Pretty Good Patheos Problem

I recently let my friends at Patheos know I was turning "The Pretty Good Report" out to pasture.  

To quote my teenage daughter's favorite anti-hero: "It's me, hi! I'm the problem, it's me." 

I first encountered Patheos as a young-ish blogger, many years ago, at a time when I was also making my faith and life my own.  I explored a lot of new ideas by the authors-of-then.  I met with fresh perspectives and thought-provoking challenges; it was a season of growth and growing up.  

As a result, I held Patheos with kind regard and the chance to join their ranks seemed like a good reason - perhaps even motivation- to write. 

But the opportunity to write for them arrived in a different, more rooted season. 

It is curious to look back and see how tall we've changed, how thick our bark. 

"Further up, further in" as the Unicorn was heard to say. 

I realized along the way that this whole journey is a continual forward motion until we reach the river's crossing.  So, these days, with that established, unless someone asks, I have little worth a pitched-tent-stay. 

Oh, I love to describe my own journey - the birds that are singing, the beauty around me. 

Like journaling. 

Writing for clicks and curating SEO put me in a different frame of mind - my words felt stilted and more "talking at" than "talking with" . . . more pontificating than sharing ... with more pressure to wrap endings up in pretty spiritual bows, too.  All that to say, less natural. 

I suppose my words @ Patheos will live on in the root-cellar-recesses-of-words-gone-by until the archives need sweeping to make room for new authors. And it is just as well. I have never felt it was my best work. The darker the dungeon, the better sometimes. 

Meanwhile, I've opened the windows and scrubbed the baseboards on two or three of my many-fractaled blogs and will continue to offer field notes from there  - whenever nature calls, without word counts or deadlines nor the pressure to package my words for optimal ad based revenue.  

To write is to express myself - occasionally to run the levee dry.

 I want to make much of living, if not much of a living. 

You'll see my tip jar for coffee - but I've got to tell you the truth: even if it only fills with cobwebs and  wooden nickels,  I will continue to buy my own coffee and write words with wild abandon.  

Because I do both for me, and share either freely with you. 

Crossing the Divide

::: all hyperlinks contain secret messages ::: 

PEW, PEW, PEW

The *old wooden pews in the Nazarene church I grew up in required a sort of sidewinding to maneuver one’s way out.

But it wasn't just Nazarene pews that demanded this certain sort of leg-bumping-hymnal-rack-dodging-side-shuffle to reach the aisles. The pews in other churches worked much the same way - regardless of padding or denominational affiliation.

This led many of us children to slide-scoot on our bottoms, down the pew towards the ornate end pieces that led to wide-stanced freedom.

Sometimes, when long-winded adults stood like talking roadblocks in our way, one might high-step a hasty trot down the pew seats themselves, clearing stacks of hard-back hymnals and leather bound pages of the Good Book like so many hurdles in a race. 

Joyful or no - it was a bad idea to make the horsey sounds out loud. 

Other times,  we could escape by army-crawling  under the length of pews until we reached **White Knuckle Row and the double swinging doors that opened to the lobby and Sunday school hall.

Beyond that lay front porch freedom and all the games our well-starched church clothes would allow.

RIGHT & LEFT

The two rows of pews were flanked by narrow aisles to either side, with one central aisle commencing at the Common Table   (This Do In Remembrance of Me ). 

The narrow aisles to the left and right of the pews allowed late-comers to slip in or children who’d played too long at the water fountain to slip out (and commence playing with hand soap in the bathrooms.) The side-wings were favored by guest speakers and special musicians making their way forward and toward amplified speech and song.

 

The wide center aisle allowed silvered-saints to be wheeled in and parked near the front row. It provided an ample avenue for “Brothers” and “Sisters” from the neighborhoods of Left and Right Pew to lay aside their rivalries and mingle in one unified-double-wide-church-family stew.

 

Left, right or center, all aisles led to the Cross, the Bread and the Wine. 

 

RIGHT & WRONG

Oh yes, there were rivalries - with mild mannered, unassuming names like “Visitor’s Drive”, where each side competed to bring more new visitors, winning the right to cut the other side’s tie.… if you know, you know. If you don’t, ask me sometime.

Back then, those who sat on the ‘Other Side’ were akin to Larsen’s characters from “The Far Side” to me - kinda the same and obviously, kinda weird; funny looking, even.

Those with positional opposition to me shared common ground and uncommon background, not unlike the Bride and Groom sides at a wedding.

How must one have been raised  to be sitting over there?! 

Not in a godly home, that was for sure.  :: author jests :: 

Since then, over the years, and in different congregations, I’ve seen the kind of rivalries arise that are unkind.

