Cleaning up...

Does anyone else have a love-hate relationship with power tools??
The thought of blood squirting from a suddenly missing finger terrifies me! And the idea of being fried by electric shock as the tool crosses paths with the electric cord is much too vivid! Or the electric saw accidentally getting tangled up with a limb? These could pass for images from a horror film: Attack of the Power Tools. But after trying to trim hedges and edge lawns by hand, the superior efficiency of these potential little monsters wins out.
Three months ago I had my second experience with a hedge trimmer. Last year, during my first experience, I did the unthinkable, the thing I warned others near and dear to me to be VERY, VERY careful not to do: DO NOT let the cord cross paths with the tools sharp teeth, I warned! Thankfully, the very thing I was told would happen if I did the unthinkable, did: the cord was frayed quickly, which stopped the power completely: no blood, no shock. In fact, no movement. No nothing. Of course, no power...
Saving the cord was pointless; later I found out one would need to cut cord, and rewire the end of the longest portion to the plug. Forget it: I could already see multiple electric shocks and fried bodies from a poorly reconnected electrical cord.
For my second experience with the H.T., I'd like to think I was wiser in using the extension cord with the better plug, AND I was VERY, VERY careful not to let the cord dangle anywhere near the tool's fangs.
Oh the thrill of shedding leaves and branches and watching bushes take neat shapes! It felt like getting a professional haircut and style, and watching it fall into place like hair does in shampoo commercials. It was beautiful, and very fast. So fast, in fact, that I had plenty of time to continue! I felt intoxicated by the speed at which I was getting this job done, and already savoring the enjoyment of looking out the window at neatly trimmed bushes for the next several months!
Multiple trimmed bushes later, and beginning to feel soreness in back and arm muscles, it was time to put my toy away, and rest...But...oh, wait...the leaves, the branches, the mounds of debris I had created!! And no one to blame or to pick up after me....
The relationship between the time it takes to trim hedges and the time it takes to clean up the debris is   directly proportional. Not much comfort, but it is a fact. Yet once again, my gracious God met me at this crossroads of potentially overwhelming discouragement. As I picked up rakeful by rakeful of recently living debris, God began to show me parallels between what I had just done, and the decisions I can make in life:
~ Power (substitute your choice of perceived "freedom")can be great fun.
~ Power can be used quickly and efficiently.
~ Power can get the job done very effectively.
~ Power can create huge messes.
~ If I am to learn how to responsibly use and to respect power, it is necessary that I pick up my own mess.
~ God can teach me even while I am picking up the mess I made.
~ Don't make messes so that God can teach me, but if I made a mess, instead of whining, be attentive while I am cleaning it up.
It was much quieter during the cleaning up than during the mess-making. It was much easier to listen...

AGAIN?

Oh not again. I thought I had already learned this lesson, last spring to be exact. I had even remembered now and then to check for weeds in the side yard, where hardly anyone looks. Finding the nearly waist high, inch-thick, stemmed weeds was thus an unsavory surprise and a disheartening disappointment. Again? Really?

Well, it has been a wet winter again. At least there weren't dozens of them this time.
Marshalling the armor of willpower and determination, out I went today. I knew I would not be able to spend 2 hours doing battle this time, partly because my shoulder is still tender from cutting branches in January, and partly because I procrastinated until noon, the hottest part of the day. And perhaps I have learned something since last spring: It's ok to work for short periods of time and take a break, or do a little bit every couple of days. I don't have to finish everything at once. One lesson learned, even if it's by default (read: age...)

