WALKING BUDDIES: Part 1 - “Barefoot in the Park” - June 29, 2008

Then the man and his wife heard the sound of the Lord God
as he was walking in the garden in the cool of the day.
Genesis 3:8 NIV

As a child, I rarely wore shoes, unless social expectations required it of me. I had my saddle shoes for school, shiny, black, patent leather church shoes, and well worn, dirty Keds for play, all of which I kicked off whenever I could. “Going barefoot is the gentlest way of walking and can symbolize a way of living—being authentic, vulnerable, sensitive to our surroundings,” states Adele Coombs, author of Barefoot Dreaming

I wonder what our Heavenly Father’s footsteps sounded like to Adam and Eve when they heard him approaching, in the cool of the day. And I wonder what our great-great-greats’ footsteps sounded like to God. I bet God could hear Adam running swiftly, and Eve skipping playfully, toward him, in eager anticipation of a daily hike with their divine Walking Buddy. After they disobeyed God, did Adam and Eve tiptoe around, walking on eggshells, trying to avoid him?

Imagine having actually walked with God on a daily basis, and then losing this privilege. The concept of “walking with God” permeates the Biblical record, threading its way through the Old and New Testaments, like a well worn, familiar trail. In the Garden of Eden, and again when Jesus walked the earth, human beings were blessed with face to face encounters with God. For most of us, though, our walking with God is metaphorical in nature.

As I have mentioned many times, I feel closest to God when I am surrounded by lofty trees, birdsong and the heady fragrance of moist earth. Many of my writer-walking buddies recognize and experience the holiness and healing power of walking:

“I think that I cannot preserve my health and spirits,” said Henry David Thoreau, “ unless I spend four hours a day at least, sauntering through the woods and over the hills and field.”

Raymond Inmon advises, “if you are seeking creative ideas, go out walking. Angels whisper to a man when he goes for a walk.”

“In the woods we return to reason and faith,” mused Ralph Waldo Emerson.

And my very favorite quote comes from Joseph Campbell: “God is the experience of looking at a tree and saying, ‘Ah!’”

These nature lovers “see” God in nature. While I believe that nature provides sacred space in which to encounter God, I also believe that God willingly walks with us wherever we are. When we’re caught up in the rat race of life, God is there jogging beside us. When we are wearily lugging groceries out to the parking lot, our minds a million miles away, worrying about this and that, God is there, pushing the shopping cart with its squeaky, wobbly wheels. When we’re pacing the halls of the hospital as a loved one undergoes surgery, he is there. Whether you’re hobbling or hoofing it; mucking or gadding about; knock-kneed or pigeon-toed; limping or leaping; barefoot or booted; taking your very first step or have one foot in the grave, God is right there with you.

I think it was God’s intent for us to live a barefooted life—a life of pure authenticity, shameless vulnerability and exquisite sensitivity, like that referred to above by Adele Coombs. We were created to live in God’s presence, naked and unashamed, to walk shoulder to shoulder with none other than God. Wow!

The very first thing we learn about God from the Bible is that he is THE creator. The author of Genesis takes great care in detailing all that God fashioned. He created flora and fauna, rivers and mountains, not air conditioned buildings, with windows from which to view his creation. Perhaps this is why I go to the woods to hang out with my Walking Buddy. While I don’t go barefooted on these treks, I do think my walks with God give me a delicious taste of living a spiritually barefooted life.

Someday, we will know the joy of face to face intimacy with God, known heretofore only in Eden. How heavenly that will be!

For now we see in a mirror, dimly, but then face to face.

1 Corinthians 13:12 NIV

TRAVELING IN THE WHEELCHAIR OF LIFE – Part 5: "Get Up!" - June 21, 2008

Jesus said to him,

"Get up! Pick up your mat and walk."
John 5:8

Recently, I spent a frustrating afternoon of wheeling myself to and fro in our galley kitchen, bumping my wheelchair clumsily into cabinets, and rolling over various dog appendages. My coup de maitre, however, occurred when I pulled lose the bottom shelf in the refrigerator door with a wheel of my chair, spilling pickle and jam jars—which rolled all over the kitchen.

