It’s easy to believe in God when a child reaches out for a hug or maybe just to hold my hand.  When innocence becomes a vulnerable oblation and the life of another is entrusted to me,  I can know the loving-kindness of the Father and Mother who count every hair on my head.

It’s easy to believe in God when we worship with beauty and pageantry and song.  When a crowd surrounds me, and we hear the stories, and we sing the songs, and we celebrate the eternal Feast, I can hear the choir of angels and archangels and all the company of Heaven, and my heart sings with them in reverent wonder.

It’s easy to believe in God when the air conditioning turns on during a 90-degree day, and when water flows clean from the kitchen faucet, and when I experience that moment of miracle as a crushing headache succumbs to pain medicine.  When my brother and sister humans create such amazing gifts, I can feel the rushing wind and blazing fire of Ruach, and I sing praise to the Holy Spirit.

It’s easy to believe in God when selflessness and humility manifest around me.  When a sister is content to be last or least, and a brother gives of himself to benefit another, and generosity is poured out like a waterfall roars over a cliff, I can witness God-With-Us who became helpless and weak, who ever calls me to love others as he has loved me.

It’s easy to believe in God when I keep company with books by great scholars and humble mystics and companions on the Way.  When their writings teach me, and their struggles give me hope, and their faith inspires me, I encounter Holy Sophia who leads me ever closer to our mysterious and marvelous God.

In the night watches, in the desolation of stillness and quiet, in the utter solitude of wakefulness surrounded by slumber, it is not so easy to believe in God.  When the dull eyes and distended bellies of starving children haunt the night, when the petty cruelties of the selfish linger in the memory, when our willful blindness causes death and destruction, I turn over the tear-dampened pillow and wish for sleep. When the blinding brilliance of the night rips away my disguises, and strips the masks from my face, and reveals my stubborn hypocrisy, I grovel — humiliated, if not humbled — and I plead for mercy and forgiveness.

In the morning, it will be easy again to believe in God, Creator and Father and Mother and Emmanuel and Ruach and Sophia and Monarch of Heaven.

Until then, I strive against the Adversary, plugging my ears against the chittering chatter of demon temptations.  I turn and turn, trying to come ’round right, unable to find the path to God.  My eyes fail to see the Enemy’s trick; my feet cannot find the path because they do not stand on earth.  I cannot even fall into the blessed oblivion of sleep.  It is not easy to believe in God.

In the morning, it will be easy again to believe.

Until then, I labor to voice a prayer, thoughts whipping through my mind like a fierce summer storm, flashing and booming, ripping the memory of comforting words, tossing me to the ground to weep in frustration.

In the morning, it will be easy again.

With all my strength, I pray: O God, make speed to save us!  O Lord, make haste to help us!

We made it through Advent, with its wonderful sense of expectation.  We joyously celebrated the Nativity, with rich food and gifts and decorations.  We kept up the celebration for the twelve days of Christmastide, rocking in the New Year at the Feast of the Holy Name, and then we celebrated some more at the Epiphany.  Two days later, we renewed our baptismal vows with the story of Christ’s baptism by his relative John.

And now, we get a little quiet, a bit of downtime before the next season of expectation and preparation and the fifty days of feasting and celebration that follow.  The church is changed back to green, and we get to hear stories of how God-With-Us — Emmanuel, Jesus — manifests himself in our world.

This Sunday, the readings are a love note from God.  Last week, we heard this love note very clearly: You are my child, the beloved, and I am well pleased with you!  This week, it will be a little more subtle, but it’s still there.  We will hear God call the boy Samuel in the night, a charming and funny story of mistaken identity.  I rather doubt anyone will laugh as they hear this read in church tomorrow, but I hope people do, because it really is a funny little story.  You can hear gruff Eli telling the boy to shut up and go back to bed already.  Really, Samuel, let the old guy sleep!  Finally Eli figures out what’s happening and tells Samuel what to do; the story doesn’t say it, but I’d bet money that Eli told him not to bother him again until morning.

My favorite bit from this story is in the last verse: As Samuel grew up, the LORD was with him and let none of his words fall to the ground.  Isn’t that beautiful?  What an amazing gift!  Who among us can say that all of our words are heard, and none of them fall to the ground?  It’s really hard to listen and heed; I know I struggle with this every day.  I know that really listening to someone shows that I value them, that I value who they are and what they are saying.  This gift God gave Samuel — he was valued among his people.

"A love note..." by Nono Fara

And the psalm, the psalm!

LORD, you have searched me out and known me;
you know my sitting down and my rising up;
you discern my thoughts from afar.
You trace my journeys and my resting-places
and are acquainted with all my ways.
Indeed, there is not a word on my lips,
but you, O LORD, know it altogether.
…

For you yourself created my inmost parts;
you knit me together in my mother’s womb.
I will thank you because I am marvelously made;
your works are wonderful, and I know it well.

