Magoo!

This is a flash blog...so hold on!


I have a member of my church, we'll call her "Kristin,"  who keeps a blog. She is, to my thinking, a writer, a singer, a partner with her boyfriend, a loving pet owner, a good friend, person of faith, a compassionate adventurer.


Recently Kristin went to a conference to have some of her writing assessed by peers. Peer review can be a very stressful and very rewarding process. Folks who have similar passions come together to constructively work on making the "best product possible" out of what you've created. As a local pastor, I am on the receiving end of all kinds of reviews every time I open my mouth or publish a thought. It can be frightening. It can be frustrating. It can be thought provoking. It can also be painful.


I've found that there are two kinds of pain: 1. the kind you grow through; 2. the kind that you grow past. Both require healing. 


The kind of pain you grow through comes from someone who knows a lot of your work, saying to you, "this isn't your finest. I think you can do better. Here's what might help..." That is constructive criticism that takes in a lot of factors and sends me on a journey of discovery. I wonder: was I having a bad day? Did the issue push a button for me that I wasn't aware of...or I was aware of and I just didn't care enough in the moment to be attentive to it? What can I do in the future to make this situation better? Healthier? More authentic to my true voice and nature? The steps I take to address those questions are usually uncomfortable, but because I have been set on a track to something better, I am willing to make the trek...each painful step of the way. Many times I actually make it to the Promised Land...where I usually find some new issues to address. Such is living.


The kind of pain that you grow past comes from someone who myopically judges you or your thoughts based on one moment in time. "You spoke about a political issue today, you must be obsessed with politics. Why don't you ever talk about something else?" "You brought up finances in a sermon, all you ever do is talk about money! I left my last church because that's all they ever talked about." I call it the Magoo Syndrome. 


For you youngsters reading this blog, Mr. Magoo was a nice cartoon character who could only see halfway to the end of his nose. He regularly bumped into things, made false assumptions, and created all kinds of chaos with his shortsightedness He usually had no idea the havoc he had caused as he bumbled merrily along his way in pursuit of some simple task. Without casting people as cartoons, I will say that Magoo Syndrome is something most everyone I know (including myself) has been infected with at one time or another. It's just easier to pigeon hole somebody based on a few haphazardly collected facts, than it is to get to know a person. 


Back to Kristin. Kristin attended a writers workshop and was accosted by Magoo Syndrome. She was reduced to a single issue in a single piece of writing that she had poured her heart and soul into. The fullness of her life was negated by a single sentence which went something like: 

"All I get from this blog is that the author is a pathetic person 

who is completely identified by her illness.

MAGOOOOOOOOOOOO!


All I get from that critique is that the speaker is: 1. not a good peer reviewer; 2. afraid of illness; 3. lacks compassion; 4. craves attention; 5. missed the point; 6. doesn't know Kristin at all; 7. made a judgement of an individual based on one small but passionate piece of evidence; 8. needs to be reigned in by the facilitator of the group so that she doesn't make such a magoo-ish mistake again...but that could be my Magoo speaking.


I remember getting a 0 on my first paper in New Testament studies at seminary. That's not an O as in octopus...that's a zero. I had not understood the assignment and had taken a creative approach to the paper. The professor wrote: "You have no business in the ministry. Pack your bags and save yourself the money you would otherwise waste here."

Quite an assessment. Fortunately for me, I knew I had a calling to ministry, and I marched (Ok, sauntered...) over to the professor's office and demanded an apology. I asked him who he thought he was to crush a first semester student on the first paper of the semester? He said I had incensed him. I explained my process and told him that while he was certainly at liberty to critique my academic accomplishments, he had no business commenting on what God was up to with me. He quietly agreed and apologized. He also kept the paper a zero. I worked my butt off to pass...and I did, with a B...and 3 years later that professor was standing on the platform, shaking his head, smiling, and handing me my diploma.

I hope Kristin will continue to write. I hope she'll be able to grow past this Magoo moment. From what I have seen of her work, and her growth as a human being, it looks to me like she has a calling.

--todd

CIRCLE OF THANKSGIVING

At some point today I’ll sit around a table with my family to give thanks. It’s Thanksgiving...that’s what we’re supposed to do. The idea of it freezes my brain, though. I seize up wracking through the past year to choose the one or two people or experiences that I can say I am grateful for when the ‘circle of thanksgiving’ lands at my plate. That is when we go around the table and say something that we’re thankful for. Everyone usually has something...problem is, I have too much. I can’t narrow it down to a moment in time because thanksgiving is where I live my life. Every moment. Really. I can’t remember when it began, but somewhere in the wiring process of my brain, being thankful got priority. 

