When STANDING just isn't enough....

I’ve said before that if you can’t keep going, dig in your heels and just STAND.

I think I was wrong.

When you stop, the weight and the force of the world are coming against you. (After all, if you are walking with Christ, you ARE walking against the current of the world.)

And no matter how hard you fight it, that current can be mighty strong.

In the middle of a trial, you can be battle-drawn and weary. You may long to stop and rest. You may even want to surrender completely to the enemy, as it seems you are on the losing side.

But you aren’t.

That’s where faith comes in.

You have to KNOW that if you are in God’s army, you are on the winning team.

The war has already been won and the battle you are in is so very minute in comparison.

It may not feel so inconsequential though, especially when you are in the midst of it.

It may feel as if the whole universe has come against you.

That’s why you have to keep your eyes on Him and KEEP MOVING.

It’s the only way to keep from falling down.

I’ll admit I’m in the midst of a trial I do not understand at all. I don’t know if I’m lacking patience, faith, or obedience. Maybe I’m being tested. I don’t even know how I’m doing on this test.

I’m probably at about a C+ right now.

I honestly don’t know.

A week ago I completely lost the hearing in my right ear.

Thinking it was a simple fix, I tried a couple of tried-and-true ear opening methods. When those failed, I reached out on social media. I tried a few more things. I even went to a walk-in clinic and was given a clean bill of ear health.

Over the next few days later other seemingly unrelated symptoms popped up and I thought maybe I was coming down with the flu on top of a sinus infection.

On Sunday morning, I laid it all out for the Lord as we partook in the Lord’s Supper. I felt His presence and I knew I would be healed.

Only I wasn’t. Or maybe I was but the healing hadn’t manifested itself.

In any case, I broke down in tears afterward. I was so sure I’d be jumping up and down praising the Lord for restoring my hearing in that service that I never considered otherwise.

I was heartbroken.

I napped Sunday afternoon and returned to the evening service a little less enthusiastic. It was hard to hear, hard to concentrate. But I still believed.

So at the end of the service I called upon the elders of the church to pray over me. I was going to do  EVERYTHING by the (Good) Book.

Once again, I expected to share my delight at being able to hear again.

It still didn’t happen.

I went to bed frustrated, though not angry. I can’t let anger in; it is too hard to let go.

Was I doing something wrong?

I didn’t believe the Lord was punishing me nor did I believe he wanted this for me.

But what WAS He thinking?

I needed more time? More faith? More patience?

If I went back to the doctor, would that be wrong? A lack of faith? Impatience?

Or was it foolish NOT to go? To possibly treat something before it got worse…

I didn’t know.

I did know, however, that I couldn’t just STAND. Because I kept getting knocked flat on my rear and was ready to give everything up, ministry included. How could I help people when I couldn’t hear?

Even the dogs were aggravating me as their barks reverberated in my head, sounding louder in the one good ear and causing a headache. Their kisses, which I normally adore, were as irritating as nails on a chalkboard.

I couldn’t live like this.

I made the decision to see an ENT (Ear, Nose, and Throat doctor). I searched online since I didn’t know one here and found a doctor with great reviews in Mobile.

They were able to see me that afternoon.

What I didn’t realize was that this doctor specialized in auditory issues so I was given a comprehensive hearing screening upon arrival.

The news was not surprising.

Sudden hearing loss in my right ear.

I had that part figured out.

However, I expected him to discover a raging sinus infection the general practitioner had missed, give me some antibiotics, and, WORST CASE SCENARIO, have to surgically clear out my tube.

That wasn’t the case.

He diagnosed me with a non-rash form of shingles which had attacked the right side of my body.

That made sense.

The right toenails I’d ripped off because they felt like they were attacking my feet. The chest pains that I dismissed because they were on the right side only. The increased back pain I attributed to my increased consumption of Christmas candy.

It was all related.

But then came the scary part.

He could prescribe steroids and an antiviral for the symptoms of shingles but the hearing loss might be permanent.

Even worse, he suspected an acoustic neuroma. This is a small, noncancerous tumor on the nerve between the brain and the inner ear. It is confirmed with an MRI, way out of my price range without insurance. Then another hearing test back in his office, extensive enough that I must have a driver.

In the meantime I am praying for healing to avoid all of this. But in the event that it doesn’t come?

I decided I would just accept it.

Which is a little tricky.

Because I don’t accept illness as something God wants.

But if I don’t accept this, at least for now, I will put my life on hold. I will use it as an excuse to stop ministering, to crawl in a hole and have a pity party, and I will destroy everything.