Disagreements across the aisle - divisions and dishonesties - none meant to outdo each other in love. (Rom12) 

As in our mortal units, cobbled together with well-intended vows, we sadly find dysfunction in our Kingdom family, too.

SCREWTAPE & WORMWOOD

C.S. Lewis invites us to watch as Screwtape and Wormwood  oil that center aisle into a slippery-slope-slip-and-slide. 

SCREWTAPE (1):When he goes inside, he sees the local grocer with rather an oily expression on his face bustling up to offer him one shiny little book containing a liturgy which neither of them understands… When he gets to his pew and looks round him he sees just that selection of his neighbors whom he has hitherto avoided. You want to lean pretty heavily on those neighbors. Make his mind flit to and fro between an expression like "the body of Christ" and the actual faces in the next pew. It matters very little, of course, what kind of people that next pew really contains...Provided that any of those neighbors sing out of tune, or have boots that squeak, or double chins, or odd clothes, the patient will quite easily believe that their religion must therefore be somehow ridiculous.

At his present stage, you see, he has an idea of "Christians" in his mind which he supposes to be spiritual but which, in fact, is largely pictorial. His mind is full of togas and sandals and armor and bare legs and the mere fact that the other people in church wear modern clothes is a real-though of course an unconscious-difficulty to him. Never let it come to the surface; never let him ask what he expected them to look like.

SCREWTAPE (2): …if the patient knows that the woman with the absurd hat is a fanatical bridge-player or the man with squeaky boots a miser and an extortioner-then your task is so much the easier. All you then have to do is to keep out of his mind the question "If I, being what I am, can consider that I am in some sense a Christian, why should the different vices of those people in the next pew prove that their religion is mere hypocrisy and convention?" You may ask whether it is possible to keep such an obvious thought from occurring even to a human mind. It is, Wormwood, it is! Handle him properly and it simply won't come into his head. He has not been anything like long enough with the Enemy to have any real humility yet. What he says, even on his knees, about his own sinfulness is all parrot talk.

At bottom, he still believes he has run up a very favorable credit-balance in the Enemy's ledger by allowing himself to be converted, and thinks that he is showing great humility and condescension in going to church with these "smug", commonplace neighbors at all.

SCREWTAPE (3): It is not, in fact, very different from the conviction she would have felt at the age of ten that the kind of fish-knives used in her father's house were the proper or normal or "real" kind, while those of the neighboring families were "not real fish-knives" at all

FAMILY & FRIENDS 

I recently learned of church people who, due to a disagreement, are no longer friends, “only Family”

That is to say, they are stuck together in Christ, but do not plan to like it very much.

(Thanks a lot, Jesus!)

I think my friends have a misunderstanding. This is not what being family means.

My guess is they are far from the only ones, not only in my church, but throughout our global church family, too.

(All we blood-bought belong to Him, dontchaknow? )

If we took a survey this Sunday, we'd no doubt find all sorts of stories about why Believers under the same roof are sitting on opposite sides of the room.

Elephants and Donkeys come to mind, as do Israel and Palestine. 

JESUS: “By this everyone will know that you are my disciples, if you love one another.”(John13) 

And how will we know it is love? 

Love is patient, kind, unbothered and unfailing…  (1Cor13)

ORPHANS & JOINT-HEIRS

Growing up, whenever we “met in the middle” we would often sing the same hymn; the pianist would continuing to play as hands were shook and necks were hugged (not wrung!) in our brief interlude of fellowship.

If you know, you know…

….  the only permissible way to read this next part is in Bill Gaither’s singing voice. If you didn’t know, now you do. I don’t make the rules. 

Family of God by Bill Gaither 

You will notice we say "brother and sister" 'round here,

It's because we're a family and these are so near;

When one has a heartache, we all share the tears,

And rejoice in each victory in this family so dear.

I'm so glad I'm a part of the Family of God,

I've been washed in the fountain, cleansed by His blood!

Joint heirs with Jesus as we travel this sod,

For I'm part of the family,

The Family of God.

From the door of an orphanage to the house of the King,

No longer an outcast, a new song I sing;

From rags unto riches, from the weak to the strong,

I'm not worthy to be here, but praise God I belong! 

 

 

I am a daughter, sibling, and mom - all lending to my awareness that “crossing the aisle” is a big ask, but it isn't impossible.

Whenever I have been the Prodigal, the Proud or the Parent - the required measure of grace was only a mustard seed tall. A little has carried me a long way - even clear across that aisle.

I don’t reckon there is an easy-to-follow-step-by-step guide for this.

