Handicapped, Part 2

On the train to our concourse, I sit down, mindful that I am to relinquish my seat for the elderly or impaired. I pull the stroller close to me, and whisper to James. But I’m not concentrating on our conversation; I’m staring at the motley collection of human beings crowding aboard, watching their interactions with each other. A kind look here; a rude scowl there.  Fascinating.

We get off, and our guide takes us to the special elevator. We wait and wait, but it’s evidently not working. He takes us down the corridor to another one, but tells us “It’s slow.” Luckily, we arrive there seconds before a long line of wheelchairs forms behind us. “It’s slow,” our Ethiopian gentleman reiterates to the other wheelchair attendants. We wait and wait some more. Finally, the door opens. A beautiful able-bodied young woman gets off, giving us a little shrug as she exits. “Lazy much?” Grace inquires under her breath. The other wheelchair-bound passengers sigh as our entourage fills the tiny space. They’ll have to wait some more.

Emerging onto Concourse D, our long-suffering helper sighs himself as he tells us, “It’s the last one.” I find myself apologizing to him, spewing stupid Southern inanities like, “I’m so sorry. I bet you didn’t know what you were getting into when they called you to help us.” He looks at me with the patience of Job and starts pushing to the last gate.

By this point, we’re starting to panic a bit. Outdoor Counter Man told us at the beginning of this saga that we didn’t have seat assignments. We were advised to get to the counter at the gate ASAP and explain our situation. And hope for the best in terms of sitting together. Actually, he told us that there were no seats together. So I start sprinting ahead of everyone.

Fortunately…providentially… generously… (or perhaps because of the adequately greased palm) O.C.M. has evidently called ahead and informed the airline representatives of our situation. They inform us that three of us may sit together. The fourth is right across the aisle. Gratefully, I drop another large bill on our guide and we God Bless him as he leaves.

The knot in my stomach begins to unfurl for a second until I look around and discover that there are no seats left in the waiting area. We have eight carry-on items (the allowed limit for four passengers), a wheelchair, 4-footed cane, and stroller. But there is nowhere to go with it all.

So we stay in front of the counter, virtually blocking the way for any other passengers. There are seats perpendicular to it, but not enough for our group. I look around. Then I walk around, beseeching people with my eyes.

But this is a tough and hardened group heading to LA. There are no men there like my husband, who would immediately jump up out of his seat to help a woman in obvious need. Instead, there are just blank stares and averted eyes. Virtually everyone in the area talks very loudly about personal matters on their cell phone. Some very personal matters. (Does this young woman not realize that I’m listening to her talk about her sex life? Does she not care???)

Evidently not.

There are two seats available on the perpendicular row. I try to jam the wheelchair and stroller in as far as they’ll go in front of them. Grace and I stack the carry-on in the seats. Two irritable and obese people occupy the seats to our immediate left. One, the woman, speaks no English. They stare at us without speaking…without a twinkle of acknowledgement that there’s an adorable little boy with us… as they morosely, but concentratedly, consume a bag of Burger King Whoppers and fries.  I almost want to wave my hand in front of the woman’s face to make sure she’s really there. That someone’s in there.

Leave it to my Pollyanna. As the steam pours out of my ears, I hear Katherine addressing the couple. “Excuse me. Are we in your way? I’m sorry if we are. I’ve had a brain injury, so traveling is difficult. I hope we’re not crowding you.”

I excuse myself to the Ladies Room.

But then I panic that we’ll be called to board. “Special Needs and Young Children” are boarded first.  As I wait in the Burger King line to order the fries for which my grandson has been avidly pleading since seeing them consumed with such vigor by our friendly neighbors, I text Katherine. She responds, “We’re boarding now.”

Mimi don’t run.

But Mimi ran.

Like I was in Chariots of Fire.   Big leaps. In a skirt.

Everyone is waiting for us to board first. Unfortunately, Katherine has requested that her sister go find her a Starbucks. The airline reps say, “Are we ready now?” “Yes, of course,” I say, as I start kicking the eight bags down the 100+ degree walkway to the plane, while pushing James’ stroller with one hand and texting Grace frantic, mean messages with the other. The other passengers crowd around, stepping on my heels, one actually almost tripping me.

