My Sitting and Rising

Today is one of those days that I call a bad back day. My spine is stiff, inflexible and my lumbar area is especially pestered by pain. When the responsive readings begin during this morning’s worship service, my family rises without me. I have to get a “grunting” start ( hopefully, not too audible) along with the dear gray-haired, ” walker totin’ ” folks sitting in the pews.

Sometimes I feel terribly sorry for myself, but not today. The Advent season is here. Jesus has come and I rejoice. His crude bassinet had no soft bumper pads. He walked miles over rocky terrain, slept without the comfort of a Tempur-pedic mattress, was stressed out by Satan during a forty day war in the desert….He knew about chronic back pain and He knows about the days I am crippled by it.

Jesus’ earthly ancestor, ( sounds odd to say that the Ancient of Days had ancestors), King David, extended compassion to a cripple with lame feet. His name was Mephibosheth, the son of David’s deceased friend, Jonathan. David extended an open invitation at his dinner table to Mephibosheth. I can identify with this young man as he awkwardly plops down on a low cushion and sticks his misshapen feet under the dining table. During this gladsome time of the year, I praise God our Father for bestowing His compassion on me. Jesus came to heal crooked spines and unsightly feet. As a believer, I know that the deformity and pain are not a “forever” prospect. Jesus’ back was mutilated by razor-sharp lashes as He journeyed to the cross to secure my present peace and painless future.

With great joy, I anticipate my Lord’s second Advent. I will rise in perfect timing with all the saints to meet Him. I will walk with Mephiboseth. I will gracefully sit down at the King’s banquet table. When the feasting is ended, I will bow down with the elegance of a dancer and worship my God.

God Laughs

Sara eavesdropped and overheard God’s plan for her useless womb. She laughed and laughed at the thought of making a baby with Abraham and of a child tugging at her sagging,wrinkled breasts. The Lord was amused by her laughter and questioned Abraham, “ Is anything too hard for the Lord?”

Nine months later, Sara gave birth to a son and she laughed and everyone laughed with her.

Zechariah was scared speechless when Gabriel, (who was happy with this line of work), brought good tidings to him. An aged Zechariah and his wife Elisabeth would make a baby and Elisabeth would soon know the joy of a child leaping in her womb. This child would be filled with the Spirit even from birth. “Is anything too hard for the Lord?”

Nine months later, Elisabeth gave birth to a son and praised God for taking away the disgrace of a barren woman.

The lackluster town of Nazareth in Galilee is waiting for something good to happen.  A young girl is carrying her mother’s washpots, singing a psalm, thinking about a wedding…

“Is anything too hard for the Lord?”

Gabriel

On this morning, the Father took another look. Sorrow caught His eye-the sorrow of the sheep bloodied from a long time grazing in thorn-infested pasture. A restless angel flies.

For Tom

I spent the last day of 2008 in doctors’ offices. My husband accompanied me on the first visit of the day. The wait is long. I  brood about my deficiencies and illnesses. Misperceptions about my husband’s opinion of and love for me are hatched from too much introspection. The cloak of condemnation, that I wear so well, drapes my shoulders. A running monologue in my mind goes something like this: “Tom has to get to work… What a chore I am…He tolerates me…He only stays because he made a vow…”

I sigh, look for the nurse who will call me back, glance at Tom. He smiles.

After staring at the carpet and offering some meager prayers to the Lord, I look up. An older man navigates a wheelchair transporting his wife into the waiting area. A woman and young man are with him. The older man bends down and speaks to his wife. Her gaze is fixed straight ahead. She does not speak. He adjusts the pillow supporting her back, and makes sure her feet aren’t caught awkwardly beneath the chair. One side of his dear one’s scalp is without hair and a stapled incision is visible. He loves her.

I observe another husband helping his wife stay steady on a walker. He does not chide or hurry her. He loves her.

An obese man, who ambulates with difficulty, complains a little too loudly to his wife. She carries some sort of orthopedic apparatus he needs, and a large purse with paperwork coming forth. With a great heave, he sits down. She pats his arm as she flops down beside him. She loves him.

My name is called. I head to the examination room thinking about the wondrous everydayness of  the love of husbands and wives. Every husband and every wife has a weakness, a deficiency, or a disease with which the other has to live-everyday. As Gilda Radner said in that great voice, “It’s always something!” We don’t have the luxury of changing the mantra we recite as we pull the petals of a daisy: “I love her, I love her not……….”  Not is not an option.

The doctor discusses with Tom and me treatment options for my present malady. Tom asks great questions. We joke with one another as I wait for the sting of an injection into my hip. He winces when I wince. He gathers my purse with paperwork coming forth and throws my coat over his arm. He loves me.