Unless, of course... there is:

 

JESUS: “Pray then like this: “Our Father in heaven…” (Matt6)

Perhaps, step 1 is simply acknowledging that - Left, Right or Wrong, we are all just a motley-crew-of-ragamuffin-orphans, walking each other Home. 

  ~end

* See Author’s Note below

** the back row , where sinners like to go   :: author jests, author jests! ::

Author’s Note:

The following conversation was a result of my research for this article (a.k.a. phone call to Momma)

ME: Why am I remembering both wooden and padded pews at the church in Martinez? MOMMA: I don’t know why you are remembering that, did you ever go to the North Augusta church?

ME: I don’t know if I ever went to the North Augusta church - I was just a baby. I’ve been told I played Jesus in a Nativity play but I don’t really remember.  

MOMMA: Oh, North Augusta was the Wesleyan church anyway. 

ME: It’s not really important which church they were in, I just remember time-smoothed wood that still seemed like it could leave a splinter but also padded pews - perhaps in the color orange?  

MOMMA: The Wesleyan pews were painted orange. I helped paint them and got some on my new outfit. Your Granny was mad, but I didn’t know why, I bought that outfit myself...I’ve never found that pretty color again…  

ME: Did we maybe get new pews at some point? Was there a mix of wood and padded?  

MOMMA: The orange Wesleyan pews were also wood, I remember being glad because I threw up in one of them. Brother Cooley was mad - but I don’t know why - it’s not like I planned it. He thought I could have made it outside, but obviously, I didn’t... You could call Mr. Rutherford to see if he remembers...

My nephews, who she was babysitting at the time, interrupted us then, with a squabble, a brother-slap and the refusal to have one’s diaper changed. With a smile, I let her go to attend their assorted needs. 

Church. Family. Indeed.

Single File Lines

SINGLE  FILE LINES

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Welcome to my new sub-feature,  Single File Lines (by Kelly)  That’s me.  A Christian divorcee’ and single (again) mom to four fantastic children and a wonderful bonus son.  I’ve added this "file"  to my regular  column,  “The Pretty Good Report” @ Patheos to share my SWF (single, with family) adventure.  When I married, over two decades ago,  I never pictured someday I’d be learning the ropes of modern  dating alongside my own children, and yet, here we all are,  mo’ awkward than a mohawk, monitoring each other's behavior online.  The truth is, I wasn’t single for any significant stretch of time the first go round. Fresh out of high school, working as a K4 teacher in the same small Christian school I had just graduated from, I married the father of a student in the neighboring K3  class. All before a year from graduation had passed.  Think back with me for just a moment, if you will.  I think about it often: 

• Graduated high school in May. 
• Started teaching in September. 
• Turned 18 in October. 
• Met my ex  2 weeks later. 
• Married him after 4 months, in February.  
• Had my firstborn 2 weeks before turning 20. 

Two decades, 35+ moves and four children later, domestic disturbance turned the page and wrote me single again ... anew.   Now, I am like a senior citizen, once called away to war, returned to finish school. I have been picking up where I left off, learning who this young girl I froze in time would like to become. And I've brought with me a world of hard-won knowledge, not found in the textbooks I left behind.  

THIS IS NOT DEAR ABBY 

---

Whenever we face transitions in life, there are many well-meaning people who come bearing Gold, Frankincense and Free Advice. Some of it will be really good. Some of it won’t fit. And some of it will be flaming rubbish.  One friend was told his divorce was the result of reading a new Bible translation. By those who were meant to bandage his wounds.  Think about that with me for a moment, will you?  I think about it often.  Some people mean well, and some  people are just mean.  This feature is a place to share my own journey - not necessarily advice.  What was true of my situation may not be true of yours. What worked for me, might not apply to you.  And this is true across my smorgasbord of topics. Whenever I have something to say, grab the salt and shake away.  I'm not here to give advice, but I can listen... without being mean.

SOMEDAY 

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One adage people use to comfort sounds something like this: “Someday, you’re going to meet a person who is going through the same thing and…”  Sometimes the ending sounds like: “... it will all be worth it.”  Other times, the ending is more realistic “... you’ll be able to help in ways that people who haven’t been through this can’t”  I remember doubting that was ever going to happen - or bring any real measure of joy - either way. I mean, really, what did I  have to say?  A friend recently remarked "You hold your cards close"  - and he’s right. I struggle to write publicly. I hate being misunderstood, or worse, willfully misconstrued.  I struggle to share in ways that may be weaponized against me. I've had too much of all that.  And I struggle with believing that anything I have to say isn’t being said more sufficiently and eloquently somewhere else.  I don’t think I’m unique in these struggles.   But even when a struggle is common to many, it must be overcome to become a victory.  Do you know what helps? Getting to Someday. 

