out of my mouth.”

I must choose a position, and that must be justice for Lindsay Clancy’s children. Because this case matters so much more than what happens to one woman. Whether the 11 jurors who voted for acquittal realize it or not, they’re wielding a wrecking ball – and rather recklessly, in my opinion – against generations of maternal love and protection. Why? Because ultimately, acquitting Clancy will lead to the defensibility of women murdering their children based on hormonal imbalance. 

For example, another juror essentially declared the majority of the panel had an agenda. She then conflated justice for the children with an overhaul of the mental health system serving postpartum women.

Truth really is stranger than fiction.

I’ve spent a grueling amount of hours dissecting the testimony from this sordid case, and one thing that keeps showing up is the expectations and responsibilities placed on jurors, whose job description DOES NOT INCLUDE impacting institutional change. Once the jury veers off into trying to effect outcome for a certain issue, trying to make its mark, as it were – that body has corrupted its one and only function: to consider evidence and make a ruling based on facts.

Besides which, there really is substance to the argument that women can’t have it both ways. Either they can power through hormonal fluctuations or they can’t. It’s one thing to feel lousy, physically and/or mentally, during the hormonal instability associated with PMS, pregnancy, the postpartum window; it’s another thing to act out those feelings in homicidal ways.

I’m not saying anything new here. Many pundits are raising these same alarms because we must wrestle with the repercussions. There’s no getting around them. Either women can be trusted in consequential positions – such as raising the next generation – or they can’t. But it doesn’t make sense to demand equality in the public square, with all the attendant privileges, and then turn around and excuse horrific behavior because hormones are acting up.

More than Enough

I once heard a convicted sex offender state that porn addiction requires constantly new and different stimuli to feed itself. Perhaps we can apply that concept here. Somewhere along the line, people began overemphasizing milestones and celebrating them way out of proportion. Think of the lavish bridal and baby showers we throw these days. Bar and bat mitzvahs that rival weddings, complete with DJ’s, photo booths, chocolate fountains. “Push presents” moms expect in return for giving birth (call me old fashioned, but we used to think the baby itself was the gift). And don’t get me started on kids’ birthday parties, which have gotten staggeringly excessive and expensive.

Enough already.

When we become conditioned to constantly expect bigger and better adventures, it becomes difficult to live in the day-to-day, blasé happenings of life. Not to mention living with the demand to constantly outdo ourselves for every life event.

Perhaps this is part of what happened to Lindsay. She had reached a point where many of her goals had been met. Successful career – check. Marriage to an upwardly mobile guy – check. Three healthy children - check. But when one is always looking for the next captivating experience, it becomes hard to count blessings and realize that this is all there is, and that all there is, is very good.

I know that’s an awkward sentence, so let me illustrate. When my first child was born, my dreams came true. I’ve shared elsewhere that my pregnancy journey wasn’t a cake walk, so giving birth to that little guy with the conehead and scrunched-up face was the culmination of all my hopes. So, guess what I asked when all was said and done?

“Is this all there is?”

The reality didn’t live up to the dream I’d conceived. Besides that, my marriage was teetering on disaster when we became parents. Those disappointments had to be managed before I could appreciate that life could still be very, very good, despite its not meeting my unrealistic expectations.

Things started coming into focus the night I brought my newborn into a support group meeting. I’m sure I was crying over the state of my life and marriage. A wise lady in the room wasn’t having it. She pointed to my little chickee-head (that’s what I called him because, after a bath, his hair stood up like a baby chick’s fur), smiled, and said, “But look what you got.”

So, I did. I looked at that funny little face and realized what I had was very, very good and more than enough. Hard times were ahead, without a doubt, but good times and hard times can and often do coexist.

Another pivotal moment occurred when my kids were much older. My neighbor, Anita, and I were cleaning up after dinner one night. Anita had prepared a feast for us in her tomato-red kitchen, and she and I were scrubbing dishes while the boys tossed a ball around in her backyard. Something about the homespun image of two young guys playing catch while the womenfolk chatted over dishwashing (OK, that’s not politically correct – so sue me) brought a tear to my eye. All I could think of was a song that has come to epitomize my view of life: I Could Not Ask for More. I later danced to that sappy tune at both my sons’ weddings, and it will be played at my funeral.

