Doubting

I am plagued by doubt.  It runs through me like a current of electricity coming out of me expressed in anxiety and an occasional angry outburst.  I wonder too often, am I doing it right, am I doing enough, am I good enough to be doing what I am doing?

Marty no longer doubts, at least on the surface.  She really truly believes I will never let her fall.  When I reach down under her arms, pull back and pull her to standing she never doubts, she never worries that I will let her fall.  Me, I have no doubt about the physical brute force part of the move but there is always a tinge of doubt, can I keep my balance.

Doubt, for me, is not a new thing; there has always been that voice in the back of my mind whispering, “Are you good enough?”  Let’s be real, you hear it too.  It’s almost an American past time.

As I grew up a Presbyterian in an Aggie household in west Texas that doubt was there.  Was I a good enough student, was I a good enough athlete in our small town, was I a good enough person, and was I a good enough Christian.  

It took years for me to come to grips with that last one.  There are way too many people who want to convince us we are somehow not good enough, not strong enough, not Christian enough, but that’s a whole other story.  Suffice it to say, I still carry doubts, I still wonder, am I good enough?

Marty, pre-stroke, despite her bravado and her confidence in her wit and wisdom experienced the same self doubt.  She, like many of us, like most of us I think, struggled with the I’m not good enough, I can’t measure up, disease.  We do it to each other, we do it to ourselves, and at times we unintentionally do it to our own people.  Being good enough, smart enough, pretty enough, Christian enough, American enough is a national struggle.

Marty would never let me doubt myself too much or too long.  She could be a harsh critic and I know in her heart of hearts at times in our life she wondered about my grit and my ability to stand in there.  But, ultimately, she never let my doubt of myself stay for long.  She had faith in my ability to work, to provide, to be a husband and to be a father.  Marty had more faith in me than I did.

Today, she still does.  Marty believes in me, she has faith that I will be good enough to care for her, that I will be strong enough to lift her and hold her safely, that I will be faithful enough to stay by her side, that I will be smart enough and persistent enough to make sure she is getting right and timely care.  Once again, Marty has more faith in me, more of a belief that I am good enough, than I often do.

I am plagued with doubt about many things.  I don’t know if my faith will sustain, I don’t know if I’m smart enough or aware enough to always catch the next minor medical problem before it becomes a major medical problem, there are days when I don’t know if I’m good enough.

But, what I know, without a doubt, without any hesitancy, is that I love Marty enough that I will always be there for her and when I lift her up, when I hold her, when I stand with her, I will never ever let her fall.  

This I know.

Better is Better

She’s better, she’s pretty much back to normal, for her, I would say we are back to baseline.  Better is indeed better.

It took a few days, it took some angst on my part, it took first rate care on the part of all who care for Marty, it took a lot of gator aid, Diet Coke, soup, Ginger Ale, cranberry juice and Imodium, but we got there last Saturday night, about three days post hospital.  That’s when Marty got back to her normal hypertensive self.

The week of the relatively simple illness was so reminiscent of the bad old days when I was constantly aware of Marty’s mortality and how close we walked to that line and how easy it was to cross that line.  The feelings of anxiety, fear, uncertainty came rushing back quicker than I thought they would.  The thoughts of how do we survive this quickly took over the living of our life from the moment she vomited.

It has made me realize and appreciate how smooth our life has been over the last months.  Certainly life has not been without trial and fear, but it’s been supremely manageable, it’s been almost normal, in our own perverted way.  The low blood pressure, the low oxygen, the illness itself brought back the fretting, the fear and the insecurity of the past medical crises. 

It’s funny, when we are in the hospital, even for a few hours, I generally don’t feel the anxiety I do at our home.  A very surreal sense of calm and confidence suppresses the fear and anxiety churning in my chest and head.  I sit there and provide data to the doctors and nurses, I repeat myself over and over again, I tell our story, I tell Marty’s story, I give her a face, I’m doing something, it calms me.

I know the security the hospital provides is mostly an allusion.  Bad things do and will happen in hospitals.  I’m not sure why I feel more secure there.

I suspect the ability to run blood tests, check urine and perform x-rays and other diagnostics often provide me with some clarity and maybe a false sense of security.  The tests are positive actions that provide concrete data; I like concrete data, even if the data turns out to be…. I don’t know what’s wrong.  Ultimately, the diagnostics help provide more transparency to what is going on with Marty.  I like knowing.

I also suspect that in some small way being in the hospital alleviates part of the burden of making decisions regarding the criticality of issues.  While you can’t leave all of the decisions to the nurses, they help a lot with perspective, like “I’ve seen this a lot, not to worry” or “It’s a good thing you’re here”.

I get that the hospital signifies, for most people, for Marty who hates being hospitalized, a level of illness, a degree of sickness, a level of criticality that is beyond the ordinary fever, cough or puking.  I get that the hospital is populated with sick people and all kinds of nasty viruses, bacteria and medical mishaps and mistakes.  I get all of that.

It’s just that sometimes being in the care of attentive professionals, having technology at hand offers a level of reassurance we (I) simply can’t find at home.  As much as I hate it, as odd as it is, the hospital offers a perverted level of emotional and mental level of comfort.