I know.

I’ve done it before.

A few years ago, following back surgery, I quit living. Alienating my family and friends, I lived in a world of television and four walls, angry, depressed, and wishing I was dead.

I will not go back there.

So while I believe in a complete and total healing, I will not sit idly by waiting for it to happen. I am going to keep walking, even if it’s at a snail’s pace, until that day.

It’s a trial I don’t understand, one I may never understand this side of glory, but one I will willingly go through because it’s only a battle, not the war.

The war for my soul has already been won and the price He paid for that was more than I will ever have to endure.

 

 

Standing in the gap...or standing in the way?

I don't give up easily.

Actually, if someone tells me not to do something, I usually dig my heels in and do it anyway out of spite.

That's probably one of my less godly traits.

I can be stubborn...and rebellious.

I also have a soft spot for the underdog, be it a sports team or a person.

I figure they need all the extra help they can get.

So it isn't surprising that I can be found on the streets giving all I have, and often getting nothing in return.

Because it isn't about me anyway.

I've pleaded with the Lord to heal people near death, to deliver from addiction, and to show mercy when it wasn't deserved or even desired.

I've begged to stand in the gap and intercede for those I've grown to care deeply for.

But yesterday something new happened.

He told me to walk away.

It isn't the first time I've backed off from someone on the streets. Sometimes they need a little more time in the hole before they hit rock bottom and reach up. Some never do.

But I'm never more than an arm's length away from anyone who reaches out.

Until now.

Scooter, who I've written about several times, has a very special place in my heart. I care deeply for him and I would consider him a friend. Even when he is not doing well (which has been the case for the last three months) he still stays in touch by text and I occasionally visit.

Last week he had his third opportunity to get true help. He had the equivalent of a winning lottery ticket, a free apartment and furnishings, and the opportunity to get off the streets for the first time in ten years. He fell apart (fear?) the first two times this came to pass and got so drunk he was unable to even carry on a decent conversation.

On Thursday we talked about this. He wasn't going to let it happen this time. He knew he had self-sabotaged. He knew he may never get another chance like this. He was ready.

Friday morning he was in that exact same place again, unable to even come out of his tent.

That door closed with the housing organization.

I was aggravated, but it didn't stop me from caring or wanting to help him some other way.

But then Sunday morning came.

I stopped at Tent City to pick up for church, as usual, and even though I knew Scooter wouldn't come (he hasn't been in a few months) I wanted to step in and say hello.

My feet were like lead.

I literally couldn't move.

What's going on, I wondered.  Lord?

That's it, He told me. You are done here. When he texts (and I knew he would) you are to tell him that you don't walk away unless the Lord tells you to and this seems to be between him and God.

I tried to explain, to expound, in my head what else I would say.

No. I've told you what to say. Not a word more or a word less.

I got it.

I hate it because I will be just another person who he feels has abandoned him. But I'm not going to interfere with what the Lord is doing.

After all, He is the reason I'm out there.

I thought I was standing in the gap...

Turns out I was just standing in the way.

My Stalker Died and I'm Not Sure How I Feel About It

I just found out that my stalker died and I really don't know how I should be feeling.

Relieved? Elated? Safe?

He once told me if he couldn't have me, no-one would.

But that was over fifteen years ago, and even then, I didn't want him to die.

I just wanted a normal friendship.

I met T.C. when I was seventeen years old. I was a wild child with the immunity of a daddy in politics, and I was pushing every limit I could find. I fell in with a rough crowd, quickly achieving golden girl status as one of the only females around with all of my teeth and long blonde hair. They called me Goldilocks, Goldie for short.

I was also one of the only ones with a non-suspended driver's license so I frequently rode shotgun. I didn't realize why until the first time we got pulled over.

The driver was in his passenger seat and I found myself behind the steering wheel before we even came to a complete stop. I was so naive.

But while the wisdom came later in life, the heart for those in need came early.

Like the day I met T.C.

I'd gone to his house with one of the older girls I'd been hanging with. She said he got a check on the first of every month so he would have a bag of weed. All we had to do was go and be nice to him and he'd smoke some with us for free.

I was all in.

I liked him and I enjoyed our visit. Of course my main mission in life at that point was to get high so my expectations were low.

A few days later I asked my friend when we were going back to visit T.C.

"Oh, not til next month," she replied. "He only has weed for the first day then he's out til he gets his next check."