A woman behind the desk comes out and offers to push James. Grace comes running down the Concourse, Starbucks splashing. We get to the bottom of the gangplank. Wobbly wildly, Katherine tries to board the plane by herself, as I attempt to get the wheelchair and stroller folded up. The roll-aboards topple over, obstructing the path of the other passengers who will not wait for us to board. (As if the plane will take off earlier if they push and step over us.)

Finally, we’re seated: Katherine in the window seat, James in the middle, me on the aisle. But we discover that Grace isn’t really directly across from us: she’s in the middle seat across the aisle.

I tell my daughters I will handle it. NO ONE in our family likes to be assertive. But by this point, my adrenalin is so high that I have no doubt that I will be up to the task.

We are in the bulkhead of Economy Class. Countless random types pass us by… each one a possibility. I try to guess which one might be my potential adversary.  Finally, a patrician-looking octogenarian comes up and looks at Grace. “You’re in my seat,” she announces regally.

But I am ready.

I stand up and get right in her face.

“Excuse me, ma’am, but I must ask you a huge favor. I am traveling with my handicapped daughter and her two-year-old son, and I need for my other daughter to be next to me to help. Would you mind changing seats with her?”

I wait expectantly for a gracious, “Yes, of course,” which my mother, who is also an octogenarian, would give under even vaguely similar circumstances, NO MATTER WHAT. Totally inconceivable that our octogenarian would respond in any other possible way.

“No,” this one answers, “I’m 80 years old and I have a bad back, and I will not sit in the middle seat.”

Okay.

Okay. Breathe deeply. Think of something peaceful and beautiful. This is only a millisecond of Eternity. Use the “One Free Drink” voucher that your husband gave you.

Everything’s okay.

Everybody’s okay.

Except they’re not.

That 80’s book was a lie.

The truth is: I’m not okay, you’re not okay.

We are really not okay. None of us.

No, not one is righteous. Not even one. For all have sinned and fallen short of the glory of God.

I sit back down in my seat, stunned by the violence of the day. I look at the faces passing by: the anger, the stress, the exhaustion, the feckless hope, the innocence.

I look at my first-born child, happily texting away as we await the final preparations for take-off, her son between us.

And I realize something.

Everyone on that plane is handicapped.

We might not all have a special blue parking permit, a wheelchair, or a sign on our heads, but we are handicapped, disabled, deformed, nevertheless…

By fear… or anger… or selfishness… or self-hatred…

despair… loneliness… perfectionism… prejudice… emptiness… pride… perversion… addiction…

or a lack of love.

And we are all deserving of compassion and aid.

***************

I go back to an old favorite quote of G.K. Chesterton: “We are all in the same boat in a stormy sea, and we owe each other a terrible loyalty.”

The rest of the story: The octogenarian ended up being nice, and got up as many times as necessary so that Grace could help with James when I took Katherine to the ladies’ room, etc.

Getting off the plane was even worse than getting on, but a Good Samaritan finally intervened and helped us.

I always wondered about this before…when to offer to help. I think many of us are wary of offending those who must value their independence and are accustomed to dealing with the challenges of their situation. My opinion after this experience and others like it: When in doubt, do.

Handicapped

 Our cross-country expedition was really a trip.

And I don’t mean that in a good way.

My youngest daughter and I traveled alone with Katherine and James. It was the first time I’d done it without a man. (My niece and Katherine’s friend Sarah accomplished the feat from west to east, but they didn’t complain about it.  Guess whether or not I’m getting ready to.)

On a good day, traveling solo, airports are not a picnic anymore. Gone are the glamour days of being treated like a queen on royal expedition.  (Here goes Granny: Oh, the good old Wonder Years when aviation was new and exciting! ) When I was a child, we would dress up in our Sunday best for an airplane ride. I remember going to New York for the World’s Fair in about ’65. I wore a church dress with a starchy petticoat and white gloves. We were treated to a gourmet meal, delivered by a stewardess (no such thing as a “flight attendant” then) who looked like Barbie. They all looked like Barbie. It was a prerequisite for the job. The Barbies met our every need before we realized we needed anything. We were given little gifts of eye masks, refreshing towelettes,  and airplane socks…pillows and blankets…every thing imaginable for a comfortable flight. My sister and I received pilot’s wings for being such good little flyers. And a brilliant smile and a hug as we got off the plane.

