The Plank-Eyed Girl: The Tiny, Secret Confessions of a Chair-Bound Squi...

The Plank-Eyed Girl: The Tiny, Secret Confessions of a Chair-Bound Squi...:   1:17 a.m. Awakening from my drug-induced slumber, I can feel my dull, numbed mind slowly stir.  Like a butterfly awakening from...

The Tiny, Secret Confessions of a Chair-Bound Squirrel

 1:17 a.m. Awakening from my drug-induced slumber, I can feel my dull, numbed mind slowly stir.  Like a butterfly awakening from the completed metamorphosis process, I must make peace with my chair-bound place of residence and the energy it will consume to gain my ability to walk, skitter, twirl, and jump with two feet again.  For this squirrel on steroids, this is going to be challenging! 

I am alone while the Mr. sleeps peacefully in the comfort of our previously shared nest.  I continue to lie in this mossy green overstuffed, reclining chair, with my mind now fully awake.  Only the stained, 50 year old popcorn ceiling in my line of sight.  Letting my eyes slid shut and wishing for a different view, reality quickly sets in.  I go down a mental list of things that I will not be able to do for some time:  #1.  Walk.  #2.  Drive. #3.  Easily take myself to the bathroom.  #4.   Shower at will.  #6.  Wear whatever I feel like.  #7. Fix whatever I want to eat.  #8.  Go to work.  #9.  Sit at the computer to write.  #10.  ......   Sleep slowly draws itself over me again like a soft fleece blanket and I fade into unawareness.

3:12 a.m.  Alertness yanks me from my dozing.  Unfamiliar sounds pepper my consciousness and leave me wondering if they are a nightly occurrences.  Sleep has said good-bye and I am alone with my thoughts, wanderings, and prayers.

6:45 a.m. Sleep is still not returning.  Seconds surrender to minutes as I summons every ounce of this 53 year-old abdominal strength and upper body muscle in order to change positions in "the chair". Adjusting to my new upright position, my view from "the chair" has become more interesting and oddly more emotionally comfortable.  

Daylight peeks its rays through the darkness and I am able to see the five foot metal rooster in my garden.  (Yes, I said...five foot, metal rooster.)  Confession#1 - This really is my ONLY piece of yard art.  My mind is uncontrollably flooded with memories from the events that surrounded it's purchase.  It is a memento from my 50th birthday (remind me to tell you about that amazing day sometime).  It was also an incredibly special gift from my Mr.  Willing my eyes to move on, they descend

onto a table under the window that holds ten white frames of those I love at events that hold significance in my heart. Shifting to the left, I am take in a 2 ft by 2 ft. large red, sticker-decorated 
"Get Well" card with precious beginners handwriting, created by a child that holds my heart-strings.  Gratefulness is rising like a flood from a cistern deep inside my heart.  Tears express themselves freely and flow down my cheeks.  I swipe at these tears with the soft, back side of my

hand.  Confession #2:  I am surprisingly sentimental.  This is a major surprise to me.  It alters my limited and probably somewhat tainted view of what "sentimental" is and feels like.  Honestly,  this feels like someone should shoot off a confetti cannon for me.  This ah-ha feels celebratory!

Pushing the recliner back with my one good foot, my eyelids slid shut again.  My mind takes a walking tour through this place I call "home".  From my memory, I gaze at the extensive myriad of photos; postcards in the basket from our adventures; variegated beach glass from the assorted beaches of this planet; and my collection of heart shaped choral.  Each of these items hold precious memories.  Each of these items could be considered a memento.  Each of these items encourage me to remember.  Each of these items invite those visiting to ask questions.  

7:17 a.m.  He whispers to my soul, those mementos are precious to you.  They tell the journey of your life, but where are the mementos from your journey with me?  Bolting upright, I am fully awake and completely aware that I maybe, just maybe, I have missed something very important.  Confession #3:  I am often blind to my lack of understanding.  So, turning to the power of Google, I search. Finding something I think might be useful, I search my well-stocked side table for the familiar brown leather book.  Falling open, it's thin pages turn easily to 1 Samuel 7:3-12.  