“Oh c’mon, Todd. You can’t be thankful for sleepless nights or people who are mean or thoughtless or subversive.” True. I am not thankful for those things...but I am thankful that in the midst of dealing with those things, God directs me to creative ways to respond to those things. Sleeplessness? I write a blog or look at the stars until I can breathe easy again and find my way back to bed. Mean people? I’m grateful that I don’t carry their baggage that makes them such pills. Subversive? I remember times when I have acted like that and I rejoice that I have been observant enough to head it off at the pass so it can do less harm to me or whoever is being sabotaged.

I am thankful for my wife, my kids, my family of choice, my friends, my faith, my church, my community, the folks who aren’t particularly “mine” but who are working hard in similar directions, trying to make the world a wee bit better each and every day, the folks who care, the folks who need caring, God (who sustains me through it all). I am thankful for laughter and thoughtful conversations, and being able to feel more fully than I used to. I am thankful for walking. I am thankful for sitting. I am thankful for football parents who cook hot dogs at high school football games on Thanksgiving Day.  I am thankful in each moment, not necessarily for the particulars of the moment, but for the grace to see beyond the particulars. It makes the “circle of thanksgiving” a challenge, but then, what a delicious dilemma to be met with.


May your plate be so full to overflowing this holiday and every day...it is enough.

Happy Thanksgiving to my readers...this turkey needs to go back to sleep.

-todd

YOU ARE NOT ALONE

I heard this poem at our Veteran’s Day program this year. It was reprinted in our local paper.

It Is The Soldier

It is the Soldier, not the minister

Who has given us freedom of religion.

It is the Soldier, not the reporter

Who has given us freedom of the press.

It is the Soldier, not the poet

Who has given us freedom of speech.

It is the Soldier, not the campus organizer

Who has given us freedom to protest.

It is the Soldier, not the lawyer

Who has given us the right to a fair trial.

It is the Soldier, not the politician

Who has given us the right to vote.

It is the Soldier who salutes the flag,

Who serves beneath the flag,

And whose coffin is draped by the flag,

Who allows the protester to burn the flag.

--Charles Michael Province, U.S. Army

As a minister who prays regularly for our military and who is part of a group that reaches out to military families and their friends, I was saddened by this poem. The author seems so lonely...by which I mean, all alone. He sets himself and his fellow soldiers as islands without support or community. He creates a world of Us vs. Them, in a world that I believe needs a whole lot more WE. 

I wonder if  all our military feel so alone? I hope not. I hope that they realize that there are, scattered all around them, people who care a great deal about who they are, what they are doing, and what they have been through. Sometimes we don’t have the words or means to express that in just the right way...but we really do care. I don’t mean “just ministers” care...I mean that I hear throughout our community a great outpouring of concern for our military and their families. Folks just don’t always know what to do.

We recently held a workshop on that topic at our church. The workshop was called: The Spiritual Journey Home from War. It was sponsored by the Brookfield Institute. We had a nice cross section of people attend. 

One of the big things the veterans who were present told us we could do to be supportive was: to “be sincere in your gratitude.” They were not interested in tossed off cliches or political platitudes. The warriors who joined us said that what they really appreciated was knowing that their service was appreciated. Was acknowledged as being difficult. Was witnessed as something that meant something to those of us who were back here, on the home front. The people we met confessed that they did not fully understand all that they were called to do, but it was somehow reassuring to have it acknowledged as having happened. That it was not forgotten.

I have written a response to the poem that was read at this year’s Veteran’s Day program. I use the same title as the original author, because quite frankly, it IS the soldier who is our focal point. It IS the soldier who we gather around and seek to support and owe so much of our lives to...BUT...those soldiers are not alone. They do not operate in a vacuum. I hope that my poem will let them know, that they operate in a world that loves them; in a nation that does care about their well being; in all of the mixed up ways that we express that, including prayers for peace.

IT IS THE SOLDIER

It is the minister, who offers care to the families of the soldier who is at war; 

 who prays for the soldier’s well being while they are away and welcomes the soldier home and offers hope and healing for the wounds that have been accrued while serving the nation.

It is the reporter who records the perils faced in the field.

Who holds the cause being fought for to the light,

in black and white and gray,

so that we do not forget

the powder and sand smudged faces of those making sacrifices on our behalf.