Marty is better, she is back to where we were, she is feeling well, eating, drinking and a little hypertensive.  Better is better and as the days of better mount we once again move away from medical crisis mode and the bad old days kind of recede into the back of my mind, still there, not forgotten, but repressed enough to sit comfortably in the living room with my Marty and laugh at high brow television like Duck Dynasty.

And God Smiled

I play at golf.  I have no faith in my game.  I hit the ball all over the place and when I address the ball I never know if the good Larry or the evil Larry is going to hit the ball.  Lately, my golf game is kind of a metaphor for my religious views.

I continue to play golf in spite of the evil Larry because when the good Larry stands at the ball, takes a back swing and hits the golf ball on the sweet spot of the club and the ball rises and goes straight and true and long, it is a wonderful feeling.  It is why I play golf, eternal hope that the good Larry will prevail more than the evil, chili-dipping, shanking, slicing Larry.  It’s the same with my faith, I try to be eternally optimistic that I’m going to believe as I should believe.

I identify as a Christian because that’s how I was raised and that’s what I want to believe.  I struggle with my belief or more accurately my unbelief.  Not every day, because I don’t think about it every day, I struggle on the days I think about what I just cannot believe.  I have often wondered if I am Christian enough because I have doubts about the Bible, Immaculate Conception, the Holy Ghost and a litany of other beliefs.  But, sometimes, events occur that shine a light on the importance of my doubts. 

On Christmas day Marty and I sat in our van in the parking lot of 1^st Presbyterian Church in Waco, our church of 20 years.  It was misting, it was cool, it was overcast and there were only about three other cars in the parking lot.  I looked across the street at the building that is our church and remembered the past, flashed on the events of our lives that revolved around the church and wondered how we fit into this place that has always been such a prominent part of our personal history.

Marty and I were sans caregiver today so I moved her wheelchair to the lift and down she went into the damp parking lot.  We scurried across a sleepy street, up the ramp to the church and the heavy wooden doors came open, opened by a familiar face welcoming us to our church.  

Church services on Christmas day are sparsely attended because of all of the family functions and the fat man with the beard.  It’s a toned down affair where everyone sits at the front for the abbreviated service.  Our minister, Jimmie, was dressed, not in his normal robes but jeans and a plaid pull-over hoody. 

He greeted Marty and I warmly and helped me situate Marty in our pew, the pew we sat in for Erin’s wedding, the pew that had been moved over to accommodate a wheelchair, the pew our children sat in Sunday after Sunday while Marty and I sat behind them.  

The small crowd settled into their spots around us as Jimmie dipped his hands into the waters of the baptismal font and said, “Welcome home children of God.”  There we were, Marty in her wheelchair, me dressed in doubt.

I knew this was going to be a little different service as Becky, the organist, sat at the grand piano right in front of us and began playing “Go Tell it on the Mountain.”  Marty and her women’s chorus rocked this gospel tune many times; it’s a toe-tapper.  Becky was bobbing her head and weaving as she played.  Presbyterians, being the frozen chosen, don’t often bob and weave in a church service.

As the service progressed we said prayers and began singing a Christmas carol.  Marty loved to sing but doesn’t sing very much anymore.  The strokes affected her vocal control and she can’t maintain her pitch very well and she doesn’t like that.  But, there she sat, in our pew, singing “Hark the Herald Angels Sing” just as surely and loudly as the rest of us.  I looked up at Jimmie standing behind the pulpit singing, watching Marty singing, and I remembered why I loved being there, it wasn’t about my belief or unbelief, it was about our belonging to a community of doubters and believers.

We moved through the rest of the service praying, singing and listening, then as the service came to an end Jimmie and his sidekick DeDe came down from the chancel area to stand between the pews and deliver the charge and the benediction.  The charge is the same every week, I have heard it, Marty has heard it hundreds of times, it is part of the service Marty knows and loves.  It is part of the service that carries great meaning for me.

As Jimmie walked past the baptismal font he once again dipped his hands in the water, shook them off, walked up to Marty and put his hands on her face, connecting Marty to him, connecting Marty to our past, cementing Marty to our faith in a loving God.

Jimmie stood and started the charge, “Go out into the world in peace.”  

Marty, surprisingly, without hesitation, without embarrassment or self-consciousness said, in full voice for all to hear “Have courage.”  

Jimmie looked at Marty and continued with the litany, “hold on to what is good,” and Marty replied “return no evil for evil.”

Jimmie then walked up to Marty, bent over and wrapped his arms around her shoulders and together, with her broken memory responding and his gentle reminders, they continued and completed the charge to all Christians, to all people of faith, even those like me who doubt their own belief, “Strengthen the faint-hearted, support the weak and help the suffering, honor all people, love and serve the Lord, rejoicing in the power of the Holy Spirit.”

DeDe, the young woman minister assisting Jimmie that Christmas day struggled with her tears, and closed the service with the Benediction.  I sat there and struggled to tamp down my own tears as I felt Marty’s action bring a sense of peace on this day for all who were there.  It was no longer about my doubts or my faith.

Marty and I went back out the doors of the church, through the heavy mist and across the still deserted road.  I put Marty on the lift and in the van and got her locked down in the van, forgetting about my doubts, not worrying at all about what I didn’t believe.  Through Marty’s unrelenting courage to recover and Jimmie’s recognition of God’s grace through Marty,  I remembered, it’s not about what I don’t understand or struggle over, it’s about what God does and I believe God smiled at us that day through my wife.