“Rex, I’d really like you to spend a few hours in this wheelchair,” I said sweetly, later that day, “so you can see what I’ve been going through.”

Rex’s answer was swift and unequivocal: “I’ll sit in a wheelchair, if and when I have to, but no sooner.”

“Not even for me?” I asked incredulously.

“No,” sweet, and simple. My hubby is a kid at heart and I thought sure that he’d jump at the opportunity to operate such a cool vehicle, performing a few wheelies to impress his girl. Slipping my feet into his shoes, I could certainly understand his perspective, so I wasn’t (too) miffed. Between his comment and my mental “shoe-fitting,” however, I did briefly contemplate tossing the delicious dinner I had so lovingly created for him in the trash. This would be a double whammy, since I rarely cook to begin with. But being a marriage and family therapist by trade, I knew that such a reactionary response would not result in a pleasant evening. So I just made him fix his own plate.

During my fourth week in the wheelchair, our thirty-fifth wedding anniversary came—and went. I was not in a celebratory mood. I want to walk into the restaurant on my own volition when we celebrate this benchmark in our marriage. Thus, I’m looking forward to dining on—hmm—succulent Alaskan King crab legs dipped in drawn butter, perhaps. Oh, and, of course, I will thoroughly enjoy my dining companion as we reminisce the past and dream for the future.

Well, the day finally arrived when my doctor said: “Get up! Pick up your mat and walk.” Granted, that’s a paraphrase, but he gave me his blessing and sent me out the door with a few exercises to do. The joy of this day is right up there with the day my hubby proposed, our wedding day, and the births of our children. You may think I’m joking, but six weeks in a wheelchair is comparable to waiting years to meet the right man, waiting fifteen months from time of proposal until my jaunt down the aisle and back, and nine months of pregnancy (times three, equals 27 months).

I celebrated my healing with lunch at Panera Bread, followed by a leisurely shopping spree. Said spree yielded a beautiful black dress with variegated white polka-dots, to wear when we celebrate our anniversary. I have a lot to celebrate. During my tenure in the wheelchair, my long-suffering mate has been an absolute sweetheart. I’d hate to know how many trips to the fridge I sent him on, just to retrieve a Dr. Pepper or an ice cream bar. He wheeled me here, there and everywhere, loading and unloading my chair into and out of the car, in spite of his temperamental back. I could go on and on, but suffice it to say that I’m the most blessed woman alive.

I’m also very grateful to God for the medical miracles that heal hurting limbs. But more than this, I am grateful because I know that my Savior would jump tall buildings at the chance to take my place in my wheelchair. He went to the cross to save me from my sins, and now he’s said, “Linda, get up!"

I am thrilled to be on my feet again. I’m putting my six weeks of obsessing about the gift of mobility to good use by preparing a series on walking, entitled, “Walking Buddies.” I hope you’ll enjoy a stroll with me.

“Those who hope in the Lord will renew their strength.
… soar on wings like eagles;
… run and not grow weary,
…walk and not be faint.”
Isaiah 40:31

TRAVELING IN THE WHEELCHAIR OF LIFE – Part 4: Handicapped, Disabled or Differently-abled? - June 14, 2008

In this day and age of politically correct language, I’m thoroughly confused on when to use certain terms, lest I cause offense. When is it proper to refer to someone, such as myself, as handicapped, disabled or differently-abled?

When it comes to sports, I’m definitely handicapped—a congenital defect encoded in my genes. My instinctive reflex to dodge or duck when a ball flies my way, desperately weak ankles and poor eye-hand coordination make me likely to be last picked in all but the most domestic activities. Challenge me to a bed-making race, and I’ll win blue ribbons for speed and neatness. Challenge me to cleaning a bathroom and…well, you’ll win that one.

I am currently disabled due to knee surgery and a lengthy healing process requiring that I not put weight on my left leg. I get by with the use of a wheelchair, walker, and hopping-about on my right leg. The latter requires modest athletic ability, which as I pointed out earlier, I am lacking. Your prayers for my safety are coveted.

