The Part That Won't Be Taken Away

Between bites of pizza, we were talking about Charlie getting skin cancer cut off his face. "He's not going to have any face left if they keep on."

Charlie, 80, had told me of growing up on an Arkansas farm, riding on the back of a tractor every summer long - barebacked, hatless, and sunscreen-free.

Martha pointed to the bump on her nose where she'd had a spot removed. "Now they can do a skin graft. It would look better, but I don't care. There was a time when it mattered, but not anymore," she said with her usual dignified grace. The golf course had its way with Martha's skin, she who must have once been a stunning beauty.

Our prayer list included a family who put their healthy 22 month old baby to bed one night and buried him days later: bacterial meningitus. The other twin keeps asking where he is.

A child, a spouse, a parent, savings, a job, our reputation, romance, vigor, beauty, health, friendship, any person or thing we value - all are in the category of "can be taken away". Sometimes it happens slowly, even imperceptibly. Other times it's sudden and shocking.

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The older sister liked getting things done; she took pride in opening her home to friends, feeding them well. Efficient, capable, and resourceful, she enjoyed the satisfaction of doing things the right way.

Not so with the younger sister. She only pretended to be interested when her sister rattled on about some new way to cook beans, that she'd almost saved enough money for new curtains. The younger sister did her chores as she should, but absentmindedly, wondering how her sister could be satisfied with such a life.

Both sisters were in agreement, however, about their new friend. How blessed they were to have grown so close. All the town was talking about him, trying to get next to him, but he was coming to THEIR home for dinner.

But they weren't prepared for as many guests as he brought with them. Martha ran next door to borrow some more plates and some bread, promising to repay the next day. She said a quick prayer that there would be enough food, that the stew would still taste good after she stretched it with some water.

When she returned, she saw her sister where she'd left her, sitting there doing nothing, acting like a guest instead of a hostess. Her irritation spilled out with, "Jesus! While Mary sits there listening to you, I'm left to get all this work done by myself. Tell her to help me."

He turned the tables on Martha, declaring her priorities wrong and her sister's right. He did it gently, though. "Martha, Martha, you're much too distracted and bothered. But really, there's only one thing that matters and Mary has learned what that is. And that won't be taken from her."

Wishing It Weren't So

Years of being under-insured coupled with a propensity for self-delusion paved the way for me to ignore high cholesterol levels for the past 18 years. Now, nicely insured, I just went to the doctor for a full physical and, as I expected, am in good health all except for that one thing. Ready to address this, fears of ending up as a slobbering stroke victim clear in my mind, I eagerly popped the first Crestor into my mouth two nights ago.

Uncharacteristically, I woke in the night, experiencing strange feelings in my legs, but decided to persevere. Went for our annual Turkey Trot, was active most of the day and evening with Thanksgiving and then bowling, and though was aware of muscle discomfort, it didn't get me down. "I've got to do this!" I said valiantly as I dosed myself again last night around 9:00. By 12:00 I was whimpering for my husband to hold me, rub my back, my legs. It wasn't unbearable, but I definitely don't want to live out my days feeling like I have the flu. And I can't picture myself doing well at work this way.

The internet is happy to supply the hapless searcher with reasons both for and against taking statins to lower cholesterol. On a previous google search, I had greedily read about the cholesterol myth and the evil pharmaceutical companies and at that time concluded my problem was my sweet tooth. Having corrected that, a common-sense dietary change from any perspective, I was hopeful that my cholesterol numbers would have improved. The triglycerides were in normal range for the first time since I've had this problem, but the other numbers were as bad or worse than before. So much for the theory that it's the fault of sugar.

So, here I am on this Thanksgiving holiday, thankful for so much, and yet in a quandry - desiring to be a good steward of my body, but truly confused as to how far I go to work on two numbers from a lab result, numbers that may or may not indicate future problems. Do I try to develop a hankering for red wine every night? Do I subject myself to burping fish oil or others to garlic breath? Do I rationalize that the high numbers are genetic in the absence of heart disease? Do I suffer through with this statin in hopes the side-effects will wear off? Do I try a different one? A different dosage? Is it all much ado about nothing?

And I'm now so full from that bowl of oatmeal that I don't even want turkey and dressing leftovers.

A Memory

We’d been walking up the mountain for about an hour, a steep, uninspiring climb up a gravel road. Our initial enthusiasm for this week-long backpacking trip was already waning because we were so hot; the summer thus far had been one of the hottest on record. We’d looked forward to the cool of the mountains, but North Carolina was just as hot as Memphis, TN. I was seriously regretful. And hot. And thirsty.

Several times we had to yell, “Truck!” and move to the side to let one pass, then curse the exhaust, the dust. My mouth was totally dry; the heat was making me feel sick, and this was just the first hour of our first day of hiking.

But then, to our collective joy and surprise, upon rounding a bend, we saw that one of the trucks had lost some watermelons, which were lying there freshly split open and ready for us to pounce upon. Which we did with all the enthusiasm of children on Christmas morn. I have never been so thirsty or had my thirst quenched so exquisitely. That was 30 years ago, but I can still visualize the scene, recall the sheer pleasure of diving into those watermelon pieces, of being so thoroughly satisfied and refreshed.