It is the campus organizer who gathers voices in protest against squandering the lives and talents of our armed forces; who cries out for better services when they come home and who reminds us of the ideals our military are fighting for.

It is the politician who must weigh the cost of each soldier’s life lost...or injured...or otherwise forgotten at war by a public that is easily distracted by personal need.

It is the nation, putting our hands to our hearts as we see a flag and remembering with quiet awe

the sacrifices that have been made by our military to protect and preserve

the freedoms that flag represents.

It is the tears of those who mourn our fallen,

cradled in their coffins,

beneath carefully creased blankets of stars and stripes.

It is the great paradox of those whose passions are great,

living together,

soldier and civilian,

in community, 

supporting one another,

that allows us to be one nation, under God.

--Rev. Todd Farnsworth, minister

STONES

A group of people who I respect a great deal had an online conversation recently about water-boarding. Some of the folks were for it...some were against it. Some drew a political line in the sand proclaiming that one party had the bragging rights on the issue. I was impressed by the respectful way the conversation unfolded. Very few cheap shots were taken.  It was clear that there was a difference of opinion on the topic.

It got me thinking about torture in general...or “enhanced interrogation” as we are calling it these days.

I understand the need for information that will keep us safer. I get that sometimes people possess knowledge that could endanger or save the lives of 100’s maybe 1000’s of people. It is important to get that information. There have been occasions when “enhanced interrogation” has been effective in ascertaining important pieces to a particularly tricky puzzle of intelligence. There have also been occasions when the enemy has resisted the painful experience, and he or she has withheld the wisdom that is being sought.

I’ve heard a few folks argue that the interrogator needs to get “tougher” on their prisoner. I’ve also heard a few folks argue that this is why torture should not be bothered with in the first place. I confess, I don’t have the answer to which is right and which is wrong...and I don’t want to push my reader in any particular direction either.

What I am reminded of in this scenario is the time Jesus was sitting with a woman who was accused of adultery. It was a crime punishable by death. She was, in the eyes of those who had cornered her, an enemy of the faith. I’m guessing you remember Jesus’ response to this situation...he did not preach at the woman or her captors,...he made them an offer:

Whoever among you is without sin, feel free to cast the first stone.

My issue with enhanced interrogation comes out of my wrestling with that offer. I wonder if we are always in the right? I wonder if the enemy’s issue with us is always without virtue or merit? I wonder how we can feel outrage about the torture of our soldiers by the enemy, if we are engaging in torture? To take it a step more personal (and I do believe that war is personal, otherwise we would not have support groups for folks who are worried about their loved ones who are deployed or support groups for folks who have experienced so much trauma in war that they now have Post Traumatic Stress Response) I wonder how we can find it acceptable for the young men and women we pray for each Sunday in worship, to be subjected to “enhanced interrogation” if they were to be captured? Because when we agree as a country that it’s OK here...we imply that it’s OK over there. We’re all God’s creatures...right?

When I think about casting that first stone at one of the young people from Belchertown who are serving our country, I shudder.  It is not OK with me. I do not want to hurt them. I do not want anyone else to hurt them. I love them. I want them to come home to be with their families and friends. I want them to have as little to heal from as is possible in the midst of war. I am not naive. I know that there will be a lot to recover from; seeing people hurt, seeing people die, being on constant alert for the safety of your life. That is tragic enough for me. I also know that when they come home, if they come home, I will be there to help them (and their families) put the broken pieces back together again.

The thought of  adding  another stone to the heaviness of war is enough to sink my heart.

WE HAVE A PROBLEM

We have a problem

This is actually the first blog I ever wrote and I am glad to have had God sitting on my shoulder giving me guidance for it. My hope was and is to let this be a space for wondering about God, Jesus, the Spirit and the seasons of the sacred that we move through as we live our lives.

I'm thinking about our church's financial woes today. I actually think about them every day. Our church's struggle to survive has a bit an of impact on my life...and livelihood.

I recently used an online imaging program called Prezi (PREZI) that allowed me to put pictures of our church's ministries all on one page. I had pictures of: food shelf, relay for life, BUCC's Place, Taco Salad, Prison Ministry, Bring Mickey Home ministry, Sunday School, Worship (with people hugging at the passing of the peace), You Are Not Alone ministry to military families, Theater ministries, facebook ministries, web page ministries, tv ministries, CROP Walk ministry, denominational ministries (NIN and OGHS, plus the clergy group that I am a participant in). It was an exciting collage, especially since I knew in my mind that I was missing pictures for some of the things we do. Visiting the sick. Comforting those who are grieving. Baptisms. Weddings. A domestic abuse support group. A building that houses several agencies for change such as AA, Scouts, NarAnon, and Community Options.