That is when His whisper makes total sense.  He is asking me to create some "Ebenezer" type momentos of our journey together to place around our home.  Maybe a photo.  Maybe a framed letter.  Maybe a tattoo.  Maybe a piece of jewerly.  Maybe a painting or piece of artwork.  Maybe you have already done this.  If so, would you please post a photo and tell the brief story behind it?  We all need visual "Faith Markers," that remind us of what God has done for us; through us; and in us.  

Until We Chat Again,

The Plank-Eyed Girl

The Plank-Eyed Girl: Yellow Roses; Dick and Jane; and "The Covered On...

The Plank-Eyed Girl: Yellow Roses; Dick and Jane; and "The Covered On...: Yellow makes my heart happy. Yellow makes my heart want to twirl and leap. Yellow equates to sunshine and warmth.  I just want to wra...

Yellow Roses; Dick and Jane; and "The Covered One"

Yellow makes my heart happy. Yellow makes my heart want to twirl and leap. Yellow equates to sunshine and warmth.  I just want to wrap myself up in deliciousful, soft, yellow!  

This bouquet was delivered to me, as a generous

gift from my non-traditional student, "The Covered One".  She did not deliver it herself, for that would've been too forward in her culture.  She asked the office ladies to deliver it. 

I stand to receive them and  drink in the deep richness of the moment.  The sacrifice to provide this overly generous gift, does not escape me.   Money is sparse for this widow and these flowers probably took a large portion of her grocery money for the week.  

Twice a week, we have an English lesson.  She arrives with eagerness in her eyes.  Settling in, she awaits my arrival by reviewing the lessons from before.  Her resolve is as strong as reinforced rebar, set in concrete.  At 43, she is determined to learn to read and write English. We start with short vowels and sight words. We have worked through box one of the "Bob" books.  It has been four months and if she were a caterpillar, she would've already changed into a beautiful, colorful butterfly.  This process of learning to read and write English is definitely going to take more time....but she is well on her way.

The "Covered One's" delightful enthusiasm is simply contagious.  As you all know, many of our English words have double meanings and most of those I ignore while teaching her,  but today I am introducing a new/old beginning reader book that I bought as a gift for her.  It is a fat anthology which will provide much needed practice. Handing it to her, she gently accepts the gift.  Wrapping her arms around it,  she is holding it close like one of her most treasured earthly possession. BUT....there is one little eensy, weensy problem. One of the words in the title has a BIG double meaning.  The "Covered One" has teenage girls who have been Americanized and will instantly "get it".  So, I need to tell her about this before she takes the book home.  Sucking the air in through my nose, I pause and hold my breath.  She stops practicing and gives me a quizzical look.  I point at the word.  She says it louder and more pronounced this time.  She is

proud to know it.  I smile, she belts it out again. Placing my finger to my lips, I attempt to shush her, but she smiles and cranks the volume up one more time, proclaiming the word.  I am panicking. Like a speechless mime, I put my finger on the word and then point down at the boy on the over and his pants. Instantly, a crimson color crawls across her beautiful exposed face.  

She says something in a language foreign to my ears.  Wide-eyed, I say..."boy's privates" and point. Like two twelve-year-olds, we both explode in snickers and our friendship deepens.  I explain that her daughters will think this is funny and she should know the double meaning.   

Often purchased  presents come in boxes; are expected; and you get to unwrap them.  Other gifts are unwrappable; arrive unexpectedly; and continually surprise you with delight.  We just came through a high-gift giving holiday season. Maybe you received the perfect wrapped gift?  Maybe you are disappointed that none of those wrapped gifts seem to give you any lingering sense of joy.  It is now a new year and maybe it is time to slow down and ask your Creator  to help you see what unwrappable, unexpected gifts He has placed in your life this January?  

I would love for you to share them with me and my readers.  Feel free to respond in the box below.

Until We Chat Again,
The Plank-Eyed Girl

The Plank-Eyed Girl: The Velvet Hammer of Uncertainty; A Violent Hope, ...

The Plank-Eyed Girl: The Velvet Hammer of Uncertainty; A Violent Hope, ...: Blackness reaches its long arms toward me, as the sun slips behind the mountains.  Reaching me, it wraps it's cloak around me and att...