Flash forward to now: Checking in, the man behind the counter says that one of our bags isn’t flat enough. It’s under fifty pounds, the limit, but he thinks it’s too puffy. Katherine tries to direct things from her wheelchair, while James runs away. I chase him and strap him, screaming, into his stroller. Grace is on the ground taking things out of the suitcase to make it appear skinnier. Finally Counter Man is satisfied. After an $85 baggage fee and some generous palm greasing to make sure everything gets there when we do, we’re off and running.

Thankfully, we have requested an airport employee to push the wheelchair. We are quite the entourage going through security. Our man from Ethiopia has to take Katherine a different way to be bodily searched in case she’s carrying explosives. James starts screaming like we’re in a concentration camp: kids this way, parents that way. Grace and I are stripping down, getting laptops and Ipads into their own separate bins, putting the plastic Ziploc with eyedrops on top of our purses. We are fast. We are frequent flyers. We know the drill. In spite of this, the man behind me is shoving my bins over so that he crushes my fingers between them. I pause and give him a look. He is undeterred. I am forced back into the frenzy as the security agent tells me I have to take off James’ sandals and fold up his stroller. Hmmm…you have to kick the hard metal lever a certain way to get it to fold up. I’ve already taken off my shoes. Everyone behind me is groaning and complaining as I bruise my foot trying to get the darn thing closed so that it can go on the conveyor belt. James loses it completely when I take his sandals off. I have to carry him sobbing through the metal detector. The crazy mean man behind me is even less generous on the other side. He’s messing with my bins again. I feel my heart rate elevating rapidly. I want to scream at him: “Can’t you see that I’m traveling with a two-year-old and a handicapped person, you idiot?? Give me a break!”

And with that angry thought comes a wave of sickening realization.

Oh. Dear. God.

My child is handicapped.

This acknowledgement, this ugly epiphany, this ripping away of the scabs of denial… leaves me physically weak with emotion. I feel as if someone has kicked me hard in the gut.

I try to gather myself together as I gather up our strewn belongings from the bins.

Studiously ignoring the stares of fellow travelers, I follow the entourage to the handicapped elevator.

Where we wait, as a rushing stream of humanity flows down the escalator beside us.

(To be continued…)

Great Expectations

Over the years, I’ve gone through periods when I’ve gotten my feelings hurt very easily.

I hate this about myself. It’s pathetic and petty.

Thank God, I’m much better about it than I used to be. Much tougher, more willing to let things slide, give people the benefit of the doubt, believe the best.

Still, there are times when I allow my feelings to bruise like a rotten avocado.

It’s happened recently.

Since it doesn’t happen often anymore, it was a particularly unwelcome and uncomfortable feeling.  Like, “Oh, nooooo, let’s not go back to Egypt.”

I tried to identify the source.

I realized that, as always, it boils down to one thing:

Expectations.

I expect things of people.

We expect things of each other.

It’s very subtle most of the time…almost unnoticeable. But underneath the surface, we have expectations of reciprocity…and even beyond that.

I expect that you will return my call…I expect that you will say what I need to hear… I expect that you will invite me because I invited you… I expect that you will help me when I need help… I expect that you will be the kind of friend to me that I have been to you (actually, much better)... I expect that you will meet my needs, read my mind.

I expect that you will be there for me.

But that is not always possible. Often not possible at all.

I believe that there are times when God actually orchestrates circumstances so that we will feel abandoned by people we’ve counted on.

Later… often much later… you find out what the person was going through at the time and understand why she/he wasn’t available.

Sometimes, I believe that God allows us to go through periods where we feel abandoned by absolutely everyone. All alone in the universe.

If you are in a place like that, don’t try to figure it out. Don’t overanalyze the relationship(s).

Just realize that your expectations have been placed in the wrong source.

At some point, your spouse, father, mother, sister, brother, daughter, son, dog-catcher, doctor, lawyer, preacher, first-grade teacher, president, BFF, and the IRS will all let you down.

This experience is necessary for spiritual growth.

Many years ago, when I was relatively new in my faith, I was absolutely decimated by a relationship into which I had poured myself out. I had given of myself sacrificially because I thought that was what I was being called to do. And then the person, who had serious psychological issues, turned on me in a very vicious way. Because I had invested so much into this relationship, I had neglected others. I felt totally used and alone. I became depressed.

