Beauty on the Backroads

Stories of grace for life's unexpected turns

Lisa

When love shows up and won’t let go

“What’s your address? Don’t ask any questions! I’m working on something.”

A few days into my forced bedrest because of muscle spasms in my back, a friend sent me this message on Facebook. Little did I know at the time that the “something” she was working on was meals for my family while I’m incapacitated as well as arranging for someone to do our laundry. (I declined the latter. Judge me, if you will, but I’m particular about who sees and touches my dirty clothes.)

Two of the meals (and to clarify, one of the “meals” was three meals!) were made and delivered by people I’ve never met, and the friend who arranged this act of love drove herself almost an hour from her house to mine. (I should also mention that this friend and I have only seen each other in person one time before this, at a weekend retreat years ago. But we’re all over the Facebook universe.)

Who does that?

I asked my husband this more than once.

This was not the only way we were loved that week.

Who goes out, on purpose, on the coldest day of winter to bring food to a family?

Who spends their day off making a meal for others?

Who offers to bring soup when they’ve got a houseful of kids to care for, too?

Who shows up on less than an hour’s notice to care for two rowdy kids and help an overwhelmed husband walk his wife to the car while she cries out in agony on the way to the chiropractor?

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“Do you have difficulty receiving good things?”

This question from my therapist haunts me. It’s been months since she asked it, and I’m still mulling the answer.

It’s complicated.

I’ve long believed I only deserve something if I’ve earned it, and I’ve forever rationalized my family’s love with, “Well, they’re just doing that because they have to.”

Can you imagine living like this? Never believing anyone could love you whether you did anything or not?

I can’t identify the source of this erroneous thinking. All I know is I’ve been feeling this way about God, too. Somewhere along the way, I stopped believing He is good and that He loves me.

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And then, when I was utterly helpless, love showed up.

When my therapist walked me to my car because I could hardly stand without pain.

When my husband left work early two days in a row to help me.

When my kids spent their four-day weekend cooped up in the house with me, bringing me food and learning to do laundry.

When my husband would come home from work, exhausted, and turn up the tunes to wash dishes with the kids.

When the snow fell for 24 hours straight and he shoveled the driveway and took the kids out to build a fort.

When the meals poured in from unexpected sources.

All of these actions screamed a message I couldn’t ignore:

You are loved.

You are loved.

You are loved.

I don’t have to earn it. The best kind of love isn’t earned. It is given over and over again.

I am loved. Even when I am stuck in bed and my house is a mess and I’ve binge-watched Gilmore Girls for weeks.

I am loved. Period. End of story.

And so are you.

What keeps you from believing it?

Fighting for life

I’m averaging a good cry about once a day for the last two weeks. When I “discovered” a back injury two Wednesdays ago and have since been mostly confined to my bed while my children and husband fetch things for me, I have had some good sobbing fits, mostly feeling sorry for myself and how awful it must be for my husband to have to take care of me. I have cried when he washes dishes and plays with the children and when he looks so tired from work and then home-work and then caring for me. I have cried for my own pitiful self and this body that is not working properly (and I’m blaming myself for not taking care better of me, as if by feats of will and strength I could have prevented any pain or suffering from happening to me ever).

I have let the tears flow so much that my explanations to the children of why I cannot get up and help them have been followed by my son’s seemingly uncaring response: “I know. And you’re probably gonna cry about it now.” (He’s 6. And logical. Mostly.)

I am embarrassed, sometimes by my tears and the pity I feel at my awful situation and how frustrated I am to be so dependent on others. After two weeks, I am walking without help again and doing most things for myself, and today, I almost forgot that I’d had a back injury, except for the way my body flinches a little if I try to take it too fast.

It is times like these that I wonder if I actually have any fight in me. When the going gets tough, I don’t even want to get going. I just want to curl up under the covers and cry until the going goes away.

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A few months ago, I read The Martian. I’ve yet to see the movie and I wasn’t sure I’d like the book, but one page was all it took. Aside from the humor in the writing and the unique setting (Mars), the story raised challenging questions about survival and how a person might live if facing certain and imminent death.

Stranded on Mars with limited supplies, would astronaut Mark Watney roll over and die, giving up from the start, or would he fight for his survival? (I don’t think I’m spoiling anything by suggesting it’s the latter. It would have been a short book otherwise.)

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I think of the strong people I know,  those who have fought to overcome difficulties and disabilities for a chance at living.

I know a mom who is caring for a child she did not birth, whose first year of life was not as it should be. The child was kept alive but not given the chance to live. Over this child was spoken a lot of nevers. And yet with a mom willing to fight for a better life, this child, though delayed compared to others of the same age, is learning to live in the world. This child will hear and grow and speak and walk because someone was willing to fight for life.

I think of the man who always had two legs until the day a motorcycle accident caused him to lose part of one. And how he had to learn to walk again, except not on the two legs he was born with.

I think of a woman whose body is wracked with a dozen diseases, and she fights them with humor and joy, donning superhero costumes for chemo treatments. Her body is working against her but her spirit cannot be killed.

I think of the man caring for his young wife though her mind is not what it was. I hear the tired in his words, and I sense the fight wavering. Still, he presses on to bring her back to herself.

I hold these up not as evidence of superhumanity because they are flesh and blood like you and me. (And I cannot say for certain if they have had times of wanting to give up.)

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They are, to me, evidence of the difference between being alive and living.

“Alive” and “living” are not necessarily  the same thing. We can be technically alive in our bodies and not be living. Even in the face of death, disability or suffering, we can fight for a better life.

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Healing is a slow process.

I know there are stories of instant healings, of a touch or a prayer bringing long-awaited relief, but those often seem the exception. Most healing I’ve encountered is slow, steady, labor. Hard work. Endurance.

It is frustrating and riddled with setbacks. Progress isn’t always measured the way we would like.

As I lay on my back these last 12 days, I have also cried about the slowness of my healing. But my body didn’t break down in a day so how could I expect healing to come quickly?

It is scary, sometimes, the slow healing. Because when you’re flat on your back for so long, you begin to wonder if you’ll ever get back up.

Isn’t it sometimes easier just to stay down?

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Do your stretches. Walk past the bathroom to the kitchen first. Don’t overdo it. It’s OK to rest.

These are the kinds of encouragement I heard while I was down. And while I’m frustrated to have “lost” two weeks of productive life (I should put that in quotes, too), who’s to say these days haven’t been profitable?

I have spent more time with the kids. I’ve had to let people help me. I’ve read a lot. I’ve gotten hooked on a new show. (Okay, maybe that’s not exactly profitable.) I’ve listened. And waited.

In the past, I have tied my value as a person to what I do. How busy I am or how many things I can cross off a list in a day. These two weeks have reminded me that the value of a life is not in what a person does but in who she is.

Profitable, indeed.