A Psalm: Our Million Pieces

Our hearts are in a million pieces
Most of which no one will ever know.
But you, O LORD, you see each piece -
You pick up every
piece
carefully
and you look.
You look at each piece so closely:
Where is there hurt, that I may heal it?
Where is there strength that I may draw it out?
Where is there love that I may encourage it to grow?

But...

Our hearts are in a million pieces
Most of which no one will ever know.
But you, O LORD, you see each piece -
You pick up every
piece
carefully
no matter the color or the shape or the sharpness of its edges.
You are not wounded by our
angry words or
careless questions or that
sometimes we can't do more.

Because…

Our hearts are in a million pieces
Most of which no one will ever know.
But you, O LORD, you see each piece -
You pick up every
piece
carefully.
Even as you look,
You love.
Even as we weep over our million pieces,
You love.

Grace...

Hubby -n- Me

This past week was all about choices.

Oh, who the hell am I kidding? Every week is about choices, right? 

Anyway, over the last week, I've made some choices that have meant I haven't walked as much as I probably should have...

I got in a good, though short, walk at the beginning of the week. The middle of the week is where the wheels came off. I really, really wanted to walk on Thursday, but on Thursday, my Hubby came home after being out of town all week for work. 

So, I made the choice that evening to eat a nice, quiet meal with him and then hang out on the couch with him, watching ridiculous TV. I mean, really, really ridiculous programming - but programming that made us laugh and, most importantly, made him happy after a long few days away from home and his wife and his dog. The three of us sat together, collected in the same room, and all was well.

Except...I really, really wanted to walk. I felt kinda twitchy about not walking. As my normal walking hour came and went, it felt strange to be sitting on the couch - just as in the olden days - the days (and weeks, and months, and years) before diabetes and watching every bite and finding more motivation than ever to get off my ass and move around more. It felt strange.

I got out there and walked tonight. I pretty much insisted on it, telling both Hubby and the waiter at dinner that I was going for a walk when we got home. Hubby lovingly got his dessert to go. The waiter wished me well. And we made it home just in time for me to change, get all geared up, and head out for a lovely two-mile walk.

While I walked, I thought about this past week. I thought about the choices I made and that I'd only walked twice this week. I reflected on how strange that felt and then - AHA! Epiphany time! - I realized how wonderful it is that I walked over three and a half miles this week, and - really - that isn't too shabby. Not bad at all for someone who three months ago was still getting her blood sugar sorted out and was really good at sitting on her ass.

And so, I'm not going to get bogged down by my choices this past week. I am, however, going to celebrate every time I walk as some kind of progress - some kind of forward movement - and allow myself the grace to sit on the couch with Hubby from time to time. 

It's About the Relationship

Max Scooter

This is Max Scooter. He's our thirteen-and-a-half year old mini schnauzer. We've been together since he was seven weeks old. I brought him home as a single gal, and - happily - married someone who loves him as much as I do.

Max is showing his age. At age thirteen-and-a-half in human years, he's between 77 and 82 in doggie years, so his little body is slowing down. He still has his schnauzer spunk - he just doesn't hear as well as he used to, or see as well as he once did, so he's less likely to bark at you if you ring the doorbell.

One of the things I determined to do once I started walking regularly was to include Max at least part of the time. Now, I adore this dog. Let's just get that out there. But he always has been and still is horrible at walking. What I mean is - everything taller than him needs a sniff, needs some wee, maybe a dash of poop. 

COME ON, DOG. It's a weed, for goodness' sake. WHY PEE ON A WEED?

There are all sorts of reasons why he does this. He's a male. He hasn't been well-trained to walk and ignore. He's a schnauzer, which is an inherently curious breed. Etc. etc. Whatever the case, I learned long ago that if I'm really wanting good exercise, taking him along isn't such a good plan.

And now, of course, there's the matter of his age. He just can't walk as far as he used to because he just doesn't have the energy. My in-laws took him for a walk recently and my father-in-law (bless him) actually had to CARRY THE DOG part of the way because Max was just plain ole tuckered out.

So, I've decided that sometimes, the exercise is sacrificed for the sake of the relationship. Sometimes, my own walking regimen is less important than the regimen that Max and I share together - a regimen that involves slowing down and even stopping from time to time. And that's OK, because the important thing is that we got out there - together - and saw the sights and sniffed the wind and enjoyed a beautiful North Texas day. We covered almost a mile together: he got to pee on some stuff (I waited) and he came home to eat an ice cube and crash in his favorite spot. 

He's a great dog, today's walk was a great walk, and really - that's what matters.

Sing me to heaven...

Adding their song...

The story of our little birds continues...

Today, I have heard them adding their song - noisy, urgent chirping - to the cacophony of birdsongs around us. There is something beautifully fitting to me about hearing their song for the first time today because I found out a little while ago that a dear friend and wonderful musician died last night.

Ashlyn was one of my piano teachers in college. Ever patient, ever encouraging, she brought joy to playing the piano that I had never had before. I wasn't her best student - nowhere even close - in terms of ability, but she encouraged me anyway. Beyond that, she challenged me to think always in terms of the Bigger Picture. It was Ashlyn that introduced me to a wider world of music - music as ministry to people's souls. As I grew as a choral conductor and as a minister of music, Ashlyn was one of many who stood beside me - or, more accurately - followed my lead while sitting at a piano or organ console.

Much like the birds today, giving me their new song, Ashlyn gave me my song, in many ways. I had never felt very confident musically before knowing her. I had never felt very brave. She was one who instilled both confidence and bravery in me - drawing them out from...someplace.

And now, she is gone. I am left weeping for the void, weeping because she was truly one of the most beautiful people I have ever known, weeping because her earthly song has been silenced.