A friend urged me to talk to her pastor, who was a friend about my age. I dumped it all out on him.

He looked at me with compassion, and shared a similar story. And then, with a wry smile, he said something to the effect of “Kim, if you want to become more like Christ, then you have to experience a Judas.” (Or two. Or…)

Then he showed me a scripture: “But Jesus would not entrust himself to them, for he knew…what was in a man.” (John 2:24-25)

“Kim, you have entrusted yourself to Man.  Even Jesus didn’t do that.”

Later, I ran into a reading on a page that has since become pale and wrinkled with overuse. It is in a little book called “My Utmost for His Highest,” by Oswald Chambers.

“Our Lord trusted no man; yet He was never suspicious, never bitter, never in despair about any man, because He put God first in trust; He trusted absolutely in what God's grace could do for any man. If I put my trust in human beings first, I will end in despairing of everyone; I will become bitter, because I have insisted on man being what no man ever can be - absolutely right. Never trust anything but the grace of God in yourself or in anyone else.”

Expect nothing from Man, and everything from God.

We have to understand that He alone can meet our needs, live up to our expectations.

Then we can be free to love each other unconditionally, without the crippling expectations of what Lewis calls Need-love.

Are you listening to yourself, Kim?

***************

 Oh, Lord, please help me to place my trust in you alone. Then I will never be disappointed.

***************

It’s strange…since I jotted down the beginning of this last week, 3 or 4 people have mentioned to me  something about having their feelings hurt.

Does anyone else struggle with this? Any thoughts?

Things I Love

Katherine’s precious friend Catherine (comment #5 on previous post) has very wisely suggested that we counter yesterday’s little exercise with this one.

It is similar to playing The Glad Game, but more frivolous.

So, in random order, a partial list…

-Reading in bed

-Cecelia’s lemon cake

-Being on a boat

-Friends who love unconditionally

-Sleeping late

-Peanuts (My sister-in-law referred to me as a “Peanaholic” in college. Don’t take it the  wrong way.)

-My grandson’s kiss

-Sunsets

-Movies that make me blubber

-When God is overt

-France

-Night swimming in a murky lake

-A sense of timelessness

-Museums

-Reconnecting with an old friend

-The ocean

-When my husband makes me laugh in spite of myself

-Seeing my kids happy

-New clothes

-Massage therapy

-When the right words come

-No schedule

-Key lime pie

-Writing an uninterrupted blog post

-Wasting time

-When there’s nothing left to want

-Good dreams

-James in a swimming pool

-The right music

-Flipflops

-When the Holy Spirit lights.

Hmmmm…. Is there a theme here?

I sound kind of like Jimmy Buffet.

Maybe I just need to move to a desert island where they grow peanuts.




Now, you tell me what you love.

***************

 P.S. Yesterday I forgot:

-Pumping my own gas.

-Gigantic cold grocery stores.

If anyone else would like to vent, the polls are still open at “Debbie Downer.” Sometimes it’s healthy to let it all out…whether humorously or seriously. Obviously, people did both. I appreciated everyone’s honesty.

But it would be a great idea to follow it up with a list on this post so that you don’t stay down.

P.S.S. In the “God Being Overt” category: Minutes after typing this, a friend called to say that she had been trying to do something for us for weeks, but one thing after another had gotten in the way. She wanted to drop something by, as she was leaving town today.

It was the Cecelia Lemon Cake, the second item on the list.

God is so good.

(So is the lemon cake… and my friend.)

P.S.S.S. Please pray for traveling mercies as we switch coasts this weekend. And continue to share your prayer needs with us by clicking on the praying lady on the right.

***************

Learning to swim.

Debbie Downer

I know that I’ve been a bit of a downer lately.

Some times are just like that. I’ll work my way back up to the surface again. In the meantime, I thought I could save time by spewing a whole bunch of negativity out into the blogosphere.

…so, here’s an incomplete list of

THINGS I DON’T LOVE:

1.    1. Georgia in July.

2.   2. Little plastic shopping bags into which the checkout girl puts one item.

3.   3. Red lights that last for 5 minutes.

4.   4. T.V.’s you can’t turn on without a degree from M.I.T.