SUDDENLY, SOMEDAY

---

 Until you reach Someday, every other day is just another day.  But one day!  One day,  the meme group you belong to  - dedicated to theology and that television show about beets, bears and Battlestar Galactica - becomes sacred ground.  You notice that one of the group's Top Contributors has changed her name.  She’s making jokes about co-parenting, posting memes about Christians and divorce.  You reach out, exchange numbers and, ironically, the resulting conversation is still going on as you drive to make a co-parenting switch of your own.   You're not going to believe this, but you are still on the phone, telling your new friend she is not alone when your car battery dies in front of your ex-husband's house. Providence sends the son who was dragged into court and cross examined - the one who told a roomful of lawyers he wasn't really sure his mom loves him - to the rescue you with jumper cables.  Later this week, a new battery will need to be financed on your single mom budget, but it doesn't matter in this moment. All the labor pains have become a memory.  Time has allowed your son to see truth. He moved in with you a while back and the talks have been good. He is deeply loved and valued ... and knows it. You laugh at the whole predicament with your new friend, (who is going to weather her storms, too) and sing along to the radio on your way back home. Suddenly, it’s Someday.  And Someday is beautiful.

All Hallow: Everything Belongs To Him

 [caption id="attachment_572" align="aligncenter" width="712"] All Hallow: Everything Belongs To Him / Article and Photo by Kelly Brewer[/caption]

Sugar Rush Weekend 

For a little over a decade now, I’ve referred to the days surrounding Halloween as “Sugar Rush Weekend” not only for the inevitable  *plastic pumpkins overflowing with fun-sized candy, but also for the two regulation birthday cakes due after the last car trunk or house has been visited.

Today is Halloween. All Saints Eve

Twenty-one years ago, my son was born on All Saints Day. (Tomorrow)

Thirteen years ago, my daughter was born on All Souls’ Day. (Two days from now) 

This holiday season has long been on our family radar for more than costume parties and pumpkins. I named my children with purpose and the significance of the days they were born are of special  interest to me, too. 

Somewhere along the line, I had a fuzzy misconception that All Saints and All Souls days, as well as  Dia de los Muertos  must serve primarily for ancestor worship. 

Thanks to the pace and depth afforded by homeschooling, with its invitation to dive deep into curious realms,  combined with time to grow spiritually and to internalize what freedom in Christ really means,  my understanding of these days transformed over time; indeed all of my days have.  

Now, I look on this season as a very unique space in my year to celebrate the life I have been given,  the lives I have been entrusted with, and all the  lives that have invested in me. 

That the three day run also involves enough sugar to make a batch of Mexican sugar skulls  is just the brand of irony I enjoy. 

But I’m not here to defend a holiday, its history or the way it is celebrated (or not celebrated.) 

 I’m here to tell you about the funeral I attended yesterday. 

Worth The Living

My childhood Sunday School teacher passed away rather suddenly last week. At age 71,  and after overcoming a lifetime of chronic illness, I think we all expected she'd just go on forever. We do that with people, don't we? Until we are abruptly reminded. 

And so, the news took us all by surprise. Most of us hadn't even known she was battling more illness. She wouldn't have let on. She never did. She was resilient and faced life's shadows with determined joy. 

An entire lifetime - probably two- passed from the era when she taught our little Caravan group at church. On one occasion at least, we bumped into each other at random in the town I lived in when I was married. I want to say it actually happened twice, though, at the same little backwater bbq joint. 

It’s one of those lesser mentioned  losses when somebody dies. We can no longer check our memories against theirs for accuracy. 

We wish we would’ve paid closer attention. 

We reconnected when I moved back home following my divorce, and stayed in touch more consistently then, thanks in large part to social media (even though we now lived only a few miles apart) 

She ordered several copies of one of my books. I dropped them by her work one day and got the chance to hug her neck. She asked about me with genuine care and when I signed her books, I knew she was proud of me. She told me as much, but I felt it emanating from her, too. 

 I’m grateful for those small moments of reclaimed time with this lady who had loved me as a child and continued to support me all these years later.

With each loss, we inherit the sorrow of wishing there had been more time; of wishing we had been better stewards. 

We wish we could’ve known how little time was left.

If only we had known… then we would’ve… but it matters not.  We don’t have more time.  We won’t. 

Ties That Bind

I slipped into the funeral home’s little chapel on the first stanza of  “Because He Lives”

Momma was saving a seat for me. Familiar, somber faces from my childhood flashed a smile of acknowledgement across the aisle. 