Joy will come in the morning because we teach and believe and confess that at the grave, we make our song, "Alleuia! Praise the Lord!" Even at the grave, we are led to words of praise - words that seem strange coming from trembling lips - words that seem raw upon our hurting hearts. Thank God that he hears our hurting cries and our angry cries before the cries of praise come forth.

Joy will come in the morning.

Little beaks, wide open...

The wonder continues...

Here's the nest, as it was yesterday:

Cute, fuzzy finch chickies.

So, just now, I went out to check (in the process, pissing off Mama Finch once again...sorry!) and here's what today brought:

Little beaks, wide open.

 Little beaks, wide open.

Amazing. Amazing. Amazing.




[To read and/or listen to a sermon I preached about this, click here to visit my professional blog.]

Tiny. Colorful. Quietly present.

The eggs on May 5th...

These photos have nothing whatsoever to do with diabetes. I could make them fit somehow if I tried, but - let's face it - I've got a Pentecost sermon percolating for Sunday, so let's just be content with the following, shall we...?

A couple of weeks ago, I noticed a finch hanging out more at one of our hanging plants on our back porch. I've seen this before, and, sure enough, I found this beautiful nest nestled in one of the dianthus plants. Mama Finch has been so very attentive. The eggs were beautiful. Tiny. Colorful. Quietly present.

I've been carefully checking on their status ever since, all while Mama Finch sat on a nearby fence and fretted. 

Today, I went out quickly to check and was startled to find:

Finches hatching on May 16th!

I say I was startled, but mostly I was overwhelmed with the joy of such a sight. As beautiful as those eggs were, these little fuzzy creatures are more beautiful (in a fuzzy, scrawny creature kind of way). Soon, there will be great twittering and squeaking. Soon, there will be feedings and lots of fluttering about. Soon, there will be another empty nest in our nearly-dead hanging plant (we have another empty nest in a nearby plant). 

And, to me, it's all just...

Incredible.

"Be gentle with yourself..."

That's what a friend told me recently - to be gentle with myself. He said this after I had told him about my particularly difficult week - a draining week, one that zapped me almost completely. "Be gentle with yourself," said this friend, who knows me well enough to know that I am (like many), my own harshest critic.

So, here's a problem: it's harder for me to be gentle with myself when it feels like life is beating the crap out of me. When there's anxiety around almost every corner - in so many worried eyes and concerned hearts.

But, here's some good news: I have wonderful friends. I mean, wonderful. This friend's beautiful words of encouragement came as I was packing to travel to visit some of my wonderful friends over my days off. On a whim. Just...because. Because I needed to be wrapped up in the particular love of these particular friends, and let them enfold me. And enfold me they did.

I felt my energy returning on my drive to their house. I blared Bach and Beethoven and Sting and conducted or sang the whole trip. I only cussed at the other drivers a little bit. I felt like I did the summer that I was seventeen, in my Granny's Buick, on my first solo road trip - free, free, free.

I arrived into the arms of my friends, welcomed by plans of dinner and conversation. Welcomed by a lack of agenda the next morning. Welcomed by both their gentleness and their laughter. And I remembered again how to be gentle with myself.

Sometimes being gentle with ourselves is so. very. hard. But if it's one thing I've learned, it's that when I am gentle with myself, I'm somehow more gentle with others, too. And I really do think that more gentleness in the world is a pretty good thing.

So, thank you, friends, for loving me back into gentleness.

Here's Some Advice...

I look for advice when I feel myself sinking - I seek it out. When my mom was dying, and then after she died, I read a LOT online in cancer support forums and in books about prayer during grief (ironically enough, books I inherited from Mom's bookshelves). I read hymns. I read Luther and the Bible and the Creeds.

Mostly, though, I just leaned. I leaned heavily on those around me. I leaned into writing about the pain and how my faith was struggling to survive. I leaned into food - LOTS of food. I eventually leaned back into prayer as I somehow figured out how to trust God again.

Many who knew me then didn't try to offer advice on how to grieve. They know I've had lots of loss in my life and so grief is something that feels almost like that old friend that I don't want to see ever again - and yet - there it is, showing its face again. Many who knew me then were simply present - they simply walked with me: holding me when I cried, listening when I screamed, offering prayers beyond number and comfort beyond measure.

It was powerful.

So, now I have diabetes, and suddenly, it feels like many in my life are Experts. Advice comes from every direction: well-meaning ones - all sharing what they either know to be true from their own experience (including those with diabetes themselves), or what they've read about diabetes in some hack magazine, or what their cousin Joe's experience with diabetes was in 1947, and everything. in. between.

People. I love you. Notice the words "well-meaning" above. Please notice those words. I know you mean well. 

But really, I've been overweight since I was ten years old. I've been on and off diets, eating plans, and exercise plans for many years of my life. There's an old saying: "I've lost hundreds of pounds in my life!" I have. Some have come back. Others have stayed away. But really, I know what it takes.

And this struggle - just like someone's grief - is not one you will be able to fix for me. It isn't one you'll be able to advise away, like some kind of problem at work or an issue with a boyfriend. It's one I must simply accept, and then care for in the best ways I know how.

I do not walk alone. I absolutely do not. And what has been most helpful in the almost-two-months since my diagnosis is the presence of those who simply have listened and prayed. Those who have laughed with me, or have cried with me. Those who have asked questions, in order to learn how to be helpful. Those who have offered loving words and support.

So, here's some advice for you...

Just listen.

Just be there.

Laugh or cry with me.

Ask questions, if you have them.

Offer answers or advice when I ask.

Pray for me.

Love me.

And loving me may mean watching me make some mistakes. Loving me may mean that I'm going to do some things that don't seem right in your eyes. Loving me may take more energy than simply giving me advice.

But love me anyway.

Because - here's the thing:

I. love. you.