The Bible expressed this concept long before songwriter Diane Warren did. Listen to the apostle Paul wax eloquent about contentment:

^“But godliness with contentment is great gain, for we brought nothing into the world, and we cannot take anything out of the world. But if we have food and clothing, with these we will be content.” (1 Timothy 6:6-8)

My pastor preached on these verses last week and this week, emphasizing the importance of finding contentment in the content of our lives. He showed the connection between being content (satisfied) with the content (stuff) that makes up our existence. I think this message should be trumpeted from pulpits far and wide. This simple principle has the potential to save so many from falling prey to the materialism and overdoing that characterizes our age.

Blame Shifting

I can think of one other reason to make our greatest goal to intentionally live in a state of contentment. It goes hand in hand with responsibility.

We’ve seen a cascade of blame shifting in the Clancy case. It’s Patrick’s fault. It’s the doctors’ fault. It’s the psych hospitals’ fault. Everyone but Lindsay is to blame for her actions.

Let’s agree on some indisputable facts. First, the poor woman clearly was having a breakdown. Her medical team certainly dropped the ball in inexcusable ways. I recall similar treatment – or lack thereof – when a family member went through a mental health crisis. I could tell by the hurried and harried approach of the caseworkers – who really did care – that the scope of their job went far beyond the hours they had in a day. Disappointed and disenchanted people are glutting the system (this brings us back to the error of overdoing milestones and resultant ill-preparedness for life on life’s terms), which makes it dangerously hard for practitioners to keep up.

Sadly, this is the system in which we find ourselves; sometimes we have to find ways to get the most out of the least.

Also, Lindsay’s husband was imperfect (whose isn’t?); maybe he was even unfaithful. Again, I can relate to the trauma of a troubled marriage. I can even relate to terrifying thoughts and the Herculean effort it took to do minor tasks like loading the dishwasher and bathing my kids. Because when the brain goes into overload, nothing is easy.

But, when push came to shove, I held it together enough to keep both myself and my children alive, by God’s grace. I leaned hard on the Lord, my family of origin, and professional help (which, by the way, had definite shortcomings).

I also considered the potential consequences that could occur if I didn’t move heaven and earth to fight looming madness.

In other words, I shouldered as much responsibility as I could, while simultaneously sucking every bit of support out of every avenue available.

Bygone Responsibility

But herein lies another problem. We train people not to accept responsibility for their own actions, and when they mess up, sometimes lethally, they claim victimhood. Bear with me as I relate yet another aha moment.

Towards the end of my career, I worked with a student who was pretty much surgically attached to his laptop. The district wanted to harness the utility of the internet while also saving a few trees, so it issued devices to all students and staff. This particular kid had a dickens of a time putting the thing away when the lesson didn’t require its use. One day I lost patience and called him out into the hall for a lecture.

“Listen, friend, why don’t you close your computer when the teacher tells you to? Why do I have to repeat her instructions five or six times, and you still don’t close the darn thing?”

Noting that my frustration was falling on deaf ears, I decided to switch gears.

“OK, how ’bout this? Let’s talk about why it’s important to do the right thing when you’re told to do it. You know not to cross the street when a car’s coming, right?”

Of course he did.

“OK, so what happens if a car’s coming and you’re strolling out into the street, and you don’t see it? The car honks its horn, but you ignore that warning. What would happen if you did that?”

And here, dear readers, is one of the most chilling statements I’ve ever heard.

Without giving it a thought, the child answered, “The car would stop.”

No, my precious middle schooler! That’s the whole point. The car wouldn’t stop. You would become part of the pavement.

That’s where this kind of thinking takes us.

When people aren’t taught to sift through actions and consequences, we have a real problem. When lack of contentment meets lack of responsibility, a painful collision with reality ensues.

So, let’s return again to the throes of daily life. The house needs work. The car’s on the fritz. The kids are being kids. Illness strikes.