Now using guys for drugs wasn't exactly new territory for me but I felt really bad for him. Here was this 30-something year old guy who was being completely used by young women like me.

So I went to visit armed with two grocery bags.

"I've come to cook dinner for us," I told a shocked as I walked through the door.

"I don't have any smoke," he said as I made myself at home in his kitchen.

"That's okay," I said. "I didn't come for the pot. I came for a pot," I quipped as I started cooking.

We had a nice meal and I continued to visit every couple of weeks.

I had no romantic interest in him, but I did develop deep platonic feelings. I think whatever was broken inside of me recognized that something was broken deep inside him as well.

Over the next year I learned that T.C. had survived a tragic childhood. At the age of six, he witnessed his mother's murder at the hands of his father, who then turned the knife on him. The scars were brutal. Growing up in foster homes, he tormented other children and pets until he was returned, repeatedly, to social services.

At seventeen he moved out on his own, receiving a Social Security check for a multi-diagnoses mental disability. He was proud of the fact that the local Medicaid and Food Stamp Offices were so scared of him they granted him lifetime benefits, no recertification necessary.

He got his drugs and his girls when his check came in and once did time for handcuffing a prostitute to the bed for two weeks.

"I can't help it. I'm just crazy," he said. "You better be careful. I might do the same to you. I never know how I will act."  

I called him out on that right away. "You don't fool me one bit, T.C." I told him. "You only act crazy so people will leave you alone. You know EXACTLY what you are doing."

That was the day he fell in love with me.

Only I didn't realize it at first.

What I DID realize was that he looked at me dumbfounded and said, "You are one smart little girl. I can't believe you are so young." I gave some flippant remark and we watched a little t.v. before I headed home. There was never anything sexual between us.

As the months went on, I started college and a part-time job at a daycare center. My visits with T.C. dwindled down and he was enraged.

Hiring a taxi to drive him to my work, he sat outside for several days in a row watching me.

He sent a mixed tape to my house ("Don't You Forget About Me" from the Breakfast Club soundtrack was featured prominently) along with a letter that said he was going to enroll in every one of my college classes and sit behind me until I talked to him.

I reluctantly told my dad what was going on.

I'm not sure exactly what happened after that, but I'm pretty sure that Dad's job as police chief and the radio silence from T.C. that followed were somehow related.

I didn't hear from him again for a couple of years.

Worried about him and having no good sense whatsoever, I went to visit.

He had nobody and I wanted to make sure he knew that I still cared, that SOMEONE in the world cared if he lived or died.

I told him all about my new boyfriend (and future husband).

He did NOT take the news well.

He started calling and following me again and I had no choice but to cut off all contact. Again.

I really didn't want to.

I didn't want to be yet another person in his life that abandoned him.

But I had no choice.

A few years later I was married and teaching fifth grade when the local tv station ran a human interest story on something my classroom was doing.

The next day a dozen roses appeared in my classroom.

He wanted me to know that he knew where to find me.

I think he received another not-so-subtle warning from the police department.

A few months later I had emergency surgery and was in my hospital room alone, hopped up on pain pills, when I had the stupid idea to call him.

That resulted in an armed guard outside my hospital room until I was discharged and me scrambling to explain how he knew where I was.

My then-husband, unbound by the letter of the law, paid him a visit.  

That was the last time I ever saw or heard from him.

But not the last time I thought of him.

I hated it. I really wanted to be his friend. I really hated the thought of someone, ANYONE, living in this world with absolutely no-one who cared.

I cared.

He just couldn't know.

When I first started working with the homeless, particularly with the mentally ill, I immediately thought of T.C.

How is he? What is he doing? Is he still alive?

I tried to track him down online. I wasn't sure if I would do anything with it, but I wanted to know.

I asked my dad. "Remember that guy?"

"I think he died," my dad responded. Immediately.

I'm pretty sure he was just making sure I didn't open that can of worms, no matter what calling was now on my life.

From time to time I'd think of him, especially when I'd meet someone new on the streets who had no-one.

At least they now had ME.

And if I couldn't still be T.C.'s friend, I could be a friend to them.

Then today I got the news.

My son, now an officer for the same dept. my dad once ran, had remembered me talking about my desire to know how T.C. was doing. He'd be turning 66 next month and I still hated the thought of him celebrating each birthday alone.

My son sided with my dad in wanting to make sure I didn't stir a hornet's nest. "I know you, Mom," he'd protest. "If I find him, you're going to try to save him. You'll say you won't, but you will. I know you." He's right. I probably would have.