…

If this isn’t a love song, then I don’t know what is!  I can well imagine speaking to a lover this way, or hearing words like these from his lips.  The language of love is filled with hyperbole and repetition and even baby talk.  You’ve known me forever, we might tell our beloved, and you known me better than I know myself.  And (to use one of Jesus’s favorite rhetorical techniques), if we can imagine speaking and hearing this language with a human love — whether a spouse or a beloved friend or even a child — then how much more is this love poured out for us by God?

I’ll admit that it’s a little harder to find the love note in Paul’s letter.  We get hung up on the fornication, and all we can think about is dirty, lascivious, lustful concupiscence.  (I love that word!)  But this reading isn’t really about prostitution or fornication or any of the things those words imply.  No, Paul is reminding us that all the things that we believe are ours — not just our souls, but even our very bodies — really belong to God: your body is a temple of the Holy Spirit; therefore glorify God in your body.

New Year's Resolution postcards

It’s January.  It’s the time for making (and breaking) New Year’s Resolutions.  I generally shun the whole Resolution thing, though I usually toy with the idea of making New Year’s Resolutions at Advent I, the beginning of the church year.  And, of course, I establish a discipline or two for Lent, when it rolls around in February or early March.  New Year’s Resolutions are just so secular, even mercenary; there’s an entire market built around them.  There’s no coincidence that Weight Watchers and the YMCA and Planet Fitness have special offers in January.  They know the Resolution Market, and they would be stupid not to take advantage of it.

And yet, here’s this reminder from Paul.  Your body is a temple of the Holy Spirit.  God loves us.  God gave us our bodies.  The psalmist reminds us that our bodies are marvelously made.  But are we really glorifying God in our bodies?  I know that I don’t treat my body properly.  Yes, I’m taking advantage of the special offer at the YMCA this January, because my body is one crappy temple.  When we fall in love with someone, we try to look our very best, because we want them to love us in return.  Well, God loves us.  God loves me.  I’m pretty much in love with God… but I’m not looking my very best for God.  So this little love note is a bit of a kick in the pants for me.  I know God never says the things other people have said to me, the echoes in my mind and heart like you promised you’d never get fat or your body is repulsive to me.  Rather, I hear God saying to me, Yeah, I love you, silly!  I love you whether you’re fat or skinny, healthy or sick, exercising or watching tv.  And you really are beautiful, and I love to see you at your very best. And this — this brings both tears to my eyes and joy to my heart.

Then, we finally hear Jesus in the gospel reading.  Jesus says those simple words: follow me.  We will witness great things, if we come and see.  Just like the child Samuel, we hear Jesus calling to us in this gospel: follow me.  Come and see.  There is so much that God has to show us, if we just listen, without letting God’s words fall to the ground.

Philip and Nathanael and Andrew and Peter had no idea where Jesus was taking them or what he was calling them to — no more than we know where God is taking us or where Jesus is calling us to. The promise remains, though: we will see great things; we will see heaven opened.  We will see the love God pours out for us, infinitely, continuously, perfectly.  And the best part?  When we open up and start pouring this love out for others, then God pours even more out for us, so that we are overflowing with grace and forgiveness and loving-kindness.  I promise — because God promises — that you are loved, my friend.  You are valued and cherished beyond measure.

So here’s your love note.  I hope you’ll keep it, maybe in your pocket or in a jewelry box, maybe on the refrigerator or taped to your monitor at work.  Or maybe you’ll pass it along to someone who really needs to know how much they are loved.  That’s the promise: you are loved.

Always.

I’ve talked for a couple years about becoming a spiritual director, and over the last about-9-months, I became one.  I haven’t been to any classes or training.  It just sort of… happened!  My alter ego (can a Sister be an altar ego?) has had several people come to her with questions, and the relationships formed into just this model.  One is a recent convert to Christianity, who is being baptized at Easter.  Another has allowed me to witness their conversion from not believing to being willing to admit the Divine might exist to believing with all their heart.  Another lives in an abusive relationship.  All are broken, as I am.  All are a bit quirky.  All are very intelligent. All have struggled with depression. I cannot tell you the blessings I have received from this work.  I am in awe at how God can work through us, in such deep and powerful ways.  There’s a major event at my parish church in a few weeks, and I’ve donated 3 months of spiritual companion services (because I much prefer companion to director).  I hope this ministry is helpful for God’s children.

The new rector at our parish is fabulous!  He is plugged in to the Holy Spirit and actively listens for God to point him and our church to our next work for the Kingdom.  And — you’re never going to believe this! — I’ve joined the praise band for our contemporary service.  Yup, I’m playing flute with the band, and I’m having a blast doing it!  I have missed making music terribly, and I’m so glad to be able to serve the church in this way.  It’s been quite a while since I’ve played in jazz bands or done improv, so I’m stretching those skills and taking some risks.  That’s almost always a good thing.