Each one of these ministries fits our understanding of Jesus' open arms and extravagant welcome. Each one of these ministries fits our call to compassion and healing in His name. Each one of these ministries is a witness to who we believe God to be.

It is quite a picture...under which I wrote the words, "We have a problem." Because, we do. Unless something changes in our financial picture, we will soon be out of money.

We have a problem. As I look at the pictures I see people laughing, hugging, working together. I see people who are predominantly youngish (mid 30's) with a smattering of 50 year olds and a very few in their 80's and 90's. I see large groups of people coming together to put their faith into action. I see groups that are living their faith and inviting others to join in the fun.

And maybe that is where the problem lies....

When I look at the collage, I do not see any pictures of us passing the offering plate. I do not see any pictures of us coming together to make our "pledge" to the church. I do not see "fun" when I look for it around our sustained giving to BUCC...which is weird...because we have found a way to make virtually everything a party at this church. We have a culture of celebrating and inviting, and yet we have missed the confetti cannon opportunity on our cash flow!

I wonder what it would look like for us to celebrate the money we offer up in Jesus' name, for the continuation of this holy party we call The Belchertown United Church of Christ (BUCC)?  Would there be conga lines? Congo lines? Limbo sticks? Music? Snacks? Silly hats? A fun gesture that we give to one another to say, "yeah, I pledged today...how 'bout you?"

We have a problem. I have faith that with God's Spirit among us, we can turn this thing around. Congo lines? Maybe.

--todd

LOOK AT ME

I recently directed a pretty big show in and for our community. The cast was about 40 people, including a choir. And there was a tech crew of 4. And refreshments. And programs. And...well, it was a pretty big deal. The good news is, folks seemed to like it. A lot. The reviews I got ranged from: “I saw it 5 times and cried 5 times.” to “I really liked the way the contemporary music cued the audience to what was coming next.” to “Do you realize what a gift you’ve given to this community?” I even got a standing ovation during worship!


What was strange was that each time someone would throw an accolade my way, I would feel my soul shrinking into a small ball. I would bow my head. I would cover my eyes. I would try to hide.

Weird.

It was not a case of “not believing” what people were saying. I knew I had worked hard. I knew that the cast and crew had really risen to the challenge in a remarkable way. I knew that the kind words folks were sharing with me were sincere...and true. Nonetheless, I felt a need to hide.
I was talking to my therapist about this today and as we explored the feeling I realized that I have had to hide a lot in my life. Not so much as an adult, but as a kid...it was a survival thing. I had to hide from an out of control adult. I had to hide my feelings. I had to hide my shame. When someone was looking for me, or at me, the robot from “Lost in Space” would shout into my brain, “WARNING! WARNING! WARNING, WILL ROBINSON!” which was odd because that is not my name. I would bolt (either physically or emotionally) and hide...or at least, try to hide.

While that works pretty good for a kid who is living in terror, it is a strange way to order one’s adult life.

As I thought about my behavior I got to thinking about Jesus. He was a pretty out and about kind of guy for most of his ministry. He didn’t shy away from people who wanted to thank him. He didn’t duck when somebody called his name from a crowd. He would turn and look them in the eyes. He would listen to what they had to say. He would respond in the moment (maybe give them a ‘high five’ or a hug) and then he would move on to whatever he was doing next.

After being beaten, crucified, and resurrected, Jesus was a little bit cagier. He was a bit more selective about how long he stuck around and visited with people. One minute he was there...the next he was gone. I don’t think he was hiding, but maybe he was remembering the hurt he'd experienced from folks he had wanted to trust. Maybe he wondered about who he could count on.  Maybe it was hard for him to be seen. Maybe that robot was waving its arms in Jesus’ brain, too.

Eventually, Jesus got comfortable enough to be with everyone...all the time. His Spirit lives in our communities and in our lives. He smiles at us and plays with us and cries with us. I believe that he looks us in the eyes, again. Somehow, he figured out that not everyone is out to hurt him...neither is everyone out to thank him. He discovered a way to be present and still protect himself. 