“…Because He lives

All fear is gone…” 

After the music, the preacher shared collected memories of our departed friend. We laughed at those recognizable traits we’d all grown to love about her. We were reminded anew of the extent of our loss.  Her laughter and tenacity now only accessible through memories. 

During this eulogy, I learned tiny new details about my teacher.  They were unsurprising and just what you’d expect:  little stories I wish that I had known sooner.  Not because they would change anything, only because I could have appreciated those things about her,  with her.

Each new revelation aligned seamlessly with her character. Of course, she had a special capacity for children on the spectrum. Of course, she carried care packages in her car for homeless and hurting people.

But also, with a cruel twist of timing, I recognized many of her characteristics align with my own tendencies. 

Were they directly related? Had I become like her in certain ways because of her influence? We can no longer compare notes on this side of Heaven. We missed the opportunity to ride around town handing out snacks together. But I recognize this, we shared a common faith and a willingness to be transformed by it.

Indeed, it is the common denominator of all those familiar faces from yesterday. 

 The preacher talked about peace and a hopeful eternity. Mrs. Jackie had both. And she wanted the same for everyone she knew. 

“In Christ Alone” played and then, on this, our own asynchronistic day of the dead,  we stood in reverence as her earthly shell passed us by in a box. 

“...What heights of love, what depths of peace

When fears are stilled, when strivings cease..."

Gemstones And Gravesides

Those of us who knew Mrs. Jackie from the same church long ago congregated at the back of the chapel for a few moments. We shared memories of the ways she made us feel loved. I wasn’t the only student whose art she supported all these years later. 

When we lose someone, we are left to celebrate their life without their presence. Like a gemstone glinting light at different angles, we bring our stories together, hoping to catch one more glimpse of their reflection.

I looked at these beloved faces, all these lives that have invested in my own.  A couple who also taught me as a child; my friend’s dad who endured many sleepover shenanigans without losing his patience- ever.  My own momma.  

All these memories. So much love.

Yet, we will bury each other. 

We  will meet again and again in chapels and at gravesides. We know it,  despite our repeated protest that we must stop meeting like this. 

We will pass around memories,  stored away all these years like so much bread and wine. 

It will be bittersweet. We know this, too. Like sugar skulls and lime. 

We will wish we could remember the stories just right. 

We will wish there had been more time. 

And we will wish they could be back with us, to see all this beautiful glinting light they've left behind . 

But look! They are here now, and so are you. 

Whatever your beliefs about this holiday, this is the day that the Lord has made,  and He has made his light to shine on us.

For some, this day will be the last and only day left.

So then, while we have the time, let us make the most of our living and let us let our  light shine. 

Trick or Treat, Smell My Footnotes  

* As a Christian homeschooling family, we grew through many seasons of understanding and interpretation of this controversial holiday. Over the years, we have abstained altogether, attended alternative church harvest events out of conviction, attended church harvest events out of convenience, attended community parties and entered chili competitions, gone old fashioned trick or treating in costume and one year, we even bought the kids a full bag of the candy of their choice in exchange for staying home. I’m too old a dog to engage in debate and wish you safe passage on your high horse if any of this twists your hanky. Please do not make me draw correlations between Jesus and trick or treat... ("Behold, I stand at the door and knock..." )

**Watching Coco with my daughter when she was younger also deepened my appreciation for the reverence intended by these marked days, regardless of the way some express it.   

 

But Now, HD : The Gift of Cataracts (part 2)

  

New Vision 

In Part 1, "Was Blind: The Gift of Cataracts"  I had just been handed an application for financing double cataract surgery.

Rather than pretending to build up suspense (because most of my readers are related to me and already know what happened) I’ll skip directly to the end: I was approved for the financing. I had both surgeries. And they worked! 

I can see clearly now. 

Almost too clearly. 

Let me explain. 

After surgery, everything was brand new. I was suddenly more aware of how bad my vision had become. Or, maybe, now that the threat was behind me, I could allow myself to admit I had been going blind.  

Sometimes it is difficult to tell the difference between suppressing what we fear is true and waiting for more evidence to surface. More often,  they’re comorbid conditions requiring both patience and courage. 

After the first surgery, a large, shamrock-shaped cataract was removed from my left eye. :: insert Irish eyes punchline here::  

My vision was instantly clearer, but I would close my ‘good eye’ for a stark reminder of how bad things had been. 

Looking through my unrepaired eye made me deeply appreciative. And, letting my weird self show through for a moment, a small part of me (a very small part) wanted to keep my eyes like that forever. One eye to see with and one eye to always remember. 

