7 Years Later: What a Day Can Bring

My story took a drastic and unexpected turn 7 years ago this July.  They say it takes seven years to recover from a brain injury, and since I am nearing that mark, I figure it is time to start telling my story.  Plus, I can hardly get by myself for more than two seconds without thinking about how to put words to this.  this.  ...story of mine.

So, to start, it is very strange thing to have an injury that no one can see.  We live in a world that values what it can see.  If you can see it; it is real.  So, an "invisible" injury has so many difficulties without even naming the symptoms.  "Well, you look good."  "Well...ummm...thanks. ? ." 

I went swimming on a Friday night.  A full time grad student.  A full time employee.  I was training for a triathlon that was scheduled in a few months.  I wasn't feeling great, but went anyways.  What was a little dizziness and fatigue anyways?  Stress?  Inner ear?  Swimming was low impact, so I picked that over running.

I went to bed that night satisfied.  I had just gotten back from a week out east for a dear friends wedding and time with family.  Work and school were good; my relationships were deepening; life was moving.  I was 25; not bad for 25.

And so when I woke up that Saturday feeling even more off than I had for the last week, I didn't think too, too much about it.  "Maybe I am just really worn out.?"  And so I sat down to read some and journal a bit.  The page was a little blurry as I read and it was hard to write, but again...worn out...tired?  I felt calm, but the symptoms were slowly becoming undeniable as my grogginess wore off.  "I think my right leg feels numb...and maybe my ear, cheek..."

And so I called: my friend, "I'm taking you to the hospital;" my mom, "Please go to the hospital."

Before I knew it I was in an MRI machine.

Entering In

While the majority of seminarians, seminary graduates, and theology enthusiasts are reading and responding to Robb Bell's, "Love Wins," I have been doing some lighter reading: Don Miller's "A Million Miles in a Thousand Years."  I have no gauge on how far behind I am...when did this book come out?...Barnes & Noble still has Miller's book only in hard back, so I can't be that out of the loop.?.  Right? 

Anyhow.  I read the book because one of my new, favorite friends Tammy Breeser recommended it and this is generally how I decide what to read next: when someone awesome says a book impacted their life.  And I am so glad I did.  Thank you, Tammy! 

The concept is simple.  The theology loose, (but not off target; typical Donald Miller).  And the impact great.  In four words: enter into your story.  (Wait - is "into;" "in," "to;" or "into"...maybe five words).  He just says to really live your story.  Stop imagining it.  Get out of your head and get INto the narrative: the mess of it, the boring day-in-and-out of it, and face the fear of it.  It will be far more doable AND far more freeing than you imagine. 

His is a modern, north American existential narrative.  He describes himself: he got off the couch and on a bike to ride across the continent, he forgave his father, he started a mentoring non-profit, etc.

I think this is what James talks about: faith without works is dead.  It is! Don't you feel it? I do when I am not entering into my story; especially when I am just thinking about it.   But when I do enter in, even when it is painful, I find freedom.  And Life.

Perfectionism

I have been reading a lot about perfectionism lately.  It comes up in my counseling practice all the time and I have been accused of being one a time or two (whether by myself or somebody else).  As with most human problems, this area was identified and quickly pathologized.  And now, years later, there has been some pull back and studiers of perfectionism are saying their are adaptive and maladaptive forms of perfectionism:

Adaptive: driven, goal-directed, yet able to celebrate goals even when they are not fully completed.  Perhaps, these are even the most hopeful of people.  Idealistic, but accepting.
Maladaptive: only see what is not completed.  Unrealistic expectations and difficulty, well...adapting.  Prone towards depression.  Idealistic, and judging.

Hmmmmm...I think i will shoot for the first.

Accepting What Is...

I am pretty much strongly opposed to anything that smacks of giving up.  It is my personality.  It is how I was raised.  And most of the time, it serves me well.  I'm pretty tenacious and go after what I want.  Like, the long distance runner type; not the sprinter.

But, sometimes, it does not serve me well.  Like today.  I feel a bit guilty.  I called in sick for a shift at work.  I woke up early this morning and I had a bit of fever.  (Perhaps more later on Lizzy's tragic health problems; like even when they seem basic).  I went to the doctor this week and the antibiotics have not quite kicked in.   I know they will sometime today.  And actually, I could be working; feeling bad is relative and I could push through.  ...thus goes my thinking, my feeling...

