Hummin' for Jesus

Our minister stands at the front of the sanctuary every Sunday.  He’s a tall man, thin, graying, in love with his work.   He reaches into the water of the baptismal  font, pulls hands dripping with water up and lets the water flow through his fingers back into the font and says, “Welcome home, children of God.”

For Marty and I, this place, this church,  has always been kind of home, a place populated with familiar and friendly faces, a place with recognizable comfortable beauty, a place that more often than not nurtured our souls, a place where we were able to guide and nurture others.

This was where I saw my children grow in spirit and in life.  This is where what I thought I knew of life was challenged and evolved.  This is where it was safe to think and to be.  This is where my children stood in front of our congregation and taught.  This is where tears ran down my face as another infant was baptized.  This is where my daughter was married and my marriage was restored.  It is, in so many ways, home.

Like many of the places we have called home over the years Marty’s wheelchair, her strokes, our age have impacted how often we were able to visit and how much we have been able to reconnect.  All too often we have been strangers in this home and the time gone by has brought change.

We no longer sit in the front left of the sanctuary, we always sat in the 2^nd or 3^rd row because we came in through the front door and that’s where the church youth sat and we rode herd on the kids.  We no longer know all of the faces in the congregation.  We no longer have young charges to sit behind and hush as they passed notes and squirmed and made kid noises; we no longer stand and sing the hymns we know by heart or stand to say the creeds.  We no longer sit in total reverent silence as the prayers are read, as the scripture is read, as the sermon is preached. (The whole reverent silence might be overstated just a bit, Marty was never that reverent or silent.)

Today we sit in the back to be as unobtrusive as possible and because the wheel chair ramp is closest to the back.  Today there are no young people sitting in front of us, today I sit beside Marty holding the hymnal for her as the congregation stands and sings, today in the quietest parts of the service instead of bowing our head in prayer, Marty hums, “MMM, MMM, MMM.”

I’ve gotten used to the humming; its part of what Marty does when she gets a little anxious, a little bored, a little self conscious.  It’s why we go to the movies in the afternoon, it’s why we don’t go to poetry readings (like we would anyway, sorry), it’s why we try and avoid the quiet moments, “MMM, MMM, MMM.”

We sat in the back as Jimmie, our minister, welcomed all of us and Marty hummed.  We listened as Jimmie led us through the liturgy and Marty hummed.  We listened as the scriptures were read and Marty hummed, we listened as the choir sang an anthem and Marty hummed, we listened to the sermon and Marty hummed, we watched the parade of little children come tumbling down the middle aisle to participate in the miracle that is baptism and Marty hummed.

It tends to make me a little anxious, I really don’t want to offend anyone or distract them from whatever is happening.  I hated it for the poor young woman who sat in front of us.  At one point in time I gently touched Marty on the knee to get her attention and distract her from the hum, she looked at me and said in her outdoor voice, “What?”  She’s not even aware she’s doing it.  Great job husband, let’s make it worse and call more attention to ourselves.

I finally just settled into the rhythm of the service, the rhythm of the day, the rhythm of the humming.  It was a change in our home, our church, our worship pattern; it was more of what we have become.  It was not the quiet, reverent praying, it was humming, it was humming as meditation, it was humming to fill the silence, it was humming as prayer, it was humming for Jesus.

We are an evolving species.  That evolution becomes clear and stark in the face of catastrophic events, i.e. strokes.  Survival requires not only recognition of this evolution but acceptance; we must embrace the change to survive.  

I need to sit in that church and hum along with Marty, after all, people hum when they meditate.  I need to let the humming focus me on the prayer, on the scripture, on the song, on the sermon.  I need to hum with Marty and accept this is where we are; I need to very simply hum for Jesus, just as Marty does.  Hopefully the people sitting around Marty will find a way to evolve too then we call all hum for God.

I like going to our church.  Marty likes seeing her friends there, we love our minister and he has helped both of us shape our world view and helped us cope with our journey.  Going requires acceptance, going requires effort to break from the inertia of not going, going is being back home with all of the other children of God.  I like being home.

Crying Over the Right Things

Out of the blue she said, “You’re doing a really good job,”

I said, “Of what?”

“Taking care of me.”

In my life I have done some things, I have been some places, I have received some accolades. I have been praised by people in high places who had good reason to praise me, I have received awards, I have even had standing ovations after I spoke at a couple of gatherings. I love praise and admiration; I loved it when I was successful at my job, I’m a middle child, I live for approval.

None of that compares with the sweet, unprompted praise from Marty, “You’re doing a real good job.” The things that are most important, the words that mean the most have changed for me. Perspectives change as life affects you.

Somewhere along the line my feelings, the intensity of my feelings, my emotions have been amped up several notches. Small words of praise and kind phrases mean more, failure has more consequence, and fear is very real. In our previous lives Marty was the fiery one, the one who laughed the loudest, cried the longest and savored life the most. I enjoyed things, I felt things, but not like Marty, not to the same degree or extent she did.