God willing, I will take my life vows with the Anglican Dominicans this summer at Chapter.  I’ve been leading our annual online lenten retreat, on the theme of narrative, and that’s been fun.  I’m finding that our mind-heavy Aquinas-Dominicans are less interested than our more heart-oriented Eckhart-Catherine-Dominicans, but that’s okay.  A couple weeks ago, I heard our new fabulous rector refer to a certain mystic as being “pretty out there,” and shared my (very slight) offense at this with my husband later.  He asked me, “What, you mean to tell you that you aren’t pretty out there?”  I said, “Well, yeah, but he shouldn’t say that about all my fellow mystics!”  Then I laughed at the sheer ridiculousness of this, especially because I’d written a reflection just a week before about mystics and how we’re all sort of “out there.”  I can be pretty protective, but it’s weird to be protective of people (saints, even!) who have been dead for centuries.

I am joyfully living into another new ministry at the parish.  Our “family area” in the nave is in a place where you can’t see the altar, so when the children become bored because they feel excluded from the Important Adult Business — which worship should never be! — they can become noisier and annoy the Important Adults around them.  Being a rather untall person myself, I know how icky it can feel when you can’t see what’s going on.  So I now sit with all the children who want to, right in the center aisle, on the floor, where we can all see what’s happening during the Eucharistic Prayer.  I like to say that we do this because churches are short-sighted that they don’t provide sycamore trees for us, like Zaccheus climbed to see Jesus.  When I used this line with one gentleman at church, he said, “We could do that!”  We had fun exploring what it would be like to have a tree in the middle of the nave: the symbolism, the places to climb and sit, the ways we could decorate it and use it as part of our worship.  It was fun, in a totally liturgy-geeky way.

I continue to work part-time on disability, and I continue to wait for my disability claim to be approved.  It is in appeal, and the decision is due any time now.  Meanwhile, I owe about six months of child support, am perpetually a month behind on my car loan, and seem to stay about a month late on most of our other bills, too.  Some days I want to echo Teresa of Avila: God, if this is how you treat your friends, it’s no wonder you have so few of them!

On Wednesday, I had my second appointment with the new rheumatologist, who turned up an active chronic Epstein-Barr infection.  So that goes onto the diagnosis list, along with Ehlers-Danlos Syndrome, Chronic Fatigue Syndrome, Proportionate Short Stature (yeah, I’m Little), and a severe Vitamin D Deficiency.  I’ve learned some things about these conditions this week, and I’m not quite sure how I feel about it all yet.  For example, I’m finding increasing numbers of people labeling CFS as an auto-immune disorder.  I’m finding CEBV described variously as a form of CFS, a potential cause of some cases of CFS, and as a separate (but similar) disorder.  I’m learning that EBV will become active pretty frequently, but only becomes symptomatic in those whose immune systems are faulty somehow.  I’m learning that there are physical changes in the brains of PWCs (persons with CFS), a reduction in grey matter and increase in white matter — so the “brain fog” and other cognitive effects are not only real, but are based in physical matter.  This terrifies me.  I’ve learned that each recurrence of EBV infection increases one’s likelihood of developing lupus later in life.

The rheumatologist has recommended to my primary doctor that she send me to a specialist in infectious diseases, and I’m expecting to have my immune system checked out as well.  I need a new echocardiogram — these are recommended for EDSers to have annually — and a bone scan.

It’s all just so much stuff.  And oh yeah, here comes Holy Week.  Maplestar and I are ready to sleep until Ascensiontide.  I expect there’s a significant number of clergy and other Professional Christians who feel the same way.

This deepened over time, of course, and I wrote a lot about discerning the next steps in my journey.  I spent months proving to myself that I could engage with the scripture appointed in the eucharistic lectionary for each Sunday, that I could engage in some exegesis and present a reflection that could serve as the seed for a sermon.  I wrestled with some of The Discernment Questions here.

Meanwhile, I found my physical condition deteriorating. I learned about my chronic condition, wrestled with numerous grief cycles as it affected every part of my life.  I’ve railed here about health care in the US, about social justice, and the radical hospitality, inclusiveness, and love that Jesus calls us to.

And right now… there are some major transitions happening in my life, though I don’t yet know what they are and might become.  I’ve been exercising a prophetic voice and engaging in some satire at another blog.  I’ve joined a brand new group theology blog that makes more sense to me than this blog.

So I’m going on walkabout from this space for a while.  I won’t take this blog down, and your comments will still come to me via email.  You’re welcome to email me directly (hedwyg AT gmail DOT com) or to find me on a social network.  Links in the right-hand sidebar will take you to most of the places I hang out.

Meanwhile, go forth into the world in peace.  Be of good courage.  Hold fast to that which is good.  Render to no one evil for evil.  Strengthen the faint-hearted.  Support the weak.  Honor all persons.  Love and serve God.  Rejoice in the power of the Spirit.  And may the overflowing blessings of our triune God be with you for this day, and for ever.

None.

No pain.

Unless you live with chronic pain, you probably don’t know what this means.  I have lived with pain as a companion every day since August 2006.  Every single day.  There has been no respite, no time when I was free of pain.  Not once.  I mourned the loss of a pain-free life, just one pain-free day.  Somehow I managed to keep the barest flicker of hope alive, but there were bad times when it was almost snuffed out.