And I am differently-abled in ways too numerous to list. While you may be able to slam a baseball over the fence, I am able to slam computer keys and produce words and thoughts that are equally a hit in my field of play. I am able to listen by the hour (which comes in handy on my job as a therapist) while you may be a non-stop gabber. Don’t ask me to do any form of math and I’ll not ask you to define or spell esclandre, prosopopoeia or guerdon. (Cheer up; I don’t even know what they mean—I’m just messing with you.) We’re just differently-abled, you and I.

Recently I decided to negotiate the grocery store in one of those nifty motorized carts that are now provided for the handicapped, disabled, and/or differently-abled individual. You may not have ever noticed, but a grocery store is an obstacle course in disguise. All those produce, baked goods and soda pop displays, set at angles to keep the physically-abled from racing through the store, are a nightmare for those of us on wheels.

The scariest part for me, however, was backing my buggy up when I failed to stop in time to collect the particular cookies or laundry detergent I was after. Putting my vehicle into reverse set off an obnoxious alarm, not unlike that installed on road construction equipment. I’m not noted for my vehicular backing ability, so I recommend you clear the aisle, street or driveway if you see and hear me operating any mode of transportation in reverse.

The most difficult aspect of grocery shopping, however, was getting into the freezer cases for my weekly supply of Lean Cuisine and Skinny Cow Ice Cream Bars. The freezer doors at my store open outward rather than sliding aside. If you want to feel differently-abled, I invite you to attempt to line up a mobile cart, just so, open the door and lean in for your item.

I do wish to thank all the kind people who helped me retrieve the Wheat Chex and other items stowed on the top shelves. My thanks, also, to those who did not laugh at me and those who pretended to nonchalantly get out of my way (I know you were scared to death and wanted to run for your life!) There are a lot of kind-hearted, gracious and tolerant people eager to be of assistance.

But I am truly baffled by those who were oblivious to this first-time mobile grocery cart driver, who wasn’t quite sure what she was doing. For future reference, I suggest that you look both ways from now on when you cross a grocery aisle to grab an item, watch for out-of-control drivers at all corners, and for goodness sake, YIELD to anyone on wheels.

"We have different gifts, according to the grace given us.”
Romans 12:6

FYI: Esclandre, prosopopoeia, and guerdon were the final three words in the National Spelling Bee, held on May 30, 2008.

TRAVELING IN THE WHEELCHAIR OF LIFE – Part 3: "Be Still" - June 1, 2008

“Be still and know that I am God.”
Psalm 46:10

Recently I rose from my wheelchair and began to walk. I immediately realized what I was doing and was horrified. I’m one of those strange people who follow doctor’s instructions to a tee, and walking is a no-no for two more weeks. In spite of my alarmed reaction, I continued to walk. I cannot explain my behavior, except to say that it transpired in a dream. Numerous times, though, I’ve caught myself on the verge of really getting up to walk. What I wouldn’t give to be able to walk to the kitchen for an ice cream bar or to run down stairs to fetch a book. Why, I’m almost looking forward to the day when I can enter the yard to do doggy-doo-doo-duty.

Why, oh why, am I stuck in this wheelchair? The message I keep getting is, “Be still, Linda…” I’m rereading God’s Joyful Surprise, by Sue Monk Kidd, and this message flashes at me like a garish neon sign from every other page. It pops up in everything I read, in fact, like an annoying pop up internet commercial, but without the congratulatory announcement that I am the 10,000th visitor, and “click here to claim your prize.”

It’s so hard to be still, physically or mentally. Recently, my daughter observed me reading in my wheelchair, wheeling back and forth, as if in a rocker. “Mom, that’s the perfect chair,” she declared, cheerily, “for someone like you with restless leg syndrome.” I also have restless brain syndrome, AND restless spirit syndrome, as well.