I never wanted to forget the awe of being healed or lose sight of due gratitude.    

Writ Large 

All of a sudden, I could see things around me with a clarity that was almost inconvenient. How long had we been living with that stain on the wall? Was everyone really okay just leaving these splatters near the stove? How long had our house been this messy?! Why had no one said anything? 

When I no longer needed to leave for work extra early to navigate oncoming traffic, I started to realize how long I’d been making accommodations for living with low vision. 

Getting to work on time instead of early meant different traffic patterns, fewer open parking spaces and less time to grab coffee en route to my desk. It meant not having to sit with my nose pressed to the computer screen to see my work. 

I had never actually seen the art in our office, but I thought I had. There were details and patterns I didn’t know I was missing out on. Sometimes, the new tiny details completely changed my understanding of the picture, writ large. 

Me, Myself and Eyesight 

I could see myself better, too. Physically and metaphysically, I had new spots, lines and wrinkles. Processing all the changes, big and small brought new awareness mingled with  “about-time-she-admits-it” allowances.  

“I wouldn’t have pulled into the turn lane that quickly a month ago”  

 As I go through ordinary life  now, I often hear myself pointing out new realizations or confessions. 

Around each corner, every day, there are extraordinary reasons for gratitude. 

Amazing 

Though I had stopped driving at night (for the most part) before my surgery, stopping driving altogether was never an option for me. Single-parent life demands adapted abilities over disabilities as a general rule. Our vocabulary doesn’t include “can’t. It can’t ;) There are things to be done and only one person to do them. 

However, my vocabulary did change. Without a hint of exaggeration, words like “disability”, “accessibility” and “blind” became part of my regular communication. 

Prior to my surgeries, those terms belonged to me as much as a white cane or seeing eye dog, which is to say, not at all. I never imagined I would need them. 

Just as going through a domestic disturbance forced me to confront words like “abuse” & “violence”, it is still uncomfortable to use words that feel extreme. 

Comes an accusing hiss: “Blind? Isn’t that a little extreme?”  “ Accessibility? Aren’t you being dramatic?” and “What will you tell those who won’t regain sight ?” 

But I’ve found, and continue to find, that the very words I hide from are the words I most need to speak. 

I can only share my own story, like one struck and glowing match: 

Afraid and in the dark, I learned so much.  In places of solitude, I wasn't left alone.  In my doubt, hope surprised me. 

I was going blind, but now I can see.    

Be My Eyes 

I love people, I like to help others, and I realize that sharing my story is only a small and limited way to offer light. 

A more practical way to help blind and low-vision people is through the free app called Be My Eyes, available for Apple and Android devices. Be My Eyes allows blind and low-vision users to make video calls to sighted individuals for help with visual activities. Whether reading a food label in the grocery store or helping coordinate outfit colors before work, you really can bring light into dark places. https://www.bemyeyes.com/

Was Blind: The Gift of Cataracts (part 1)

 

Doctor, My Eyes… 

“You are only a few numbers from losing your driver’s license  ” 

My ophthalmologist was addressing my concerns about having  surgery. 

“I’m worried I’ll have this surgery but find cataracts aren’t the cause. I’ll be making a lifelong choice for glasses.”  I explained. 

He gently took the reins of the conversation. His answer, both figurative and literal, was resolved: “Oh, it is the cataracts. We’ll take them out and you’ll see. 

“I respect your expertise… “ I meant it “I just don’t understand why the cataract specialist didn’t operate at the beginning of all this.” 

“Because you’re young and there’s a bigger chance of retinal detachment when you’re young. But, it’s still a very small likelihood” he was completely convinced  “you’ll need readers, yes, but how are you seeing without using glasses now?“  

His smile elicited a mental touche’ from my place in the oversized exam chair.  I smiled back and took the financing information from his hands. 

I’d  devoted a lot of time and energy to finding other possible causes after cataract surgery had been ruled out.  

Previously, doctors detected cataracts but felt other factors should be explored. So, they sent me through a battery of diagnostics from ophthalmology to neurology.

For the past two years, I had chased down every cause and cure imaginable - and some beyond imagination. 

But, my inability to judge depth perception and oncoming traffic was very real, and getting progressively worse. 

And now,  I had come full circle, back to a cataract diagnosis, but this time with surgery not only recommended but urgently emphasized. 

An Unexpected Birthday Present (flashback)

I failed my first eye exam on my 40th birthday.  I’d started to notice that my vision wasn’t only blurry when looking at slides from the old overhead projector in my massage therapy classes, but also when I was reading the text book, then pretty soon,  outside the class; when driving and trying to read labels in the grocery store. 