Words cannot express the joy and deep gratitude in my heart right now.  Even if this strange no-pain doesn’t stay with me through the entire day, even if today was the only day I’ll find it, even with that, I would still need to sing out praise and thanksgiving.  It takes music, dance, art to tell you what it means to be without pain.

My joy is like the clear blue sky above,
autumn-clear, swept free of every cloud.
My gratitude is like the swift-running river,
fast and quick, dancing and jumping over rocks.
My delight is like a playful puppy,
a frisky kitten,
a child laughing and running.
My heart sings with the voice of the wind through the trees,
the voice of the ocean on the sandy shore,
the cry of the gull, the cheep of the cardinal, the song of the lark,
the roar of waterfalls,
the rumble of locomotives,
the quiet purr of the aging cat.

There is a cost for this lack of pain.  The cost is my new medication.  In terms of monetary cost, it’s in a higher tier of my formulary, and apparently not available as a generic drug yet.  In terms of side effects, I’m dealing with somnolence and problems thinking.  I hope that there will be an adjustment period, after which these costs will be easier to deal with.  If not, then I will have to make some choices about how I live and work.  But right now?  Those costs are absolutely, completely, one hundred percent worth it.

A day without pain.  How often have I prayed for this, begged for it, pleaded with God for it?  Today it is in my grasp, and so I will sing.

Glory to God in the highest
and peace to the people on earth
whom God favors!

My soul proclaims the greatness of the Lord;
my spirit rejoices in God my savior
for he has looked with favor on his lowly servant!

Be joyful in the Lord, all you lands;
serve the Lord with gladness,
and come before God’s presence with a song!

Sing praises of the Lord, for he has done great things,
and this is known in all the world!
Cry aloud, inhabitants of Zion, ring out your joy,
for the Great One in the midst of you is the Holy One of Israel!

Glory to the Father, and to the Son, and to the Holy Spirit,
as it was in the beginning, is now, and will be forever,
world without end!

I’m tired, but nowhere near sleepy.  Often, I feel exhausted, enervated, my body’s resources down to a sliver.  “I’ve only got one bar left, but I know it doesn’t have much time.”  If I were a Blackberry, my power status would read 7%.  Most people who will read this blog post have no idea what 7% of their energy and resources would feel like.  When most people say they’re exhausted, they’re still at about 50% power.

It’s a strange state to be in, so profoundly tired and yet unable to sleep.  My ears ring as the earth revolves beneath me.  Somewhere in this world, it’s early morning, it’s lunchtime, the family is sitting down to supper.  Somewhere in this world, a woman is giving birth to her first child, a family surrounds a beloved elder who is dying, millions of people are working in factories and offices and fields.  Somewhere in this world, soldiers are killing each other, and some of those soldiers are children.  Somewhere in this world, snow is falling; somewhere in this world, the high temperature will exceed 90 degrees Fahrenheit.  Somewhere in this world, the devout are gathered in prayer.  And somewhere in this world, someone else is wondering when he or she will get to sleep tonight, whether he or she will get to sleep tonight.

I didn’t sleep last night.  I tried one bed, tried another bed, tried a different pillow, tried different positions, tried kicking the cat off the bed, tried reading, tried deep breathing, tried prayer, tried visualizations.  I finally gave up and put in some time at my job.  It was 6:30 AM when I was finally sleepy.  Oh yeah, and I take five different medications that cause drowsiness, one of them an actual sleeping medication.  Every night, I swallow enough downers to halt a charging rhinoceros.  And yet, every night, I sit alone with my tinnitus, still physically in this world, but feeling disconnected from it.

I float from book to computer to midnight snack to glass of water to book to breathing to prayer to meditation to heating pads for the aches to ice packs for the sharp pains to my neck-support pillow to a regular pillow to no pillow at all to my child’s bed to my bed again to sleep, finally.  In the morning — which I say to myself, even though it’s technically already morning — I’ll have to work, and I’ll have to try to be alert so that I can think and reason.  It’s only on the Saturdays when I feel caught up on rest, but then Sundays are filled with worship and teaching and singing and even the two-hour nap fails to stave off exhaustion.

I am in this world.  I feel my feet on the ground, my bottom on the chair.  I feel all the pains that remind me I exist.  Descartes’s evil demon can tweak our thoughts — anyone who has ever experienced depression or another brain disorder, or even dehydration, has noticed this — but pain, yes, pain tells us we exist and that we have physical bodies.  Pain holds me in this world.  Fatigue and insomnia separate me from it.

Once the day begins, once the sun is up, once the children board school buses and the grown-ups leave for work, I remain in the world but not of it.  I observe the world through my windows, too tired and hurting to participate in it.  Truly, I’d love to have lunch with you, but I need a nap today.  It would be great to get together and sing, but I need to take some pain meds and lie down with my heat pack.  I know we’d made plans to get together this evening, but I have to cancel; I don’t even have enough energy to order supper by delivery.  I float through my days, existing here among you, in your very midst, but invisible.