That memory came to me this morning in church as our pastor taught from the scriptures. How thirsty I am each week; how I long to drink long draughts of pure, clean water. How glad I am that our pastor’s teaching is sound, rooted in the sacred writings. How grateful I am that for one hour I can sing along with my fellow travellers songs of hope, of praise. That together we affirm our need for, our reliance on, our trust in and our love for the One we call Beautiful. Jesus.

Pushed, Pulled, and Stretched

There is a section in most cookbooks for "Quick breads", batter breads that require no kneading, use baking soda or powder instead of yeast, and typically rely on lots of sugar and oil for flavor. Tasty, yes, but really not bread, not in the true sense.

Real bread, the kind the supermarkets have dubbed "artisan", cannot be made quickly. The texture, the flavor, the sink-your-teeth-into-it-ness of good bread is a result of time and tension. There's no rushing the process of letting dough rise, and the best way to get a good strong bread that will slice and hold its shape is by subjecting the dough to stress - stretching, kneading, punching down, pulling, pushing, altogether making the dough go where it would not go on its own. You know when it's been kneaded enough when you can stretch it out so thin that you can see through it but it doesn't tear.

Nor did my daughter develop her muscular legs and stamina for cross country running overnight. It's taken weeks of training, weeks of subjecting herself to stress, hills, heat, obstacles.

So why do we try so hard to avoid stress, stretching? Why do we insist on a life that is easy, comfortable, free from the obstacles that would strengthen us, fit us for higher and better things?

New Job. New Blog.

To my dear friends who've honored me by reading this blog, I've started a new blog to chronicle this my first year as a full-time ESL teacher in the Memphis City Schools. It's at www.eslk5.wordpress.com. I hope to post here things that don't relate to this new, almost all-consuming endeavor, but for now all my energy is with ESL.

Blueberry Stained Fingertips

Lately I’ve been enthralled with my fingertips. Okay, I admit enthralled is a bit over-the-top. And it’s not that there’s anything special about my fingertips; they just happen to be the ones I notice the most, the ones I can move at will, the ones I’ve realized are the perfect meeting of nail and skin. So I encourage you to look at your own. Notice the shape, the color, the design, how sensitive, perceptive, even ageless they are. What they’ve done for you throughout the day. Turned the pages in a book, traced the outline of a face, tested the temperature of the water, shuffled a deck, wiped a tear, played a tune, signed a check, snapped a beat.

This morning mine were blueberry stained. I wish I had the words to describe the pure pleasure of seeing them so. We’d gone to pick blueberries in Nesbit, MS last night; five of us secretly competing to gather the most, saying little, admitting to feeling greedy, (their side has more!), totally absorbed in picking off one by one the perfectly round, tight, ashy-blue berries, popping the best into our mouths, filled with the contentment that comes only from working in a field that so generously yields up its fruit. Grateful for the shade, the comraderie of others, the sense of doing something worth doing, arguing over the best way to eat them. A pie. A cobbler. Muffins. Just as they are.

This would have been impossible without the fingertips. As would so much else that we depend on them for. If I were a poet, I’d write a sonnet: Ode to the Fingertips. Perhaps my friend Cindy will do it for me. If I were an artist, I’d paint a picture of purple- stained fingers holding the perfect berry. Maybe Mike or Sue will do that. Sarah Emily could write a song. All I can do is bring the topic up, ramble on, hint at something I can’t express, hope that you’ll just trust me and take just a few seconds to look for yourselves at your own, to be in awe, to say to God, “Thank you.”

The Eyes Can Say So Much

He was so eager. So appropriate. So respectful. Theologically correct. He dropped to his knees, called the teacher “good”. Then as all movers and shakers do, got right to the point.

“What do I do to inherit eternal life?”

Top me off, put a cherry on top, another coat of wax, the year-end bonus. All is good. You’re good. I’ve been good. I just need to know how to keep all this goodness coming.

Jesus parroted the man’s religion back to him. Don’t murder, steal, run-around with women, lie, slander, cheat, dishonor your parents.

“I’ve been good all my life,” he said as he straightened up tall, situated his robe, brushed off the dust from his former kneeling. His heart pumped with satisfaction and his face relaxed, returning to the assured and confident look of the well-heeled, the well-fed, the well-respected.

Mark was watching. What would Jesus say to this man in fancy clothes, a man who no doubt lived like royalty, asked for and got anything he wanted? The friends of Jesus had given up trying to guess how he’d respond to people. He’d commend swindlers and worthless beggars and call respectable leaders snakes. He’d tell some people to follow him, others to go home and not say a word. So, they just waited and watched. Closely.

That’s why Mark was able to say this: “Jesus looked at him and loved him.”

Camp here. Let this sink in, however it will. This is Mark’s account - Mark who narrates Jesus’ days in Palestine like an action-packed novel. Immediately. Straight away. This miracle. That one. Up the mountain. In a boat. Across the sea. Another village.

Mark was accustomed to watching Jesus’ face, was familiar with his facial expressions, looked for signs. Knew when a rebuke was coming; perhaps anticipated one this time. Instead, something in Jesus’ countenance, his eyes, his forehead, caused Mark to say, “And looking at him, Jesus felt a love for him.”

Linger here. Picture the scene. Don’t rush to the conclusion, dive into the debate about God’s view of riches. Just imagine this person, this moment, and Jesus’ response. "He looked at him hard in the eye, and loved him."