I hadn't expected an eye chart in hieroglyphics. I had expected a pricey eyeglass prescription and a few jokes about getting older. But the exam was harder than reading and there was no joking. In fact, the tone grew rather serious. 

I began to suspect things were worse than anticipated  when no lens could help  me see the chart “in English”.  I was certain of it when the ophthalmologist gently patted my arm and explained the referral process. The gesture was at once comforting and terrifying. Shocks of stark realization patted down with genuine motherly concern,  like the back of a crying baby. 

“I can’t help you” the pat seemed to say “but here’s the name of someone I hope can” 

 I wondered how many patients she’d patted into reality over the years. 

Afterwards, I sat in my car in the eye center parking lot for a long time. This wasn’t the way it was supposed to go. Everything was supposed to be fixed today. Splurging on the full-price appointment (no health insurance) and inevitably the expensive glasses was to have been a sort of birthday present to myself (with a nod to all single moms and other parents who stand their own needs at the back of the line when necessary)  Instead I got arm pats and a cataract specialist referral . 

Shooting  In The Dark  

It was the first long car-sit in a season of long car-sits. I was plunged underwater and walking upside down. 

I misplaced the information to make the referral appointment for awhile.  Though it looked like a lost scrap of paper and a healthy dose of procrastination, I know now it had to be a deep, subconscious hesitation.  If plotted on one of my beloved “cycle of change” charts, it would fall under “Denial”. 

The time it took me to find the number and make that first call was time necessary to screw up my courage. I didn’t know what the journey would look like (I was going blind, after all) but, it had already started out as an over-the-mountain-not-through-it sort of trek. There’d be no turning back, plenty of forks in the path and, as always, at least one dragon to conquer before ‘The End’

At the appointment, the cataract specialist saw cataracts but said they weren’t far enough along to warrant surgery. She referred me to a retina specialist. The retina specialist didn’t see what he looks for in troubled eyes. He assured me I didn’t want him to. 

Though I was grateful he did not issue a hard to live with diagnosis,  I proceeded for a long while without any diagnosis at all. I bounced between more eye specialists, an optometrist and my family doctor who thought we may need to test for Multiple Sclerosis. 

Look For The Helpers  (and be a helper, too) 

My hero’s journey ended - at least for a time - when the money bag was emptied and the specialists ran out of eye tests to perform. You should know of the many generous people who stepped in then, to help me without expectation of having their money or kindness repaid. It was unclear where to direct their generosity. I was unsure which diagnostic path to choose.

One lady, a long-distanced online friend, herself an ophthalmologist, offered funds meant for her work in third world countries. She was unable to use what she had set aside due to the unforeseen travel restrictions during 2020's  "national emergency". She still wanted to use the money to bring sight- and hope- into people’s life; my life.

I hadn’t known she was an eye specialist before then. I didn’t know about her mission work.

If finding you have a friend that regularly restores sight to weak eyes doesn’t flood your heart with joy, you’ve probably never been blind - or thereabouts.  

But, I could not shoot at question marks with money meant to help others see.  There weren't a lack of tests, rather there were way too many.   

Looking For A Reason  

I started to do my own research. I used the  process of elimination, starting with treatments that were free or low cost to try. 

Some vision trouble stems from neck misalignment, so I began to see a chiropractor and had my atlas reset. 

Another possibility was nutrient deficits, so I took a medley of supplements and juiced beets ‘til my kitchen looked like a murder scene. 

One possibility that kept resurfacing was convergence, so I did eye exercises, juggled scarves and used a Brock string, amongst other things. There were eye patches and a veritable smorgasbord of eye drops.  I even attempted sound therapies suggested by one alternative medicine guy that required a level of looking silly I was uncomfortable with (but tried anyway, in my room, after the kids were well asleep) 

When desperate for answers, we lower the bar for absurdity.  In perplexity, our pride learns to bend the knee. 

I Can See Clearly Now

Consider me, in the argument for easy absurdity, reporting to work as Roy Orbison.

During one of the last eye tests before my funds ran low, I experienced a glimmer of hope; a pinprick to be exact.  

For the first time in over a year, I could see clearly through the pinhole in a specialty lens. 

It wasn't much (literally), but by hope's standards, it was more than enough. I was amazed. 

Bartimaeus came to mind, and those stories of old where men once blind could suddenly see.  It felt miraculous -  truly,  textbook miraculous.

I had forgotten what crisp, clear vision is like. Somewhere along the line, I 'd stopped believing it was possible.

I immediately ordered a pair of pinhole glasses, and despite their unappealing aesthetic,  wore them everywhere I could, including work. My only regret was there was no safe way to drive in them. 