I work from home, telecommuting to my job.  You never see me in the office, so I’ve become invisible to you.  I’ve canceled so many get-togethers that you don’t even call me any more, so I sit alone with my cats and my books and I try to be sociable and social on the computer.  I feel my feet on the ground, my bottom on the chair, but no hands to hold mine, no arms to embrace me, no voices to listen to.  I’m not even forty years old yet, and I’m almost a shut-in.  I laugh when I tell someone, I may not be old but I’m certainly decrepit! But this is only funny because it overlies the deep ache of being in the world but not of it.

I don’t know what tomorrow will be like.  It’s 11pm now, and I am not yet in bed.  I’m not sure right now what is real and what is imagined.  Is anyone out there listening?  Do I want anyone out there to listen?  God, why do my husband and I have such opposite sleeping patterns?  Why do I have these chronic conditions?  How long, O God, will I suffer?  Will there ever be relief for me?  Will I ever know what it is like to experience a normal day again, a day without pain?  I’m so tired, God.  So tired.  When will I find rest?

On another blog, I posted the prayer for sleep, from the healing office in the Book of Common Prayer.  It’s a lovely prayer, and it touched deep places within me.  For just a moment, I felt that connection with God that fully connects me with God’s creation.  I felt like I belonged, like I really was part of the world and not just occupying space in it.  Then the sense of connection faded, and I was left again, alone with the ringing in my ears, with the humming hard drive and the trickling water fountain and the rushing air from the heat pump.

At Taco Bell, Delia and Rachel chatted and laughed merrily.  Their families lived across the street from each other and had been friends since before the girls were born.  It was only natural for the girls to hang out together at Taco Bell on a Sunday evening, talking about homecoming dresses and winning the trophy for the best float and who was taking whom to the dance.

Rachel laughed so hard at Delia’s impression of their physics teacher that she took a long sip at her Mountain Dew.  Delia glanced around the Taco Bell, looking for someone to lampoon.  It was a quiet evening, with only two other tables in use.  Across the dining room, a young mother tried to coax her toddler into eating “Just one more bite” of his cheese roll while the child’s father stared at ESPN on the television, blithely ignoring the rest of his family.  Closer to them sat a black man.  Well, sat isn’t quite the right word.  He slumped over his folded arms, a tray with two crumpled wrappers and an empty small cup next to his elbow.

“Eww!” Delia stage-whispered to her friend.  “Look at that guy!  He’s, like, totally out!”

Rachel looked over, noticing that the man wasn’t moving.  “Shh!” she exclaimed in horror.  “He’ll hear you!”

“Whatever, I don’t care!  What’s he gonna do, sleep at us?”  Both girls giggled.

They traded barbs and laughter while they finished their meal, noticing his slippers (“Who wears slippers to Taco Bell, anyway?”), his fashion statements (“Really?  Black pants, black shoes – well, slippers – and white socks? Really?!?”), and his complete lack of awareness (“I hope he isn’t dead!”).  Finally, Delia and Rachel stood, taking one last drag on their large Mountain Dews, picked up their trays and headed for the exit.  At the door, Rachel took one last look at the sleeping man, sending a silent prayer to God, Help him! Since she was still walking, while looking the other way, Rachel didn’t see Marc holding the door open.  Not until she walked right into him.

“Oof!  Oh my God, I’m so sorry!” she said, then looked up and blushed when she recognized the young man from their school.

“It’s okay,” Marc laughed.  “You gonna make it to your car okay?”

Rachel nodded quickly and rushed to the car, where Delia showered her with laughter.

***

Delia’s clock awakened her at 5:45 Monday morning, playing a cover of some old song by a hair band from the ’80s.  Delia groaned, slapped the OFF button, and switched on her lamp.  She sat up and grabbed the remote control from her nightstand and clicked on the television so she could watch the weather forecast, still wrapped up inside her warm covers.

“After we come back, we’ll have Luke to tell us if there’s any hope of a warm-up this week.  But first, Marina Fitzpatrick is reporting live from the JCHC, with a touching story about a missing homeless man, a fast food joint, and a Good Samaritan.”

Delia sat up straight, noticing that the picture on the screen was the Taco Bell by the mall, where she and Rachel had supper last night.  She rubbed her eyes, muzzily trying to figure out how to connect the Taco Bell by the mall with the Judeo-Christian Homeless Center down by the beach, about six miles away.  She decided to watch the story before taking her shower, so Delia got up and started gathering her clothes and books.  Finally the commercials for used cars (“I’d give them away, but then I’d run out!”), auto insurance (“Ten minutes could save you big bucks on your car insurance!”), and personal injury attorneys (“You’ve been hurt. Call me, and I’ll drop the BOMB on those insurance companies!  You’ll get the cash, Cash, CASH you deserve!”) ended, and the familiar anchor desk for the local news re-appeared.

“Welcome back to your Channel Eight News.  This morning’s live story is a heartwarming account of a lost man and the teenager who made sure he got back home.  Marina Fitzpatrick, tell us more.  Who was this lost man?”

