Power of the River

On the edge of the McKenzie River we each took two handfuls from the bag. A gentle breeze rising from the cold water caught the first handful while it danced in the gleaming morning sunlight on its downward fall. The second handful was released a bit closer to the water in the little alcove above the rapids. The final handfuls swirled around close to the shore as if they weren't sure it was alright to leave us. I caught my breath as I thought for just a moment, "It's all coming back at us," then the power of the river took over. Our gazes were transfixed as the water gently took the cloud of ashes farther away from us and then all at once they were gone. Completely and totally gone from our sight they were pulled into the river of life. They were sent onto their next task of regenerating the riverbed, the cedar trees rising from its banks, and the life that teemed below. We returned to our bench just on the edge of the bank. Cleansing our ash stained hands with cloths, gently using those same cloths to wash each other's feet, and then taking a small vile of oil to make the sign of the cross on one another's feet, hands, and forehead. Raising our song only loud enough for each other,  "Praise God from whom all blessings flow, Praise Him all creatures here below, Praise Him above ye heavenly hosts, Praise Father, Son and Holy Ghost. Amen." Suddenly a bright yellow raft with summer vacationers rushed by on the rapids. Life speeding by! And, just as suddenly, a big family came to the shore we'd claimed as our private sanctuary. Mom, dad, kids of every age, grandpa, and the dog, all came close to see, to experience the river of life.

The river, the morning sun, life on the water, under the water, and at the bank's edge all affirmed our choice to let go. The length and breadth of our time on that hallowed bank far transcended the thirty minutes marked by the clock. With heart-healing grace it reached back over the past two years to remove the dust from our feet, the pain from our souls, and the ache in our hearts inflicted unjustly upon a geography of betrayal. The ashes that swirled away to bring new life were our burnt transcriptions of places, names, events, injustices, and wounds brought on by forces outside of us that we could no longer harbor within. Their burning and washing away revealed a new geography - one of grace-filled healing.

As the rushing McKenzie is new every second may our path, God's leading, and healing grace prove to be just as powerful, just as life-changing, just as beautiful here in our new home, our new future, our new grace.  

Sunday Calls to 911

Since moving to Oregon a year ago I've called 911 a few times. The most traumatic was 37 weeks ago on a late November Sunday morning and the least traumatic was today, an early August Sunday morning.

As I grabbed my phone this morning to punch in 9-1-1 I keenly remembered the very same action last Fall. On that morning I'd been up and dressed for church long before my husband woke up. I wanted to try the local Catholic parish, but he sleepily told me he didn't feel like it. I was just on my way out the door when I realized I'd never make it. Mass was starting as I was looking at the clock. Just as I decided to stay home, Rod came out to the kitchen and was very groggy. He wasn't waking up very quickly and mumbled something about needing his coffee. But, then he started to stumble a little, I carried his cereal bowl to the table, he sat down, and then it really started.

He wanted to lay down, he said, and then his words started to emerge in very slow motion. His speech started to slur as he started grabbing the sides of the table. The horror grew in my stomach as I started yelling at him to open his eyes, stick out his tongue, and to try to smile at me. Within seconds I was calling 9-1-1 and I couldn't get the words out fast enough, "My husband, he can't talk, his teeth are clenched, one eye is more closed than the other, please hurry!" The operator asked me if I could get him on the floor and again I yelled at Rod, "Honey, help me get you down, You have to get down on the floor!" but he couldn't move or speak. Both arms hung limp at his side and his torso was dead weight. His head kept flopping forward and the operator told me I had to hold it back so his airway would stay open. This frightened me even more. His eyes were half closed and didn't seem to see anything. I didn't think he could hear me. At one point he slurred as loud as he could, "No!" and I think he was fighting what was happening to him. I had to let go for a moment to unlock the front door for the paramedics. Within seconds those five guys had thrown the table away from Rod and thrown him on the floor. As he lay there his speech returned and he tried to convince them he was just fine. He was not. He'd had a stroke. His left carotid artery was only open about 5%. The MRI revealed a past undetected stroke, too, when we lived in another state. Two days after "the event" (as we call it) he underwent neurovascular surgery and came out of the anesthesia paralyzed on his right side. Another wave of horror set in, but after returning him for immediate testing it was determined his right side just needed more time to wake up. And, indeed it did and his language returned. He came home on Thanksgiving Day. His recovery has taken time and today he told a friend, "I'm about 80%."

Today, on this particular Sunday morning 37 weeks later, he was once again in the kitchen, pouring his coffee, and as he looked out the window I heard him say, "Oh my goodness! What in the world? There are cows across the street!" I jumped up to see two extremely large bovines eating grass across the street and moving along at a healthy clip. I called 9-1-1 and instead of saying, "Something's horribly wrong with my husband!" I told the operator, "We have two really super large black cows loose from their pasture, eating the grass, and on the move through our neighborhood!"

As the cow incident began we thought we wouldn't get to church today because what if the cows decided to cross the street, graze through our yard, and even take a swipe or two at the car? Well, for whatever reason those two turned their really big bodies around and headed back to the pasture. Then, the police car drove through very slowly. "Do you think we can make it?" I said. "Well, if we really move, yes!"

And would you believe it, we made it. We walked in and found seats just as the worship band started the first praise song. As Communion was passed I turned to Rod saying, "The Body of Christ broken for you." "And also for you," he replied. Sweet grace. Sweet grace, indeed.