February Part 2

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.

Substitution - the Antidote to Pride

A friend of mine is dying of cancer. Our friendship has been short but sweet. We've had exactly two visits and a handful of phone chats, but the bulk of our relationship has consisted of text conversations. Still, there's a closeness I feel towards this dear soul which is hard for me to explain. Perhaps it's our sisterhood in Christ and some similarities in our circumstances. Perhaps it's just a bond of peace from the Holy Spirit.

Whatever it is, I'll miss her until we meet again in heavenly splendor.

When I learned today that her earthly end is near, I asked if I could visit. The answer came back via my pastor and his family, who have been at her side today and through this whole ordeal. They are ministering to her, and that's all the fellowship she can handle.

Having kept vigil at the death beds of both my parents and several beloved friends, I know what it is that I'm missing. Death's approach isn't pretty, but somehow it's a privilege to participate in the final hours of someone you love.

Yet, God has closed the door on this particular mission for me. I'm not called to this watch. The Lord, evidently, has assigned it to my pastor's family, and they are tending to our friend lovingly. He will reward them in due time, and all is as it should be.

How wonderful that God in His wisdom doesn't assign every task to me! That's what the Body of Christ is all about. Sometimes I forget that and try to take on more than I'm called to do, which usually ends in disaster. For tonight, thankfully, that isn't the case.

It seems my life lately has been replete with gracious substitution. In an unrelated matter, my cherished sister stepped forward tonight to spare me a chore for which I had no energy. Truth be told, she's a constant source of fruitful endeavor, from which I frequently benefit.

As I left church tonight, leaving my kind-spirited sister with the brethren to set up for a  holiday luncheon this weekend, it occurred to me that here is another case of substitution on my behalf.

Help had been requested. My conscience wanted to answer the call. The spirit was willing, but the flesh has been tired and is trying to learn to stop taking on more than it can handle! So I pushed pride to the side (isn't it really pride that makes us think everything depends on us?) and let Jane do my share of the work.

When you get right down to it, isn't substitution what the cross was all about?

Substitution - the heart of the gospel.

"He made Him who knew no sin to be sin for us, 

that we might become the righteousness of God in Him." 

~ 2 Corinthians 5:21~

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

Agony and Torture

These are the nicknames my nephews dreamed up for two kids their mother babysat when they were young. She ran a day care of sorts out of her home, which enabled her to earn a pay check while raising her own children.

The boys called the little ones "Agony and Torture" because they whined and argued and disrupted, which is pretty much the definition of preschoolers. Had my nephews possessed a bit more higher order thinking, they might have applied these same labels to themselves, as they were only slightly farther along the maturity continuum than were their mother's charges. Ah, but it's always easier to point the finger at someone else.

Which is what I'm tempted to do lately. I've been feeling a lot of angst over issues I can't control, and as a result, I'm butting into other people's business. I admit it - I'm a control freak, right up there with the title character of the old comic strip, Momma, and it frustrates me when things don't go as planned. That's created a bit of a problem over the past few weeks, as many things, personal and physical, have cropped up to rock my equilibrium.

Literally, as a matter of fact. One of the issues I'm referring to is a nasty case of arthritis and its cousin, bursitis, both of which are making me feel like a little old lady who only drives on Sundays. Several doctor visits and X-rays later, with painkillers on board and physical therapy looming on the horizon, I'm still treading carefully but much improved.

My body, that is.

My head could still use the mental equivalent of chicken soup and Rolaids.

I'm learning something very unpleasant about myself through all this. I'm a vain person.

I always knew I was a little vain. I carefully construct my hair and face in the morning (it takes more time than it used to, and seems to bring fewer results). I choose outfits that enhance what Mom used to call my "blonde coloring" (the blonde has long since given way to Preference by L'Oreal, "because I'm worth it," but the grays keep finding their way through the highlights). I make all this effort in hopes that it will keep acquaintances from noticing my lower body's resemblance to a pear. 

But these strategies fall apart when one's limping forces one to wear sneakers and sensible shoes with formal outfits, thus making one look like the aforementioned Sunday driver.

I was in just enough pain at the pharmacy, when picking up my medicinal Godsend, that I was pricing canes. They have some very pretty ones, and reasonable, too. Except I don't think I could afford the price it would exact on my psyche. Besides, I have a perfectly good "plain Jane" cane that my father used in the last days of his life. I can picture myself now, hobbling along the halls of  the school where I work, clinging for dear life to that silver stick, and praying no seventh grade track hopeful disrupts my gimpy gait.

I'm not feeling it.

I sought solace from my friend, Tina, who has been dealing with similar issues for years. In contrast to my prideful preening, Tina is eminently pragmatic and willingly tossed aside sandals for Oxfords long ago. She also thought nothing of clutching a four-footed cane for a couple of months when her legs were misbehaving.

How does she do it?

I mentioned earlier some personal matters which also have me on my knees (well, they would if I could get down on my knees, but at this point that's just a nice memory). Again, things I didn't ask for and could just as soon do without, thank you very much. Funny thing is, God never asks my permission when He sends trials. He doesn't give me a checklist or a drop down box, either. He sends or allows what He deems right for my character building, and I have very little to say about it.

The phrase that keeps coming to mind is, things may get worse before they get better. I'm not expecting joy and sunshine as the PT teaches my muscles how to, well, muscle through. Neither am I looking forward to an earlier wake up time to fit in exercises I don't want to do (did I mention I don't want to wake up early in the first place?). And fear grips my heart when I think of the unknowns I'm facing, issues I'll leave unspoken for the purposes of blogging, but trust me, they're there. 


So I'm back to counting blessings. I make gratitude lists on scraps of paper when my head starts taking me into dark, dangerous neighborhoods where I ought not go alone. I catch myself riding my one son who still lives at home, and to some extent the one who's off on his own, trying to control what I can instead of accepting things I can't change. I pack up bags of stuff for Purple Heart in an attempt to de-clutter my environment, when what I really want to do is de-clutter my mind. 


It occurs to me that perhaps the old devil, that wily serpent, could be trying to distract me with messes just when I'm on the brink of finishing my novel. In all honesty, he's done a pretty fair job of discouraging me in the midst of what should be a happy and exciting time. Tomorrow I'll be publicly reading a short story I had published in a women's anthology in March. Family and friends are coming to cheer me on, and I have so much to be hopeful about and grateful for. Yet, what I call the "Eeyore Syndrome," AKA, the "Puddleglum Doldrums" --that "Things may be great, but they're not as great as they could be" feeling -- has me in its grip. With the apostle Paul, I lament, "O wretched man that I am! Who will deliver me from this body of death?" He instantly answers his own question: "I thank God—through Jesus Christ our Lord!" (Romans 7:24)

If God could use Paul, despite his former life as a bigot and murderer, I guess he can use me, too.

"In EVERYTHING give THANKS, for this is the will of God 
in Christ Jesus concerning you!" 
1 Thessalonians 5:18

"Be anxious for nothing, but in everything by prayer and supplication with THANKSGIVING let your requests be made known to God; and the peace of God, which surpasses all understanding, will guard your hearts and minds through Christ Jesus." Philippians 4:6-7

For more like this, check out:

Reflections by Thea: Counting Blessings and Misusing Prepositions

Reflections by Thea: "Yeah, But..."