The Velvet Hammer of Uncertainty; A Violent Hope, and Imaginary Theology

Blackness reaches its long arms toward me, as the sun slips behind the mountains.  Reaching me, it wraps it's cloak around me and attempts to smoother me with the velvet hammer of uncertainty.  Arriving at the hospital, I am very aware that I am entering in a place with many uncontrollable variables.  This is a place where physical life and death are daily occurrences.  It is a place where pain precedes healing, and loss often leads to scars. 

Reluctantly, I shuffle towards the receptionist, like a child being sent to the principal's office, I'm not sure what the outcome of this current visit will be. Not being a stranger to this facility, all my

electronics automatically find their signals; security guards give me the head yank in recognition; and in an instant, I am swept back into the inner belly of the emergency room.  

There is an odd sense of relief that washes over me.  I am no longer in charge.  I have come to a place where the only thing I have to offer is a violent, relentless hope and trust in those that, once again, are holding the life of someone that my heartstrings are woven around.  

My imaginary theology surfaces and  tells me that elaborate prayers are best.  It screams that He will hear me best if I use eloquent words.  It tries to persuade me to plead my case.  

Attempting to believe this pseudo theology, I reach for words....but there are none. Minutes slide by, like a slug moving from one rock to another, leaving a trails of slime.  My words are pointless, and fake. They leave an offending odor. I give up and simply whisper, "Help".  Nothing else.  "Help".

If you think an ER waiting room is a comfortable place to spend the night, you are six shades of wrong.  Fear has reached it's unwelcome tentacles up my throat and taken hold of my heart.  Like an octopus turning it's prey around in anticipation of

a delicious meal, fear is preparing to consume me. Hot salty tears spill over and silently slide down my checks.  Glancing around, no kleenex is available.  Exhaustion is consuming my physical body.  I perch on my solid wooden chair and wonder if any of the rest of these people in the waiting room are standing on the precipice of life and death with a loved one.  If so, how many times have they stood here?  I have stood here too many times to count with different family members. 

Suddenly, a nurse slides onto a chair next to me. Handing me several extra soft tissues from her

pocket, she says nothing.   Moments slip by. Offers of water and nourishment are made.  This angel is a familiar nurse who is on her "lunch" break at 2:30 am and has chosen to "be" with me. Departing, I find the strength to push the words, "thank you" out from between my lips.  It is a "thank you" both to the nurse and my Creator who heard my plea for "Help"! 

It is now 6:00 am.  Tonight time has stood still in the ER, but for the rest of people in the place I reside on this planet, sleep was their companion and they are awakening ready for a new day. Time has not stood still for them.  

Hospitals are places where time is irrelevant for those inside the walls.  It is like another dimension and ONLY those that are inside are aware that all else is striped away and only physical life and death remain.  Often times, in order to be able to continue living, sacrifices and loss must be accepted.  Scars are the reminders of the loss and that the gift of this physical life has been extended. Why do I keep forgetting all of this AND that life is temporary at best? 

Shuffling into the house, the safety of my bed beckons to me.  I crawl into the welcoming layers of my private nest and allow my lids to slid shut. My eyes are closed, and I am wrapped in His presence.  However, unfortunately, someone forgot to tell my mind that it was done and the crisis was over.  So....my mind proceeds and is turning over the similarities between hospitals and churches (the body of Christ). Both deal with life and death.  Both should be safe havens for those who are in need.  Both should be equipped with staff that are willing and trained to assist the sick and injured.  Both are places where pain precedes healing and surrender must occur in order to live.  Both are places where those visiting often have a high level of uncertainty, fear, and exhaustion.  Maybe just like the "Silent Angel" that sat with me, we as the body of Christ, need to slid in next to someone in need and hand them a tissue?

Until We Chat Again,

The Plank-Eyed Girl

The Plank-Eyed Girl: 168 Hour Sabbath; A Crayon Box; and The Landscape ...

The Plank-Eyed Girl: 168 Hour Sabbath; A Crayon Box; and The Landscape ...: Frigidness penetrates the jet's window as my cheek presses against it.  Everything inside of me is longing for one last drop of warm...