But he also knew I'd keep asking until I knew. I can be persistent, especially when it comes to those I care about.

So he ran a search.

T.C. died in 2004.

Alone.

There was no service, no obituary, no-one to notify.

I don't know how long he was dead before anyone noticed. My guess is the landlord went in when the rent was due and found him.

I didn't know how to react.

I wasn't surprised; I'd half-expected it despite the absence of his death anywhere online.

But I was sad.

I mourned his childhood, the one he'd have had if his mother had lived. Or the one he could've had if someone had seen past the actions of a scared, angry little boy.

I mourned his adult life, the thirty-seven years society shut him up in a rental and told him to stay away.

Most of all I mourned our friendship, one I couldn't maintain but never forgot.





 

In a weird way, a compliment...

I pick up homeless guys for church every Sunday. It is usually a different group each week, all with varying degrees of sobriety any given Sunday.

But they are trying, I'll give them that.

And they all try to persuade others to come.

My homeless guys are better than most of my church members at bringing guests.

But last Sunday, something happened that seemed like an insult, but was probably the biggest compliment ever.

One of the guys started telling me about another homeless guy I'd never met.

"I keep telling him he needs to meet you but he just runs off," Brian told me.

Brian is prone to exaggeration so I figured he was being dramatic.

Then I got a little offended.

What have I done that's so bad this guy doesn't want to meet me.

Several others piped up.

"I know him too."

"I tried to get him to come to church too."

"I gave him your card," Pete said.

Pete's always been pretty on-the-level with me so I was curious how this exchange went.

After all, I'd never even HEARD of the guy they were discussing, much less met him.

"What did he say?" I held my breath. (Sometimes I forget this isn't about me. This was one of those times.)

"He dropped that card like it was on fire and took off running as fast as he could."

"That's what he did with ME," Brian exclaimed.

I was silently stewing. How dare he act like there's something wrong with me?

Then it hit me. Rather, the Lord served a gentle wake-up call.

This wasn't about me at all.

This is a spiritual battle.

And a guy I've never met is terrified of me.  

Not only does the Lord know my name but Satan does too.

And he ran scared.

I think that's about the best compliment I've ever gotten!

A Long Hard Look at Myself Through a Small, Round Dental Mirror

I have had a time lately with my teeth.

A broken tooth led to an abscess, which eventually led to a root canal.

It has been several weeks of pure torture.

I didn't realize how much this was affecting my entire mood until my new little puppy went into a full-on panic mode when I began laughing hysterically at a clip from America's Funniest Home Videos.

"What's wrong with him?" I asked my husband. "Do I not laugh anymore?"

"Not in a long time," he begrudgingly admitted.

Taken aback and more than a little ashamed of myself, I vowed to do better, no matter how bad I was feeling.

My efforts were less than stellar.

Quite frankly, I'm a big baby when I don't feel well. I want my mommy and I want everyone else to leave me alone.

But I did have enough wisdom to know not to make any decisions, especially regarding the ministry, while I was feeling this way.

Because I was ready to abandon the entire homeless ministry. They weren't changing, nobody cared, I was wasting my time....

Of course that wasn't entirely true. We'd gotten two people off the streets during this period and I'd attended the graduation of a girl I never expected to complete her rehab stay. Not only did she graduate, she was hired on to staff!

So there were some positive moments.

Lesson: It is so easy to skew your vision based on your mood and mindset.

I did, however, back off a little from some of my "regulars" who frequently regard me as their personal shopper and chauffeur.

"What do they think I am, a taxi?" I'd snap to my husband.

"They aren't any different than they've always been," he replied.

This was true. The difference was definitely me. So I tried to to get out of the flesh and back in the Spirit.

Lesson: It is VERY hard to ignore the flesh when the flesh is hurting.

So I did what is probably considered  a cardinal sin for ministers.

I blocked several numbers.

Not content with just keeping my ringer off, I actually blocked the numbers of my most high-maintenance people. I not only didn't want to answer their calls, I didn't even want to know that they called.

It was a much quieter week and after the first few days, I didn't even feel bad that I'd blocked them.

Then came yesterday.

It was time to return to the original dentist, the one who'd sent me to the endodontist for the root canal. He was to put a permanent filling in before making a mold for a crown. (At this point, I'm wondering why I didn't listen to my husband and just pull the thing weeks ago but I was almost through by then.)

Lacking the refined techniques of the specialist, he bumbled around in my mouth hitting my lip, tongue, and non-numbed gums. Gripping the chair's armrests, I was admittedly jumpy, but pretty still given the fact that I didn't want my tongue drilled down as well.