“Well, Sharon, the man is Jodell Jefferson, a 58-year-old homeless man who lives at the Judeo-Christian Homeless Center near the hotel strip at the beach.  The manager at the JCHC tells me that he hadn’t seen Mr. Jefferson in over eight days, and he was worried.”

“That’s right,” said the voice of the manager.  “It’s not like Jodell to go missing like that.  He’s diabetic, and we help him with his blood tests and medication here.  He doesn’t usually walk far from the Center, not any more than the two blocks to the souvenir store where he words.”

“That’s right, Sharon.  Mr. Jefferson works at the Beach Superstore as a janitor most days, returning to the JCHC each evening for the only hot meal — sometimes the only meal — he’ll get all day.  Here he spends his nights, with the men and women he’s come to know.”

Sharon broke in.  “But what happened, Marina?  He was missing for more than a week?”

“That’s right.  Mr. Jefferson went to work on Saturday, the seventh, but he did not return to the Center that night.  It wasn’t until a local teenaged hero gave him help that Jodell Jefferson made it back here — and in the nick of time, too, because his blood sugar was dangerously low.”

The television showed a montage of images as Marina Fitzpatrick told the story.  Jefferson had gotten onto a bus outside the Beach Superstore, but it had taken him much further than he’d expected.  He had arrived at the town center (Towne Centre, Delia thought sardonically, if you had a business down there) that Saturday afternoon, and he’d begged food from the back doors of the swanky restaurants and slept in doorways every night since.

Until last night.  When Delia and Rachel had laughed at him, sleeping at the Taco Bell.

Delia learned that the manager of the fancy store for men’s suits had given Jodell Jefferson his slippers and a new pair of black pants; two belt loops had been ripped off, one of them leaving a little hole, but Jefferson had been glad to have them.  She learned that his quick smile and polite disposition had quickly made him a favorite among the merchants at the town center, the same salespeople who would sneer at Delia and Rachel when they walked into a store.  And then Delia learned what had happened after they’d left the Taco Bell last night.

Delia jumped as her cell phone buzzed, and she saw the text from Rachel.  “R U watching this?”  Delia hit the CALL button so she could share her amazement with her best friend.  Rachel had to be very quiet, because her mother the rabbi wasn’t sleeping well lately; Rachel’s mom had gotten sick after the High Holy Days, and she still wasn’t back in full form yet.

“Can you believe this?” Rachel whispered.

“What’s going on?” Delia asked.

“Oh, you haven’t seen yet?  Keep watching.  You won’t believe it!”

Marina Fitzpatrick’s face filled Delia’s screen again.  “Then last night, Jodell Jefferson spent the very last of his money on two tacos and a cup of water.  He didn’t have enough cash to take a bus back to the beach, back to his bed at the JCHC.  He didn’t have his medications. He didn’t even have ID on him, just a crumpled business card from the Center.  But local high school student Marc Hudgins helped him anyway.”

Delia gasped as she heard Marc speaking from her television.  “Aw, it’s just what anyone would’ve done.  I saw him slumped over the table, laying his head on his arms, and I knew he just didn’t look… right.  He didn’t look well to me.  So I went over and asked if he was okay.”

“And what did Mr. Jefferson say?”

“Well, it was kinda hard to wake him up.  When he looked at me, he was crying, and he asked me to take him home, please to take him home.”

“So what did you do?”

“I asked him where he lived, and he pulled out that business card.  It was pretty hard to read.  All the ink had gotten blurry, but I could tell it was someplace down at the beach.  So I told him I’d take him home.”

“And you did.”

“I did.  I helped him into my car, and we drove down to the beach.  I didn’t know where to go, so I figured I’d just drive up and down the hotel strip until he pointed someplace out to me.”

“And did Mr. Jefferson point out a place to you?”

“He did.  It was the JCHC.  I always knew they do great work to help our homeless.  I let Jodell – Mr. Jefferson – sit in the car while I knocked on the door.  Then the manager came out, saw Mr. Jefferson, and rushed him inside for his medicines and food.  I felt kinda left out until he came back to shake my hand and tell me thank you.”

“Did you know he was going to call the Channel Eight News Team to tell us you’re a hero?”

“No, I didn’t!  I would’ve told him not to.  It’s what anyone would do, really.”

Delia whispered into her cell phone, “Oh. My. God.”

“I know,” Rachel whispered, as Marina and Sharon wrapped up the story.  “That’s the guy we… saw.”

“Oh man, we are such assholes!”

“Yeah.”

“But Marc — I don’t get it.  He’s an atheist!  Why would he go… there?”

Rachel thought about this for a moment.  “I dunno,” she said.  “I guess ’cause the guy made him stop there.”

“Why would an atheist help someone like that?  It just doesn’t make sense!”

“I guess we should’ve done something.”

“Yeah,” Delia said.  “I feel like shit.”

The girls hung up to get ready for school.

Delia couldn’t stop thinking about it while she showered and dressed and packed for school.  Here she was, president of the youth group at her church.  And here was Rachel, the rabbi’s daughter.  And they made fun of this sick homeless guy.  This man who had just spent all of his money on dinner, and had fallen asleep in the Taco Bell.  And the one who helped him?  Marc.  Marc, the atheist, who thought they were both stupid for believing in the fairy tale of God.