Hmmm. It was humbling to be reminded that I had seen these weeds before. Of course they were not the very same weeds: the old ones had long ago been extracted and dried, but these weeds looked very similar, and were just as difficult to pull out, because they had be taken out as close to the root as possible.
Are these weeds tougher for having come back in the same area? I hope not. To think that the weeds in my life might have thickened and become more unyielding would be very discouraging indeed. Yet once again, my God met me in the weed patch, and gently, tenderly, helped me begin examining my weeds, their thick roots composed of a season of neglect, stubbornness, laziness that chooses the path of least resistance, some pride sprinkled in between. Ouch.
Half an hour later, a few square feet cleared of the thickest weeds, it was time to stop. It's not just the shoulder that hurts. Are a few square feet cleared in me as well? Inches maybe? How long will the change last?
And yet I'm not the same as I was last weeding season: a new perspective is being cultivated in me, I believe. A little less fear. A little more patience. A minuscule bit more of love.
However slight, perhaps the changes do last, and very little by little I am being transformed. What a patient Father we have.
"Search me, O God, and know my heart;
Test me, and know my anxious thoughts;
See if there is any offensive way in me,
And lead me in the way everlasting." (Psalm 139: 23,24).

Faith blossoms

It is no exaggeration to say that everything went incredibly smoothly. But things can’t be “incredible” when handled by God: nothing is beyond His domain. The delay in the waiting area, the wire insertion, even the goofy but very kind radiology technician, the fact that because there was a delay in the radiology department I had no wait before going into the surgery area (!), and even entertainment as my friend chased a wasp off of the radio tech in the surgery waiting area…no one was hurt…. I was in and out before I knew it. No pain during the recovery; I mean NO pain. Waiting for the results was the hardest part, as my friend had indicated; but the weed of fear that had been growing felt stunted, and I felt drawn in to conversations with my Jesus daily. Conversations filled with love and reassurance and the peace that truly passes understanding. Ahhhhh. Finally the day came to meet with my surgeon, who would be checking the wound and giving me the results, ‘if they were in.’ I felt strong enough to go in by myself. Though I was shown into the room, there was what felt like an endless wait time, but finally the surgeon walked in and even before she closed the door she said the blessed words: “Good news!” The exclamation mark wasn’t in her voice, but it was on her face and in my very next words: “Thank You God!” Such relief.  She explained things like the size of the tissue she biopsied, she showed me digital films, and she checked the wound. As we talked I found out she was very pregnant, which I hadn’t even noticed at my first appointment nor during the surgery! The sun was out, and as I walked to the car I could only repeat “Thank You!” “Thank You!”…Once in the car I wanted to share the great news with those who had been anxiously praying: my kids, family, friends. I don’t know how long I sat in my car in the parking lot making phone calls: What a joy it is to share great news! Thank You, Lord!

Three months later, though there is some distance between the events and the emotions, every day I see the one inch scar. Every day, if I take the moment offered to me, I am reminded of the journey that drew me so close to my Savior. I am reminded of the love that surrounded me so intensely in those days of fear and worry, which became fertilizer for faith blossoms. Thank You!

Of weeds and fear...

Monday night, November 10, 2010

Although the memories are crystal clear, I’ve been procrastinating the writing of them, I don’t know why.

The one inch scar is just to the left of my heart (it looks more like 2 inches, but I measured it…it is only 1 inch wide). It is a daily reminder of these memories, and I pray it will always be at least a little visible, so I don’t forget the lessons that came with it: prayer, humility, dependence, and then there is the word GO.

Prayer: Spend time with Jesus every day, in the early morning whenever possible, before the activities of the day begin.

Humility and Dependence go hand in hand: We are not intended to be self-sufficient, however difficult and humbling it is to ask for help when we need it. The word ‘independent’ is found in the Bible as an undesirable quality! (“In the Lord, however, woman is not independent of man, nor is man independent of woman.” I Corinthians 11:11). I could only find ONE reference for the word “independent” in the entire Bible, in four different versions. Guess how many times the word “independence” is found in the Bible? None.

GO: Don’t wait on things that need doing or people that need caring for: just GO. 

Even when your mammograms have been clear for years and years, there’s always that little seed of fear of the ‘c’ word. So getting that telephone call to return for a second set of films is a little unsettling, but not terribly. It happened to me once before, years ago, and it turned out to be a “honeycomb cyst” which I was told was essentially harmless. I fully expected that was what they wanted to recheck; in fact, I think it’s smaller than it used to be, so I thought they might just want to compare it. But no: it was the other side, and they took multiple films, and I was told to wait…that seed started sprouting as I sat, ‘clothed’ in the starchy gray hospital gown in the cold, pale green room, waiting for the radiology tech to ok the films. I felt the seed sending its first roots around my throat, and started praying…”I can’t do this…I can’t do this, Lord.” The radiology technician, a tiny woman with a fairly heavy accent, said ‘they’d call within 24 hours if it was anything’,…I can’t remember the end of her sentence, nor do I know whom she meant by “they.”