As I sit, rocking back and forth, it occurs to me that maybe God is urging me to be still. Maybe he is longing for me to listen to him; to become quiet and to put away my long “to-do” list for God, and simply listen. “It’s not like God to yell in order to make Himself heard over all the sounds in our world,” states Sue, in God’s Joyful Surprise. “Rather He calls on us to turn from our frantic lives and grow quiet.”

Grow quiet—in this noisy life of mine? Quiet implies silence, and, “without listening, silence is just a vacuum. But learning to hear His whisper is the most delicate miracle of all.” Julian of Norwich said that when a person is at ease or at rest with God, she “does not need to pray, but to contemplate reverently what God says.”

I often tell my clients that 90% of communication is listening. This has to be true, also, in our relationship with God. Just think, when we go to God in prayer, we don’t have to say a thing—just listen. And in our loss for words, our confusion, our tangle of emotions, “…the Spirit himself intercedes for us with groans that words cannot express.” (Romans 8:26)

During warm weather, a part of my bedtime ritual is to sit outside on the deck and listen to the sounds of the night. As I sink into the velvety darkness, and as the silence envelops me, I slowly become aware of voices in the nearby woods—a symphony of tree frogs, cicadas, owls, even raccoons. What I initially experience as silence is actually a cacophony of critters. I love the feeling that I am not alone. I love that in the midst of darkness is life.

Perhaps listening for God is similar to my nighttime listening. In the dark times, God often seems absent and silent. But could it be that if I quiet myself I will feel God’s presence, hear God’s whispers? Can I relax into God’s presence and let God be God? Can I trust the Spirit to intercede for me? This depth of relationship with God is what I long for.

Perhaps my wheelchair is just the vehicle I need to enter into this intriguing silence where God waits for me.

“I have stilled and quieted my soul.”
Psalm 131:2

TRAVELING IN THE WHEELCHAIR OF LIFE: Part 2 – Wheelchair Fever - May 24, 2008

You’ve heard of cabin fever. Gardeners, eager to plant flowers, may still be experiencing it, given the unseasonably cool May we are having. Well, I’m in the throes of wheelchair fever. As an introvert who loves her solitude, who can sit for hours reading or writing, I imagined that this stint in a wheelchair would be a breeze. WRONG.

Like my three retrievers, Panda, Hope, and Faith, I sit at the window, looking longingly out at the world, all of us whining, squirming, and chomping at the bit when we see a squirrel and can’t get outside to enjoy its company.

In some ways, this wheelchair provides freedom. I can get around the house quite well, although I can’t ride it down the stairs to the family and laundry rooms. I can maneuver the hallway path at Anderson Psychiatric Clinic well enough. But beyond these tiny spheres, I need help from others to get where I want or need to be.

Shortly after getting the wheelchair, I crashed headlong into the wall of my limitations. My mother-in-law had come down from Ft. Wayne for a few days to help out after my surgery. She’d taken me to my very first post-surgery social event—my AAUW book discussion group—and returned me safely to the house. I wheeled myself to my bedroom to release the dogs from their kennels and assumed that Mom had followed me in and closed the door to the garage. As I followed Panda, Hope and Faith to the kitchen to let them outside, I discovered that both the door to the garage and the garage door were wide open. Hope and Faith took advantage of the opportunity to embark on an adventure.

I grabbed my walker and charged out the front door, hoping I could beckon them back, but they were nowhere to be seen. I hobbled out on the sidewalk to get a better view and could see Hope down the street. I called and called, “HOPE! FAITH! COME!” but my girls were exercising selective hearing. I barked at Mom to bring me my wheelchair and I took off down the driveway and out into the street in pursuit of my wayward retrievers.

“FAITH! HOPE! COME!” I shrilled at the top of my lungs as I wheeled my “Cruiser III” as fast as I could. By this time, I spotted Hope being shooed out of a neighbor’s garage and I pumped my arms as fast as I could. Finally, my neighbor, Charles Shumate, noticing my dilemma, got off his rider mower and chased my dogs homeward. Charles and Mom were able to capture the rambunctious retrievers and lead them to the house. Exhausted from the chase, I wheeled myself slowly home, relieved that this adventure concluded positively.