5.   5.  Reality shows, particularly the Kardashians and Tori and Dean.

6.   6. Highway patrolmen on the bypass.

7.   7. Politicians who leave long recordings on my answering machine.

8.   8.  Stinky diapers. (No, we’re not potty trained yet.)

9.   9. Carseats.

10  10. Brain injuries.

Now ya’ll make me feel better. Give me a list of things you don’t love.

It’ll be fun.

(Plus…misery does love company.)

***************

“…But joy comes in the morning.” (Psalm 30:5)

 “Satisfy us in the morning with your unfailing love, that we may sing for joy and be glad all our days.” (Psalm 90:14)

***************

(p.s.  11. When Blogger messes up your numbered list for no apparent reason. And your font size.)

The Empathy of Identification

“Though being God,

the Father’s Word took on our human being,

To mingle it with God, and be little amongst earthlings.”

(St. Gregory of Nazianzus, c. 320-390 A.D.)

Under the circumstances, I suppose it’s not strange that people frequently ask me ‘how I’m doing.’

“How are you?” an acquaintance inquires.

“How are you?” someone a bit closer might ask.

“How are you?” a friend probes, trying to peak beneath the mask.

I never know quite how to answer that question.

I usually manage something completely inane like, “Oh, I’m hanging in there. How are you? The kids good?” Deflection is always a wonderful diversionary technique.

How can I possibly say how I’m doing? I don’t even know the answer to that question.

It varies moment to moment, anyway.  I’m all over the board.

Besides, there’s a world of difference between how I am (“seated in the heavenlies…”) and how I feel.

In actuality, I think the question refers mostly to the latter.

I was mulling this over the other day, after an unusually rash number of inquiries into my (mental?) state.

How can I possibly explain how I feel, where I am, how I’m “doing?”

This is what I felt like saying:

“How would you do… feel… be…  if it were your precious first-born child, child of your heart, your pride and joy? What if this had happened to ________? *” (*Insert name of your own first-born. If you don’t have one, insert name of your most precious loved one.)

Really. Try it.

Close your eyes.

Imagine.

Say the name.

________?  in the wheelchair…  ________? struggling with a walker…  her unable to get out of a bathtub by herself, pick up her own child… him unable to drive, go on a walk with the family, take care of himself… her with a paralyzed face, a distorted voice, an injured eye… him sitting there alone in a quiet room.

How would you feel if every foray into public were accompanied by stares of shock and morbid curiosity instead of looks of admiration or approval?

Having created this little mental exercise for the benefit of others, I immediately employed it myself:

Kim, how would you feel if you were Cheri?  What if it were Amie, your second child, the laughter of your family… who sat immobilized in a wheelchair, paralyzed from the neck down?

Or what if Amie had been born with Down’s syndrome, like Marianne’s second child? What would your life be like? How would you feel?

What if Grace, your precious little caboose, had been born with a brain abnormality, like the third-born of Katherine’s sweet friend Hillary? 

What if your firstborn Katherine, because of human error, had never received the gift of speech… like Abby’s daughter? What if she had never been able to take care of herself, and short of a miracle, never would? How would you feel if you were Abby?

Can you even begin to imagine how those mothers are “doing” on a daily basis? How would you be doing in their situations?

(I won’t go to the place of contemplating the state of the mothers who have lost their children today… that deserves a separate rumination.)

This exercise has been helpful for me in several ways.

I have prayed to become more truly compassionate. To develop greater empathy for those who are hurting.

Empathy is much more intense… more real… when it is personalized.

Closer to home.

…when there is identification.  Not just generic sympathy for a sad story, but an intimate compassion. When our hearts break for each other. When we enter into each other’s pain and share it… help bear it.

I realize that no matter how sincere the effort, no human being can ever completely understand what it feels like to be in another’s skin. To get behind the obscuring opacity of eyes. To penetrate the wall of unarticulated inner fears and pain and longing.

We cannot get inside each other. We cannot become each other.

Ultimately, we must bear our intrinsic aloneness and alienation from others as a cross until the day when we will know as we are known.

But in spite of the limits imposed by human nature, I’ve found that exercising this spiritual discipline of identification is a valuable tool in developing the kind of empathy that leads to more productive, vital prayer.

Because it is a very pale shadow of the reality of what Christ has done for us.

