Again

 

She said it a lot.  I would reach down, Marty would turn her cheek to me, I would kiss her cheek, and she would say, “Do it again”.  I would kiss her cheek again, and she would say again, “Do it again”.  This repeated four maybe five times in a row.

Marty loved being loved.

That wasn’t always the case.  At times during her life Marty struggled with feeling loved, with feeling worthy of love.  Marty wasn’t ever sure she deserved the love and affection of those around her, more important; too often she didn’t feel very lovable.

Over the years, post stroke, that changed.

She loved to be hugged, she loved to be kissed, she loved to hold hands, have another human touch her arm or rest their hand on her shoulder, she loved physical affection.  Marty loved knowing she was loved, and she eagerly accepted that love and the affection that came with it.

None of that meant that Marty couldn’t be exceptionally ornery; occasionally the old Marty would resurrect her tart, acerbic self.  Like, when she told me that my shaggy hair and shorts and sweatshirt were just a little bit of an embarrassment to her.  But, overall, Marty evolved into a sweet and loving human who loved to be loved and was not shy about saying give me some more.

All of us, at times, struggle with the idea of accepting love, accepting care; even from someone we know loves us.  Marty was not alone in that.  We don’t feel worthy of another’s sacrifice, we don’t feel we deserve adulation or praise or affection.  We have that voice in our head rattling around telling us, “You are not worthy, this other person’s love is more than you deserve, I’ve done nothing to cash in such a rich reward. “

In her life Marty felt that, it made her angry, it made her sad, it was frustrating.  She got over that, post strokes.  Marty evolved to a better new normal.  She no longer thought about being worth loving, she didn’t run all the negative talk around in her head.  She found a place in her heart where she would very simply say, “Do it again” with a level of assurance and expectation that you would kiss her cheek as many times as she asked and that it was okay, it was perfect for her to ask, again and again and again.

I attended some business training years ago that focused, to a small degree, on accepting compliments, accepting nice things people say to you.  I learned early in life to be humble and too often I took that humility to absurd levels, not accepting kindness, not accepting good things; with the idea I must pass on kindness from others if I was a truly good human.  We need to learn to accept those kindnesses and simply say thank you, accept the words, accept the love.

After the strokes, all the way to the end Marty knew and loved knowing she was loved passionately.  She absolutely knew she was loved, and I think, remarkably, because of or after devastating strokes, she came to see herself as lovable, worthy, and deserving of my love, of our children’s love, of our family’s love, of our friends' love.  She got it, she understood we can never particularly deserve another’s love and affection, we can never earn that greatest of things through our behavior.

Love, the love of other people, the love of God is given freely, it is not earned, we don’t necessarily deserve the love of others, it is the greatest of things, it is the ultimate gift we give and receive.

When it’s offered we simply need to accept it; we simply have to say, “Do it again.”

 

 

Anger

I would get angry. 

It wasn’t too often but some time something would happen with me or with Marty or any number of other things and I would get mad, mad at the situation, mad at a store clerk, mad at a caregiver, even mad at Marty.

It was almost always stupid stuff but occasionally things would blow and then everything was a mountain.  It was and is a losing proposition.  I recognize it’s a real part of life, we get sad, we get happy, we get mad. It never felt good, it never felt like the purge was worth it.

We would be sitting in our chairs, kicked back, relaxed and then Marty would make an egregious mistake, one that was world shaking,  like spilling her drink on herself and I would have to get off my lazy backside and clean up the mess and her.

I can still hear myself, kvetching, complaining, angrily chastising Marty for something remarkably benign, for something she couldn’t help, for daring to be broken and unable to clean herself or her mess. 

I would rant and rave, she would sit placidly, listening, absorbing the ridiculous anger as I wiped up spilled Diet Coke (hey, it’s sticky).  I would tell her she had to be more careful because of how it affected me.  Too often I would go too long and bless her soul, all Marty would do is apologize.

Eventually sanity would take hold and I would get the mess cleaned up off the chair and off Marty and the quiet in the house would essentially point at me saying, “You are an idiot, this is not worth it.”

I would listen to the quiet and then feel the guilt of being angry at someone who couldn’t or wouldn’t defend themselves.  The guilt would then be something I could be angry about and I would mutter under my breath about how “she” was making me feel. 

