Cardiac Conundrum

2017 has been, well, tough. My husband’s job was unexpectedly outsourced in March and we’re in a holding pattern in finding a new one. I awake in the morning wondering how will we pay our bills, and, more than that, what will happen to our nonprofit, A Spacious Place? The grant we’d hoped for, prayed for, fell through. The added stress of job searching coupled with nonprofit and small-business work netted me a respiratory infection that just wouldn’t quit. Hesitant to visit the doctor and add to our bills during the job-free season, I finally yielded as the Christmas holidays approached. I got the kind of surprise you don’t hope for at the doctor’s office.

I came in, expecting antibiotics and cough medicine, but found myself hooked up to EKG wires. (Once you top 60, you get extra scrutiny from medical professionals.) Something, apparently, was amiss. After my exam, the medical community moved at light speed. A little alarming.

Thanks to the antibiotics and cough medicine I’d received along with diagnosis “”heart questionable,” I was feeling better physically. But the wheels were set in motion and I found myself in an exam room at the Heart Hospital, staring at a three-D rendering of a human heart. “”You have a heart murmur,” pronounced the cardiologist. “”We need to do an echocardiogram.”

More money: my grad-school daughters this very year would be completing degrees and starting to pay off student loans. And more waiting: dandy.

My echo appointment was scheduled for 7 a.m. on Dec. 26. Fortunately, the holiday season kept us so busy there wasn’t much time to stew on “what ifs.” Still, it was there, in the back of our minds as we baked cookies, sang carols, and unwrapped gifts. What would next Christmas be like? Would A Spacious Place even exist?

At 7:05 a.m. on Boxing Day, a lovely and professional young woman, kind enough to ask about our Christmas even though her hijab evidenced her Muslim faith, handed me a hospital-blue poncho. As I lay on my left side, she pressed a wand against my chest. For 25 minutes, I breathed out, held it, took a breath, breathed out, held it.

“”You have a beautiful heart,” she said, finally. “”It looks like the heart of a teenager.” And then I breathed easier. When, two days later, I received a call from the cardiologist’s office stating that my heart pumping was normal, it was all-out celebration time.

Celebration time consisted of a sausage biscuit off McDonald’s dollar menu. But, accompanying our frugal feast rang in my head a snippet of a German carol: “How great our joy: joy, joy, joy/Praise we the Lord in heaven on high….” The tune played in my head through the day, particularly the three-fold rendering of the word, “joy.” The word swelled with each repetition until the final sung “joy” becomes joy itself.

We’re still in limbo: still job seeking, still seeking funding for A Spacious Place. But something has changed. A corner turned. A resurrection begun. Looking toward 2018 I’m determined. Determined not to accept the assumption that I should wind down my life because I’ve walked this earth for 63 years. Because the miracle of my journey through a cardiology conundrum is discovering I don’t have the heart of a teenager. I find today, beating in my chest, the heart of a child: eager, open, wonder-filled. And I can’t wait to see what God has in store in 2018. And in all the years to come.

 

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Housing Grief

In our neighborhood sits a fire-gutted house. For months it sat, its yard weed ridden and rodent infected, its shattered windows like eyes into a dead soul. How long would it be left in that state? Why not just tear it down and rebuild?

Then in came the troops. First, the lawn was mown. Then, inside, fresh wood transformed the space from empty into potential. Outside, the crew built additions onto the existing structure. The house was, at its soul, what it had been, but also something new. A resurrection house.

The house reminds me that fires come. They destroy what has been. And we grieve. Grief takes the time it takes. Slowly, we’re opened to hope—not for what was, but for what might be. A resurrection. A soul house transformed.

This Eastertide season finds our family in loss. Last month, my husband’s job was outsourced. The life we’d known, the life we’d counted on, is gone. At 60+, we look out at the world through broken windows. Around us, as we wait and watch for what will be, we see resurrection. In nature. In the lives of others. In fire-gutted houses.

Whatever you are grieving, I hope for you clear evidence of resurrection. And with it, anticipation of fresh, new life.

Celebration Times, Come On!

DancingAt a creativity camp in days gone by, our campers created original films. We explored shot angles, storylines, and pacing. One group wrapped their film with an animated rendering of Kool and the Gang’s song, “Celebration.” Except, instead of the original lyrics: “Celebrate good times, come on,” our gang belted out, “Celebration Times: come on!” Those words, sung with gusto, have become legend at our nonprofit, A Spacious Place.

We’ve entered Celebration Times. On the Christian calendar, Easter Sunday opens the door onto the Easter season, which culminates fifty days later on Pentecost Sunday. But whatever your faith walk, spring is surely a season of celebration: tissue-paper pinks of the redbud trees; vibrant reds and yellows of the Indian blankets; deep, serene blues and purples of the bluebonnets.

And our current world climate makes celebration times especially needful. In the words of Abraham Lincoln: “With the fearful strain that is on me day and night, if I did not laugh I should die.” The joy of the Lord is, indeed, our strength.

How we rock our Celebration Time is as individual as our souls. Below are some possibilities:

  1. Put on some dance music and let loose.
  2. Read a book just for fun (that’s right—the one you’ve been eyeing in the grocery store).
  3. Call someone you’ve not spoken to in a while. Laugh together over good memories.
  4. Create something that delights you (you knew that one was coming).
  5. Cook a feast, invite some friends, and watch Chocolat or Babette’s Feast.
  6. Dress up—even if it means wearing that new stunner to the grocery store (the produce section deserves our respect).
  7. Go on, belt it out! Studies show that singing eases depression.

So…Cut loose.

Party.

Fiesta.

It’s Celebration Time—come on!