Groping in the Dark  

One thing about trying to figure stuff out on our own is knowing whether or not we’re on the right trail. Hope is good trail mix, but we crave the sustenance of confirmation.  Whether to keep trying one approach a little longer before attempting a new one becomes an epic catch-22 . What if I stop a day or drop shy of what is needed ?

Had I found the right cause ?  I doubled down on tracking exercises but only saw improvement when wearing the glasses. If my vision seemed to improve one day, it would be worse the next. I would set about trying to figure out what had caused the difference. Diet? Sleep? Caffeine intake? Lighting? 

No doubt, my search history from then is wild and random poetry: “low vision /symptoms // better on cloudy days” 

As my vision worsened, so too, my sense of detachment and despair. It is often true that people  with a diminished capacity in one sense will find their other senses sharpened. Many people without clear sight have unique musical abilities; a heightened sense of hearing and touch. This is a remarkable gift of adaptation which allows a person to thrive in environments  that are  not naturally accommodating to them. 

But it is not an instant, standard-issue gift. Those with growing cataracts or starting to go a little hard of hearing inhabit a staticky world with no time to adjust our antenna.

Good things take time.  Finding good after significant loss or life change takes even more time. 

I'll unpack more from the unlikely Gift of Cataracts in part 2 ... {stay tuned} 

God Hates Divorce, Not Divorced People

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What God Hates  

God hates divorce, not divorced people.  God loves people.

Let's pause right here because that is the entirety of what I have to say, but my word count is supposed to be a bit higher. As words multiply, truth grows muffled. So please, if I may, I’d just like to remind you today: 

God hates divorce, not divorced people. God loves people.

Statements like this tend to provoke argumentative replies from certain camps. 

To follow  “God hates  -name any sin- . ”   with a declaration of His love provokes a panic as if we’ve just turkey-dropped permission slips with God’s forged signature to all humanity. 

Scenarios of affairs and abandoned families spring to the virile imaginations of many a worried mind. There’s real concern we’re gonna make God mad. 

Imaginary scenarios are… imaginary.  If someone is looking for validation to do or be a thing, that thing is, in all reality, already an inevitability.

Sought affirmation will be found in fortune cookie or flip of  coin if a mind is so inclined. 

Shake an 8 Ball enough times and you’ll get the answer you want.

 If a person is looking for loopholes, somewhere deep down, they’ve already decided.

Maybe for good reasons like safety, but indeed, perhaps they are just being selfish. 

Here we make the imaginative folks a little nervous again:  God loves self-justifying,  pleasure seeking people; even you and me. 

He doesn’t justify all choices but He does love all people.

Even your ex. 

Sometimes, that love looks like a natural consequence to our self-gratifying choices; confines that grow and refine us.

At other times, His love is the strength to endure hardships created by selfishness - whether other people’ s or our own.  

So, for the record, this is not a permission slip. It’s a love letter.

One more time now, because it is true: 

God hates divorce, not divorced people. God loves people.

God Is Not Mad At You 

God is not mad at divorced people when they cry “Uncle!” and throw in the towel.

Think about the attributes of an eternal, all knowing God. He saw it coming. 

 In most divorces, the dam breach was already leaking long before vows were exchanged.

Infinite wisdom understood the inevitability of a break long before you did. He saw the debris strewn beach of your aftermath life - and hated it, but He doesn't hate you. 

We often project our bad experiences with authority on to God.

Growing up with a harsh and abusive parent or teacher may lead us to expect cosmic retribution when things don’t go according to plan in our adult lives. We feel God is angry with us for falling short, but we are told He knew we would … and loved us anyway.  (via John) 

God’s anger is directed at the destruction, not you. 

God Loves You 

When life is splintered by storm gales, it is easy to wonder how love would allow us to endure such pain.  Wouldn’t love have stopped this in its tracks? 

A love that doesn’t allow us to choose, isn’t love. It’s imprisonment. 

A good test whenever love is in question: " Am I free to choose ? " 

Love warns us the fruit is toxic but we take a bite anyway; it’s in our DNA. 

Love is a doppler radar, forecasting the coming days. 

Love issues warnings and ways to stay safe.

Love helps evacuate. 

Love won’t say ‘I told you so’ to those who didn’t listen. 

Love holds a torch guiding us to shore and walks beside us in the wreckage, salvaging remnants from what love wasn’t. 

Love holds the nails and hands us the hammer as we begin to rebuild. 

Love never fails. 

Even when marriages do.  

One last time for good measure now:

God hates divorce, not divorced people.
God loves people.

… and that’s a good thing.