Sabbath

I went to church today.

Showering and getting dressed this morning was both physically and emotionally hard. It was strange to try and pull the same old clothes over a different body. Having always been muscular, I’m used to feeling swollen in certain parts of my body and slim in others. That’s all in reverse now—with the swelling in my cheeks, stomach, and ankles—and the slimness in my muscles. I turned out the lights to finish getting dressed.

It was hard to be in worship and yet to be so consumed with my physical comfort—the hardness of the folding chair, the chill or heat that I was experiencing at the moment, the stiffness of the arc in my knees as I tried to force my limp legs under the seat in front of me. It was frustrating not to be able to follow the sermon, presumably because of the medicines. Yet there were moments in which I worshipped—in the music, the sacrament, and the exposition of Romans 7. And all the hugs and tears were precious to me.

In truth, I feel utterly alone today and loathsome even to myself. This is not something that you guys can remedy with your presence, because I know that I have only to ask. In my heart and mind, some huge cavern has opened up between me and the people around me with ‘normal’ lives and I am stubbornly refusing to the let the cross bridge it. I don’t know what living or loving or serving looks like right now. And sometimes, I quite frankly don’t care. I'm there right now.

I received this prayer from a friend this morning: “Teach us, her friends and family, how to pray and care for her. Show us the way to where You are waiting with healing. Give us the tools to fight through the crowds, break down the roof and carry her to Your side. We are coming with her Lord! Keep our arms and our hearts strong. Grant Michele and each of us perseverance.”

I am sobbing as I read this prayer again. I am not alone, and I will fight against the lies that tell me that my circumstances have isolated me from anything that I need.

“For we know that if the earthly tent which is our house is torn down, we have a building from God, a house not made with hands, eternal in the heavens. For indeed in this house we groan, longing to be clothed with our dwelling from heaven; inasmuch as we, having put it on, shall not be found naked. For indeed while we are in this tent, we groan, being burdened, because we do not want to be unclothed, but to be clothed, in order that what is mortal may be swallowed up by life.” I have always groaned in this physical body--the groaning now is different in degree and not kind--yet my inner man is being renewed day by day.

Another friend sent me this excerpt from her own journal, several years ago, as she was being diagnosed with a serious illness: “Teach me to live, move me, break up the unplowed land, the entire land of my heart, and show me You again.”

This is my prayer today. What does it mean to live? To move? To persevere in the work of holiness? Lord, show me and move in me both to will and to do your good pleasure.