I can only assume this somehow insulted the good doctor, as he actually got mad at me for being uncomfortable.

"This is between you and me now," he grumbled.

What is he talking about? I wondered. Is he sending the technician out?

I've opted to use the laughing gas, and while I wasn't laughing, I was fairly relaxed, albeit confused.

"There's going to be no charge for today and I never want to see you again. You will find someone else."

Wait, what? What's happening? I dared to open my eyes to see the older gentleman peering into my mouth with the tightest jawline I'd ever seen.

He's mad at me? What?!! Surely the laughing gas has made me delirious. How is this dentist upset at me for being uncomfortable in a dental chair? I mean, right? People aren't relaxed in dental chairs. 

By the time he finished, I was sure that a) I was not hallucinating and b) he was furious at me.

"IN ALL MY FORTY YEARS AS A DENTIST I HAVE NEVER MET A PATIENT AS UNCOOPERATIVE AS YOU!" he screamed as he stormed out of the room.

Unable to hold back tears, I was visibly shaken.

"Wh-wh-what did I do wrong?" I whisper-cried to the sole witness in the room.

"Nothing." She was clearly caught between a rock and hard place. Console the sobbing patient she'd been left with and betray her boss? "You were just a little apprehensive and it made him nervous."

A popular phrase from the 80's immediately popped in my head, one that referred to a fictional detective but also contained a 4-letter word that I no longer use, so I refrained from speaking it.

"Okayyy, but what did I do that was so bad?"

"You didn't do anything wrong. Don't worry about it."

Don't worry about it? DON'T WORRY ABOUT IT?!! Are you kidding me? I've just been left mid-procedure (turns out he WAS finished, just didn't bother cleaning the bits of filling that were all over my mouth) AND banned from a dental office. It's not like I visit the dentist for fun.

The poor guy who was entering the office did a double take as I emerged a hysterical mess. He had to have thought twice about keeping THAT appointment.

I sat in my car trying to compose myself before driving.

I was unsuccessful.

But I didn't want to stay in the parking lot any longer so I drove through my tears.

My first call was to the friend who'd recommended him. She should suffer too, right?! But she was unavailable.

I then called my dad. Daddies make everything better. He would have this guy investigated by the FBI, I was sure of it. But he didn't answer.

I reluctantly called my husband. Now he was feeling the pain of the bill for these procedures already so I wasn't sure how he'd respond.

But like my knight in shining armor he offered to go give the dentist a piece of his mind.

Thank you, but that's okay. I wanted to be angry but I wasn't. I was still too dumbfounded.

What kind of dentist gets mad at a patient for being uncomfortable?!!

I then called my best friend. I was going on an hour post-visit and my crying hadn't even slowed a drop.

She gave me the required encouragement ("You didn't do anything wrong.") with the typical bff back-up ("We're going to report him to the board for this.") punctuated by not-quite-cursing swear words like craptastic.

I finally stopped crying.

But I could not stop repeating the phrase, WHAT KIND OF DENTIST GETS MAD AT A PATIENT FOR BEING UNCOMFORTABLE?

I said it at least every thirty minutes. I thought it even more.

I fell asleep on the couch, emotionally drained while my little puppy looked the salty remnants of tears from my face. Awakening with a slight crick in my neck but a buoyancy in my Spirit, the Lord had prepared my heart during my nap.

As the devil does with things that bother you, the darts started the minute I sat up. Reliving the hurt and humiliation of being thrown out of a dentist's office, that familiar thought crept back in.

What kind of dentist gets mad at a patient for being uncomfortable?  

This time that still, small voice was ready.

Kind of like a minister that gets mad at lost people for not living right...

Talk about humbling oneself in the sight of the Lord...

There was no arguing, no justification. He was right. I'd been wrong.

Yes, the dentist had been wrong but he was in the profession to save teeth, not lives.

I'd blown it big time.

I immediately removed the blocks from my phone.

Not sure how to explain my radio silence, I sent a (slightly misleading) text out.

"Hey how's it going? My notifications on my phone were off so if you called or sent me a message this week I didn't get it."

The relieved texts came flooding in.

"I've texted you all week."  "Thank you! I wondered why you never answered."

I was wrong, but I wouldn't dwell on it. The lesson had been learned and it was a tough one.

Thankfully, He is a forgiving God.

I, too, will have to forgive.

But I still have to find a new dentist.