Again, idiocy.

At that point in time I would have no choice but to face my own failings and look at Marty and with sincerity, real sincerity, apologize, one more time.  “I’m sorry I got so angry, it was a small thing, it wasn’t worth my reaction.” 

She would simply say, “That’ okay.” 

That’s it, no recriminations I so richly deserved and frankly wanted. She would just say, “It’s okay, I understand.”  And, she would mean it, it was a deep forgiveness, as authentic as one can be when someone else has been unreasonable and angry with you over something stupid. 

Her reaction was both inspiring and maybe a little frightening.  How do you deal with real and total forgiveness when you have acted the fool?  I have to say, there is nothing like it, there is nothing so real, nothing so powerful, nothing so elevating as having someone say to you with meaning, “you are forgiven.”

While too often I felt shame at my unreasonable anger and reactions, the love and kindness my broken bride extended to me was the balm to my bruised psyche. 

“I forgive you.”  Time after time we danced our circular dance and time after time, “I forgive you.” 

Where else do you get that?

Oh yeah, God.  Marty wasn’t God like, she was all too human as was I, but as God granted all of us a reprieve from our sins even when forgiveness wasn’t deserved;  Marty, the human, did that for me, every single time.

 

Sanctuary

 

I walked into the church for a real live service a couple of weeks ago.

I was hit by this real sense of overwhelming peace and comfort.  I wasn’t surprised, that sanctuary has always been a refuge, a place of safety, a place of peace, a spirit filled holy spot, for me.

It was for Marty too.  Even after the strokes.  I have to say our attendance was spotty at best because church was hard.  Church was hard because of Marty’s brokenness.  Which makes the spotty attendance kind of counterproductive, what better place to be when you are broken.

Going and doing anything outside of the home was hard.  It was hard to get Marty up, dressed, in the van, strapped down and then driven down to the church where you unstrap, roll around, get down and in the building.  We didn’t go to a whole lot of places that required quiet and punctuality.

When we did go, it was always worth the effort.  Certainly, every time we darkened the door at First Presbyterian it was rewarded with love, peace, and a deep sense of belonging.  Chronic illness gives you the exact opposite feeling, there is no justice or peace or belonging.  That’s part of the ball game you are playing.

Marty also had a couple of odd affects because of the brain trauma.  When we first came home she cried a lot.  Not tears, just the crying sounds.  To this day I’m not sure if it was sadness from the assault on her brain from the strokes or just the brain being broken enough to send weird signals to her body. 

We evolved from the crying to her saying, “oh, oh, oh” a lot.  She wasn’t hurting, it was just a verbal tic. That tic made it difficult to be anywhere quiet reigned, we weren’t quiet, and it was always disconcerting for me.

The very first time we got out to go attend a function we went to First Presbyterian in Dallas to listen to one of Marty’s favorite authors, Anne Lamott.  We hadn’t anymore gotten settled than Marty started humming, a new nervous tic.  She was nervous, so was I, maybe even embarrassed. 

She hummed through a lot of Lamott’s presentation until some cranky lady came up and said the humming was disturbing people.  I melted and we left. 

I wouldn’t do that today.  I learned not to be self-conscious or embarrassed by the odd things this disease foisted upon us.  Today I would have told the old crank to stick it.  I learned and grew a spine.

I told Jimmie, the preacher from long ago, that I was worried about being in church because some of these tics might disturb others.  Jimmie looked at me and said, “we will just hum along.”  Then at the top of the service he explained what was going on and put Marty and I at rest so we could enjoy the sanctuary.

I have been walking into that church for 30 years.  I have witnessed baptisms, weddings, stirring sermons, amazing music, and funerals.  Both of our kids preached from that pulpit, Marty was ordained there, and I got to lay hands on her, Marty sang there, I prayed there, and we watched over the youth of our church in that sanctuary.

Our daughter Erin was married there, and Jerry Barrett moved a pew for Marty’s wheelchair.  We loved Marty one last time at her funeral as my children and I spoke of why we loved this amazing woman and listened to Leslie, the preacher of now talk of that love and give comfort to our brokenness.

All in that same sanctuary.

That sanctuary is still a special place and when I walked through those doors one more time.  I felt safe, I felt full, I felt at home.

Man, it’s good to go home.