I don’t think that I am going to become a spirit in the near future, but I do think that I can live spiritually in the present. I can use my senses to advise me of folks who are sincerely offering a constructive word. I can accept and maybe even come to embrace with pride their thoughtfulness when they take the time to look at something I have done. I do not need to hide from them. I am an adult. Neither do I need to hide from people who are offering me a “destructive” comment or observation. I can acknowledge where they are coming from, and look them in the eyes, and agree to disagree.

I think this is going to take some practice. I ask for your patience as I come out of hiding. This is a hard thing to ask, but I’m gonna go for it anyway: Please look at me...it’ll help me grow.

SWISS CHEESE

This week my brain is like swiss cheese. No, not especially holy...but very holey. It reminds me of the popular show from the 80’s, Quantum Leap. The main character “Sam” would jump from time to time, and body to body, each episode having to figure out who he was, when he was, and what he was doing there. I think my wife liked it because she had a crush on the actor Scott Bakula. I liked it because of the way each show resolved the weekly dilemma.



The conceit of the show was that the trauma of “leaping” from time to time and body to body made the main characters brain like “swiss cheese.” There were gaps in memory. There were gaps in how relationships worked. There were gaps in how his body worked! Those gaps gave “Sam” the wiggle room to discover interesting things about himself as he tried to help his “host” figure out his (or her! very risky for the 80’s...) life situation.



Last week’s snow storm, and the trauma that went with it, made my brain turn into swiss cheese.



Names of familiar faces are lost to me. I begin driving somewhere and have to turn around because I’ve gone in the wrong direction. I am having a difficult time verbalizing my thoughts. Typing is a little easier, but even here I have to stop every so often to re read what I’ve written, so that I can figure out what I am trying to say. It is frustrating, and funny, and crazy. I recognize it as the stuff of having lived through an extraordinary experience...so I am patient with myself. I am also patient with folks around me, because I can see that they are struggling, too. They are groping for objects that aren’t there. They are flinching at innocent sounds and wandering in their conversations like a cow drunk on whiskey. I’m pretty sure their brains have become holey like mine. Some of them report having trouble sleeping. Some of them say that is difficult to concentrate at work. It’s all swiss to me. 


The good news is, that with time, and stability, the holes begin to fill in. The warmth of familiarity melts the cheese like a sandwich on the grill. The sweet and salty aroma of the toast awakens our memory to the things we’ve temporarily forgotten, and the stickiness of the whole business begins to pull us back together. We heal.



I believe that God is somewhere in the midst of those holes in my head right now. I believe that God is the one who is turning up the heat so that the cheese will begin to warm and soften and fill in the blanks. I believe that somehow, God is gently molding me back to myself; helping me figure things out; giving me the wiggle room to put "things" back in order. I’m not sure exactly how God does it, but I do know that when it happens, it is a holy kind of thing. I feel awakened and alive and aware, again. My senses are more attuned to the stimulus around me. God's done it before when other storms have raged through my life. It's pretty neat how the holy happens when I let her do her thing. I feel more whole...which certainly sounds like the kind of work my God is about...at least, that's a leap I'm willing to take.

TREADMILL: PART 2

I love to dance. My wife and I can go for 2-3, maybe even 4 hours at a wedding reception. We kick up our heels, spin, laugh, sweat...make fools out of ourselves. It's a lot of fun. We usually come home from these sessions exhausted and happy.

I posted in an earlier blog ( TREADMILL ) about my struggle on the treadmill. Today I tried again. I started early in the morning before I had time to work up too much anxiety about it. I got on and started the music. Breathe, Todd. Breathe. I prayed for God to move the past out of my way with a bulldozer so that I could just enjoy myself, or at the very least, not feel shame from the exercise. As I walked, I could feel my blood pressure rise. I could feel my heart beating faster. I could feel the adrenaline pumping through my body. I kept on praying, "C'mon God...we can do this. This doesn't have to be terrible. There must be sometime when I get all worked up that doesn't feel awful to me. Help me to think of this like...like when I'm dancing with Martha!"

I smiled. I saw us whooping it up in our nice clothes. We were hot, and sweaty, and laughing and singing and swaying and...it was ok. And when a slow song came on I held Martha close and we joked about sticking together (ewwww). And I kept on walking. Song after song.  I even sang a little. It felt pretty good.

Somehow in my talking with God a shift happened. My anxiety diminished. A boulder moved. I was rocked and rolled. Perhaps that's how the boulder got moved away on Easter morning. Maybe Jesus said, "C'mon God...we can do this. This doesn't have to be terrible."