Where’s the confetti?

We’re used to parties and over-the-top festivities at every turn. We’re used to participation awards just for showing up and spelling our names right.

I submit that we need to start celebrating the mundane instead of chasing the electric.

Final Thoughts

Now, back to the topic at hand: Lindsay Clancy.

I don’t normally ask this, but if any of my points are resonating with you, please share this article. We NEED to get this one right. We can’t afford to misjudge this case because the stakes are nothing less than our survival as a nation. We must halt the death train here, at the doorstep of Clancy’s confinement. And that confinement must include prison, not just a mental health facility, where she may convince doctors she’s well enough to return to society.

The Clancy jurors described defense lawyer Reddington’s approach as “funny, entertaining, arrogant, but compassionate.” Perhaps they’d have made similar observations about the attorney who defended Constance Fisher, whose kids might beg to differ with physicians who deemed her sane enough to walk free after spending a few years in a mental institution. Fisher had been committed there after drowning her three children. Upon her release, she proceeded to murder the three other children she subsequently produced with the husband who stood by her.

Folks, let’s learn from history. And let’s look where we’re headed.

If a model mother, as everyone describes Lindsay (and I don’t doubt she was), can brutally slay her own children, who’s above suspicion? We begin to suspect everyone. Someone’s having a bad day with her kids in the grocery store, and we wonder if we should call 911. As a society, we’ve been on the alert for years, what with school shootings and killings in the public square. But the Clancy case is bringing distrust of one’s neighbor to a whole new level.

If we’re going to talk about Lindsay’s sanity, let’s talk about the insanity of a society that doesn’t lock the door and throw away the key on mothers – and fathers, for we’ve been down that road far too many times as well – who kill their offspring.

We must view parent killers’ actions as the anomaly they are – the antithesis of filial love – and resist the urge to paint them as excusable catastrophes resulting from mental illness or malpractice. 

We've discussed why insanity-driven acts should not automatically merit freedom for offenders. Wrong is still wrong, regardless of what propelled it. This is especially true when lives have been snuffed out and a criminal's future actions may put society at risk.

Regarding the malpractice defense, why not litigate those allegations as well as determining guilt or innocence of the defendant? Why not hold psychiatric teams culpable alongside the killers who claim the establishment failed them? If malpractice can be proven, those practitioners will have to pay their dues as well.

But we must not bow to the wishes of Lindsay’s cheerleaders, who want her excused due to medical negligence. The two aren’t mutually exclusive.

Again, what this all comes down to is having reasonable expectations for life as it truly is. Dirty diapers have always been smelly. Spouses have always been imperfect in the light of day, once the rose-colored glasses are removed.

People used to understand this. They understood that beauty is fleeting, but love can last if true commitment is present. They realized that life is hard, even unfair, and that spouses aren’t there to change this reality, but to simply support one another.

Overblown expectations and unattainable dreams are always going to lead to devastation. A realistic view of life, including what it can’t deliver, needs to be drummed into our children from the moment they can talk.

In part one of this series, I noted that the Lord will sort out truth in the Clancy case; I stand by that. That said, I would add that God expects humans to use the brains he gave them. As I once heard in a women’s conference, if we try and fail, at least we know we tried. If we do nothing, we have only ourselves to blame.

As always, God gets the last word:

“Keep yourself far from a false matter; do not kill the innocent and righteous. 

For I will not justify the wicked.” 

– Exodus 23:7

Enough

I haven't written one word since October 20. Oh, I've jotted notes and scribbled things I needed to remember, but these fingers haven't produced anything of importance since the day I just referenced. 

That's the day I received the latest rejection of my novel. 

I wrote about this possibility cryptically a few months ago, cautioning myself not to let hopes soar too high or be dashed too low, should the manuscript be rejected again. It was, and I’m still standing.

Here’s the quote I use in the opening of my novel:

"And you know that you fight for the lost causes harder than for any other.

Yes, you even die for them."*

*Mr. Smith Goes to Washington. Directed by Frank Capra. By Lewis R. Foster. Screenplay by Sidney Buchman. Columbia Pictures, 1939. VHS.