Today, Marty’s affect is pretty flat. I know she experiences joy, fear, sadness, and the entire panorama of emotions; she simply is not as obvious with her feelings, you have to really know her and understand how her eyes speak for her. Me, my eyes, my mouth, my facial expressions have all combined to betray my faux stoicism. I have become the one who cries easier, who laughs louder and who carries their emotions more for the world to see.

The reason for the role reversal is very simple; the journeys we have been through have created a complete new normal for both of us and have emphasized the critical stakes of our day-to-day existence. Normal life mistakes, sins of omission, inaction have much higher consequences. When life’s events present you with the opportunity to look at your wife and see her slipping away from the here and now, when you have the chance to say to her, “don’t you leave me now”, it gives you a different perspective and life feels more intense and decisions feel more impactful and important.

In our life fear, guilt, distress and anxiety are all more amplified but, so are the joy, gratitude and love. Hearing Marty say, “Good job”, or “I love you” means more to me today than ever before and have a lasting impact on my day and my entire life. These simple words of praise far outstrip any past successes.

Perspective is an interesting thing. So often we don’t even know we have lost it and then we can’t find it when we most need it. Too often we bask in the unimportant, we revel in the minor. For me, for us, it took earth shaking changes to gain perspective, to understand what is really important for our lives together. I’m glad I found it, I’m glad I have a better understanding of the importance of our union and Marty’s approval, I wish I hadn’t wasted so much time searching for the golden ring in other places.

The words, “You are doing a really good job,” have never meant so much.

Lessons from an Eccentric

I can still remember riding in Marty’s parent’s big, grey Lincoln Town car that night. It was way back in the 20th century, the 70’s to be exact. It was a warm summer night in the panhandle of Texas and we were telling Marty’s parents, Arty and Jean, we were planning on getting married the following January. It was a horrifying, anxiety-ridden, sweat provoking experience for a young man who up till now had never accomplished or done anything of consequence. Marty and I were both still relative babes.

Marty’s Father, Arty, was this sort of John Wayne’sque, big, burly, rough, self-made, agricultural entrepreneur. The whole situation was completely intimidating for a long-haired do-nothing who really wanted to marry the man’s one and only baby daughter. My most fervent desire was to simply get past this entire conversation. We were in the back of this huge car, the west Texas night air still warm but cooling as the sun had set. Arty had the air conditioning in the car running full blast but I was still really hot. As I recall little beads of sweat were running down the middle of my back sticking my shirt to my back and my back to the leather of the back seat.

Marty’s Mom, Jean, was your pretty typical farmer’s wife, though not nearly as quiet and unassuming as she often pretended. Jean was a very passive-aggressive, independent woman and she was more than just a little bit of what we can politely call, eccentric. She could say and sometimes do the oddest things and woe unto the wait staff that didn’t keep her coffee cup filled. She had recently, at the insistence of Arty, quit smoking and she was forever chewing Nicorette gum and I think privately cursing Arty for putting her through this perpetual nicotine withdrawal. She was not a woman to be trifled with.

Just as we were going over a set of railroad tracks I sort of stumbled and blurted out that Marty and I wanted to get married; it’s funny what you remember and funny what you forget, I don’t remember my exact words but I remember slowing over the railroad tracks. Arty slowed the car just enough to gently roll over the tracks and kind of growled, “I’m not that surprised, I think that will be okay.” I remember feeling a small sense of relief. At least he let me stay in the car, when he slowed for the tracks I thought he might toss me on the pavement.

Arty growled and harrumphed a couple more times as we kept riding in the car toward Rita Blanca Lake, the only body of water within 100 miles. I figured I would be okay if he tried to drown me, the lake wasn’t that deep and I figured I could swim better than some old farmer.

Jean, who had been stone quite, finally turned and looked at Marty and I as we sat in the back seat. She sort of looked me up and down, then turned to Marty and speaking to both of us said, “That’s fine with me as long as you both say you can love and accept each other just as you are today, right now. You both need to know neither of you will ever change that much, you will not be able to change each other; you will not be able to fix each other. Can you say that?”

I was a bit stupefied. The person who was clearly the flakiest person in the car had very succinctly offered this very insightful, wonderfully simple advice; she intuitively provided the sage wisdom of one who has been there and known a successful and enduring marriage. Jean was clearly right, Jean was dead on, beyond making a commitment to get married, Marty and I had to make a commitment of acceptance of each other as we were right then, not what we dreamed we might become.

It was too simple, we couldn’t promise to love, honor and cherish until we died thinking, “oh I like most of her, and I can fix the rest over the years.” It just doesn’t work that way. We do grow, we do change, we do evolve, but as Jean said, we needed to be able to love and accept each other as were right then, at that moment because at our core, we are what we are and you can’t count on people changing to meet your ideas of perfection.

Me, I have always been full of advice, confident in my ignorance, borderline bombastic in my pontification. I do like to listen to myself expound from time-to-time. If I have said, “You need to” once I’ve said it a thousand times, I cringe every time I hear myself say it, but I know a lot of good stuff and other people need to listen.

I can honestly say the best advice I give, even when not asked, is what Jean told Marty and I so many years ago. That evening a reasonably frightened young man and his prospective bride heard wise words that we have tried to heed for over 30 years, because after all, as we change, as we evolve, we still need to accept who we are, right then.