At the end of our driveway there is a sizable bump which prevented me from getting my chair up onto the driveway. So, I backed my chair up a few feet and took a running start, like I do with my recumbent trike. I hit the bump hard and the chair tipped completely backward, spilling me awkwardly onto the pavement. I landed with a thud, hitting my head. Charles came running down the driveway to see if I was hurt. Other than sore elbows and a sorely bruised ego, I was fine.

Unexpected things happen in life that stop us short and knock us over. It’s tough to admit that we have limited capacities. Our “best laid plans of mice and men” are dumped by the wayside, leaving us in a heap, stunned and spinning. Such events call us to slow down and turn to God for direction.

Like my trusting Charles, who righted my wheelchair and delivered me home safely, I need to trust that God will wheel me safely where he wants me to go. But it’s tempting to keep my hands on the handrim and use my feet as rudders and breaks.

Trust in the LORD with all your heart

and lean not on your own understanding;

in all your ways acknowledge him,

and he will make your paths straight.

Proverbs 3:5-6

TRAVELING IN THE WHEELCHAIR OF LIFE: Part 1 – Expect the Unexpected - May 17, 2008

I’ve had a bum knee for eighteen years. It all began, one summer day, when I bent down to tie my Nike and something slipped out of place in my knee, resulting in excruciating pain. An MRI revealed nothing sinister, and I’ve dealt with my malady these many years.

I knew it was just a matter of time before I’d need to undergo surgery. After all, my family had endured fourteen knee surgeries. My brother, Michael, has had three, my daughter, Beth, four and my niece, Kelly, takes the prize with seven. All of the above are athletic people. I, on the other hand, am a klutz. The closest I come to displaying athletic ability is when I ride my recumbent tricycle.

Well, recently, along with my knee innards feeing like shifting sand, I developed a huge lump on the back of my knee. I immediately thought CANCER! and made a doctor’s appointment. The lump turned out to be a cyst caused by my knee leaking oil. Sounds like a problem for an old jalopy, doesn’t it? Surgery was in order.

I chose to have my surgery this spring because I want to be up and running by the time Evan, my seven-month-old grandson, begins walking. If he’s anything like his daddy, I have a mere two months before I need this knee back in service for toddler chasing.

A few days before my date with surgery, I dug Beth’s crutches out of a cobwebbed corner of the basement and gave them a try. I couldn’t crutch three steps without keeling over. The doctor had said I’d only need to use them for two days following surgery, so I figured I could manage with a walker for that brief time.

When the doctor got his teeny-tiny scope, instruments and camera inside my knee, he discovered it was in much worse shape than the MRI and x-rays had revealed. After cleaning away the damaged cartilage and arthritis, he performed a microfractive surgery, which is medical-ese for drilling tiny holes in my knee. If this procedure works, my knee will develop new cartilage. Oh, not like the cartilage I was born with—more like a scab, I’m told, which is better than having no bone coverage at all.

“Well, she’s not going to be happy with me,” predicted my gown-clad orthopedic surgeon. He was speaking to my husband, immediately following surgery, as I slept blissfully nearby.

I appreciate my surgeon’s thoroughness in tending to my knee. Unfortunately, recovery from microfractive surgery takes lots longer than for a simple trim-some-cartilage-and-get-out surgery. I’m not allowed to bear weight on my left leg—for six weeks. I’m dismayed by this unexpected turn, but I know my surgeon operated in my best interest.

So, instead of spending spring time in the great out-of-doors riding my trike, gardening, hiking among the wildflowers in the woods, etc., I’m a wheelchair wallflower.

In my better moments, I look at this unexpected turn as fodder for writing. In my less-than-better moments, I feel sorry for myself; I yell at the dogs for walking, ever so s-l-o-w-l-y, in front of my wheelchair; and I whine to my husband, but not too much. I need to stay in his good graces. He’s currently my ticket to freedom, and I certainly wouldn’t want to alienate him. I balance my whining with words of appreciation, to which he sarcastically says, “You owe me big time.”