Being the pusher througher, it is hard to know when to just accept what is.  What is.  This is: a sick day.  The call has been made.  So, even though it is not "that bad," I will stay in my PJs and write a blog, (afterall, I'm not puking my guts out).  And when the fever does break...well, maybe I will take a light stroll.

I Like to Go to Church

One of the earliest songs I learned went like this, "I like to go to church.  I like to go to church.  I love the happy songs we sing, I like to go to church."  And I really did!  And I really still do. 

I have been going to church since I was in my grandmother's womb, (YES! that is biologically and historically accurate.  I can explain if you want me to...), so there is a lot I could say here.  And it is not all roses and sunshine...or "happy songs."  But today, I felt nostalgic and thankful for many warm memories and Sunday traditions that flooded my memory:

- My dad was responsible for weekend breakfasts most of the time.  Pancakes on Saturday and donuts or Pillsbury orange rolls on Sunday.  Those orange rolls still take me right back to Sunday mornings.
-  We used to listen to Casey Kasum's top 40 on the way to church and on the way home.  On the way there the songs were, ummmmm.... not very good; many unrecognizable.  But on the way home we were listening to the top 10 and it was awesome.  A lot of time we sat in the car to listen for #1!
- In "big church," (that is what we called the main worship service), my mom often held my hand.  And sometimes I held my brothers and sister's hands too.  Even when we were teenagers.  No - we did not do this at movies or baseball games.  Just in big church.
- Dad always had lifesavers in his pocket for big church.  My favorite was/is butter rum.  The other options were the fruity kind or wintergreen.  He normally had two options.  I think my parents started them as a pacifying technique to ween us from the nursery to big church, but I still count on Dad having them today.
- Two words: Golden Corral.  And it was okay to have dessert first or only dessert. 
- One word that follows those two words: NAP.
- And my final memory, was about youth choir.  I have so many fond memories of youth choir.  We used to sing most Sunday night services.  I mean, it sounds so dorky, and I have not even heard mention of one in ten years, but it was fantastic.  And we had a blast!  There is something about the combination of community and learned music and adolescence that is so formative.  If I had it in me, I might just start one at my church.  Maybe I will convince my musician husband one day. 

A Liberal Feminist Goes to a Southern Baptist Church

Imagine the gray-haired, Southern Baptist, church goers shock and surprise if I stood up as a five year old and said, "Now, I don't know it yet, but one day,  I will be somewhat of a liberal feminist."  This is especially funny for me to think about as a recovering people-pleaser and natural rule follower.  But, mysteriously, internally, something like this was forming from a very young age.  

Now, I am not even sure I am a feminist, (I'm a bit afraid of the images that category will conjure up in people), or really that liberal - that is all relative I suppose.  But I am convinced that the historical accounts of Jesus make him an advocate and even a revolutionary for woman's value, life, and rights.  And I am saddened that the Christian church is more often seen as, and sometimes are truly contributers to, the opposite of that. 

I suppose the five year old Lizzy could have added one more thing to her self-proclamation, "But don't worry, in the process of becoming a liberal feminist,  I will also become, (or it will be because I am becoming), more and more enamored with Jesus."

"Balance, balance"

One of my favorite girls in the whole wide world is Maggie Lawrence.  She is my nine year old niece.  When she was not even three I found my self near the top of a very elaborate, very tall playground structure with her.  She led us up, up, and up.

Suddenly she paused for a moment and looked back at me.

"Phew, this is very high, Maggie!"

With her classic straight face and steady stare she replied, "Mm-hm," and paused for a second, two, three...

Not even a half a beat later, she abruptly moved on to the swinging rope bridge that we would traverse to the next tower.  Fears relieved; confidence regained. 

As we continued, though, I heard a little voice saying quietly to herself, "Baaaaaalance, baaaaaaaalance,"  until we reached the other side. 

I hear Maggie's sweet, childlike self-talk in my head these days as I take my next steps, "Baaaaaalance, baaaaaaaalance."  The next tower is in sight.