Every time the phone rang the next day my heart jumped, and those fear-roots got a little tighter. But the weekend passed, and I relaxed a little bit. Monday, there was still a bit of jumpiness, but less, and the roots let go a bit, but not completely. I hoped for a card in the mail or a call saying everything’s ok. The next call from sounded like a mistake: “They” started leaving a message for someone else, so I picked it up to clarify that they had the wrong number. Then she asked me for my name, and, laughing (!!) said, “Are you…?” She said my name. I knew before she said it that she was going to say it. GULP. For a brief second I wanted to have someone else’s name, but what could I say…She had made a mistake and was actually looking for me, to tell me that I would need to have a biopsy.

The literature in the Radiology Department says that it is not uncommon to have a second set of x-rays, and that a large percentage of call-backs are just fine. They hint at the notion that a slightly smaller percentage of ‘further procedures’ are also just fine. My percentages were getting lower. Fear was growing into a super weed very quickly.

A few close friends knew about my second mammogram, so I told them about this next step. “YOU ARE NOT ALONE” are words that ring in my mind even now! PRAYER, HUMILITY, DEPENDENCE: Implement NOW.

A dear friend went with me to the biopsy, which they wanted to schedule fairly quickly. That is not a settling feeling. There was some confusion about where to go to register, but it was finally sorted out, I was once again changed into the starchy grey gown. The very nice radiology tech set me up face down on a table with one hole in the middle; my friend was right: I had a little taste of what cows might feel like…she tried to take a couple of x-rays, but couldn’t quite find the area that was causing concern. Then…the computer malfunctioned; got off the table, and sat in a chair while a computer technician came in to reboot the computer; not a settling feeling either.

Back up on the table. This time she found the area, and told me pretty quickly that she did not think they would be able to extract it with a needle, which this procedure was to consist of. The doctor came in a few minutes later, and confirmed it. He was not very reassuring or personable, and basically told me they would have to do a surgical biopsy. Obviously he’d never gone through this; perhaps he knew someone personally who had, but I would guess not, or perhaps he had distanced himself from the situation for comfort’s sake.

Thankfully, he suggested in passing, that I talk with the Breast Care Specialist, who I had understood was going to do this procedure in the first place, and whom my friend had recommended. Thankfully, she was in her office and permitted me to walk right in (the first doctor had called to see if she was in—that was thoughtful, I must say). Thankfully she was as calm as my friend had said, and looked at previous films, current films, and reassured me in no uncertain terms that this was most likely ‘only calcifications’ and that the radiologists, all of whom had just been to a series of workshops on calcifications, were probably being overly cautious. Granted, that’s not a bad thing, but it can be very scary. She suggested we ask the radiology team once again for their recommendation, considering they were not able to do the stereotactic biopsy. Knowing perhaps they were not in such a hurry after all, was also reassuring. So a few days later, another call: yes, they wanted to do the surgical biopsy: there was just too much uncertainty. Next was an appointment with the surgeon, a bit impersonal, but very kind and competent; I was also accompanied by a dear friend. Both of them suggested I go ahead with the surgery. The first available date was the following Friday: my son’s 20^th birthday. No, that was not an option. The next week would be ok.

I would need someone to drive me.

Asking for help AGAIN was not easy, but it was necessary, and dear friends stepped forward SO graciously, I was immensely humbled. They made plans for me: One friend would take the day to spend it at the hospital with me: She would pick me up, drive me there, and stay all day til I was done with the surgery (outpatient). Another friend would bring dinner. Another friend would come over and spend the evening—and the night if necessary—to make sure I was ok. Oh my goodness. I felt out of control, scared, humbled and very, very cared for.