So over the next few weeks, I will be whining (er, I mean, writing) about “Traveling in the Wheelchair of Life.” Maybe next week I’ll tell you about my wheelchair wheelie—but only if you promise not to squeal on me to my surgeon.

As for my toddler chasing, while I’m confident I can keep up with Evan on the straight-aways in my wheelchair, it’s the turns and stairs that have me concerned. His mommy and daddy announced on Wednesday that Evan is now crawling. It’s going to be a tight race as to who will be up on their feet first.

And we know that all things work together for good to those who
love God, to those who are the called according to His purpose.
Romans 8:28

HAVE THINE OWN WAY, LORD – Part 7: Arrayed in Grace - May 10, 2008

The kiln has cooled and the Potter eagerly opens the door on his long awaited vessel of clay. One by one he removes the pots from the kiln, handling them gingerly. His hands recognize his precious pot even before his eyes do. Eagerly he holds it up to the light, turning it every which way, exploring his final product. He runs his hands lovingly over the cool, hard surface, admiring its shape and hues.

Now the Potter adds his final touches to his creation. He may paint designs on the surface of the vessel—pictures that tell a story, a geometric design, or flowers, perhaps—or garnish it with touches of gold or precious gems. And then—THEN—he turns his vessel over, and with great flourish and tears of joy, the proud Potter adds his signature to his work of art.

As a work of God’s hands, I am so much more than clay and glaze and paint and gilding. There are secret ingredients at work in this earthly yet spiritual vessel. First of all, I have been created in the image of my Maker. A touch of the divine enlivens my clay. Secondly, I am a living, breathing being (more like a fragrant, life-giving loaf of bread than a lifeless jar of clay), growing and developing spiritually, due to the yeasting of the Holy Spirit.

I give praise to my maker, joining Isaiah who proclaimed, “I delight greatly in the Lord; my soul rejoices in my God. For he has clothed me with garments of salvation and arrayed me in a robe of righteousness, as a bridegroom adorns his head like a priest, and as a bride adorns herself with her jewels.” (Isaiah 61:10) The paint, gilding, and jewels that array my earthly shell are endowed with mysterious properties: salvation and righteousness.

In our society, we are so focused on our outward appearance and beauty that we tend to discount our personal assets—our intelligence, talents, skills, personal qualities, values, etc. If we are often blind to our own goodness, how are we to recognize and appreciate the mysteries of the Potter that pulse within our spiritual being?

In a famous Old Testament passage, the great prophet Isaiah prophesied about the Messiah, saying “He had no beauty or majesty to attract us to him, nothing in his appearance that we should desire him.” (Isaiah 53:2) By human standards, Jesus was not handsome. In fact, there was nothing special about him that made him appealing and attractive, such that people were drawn to him by his looks— just a thirty-something, average Joe.

Jesus knew that, “the Lord does not look at the things man looks at. Man looks at the outward appearance, but the Lord looks at the heart.” (1 Samuel 16:7) Jesus became an earthly vessel, just like you and me; a vessel from whom our Heavenly Father’s love and grace flows.

So, my fellow vessels of clay, the next time you get down on yourself, remember whose you are and who you are in Christ:

• You were carefully chosen and created by the Divine Potter
  
• There are secret spiritual ingredients at work within you.


• You are created in the very image of God. The fact that you are prone to sin does not negate this amazing truth.


• You are a one of a kind creation. Gratefully, joyfully—and yes, proudly—bear the signature of your Maker.


• You are adorned with salvation and righteousness, thanks to your loving Creator and the sacrifice of his son, Jesus.


• And on those days when you just can’t look beyond your physical appearance and see your worth, remember that you are every bit as good lookin’ as Jesus!

We’ve spent seven weeks talking about being God’s vessel; now it’s time to let the Potter have his way with us. Let the spinning begin!

Have Thine own way, Lord! Have Thine own way!
Thou art the Potter, I am the clay.
Mold me and make me after Thy will.
While I am waiting, yielded and still.
Adalaide Pollard, 1907