My pastor’s been discussing this idea in his sermons on the book of Jeremiah. That guy wasn’t called the weeping prophet for nothing – his countrymen steadfastly rejected his message, yet he faithfully executed the marching orders the Lord gave him (after some initial whining, which makes me feel better about my frequent reluctance to pick up the gauntlets He hurls my way). Similarly, I may have to keep tilting at windmills till the day He calls me home. If one of those windmills happens to lead to a publication deal, great. If not, at least I’ll have gone down fighting.

Let me backtrack for a moment, and then change gears altogether, because this post really isn’t about rejection or disappointment. It’s about finding the Lord to be enough, no matter what circumstances we find ourselves in. I stated at the outset that I hadn’t written anything significant since October 20, but that’s misleading. True, I haven’t tweaked my novel, sent any new book proposals, or even blogged for a couple of months. From that standpoint, I’ve been stagnant. But a small group of women attend a Bible study taught by yours truly, and I have upheld that responsibility. Right now we’re delving deep into the Scripture-packed hymn, O Come, O Come Emmanuel, and finding ourselves blessed by the wealth of encouragement those lyrics have to offer.

There is more than one way to write for the Lord.

For all I know, He considers my humble efforts at educating a handful of faithful ladies to have far greater impact than if my book were to top the bestseller list.

So, it comes down to enough.

What is enough for this arrogant clay pot? John D. Rockefeller, one of the richest men who ever lived, once defined “enough money” as “just a little bit more.”

We can condemn him as a malcontent and roll our eyes at the dissatisfaction of a man who arguably had all the world had to offer, yet wanted more. But he’s only expressing the spirit of the age – the same thing King Solomon found out: that whenever we put our hopes in what the world has to offer, we’re going to feel shortchanged.

My grandchildren provided a good illustration of this principle last week when they helped decorate my Christmas tree. They eagerly grasped ornaments with their tiny fingers, clasping and clutching with the fervor Jacob must have exhibited when he wrestled with God. Note how they piled ornament atop ornament on single branches, clumping everything together. They’re youthful decorators, and haven’t figured out that less is more when it comes to the fine art of tree trimming. To their wonder-filled eyes, if one bauble enhanced a naked tree branch, surely three or four could only make it better. But in the layering on, something that can only be seen in simplicity gets lost, and the whole thing becomes lopsided and overdone. 

At my grandson’s birthday party last month, there was a laser tag game of sorts. Being an old fogey, I had never experienced this recreational activity, so I took my granddaughter into the tent and together we chased the fleeting lights. I found it somewhat symbolic that, as soon as we laid hold of a given beam, it disappeared into nothingness.

I wrote about this phenomenon years ago, pining about my inability to lay hold of the laser beam that is the holiday feeling. It was the Christmas season, as it is now, and I was struggling then, as I do now, to let enough be enough. I was overeating and overfeeding my holiday joy meter with endless Christmas songs and Hallmark movies. I can only report partial success in the ten years that have elapsed since; something inside still yearns for an elusive something that won’t fade away on December 26. Something that will continue feeding my spirit and keep it aglow even after the curtain (or fork) drops.

But that brings up another point. The only curtain with eternal significance was ripped in two by heavenly hands when Christ breathed His last, thus shouting down through the ages that His sacrifice was enough. That the dividing line between deity and humanity was forever removed, leaving only the need for each pilgrim to make his wholly inadequate way into the presence of glory.

As I’m rereading these ramblings, it seems I’ve overdone it again with metaphors and analogies. Oh, well. So be it. It should come as no surprise that someone who binges on food and Christmas movies would tend to go overboard in the figurative language department. Better that than cookies.

I hope, though, that in the midst of my metaphor madness, one point stands out in brilliant relief. At the top of my Christmas tree rests neither angel nor star. Those things heralded the light that pierced darkness 2,000 years ago, but the cross finished the work of redemption. As I posted on social media many Christmases ago, “Lord, turn bad into good, wrong into right, sin into redemption. Come to think of it, You did that at the cross. Thank You, Lord, that Christmas turned into Easter and death turned into life when the creche met the cross.”