***************

“He became as we were, to the end that we might become as he is now. He became one with us in death, that we might become one with him in life…”

E. W. Kenyon

“Because God’s children are human beings—made of flesh and blood—the Son also became flesh and blood. For only as a human being could he die, and only by dying could he break the power… of death. Only in this way could he set free all who have lived their lives as slaves to the fear of dying…

 Therefore, it was necessary for him to be made in every respect like us, his brothers and sisters, so that he could be our merciful and faithful High Priest before God... Since he himself has gone through suffering and testing, he is able to help us when we are being tested.” (Hebrews 2, nlt)

“…For we do not have a High Priest who is unable to sympathize with our weaknesses, but we have one who has been tempted in every way, just as we are—yet was without sin.” (Hebrew 4:15, niv)

“And this is the secret: Christ lives in you.” (Colossians 1:27b, nlt)

“Remain in me, and I will remain in you.” (John 15:4)

***************

Please… don’t anyone take this the wrong way. Everyone who has asked “how I’m doing” has done it out of love, concern, or caring. I receive it that way.

This piece is more about the inadequacy of human beings in truly being able to express what is inside of us, and to understand what is in the hearts of others. And the realization that if no one else on earth can possibly understand how we feel, there is One who can and does. And his compassion is greater than anything we can imagine.

What are your thoughts on this?

Learning to Float, Part 2

Click here for Learning to Float, Part 1.

Sometimes you have to learn things all over again.

And again.

Thanks to my friend Cheri for sharing this:




Beautiful.


("All I Can Say," David Crowder)

A Holy Little Moment

I was feeling….

 well, frankly,

depressed on Saturday morning.

It is hitting me much harder having Katherine home this time.

It’s summertime…people aren’t around to help…Jay’s not here…

the heat is so oppressive, it’s hard to get out and do anything…

I haven’t felt up to par since our travels…

my back’s out…

and, on top of everything else, I lost my cell phone.

(I cried about that one.)

Everything seems hard.

But I guess the main thing is seeing Katherine in her childhood home… unable to do much but sit. When Jay’s here, we don’t notice that as much. He somehow manages to keep her busy.

Going up the many stairs in our house is a dangerous, precarious, and lengthy process for her. Like climbing a mountain. Going down them is even worse, with the prospect of a face-first avalanche fall.

Sometimes I can’t help juxtaposing these slow expeditions with an image of Katherine tearing down (or up) those same stairs three at a time, chatting excitedly into her cell phone about her plans.

There aren’t many plans now.

It’s been a challenging time on multiple levels. I'm completely out of steam.

I’ve been waking up early, yet exhausted. 

Saturday morning, I got up, drank some coffee, started some chores. But then I got back in bed. Tried to return some emails, but mostly just stared into space.

James had been running around getting into things, but he came and scrambled his way up into my high, old bed. He didn’t say anything, just lay at the foot of the bed and looked at me.

That’s pretty unusual.

He picked up my foot. He examined the bottom, where I have the leftovers of a blister.

“Mimi has a booboo,” he solemnly stated. “I gone kiss it, make it better.”

He did.

He kissed my dirty foot about 10 times, slowly and gently. Then he said, “I gone get some med'cine make it better.” But he stayed there and kissed it some more.

I pretended not too be too interested, afraid he might stop. He continued to lie at my feet, looking intently at my face as I typed.

And he kissed my weary foot once more.

It was a holy moment.

***************

 “Having loved his own who were in the world, he now showed them the full extent of his love…

…he got up from the meal, took off his outer clothing, and wrapped a towel around his waist. After that, he poured water into a basin and began to wash his disciples' feet, drying them with the towel that was wrapped around him…

"Now that I, your Lord and Teacher, have washed your feet, you also should wash one another's feet. I have set you an example that you should do as I have done for you.” " (from John 13)

“When a woman who had lived a sinful life in that town learned that Jesus was eating at the Pharisee's house, she brought an alabaster jar of perfume, and as she stood behind him at his feet weeping, she began to wet his feet with her tears. Then she wiped them with her hair, kissed them and poured perfume on them.” (Luke 37-38)

***************

Have you experienced any holy little moments like that... when someone or something has ministered to you in a humbling and unexpected way? I think such moments are all around us; we just don't always recognize them for what they are.