She realized, Marc was the Good Samaritan.  Delia and Rachel, they were the priest and the rabbi who ignored the guy at the side of the road.  It took an atheist to help him get home.

Delia looked at herself in the mirror.  Hair: brushed.  Clothes: straight.  Jacket: snappy.  But she wasn’t happy with what she saw there.  It didn’t feel so good to be the priest in the Parable of the Good Atheist.  Not good at all.

“Talent Has No Boundaries: Workforce Diversity INCLUDES Workers With Disabilities”

The theme serves to inform the public that workers with disabilities represent a diverse and vibrant talent pool for hire. This theme epitomizes Secretary of Labor Hilda L. Solis’ commitment to “good jobs for everyone.” “The solutions and innovations applicable to the successful employment of workers with disabilities impact the entire workforce, including aging workers, injured workers, at-risk youth, women, people of color, and unemployed and underemployed workers,” said Kathleen Martinez, assistant secretary of labor for disability employment policy.

I’ve written more than one post on this blog describing my disability journey, from “something’s wrong with my shoulder” to surgery, into chronic pain, to my diagnosis with Ehlers-Danlos Syndrome two years later, through my struggles to continue working and mothering and keeping house with increasing pain and disability, through bankruptcy, through losing the house I’d worked so hard to buy on my very own, to admitting to maplestar that I could not handle living on my own any more, and up to the present where I’m on medical leave from work, my initial short-term disability claim denied (in appeal!) so that I’m working a fraction of my time and earning a fraction of my salary.

What may not always be clear when I write here is how much my employer has done to help me keep working.  I am a professional woman, nearing 40 years old, who has been working full-time since I was 20.  I am a Little Person.  I have Ehlers-Danlos Syndrome, Chronic Fatigue Syndrome, osteoarthritis, and an autistic spectrum disorder.  My employer has given me a desk that is short enough for me, while I use my own custom chair to keep my feet flat on the floor, my elbows at that perfect 90-degree angle, and my back against the back of the chair.  I see you with that confused look on your face, wondering why this is even worth mentioning.  Well, until I had my custom chair and my custom desk, I had never experienced the feeling of sitting at a desk with my feet flat on the floor and my work surface at the proper height.  It was so empowering, so wonderful!  And you’ve probably taken it for granted for most of your career.  My employer has also issued me an ergonomic keyboard, which I use with my own professional-model touchpad (not those nasty things that come on laptops), and voice recognition software.  My employer even allows me to telework, so that when pain or fatigue flare, I’m mere steps away from ice packs, heating pads, medications, and rest.

I have a good job, a good salary, and good insurance.  Every year I have the maximum $5,000 deducted from my pay (pre-tax) for healthcare expenses, and every year I exhaust these funds months before the deductions are finished.  I will need physical therapy and pain management care for the rest of my life.  EDS does not have a cure, and treatment is to try to keep the connective tissue from getting too much worse.  EDS is not itself a progressive condition, but it causes conditions that are, like osteoarthritis.  When I’m invited to a meeting, a movie, a picnic, an afternoon of bowling, I don’t know how I’m going to feel that day.  It could be an okay day, or it could be a horrible day; good days have become quite rare for me.

Through this all, my employer has stood up for me, kept me working, and given me a place where my perspective is invited and valued.  Some days I may feel this less than others, but I am grateful and appreciative for this opportunity.

Today, in this earthly kingdom, my body fails me.  If you’ve read this blog before, you’ll know that I have Ehlers-Danlos Syndrome, which is an inherited connective tissue disorder that has caused me recurrent injuries (sprains, strains, subluxations, dislocations) and chronic pain.  Also associated with EDS and affecting me are Chronic Fatigue Syndrome and several dysautonomiae, including vertigo, low body temperature, and Raynaud’s-like temperature sensitivities.

Also in this earthly kingdom, I work a desk job.  I’m blessed to work as a skilled professional, and I’m similarly blessed in terms of salary.  And I spend much of that on prescription medications, doctor visits, physical therapy visits, therapeutic procedures, braces, splints, and purchasing conveniences (like meals out) that reduce the incidence of injury and/or pain levels.  So yes, I spend dollars to relieve and alleviate pain, and a lot of those dollars go to meals that I’d really prefer to be able to cook for myself.

In early August, my doctor and I discussed going on disability.  Between EDS and CFS and full-time work — yes, this is full-time work at my ergonomically-optimized workstation, which is in my home — my body was exhausted.  Not exhausted like “I just mowed the lawn,” but exhausted in its true sense, meaning “used up.”  So on August 5, I did not work.  My short-term disability claim was filed (and there were shenanigans, including incompetence and good ol’-fashioned American laziness), and on September 14, it was denied.