And that, my dear readers, is more than enough.

Kicking the Comfort Zone to the Curb

God took me out of my comfort zone this week.

I fell in the parking lot of my workplace the other day, bringing many an extra pound down on the right side of my body.

Ouch.

My ribs have been screaming for mercy ever since. I've been handling the problem appropriately - making phone calls and appointments, caring for myself with the help of loving family, but the long and the short of it is, I ended up in the ER yesterday.

Lest my reader is wondering, I don't do the ER.

Oh, I do it for other people - I'm very good at that.

Why not? I've had tons of practice, what with caring for sick parents, injured children, nervous friends. I'm great at advocating, advising, encouraging, and generally lending support.

See, I'm a person who helps others, NOT a person others help.

Oh, I've needed help over the years when life got messy.

And I've hated every minute of it.

I hated the situation that put me in a position of needing help, whether it was illness, incapacity, life drama - you name it.

And I hated needing help.

I figured out why yesterday.

Pride. Pure and simple.

There's a lot of talk going on these days about identity, and I find much of it ridiculous and even dangerous. But that's for another article.

Then again, maybe it's not.

Without taking this post in a completely different direction, let me just say, for the record, that self-perception can be misleading at best and devastating at worst.

For example, if I'm human but see myself as a gorilla, I put myself at an extreme disadvantage by seeking medical care from a vet as opposed to an MD.

But back to the main topic. The bottom line is, we all identify some way. We see ourselves in a certain light.

I like to see myself as someone who has overcome many obstacles, continues to overcome new ones, and generally makes her way in the world.

I've written extensively about the love and help from family and friends that picked me up when I couldn't do so for myself, and the voices that spoke truth and hope to me at the darkest times of my life. These interventions were nothing short of divine, the hands and mouthpieces of God, as it were. I'm not forgetting that for one moment.

Nevertheless, in day to day life, I enjoy getting things done. Tackling tasks and ticking them off my to-do list.

It kind of puts a crimp in that when you have to think before breaths and movements, taking into consideration in advance the best and least painful position to accomplish the aforesaid.

So, when I found myself in the ER, I felt vulnerable. Oh, and silly.

Because, as I said, I don't do the ER. At least, not for myself.

Things that helped?

Patient and caring medical staff who assured me I had reason to be there, despite my apologetic attitude (after all, I wasn't bleeding to death or even unconscious).

Several unlooked for blessings. My right hand, which is also my dominant hand, took part of the blow, but is functioning just fine. Likewise, my right knee and hip, for which I sought treatment through an arthritis doctor and physical therapy a few short years ago, show no signs of acting up. And, in testimony to God's infinite sense of humor and penchant for the absurd (think sacrificing His perfect Son for a horribly imperfect world), a heel spur on my right foot, which has been plaguing me for months, feels remarkably better!

Not least, a tattoo on the arm of a technician which spoke to my embarrassed heart. Again, for the record, I don't like tattoos (sorry, sons), finding them generally unappealing and altogether frivolous and unnecessary in a nation where people are going to bed hungry (not to mention the fact that God forbids them). That said, this one hit the proverbial spot.

It read simply, You are loved. You are worthy. You are enough.

A cross bracketed the whole phrase.

Resisting the urge to question the theology of the sentiment (if we were worthy and enough, why would the Son of God have had to die excruciatingly at the hands of brutal men?), I have to say it was just what I needed.

Fast forward to today. Notwithstanding an arm angry from a tetanus shot and pride wounded by fingers poking around my flabby midsection, I choose to hold my head high, realizing it's a head, however unworthy, that the Son of God died for.

Despite all the mental torture I put myself through about my situation being less deserving of treatment than that of the poor baby wailing down the hall from me, I have to say God came through. He gave me presence of mind to ask the right questions, seek clarification, and leave with the materials needed for a follow-up appointment next week.

He even saw to it that the hospital validated the parking.

Talk about being enough.

"For God gave us a spirit not of fear 

but of power and love and self-control."

~ 2 Timothy 1:7