Right now, my doctor has cleared me to work 12 hours per week.  My employer will not allow me to work more than this right now; of course not, because they don’t want to be liable for harm to my body from working more than my doctor says is safe!  So imagine your pay for a moment; now imagine about a fourth of it; now give serious condition to living on that for the next few months.  But wait!  First you need to go unpaid for a month.  THEN you can live on about a quarter of your regular pay.  For the next several months.  That, or live with your normal salary, but completely unable to enjoy any benefits of it.  Like a home-cooked meal.  Like a vacuumed carpet.  Like getting through an entire workweek without having to use any vacation or sick time for profound pain or exhaustion.  Oh yeah, and because you have so much absenteeism and because your productivity has tanked, you’re under constant fear that you’ll lose your job entirely, so you wouldn’t even be able to get any disability benefits whatsoever.

This is not the Kingdom of God.  Heck, this is one crappy kingdom for human beings!

So, yeah.  Having Ehlers-Danlos Syndrome in the United States in the 21st century has already cost me my house, in bankruptcy last year.  It has wrecked my career and made me virtually unemployable — who wants to hire someone capable only of telecommuting, with a horrible record for absenteeism and productivity?  Now I’m only wondering how long it will be until my husband and I are living in our van down by the river, literally.  And the best part?  Disability attorneys don’t even want to talk to me.  They tell me they’ll be willing to talk to me once my application for Social Security Disability has been denied, but can’t offer me advice until then.  So I’m hamstrung by being a skilled professional with a good job and good benefits.

My husband and I joked about being glad he’s working at the parish he is, because it has a great outreach ministry to a homeless shelter nearby.  We laughed about having our first cardboard box as a married couple and the fun of looking forward to finding a nice roomy refrigerator box instead of our starter home in a microwave box.  And right now, I weep.  I weep because I don’t know what else to do.  My husband and I aren’t going to qualify for any kind of assistance program until we lose most of what we have.

But hey, my monthly withdrawal to the IRS for this year’s owed taxes bounced last month.  Maybe they’ll arrest us for tax evasion, so we can have a nice comfortable home in federal prison.

Because that, my friends, is the United States version of the Kingdom of God.

Arise, shine, for your light has come,
and the glory of the Lord has dawned upon you.
For behold, darkness covers the land;
deep gloom enshrouds the peoples.
But over you the Lord will rise,
and his glory will appear upon you.
Nations will stream to your light,
and kings to the brightness of your dawning.

What a beautiful song!  I close my eyes as the words roll over me.  Arise, shine! and Over you the Lord will rise and Nations will stream to your light.  O God, I prayed, let your light shine through me; I don’t care about kings and nations for myself, but let those around me see your light and be drawn to it.

Your gates will always be open;
by day or night they will never be shut.
They will call you, The City of the Lord,
The Zion of the Holy One of Israel.
Violence will no more be heard in your land,
ruin or destruction within your borders.
You will call your walls, Salvation,
and all your portals, Praise.

My heart and mind still unsettled, I took a deep breath, and then I took another.  My mind recollected the phrase open your heart, and I felt the gates of my heart open wide to God.  I sat and breathed, and tried to use centering prayer techniques.  Listen, spoke my word of recollection when my mind began thinking.  Listen.

The sun will no more be your light by day;
by night you will not need the brightness of the moon.
The Lord will be your everlasting light,
and your God will be your glory.

My face felt warm, as if a light was shining upon it, and my eyes opened briefly to see the glorious backlit stained-glass window behind the altar.  There Jesus stands, hands outstretched in greeting or blessing or both.  My eyes closed again; there Jesus stood, hands outstretched in greeting or blessing or both.  My Lord! my mind cried out to him, and I fell to my knees at his feet.  Tears flowed freely from my eyes, and I wanted to wash his feet as the sinful woman had during that dinner at the Pharisee’s house.  I brushed the dust from them, looked up into his face, and said Jesus, what do I do?  I don’t have enough hair to wipe them dry! Jesus laughed.

How to describe the laugh of Christ!  This is a man who has seen the very best and the very worst of mankind.  This is a man, who was and is a God, and who had to live with such indignities as itching bug bites and sand in embarrassing places and the hilariously embarrassing sound of flatulence.

Jesus laughed joyfully, with his entire being, until he plopped onto the ground next to me.  He wiped tears from the corners of his eyes, put an arm around my shoulders, and gave me a squeeze, like you would to a guy friend — casual, fond, knowing, human.

I laughed out loud, too, right there in the nave with the organist practicing and the sexton hammering.  My eyes opened and I looked right into the face of Jesus in the stained-glass window, and I laughed with him.

You don’t have to have hair, you know, he said to me.

I know.  I just…

I know.  I’m glad.  You’re a good kid.

And that was all.  I was left still chuckling, and I smile now whenever I look at the window behind the altar.  See, Jesus has a wonderful sense of humor.  He’d have to, you know, to deal with all of us!  I know, when I see Jesus and get smart-aleck attitude or joy or downright hilarity, that the vision is true.

The shortest verse in the bible happens when Jesus arrives in Bethany to find his dear friend Lazarus dead: Jesus wept. How is it that Jesus laughed never made it into holy scripture?