I wonder what kinds of shifts happen in your life when you talk with God? I wonder how the Spirit uses those conversations to leverage change that brings about wholeness?

It's been 3 hours since I was back on the treadmill. Still feeling pretty good. No shame. Kind of feels like Easter morning.
--todd

SMIRKERS

Have you ever met someone who clearly didn't care for you? They may not know you. They may never have had a face to face conversation with you, but when they do, it's like a stink bomb has been set off during worship. Their smile is strained. It pulls at the sides of their mouth and creates on their face: a smirk.

smirk  (smûrk)

intr.v. smirked, smirk·ing, smirks

To smile in an affected, often offensively self-satisfied manner.

n.

An affected, often offensively self-satisfied smile.

 The "smirker" looks at you like they can't believe you're wasting their air. They may politely answer your questions and respond to your statements...but there won't be any depth happening. Your conversation with them will be forced to dwell near the surface as if it is gasping for air. Any attempt to move closer will result in a polite diversionary tactic and a "goodbye."

I imagine that Jesus experienced that awkward interaction on a daily basis. Perhaps the folks who disliked him didn't even try to hide their discomfort. The Bible describes the outright, hostile mocking, of this guy who was just trying to offer compassion, hope, and healing to everyone he met.

I have a few of those smirkers in my life. When they see me coming they either hide, avoid making eye contact with me, ignore me if there is someone else with me, or smirk. That's what they do when I catch them off guard. They curl up their lips like the Grinch overlooking Who-ville with a dastardly idea. It drives me nuts. It sometimes leaves me feeling sad...or hurt.

Jesus smiled back at the smirkers. He looked past their discomforted dead eyes and embraced them with humor, or a challenge, or a direct question regarding their behavior. He did not let the "smirk" keep him from his mission. He did not let the "smirk" deny him the opportunity to share some Good News with the folks who, for whatever reason, did not feel comfortable in his presence. He let that be their issue, and he held steady with his issues.

I'm going to try and deal with the "smirkers" in my life more like Jesus did. I'm going to stop avoiding them for the sake of my own comfort, and just go up to them (even if it means hopping over a few chairs to catch them), and say, "hello." I'm going to engage them on my terms and say what I need to say. Who knows, maybe I'll catch them on a good day. Maybe the Spirit will be moving between us and they'll actually listen to something I have to say. Maybe I'll be able to figure out where their discomfort comes from. Maybe we'll get to dive a little deeper for my persistence.

Maybe they'll just get better at hiding from me when they see me coming.

--todd

TREADMILL

I"m a survivor of abuse. Physical and emotional abuse as a child. Lots of it. It has left me with Post Traumatic Stress Disorder. I hate it. Recently I restarted therapy. The guy I'm seeing was on my previous therapist's "emergency" list...and since my previous therapist is dead, I guess calling this new person made sense.


My issue at the moment is paralysis. I am stuck. Can't move. Literally. Can't. Move. When I think about exercising or doing anything healthy for myself I seize up. I have a shortness of breath. My legs don't want to move. The muscles in my arms tighten up. It's not a good feeling. It reminds me of how I felt when I was being abused...


My new therapist and I talked about that yesterday. He suggested that I try to feel the tensing of the muscles, and push aside the panic piece of the equation, because I do panic when I feel this way. We did a short exercise and I had some success, but I knew I had to practice to get better at it.


Today I spent 3 hours in paralysis. I even created this blog as a way to avoid doing  a little exercise. By “a little” I mean, “20 minutes on a slow treadmill.” I think that is a little.


After eating lunch I was able to yell at myself loudly enough that I got on the stupid treadmill.


My muscles were tense. My head began to swim as I moved my feet on the belt. Breathe. Breathe. This is not that trauma. This elevated heartbeat is not “that” elevated heartbeat. This heavy breathing is not “that” heavy breathing. I put on some Mavis Staples walking music, and pressed “go.”

It was not too bad. I felt anxious a few times, and when I did feel the anxiety rising, I would pray, “God, this is not that time, help me to be here now. Help me to feel this as a good thing. Help me to know this is a good thing.” And I kept walking. And walking. And walking. When I finally stopped, I noted that I had been at it for 40  minutes. My breathing came back to normal. I had survived.






It was a couple hours later that the anxiety began to rise up again. I felt...ashamed. My body was translating the healthy activity as "trauma". I felt...angry that I felt ashamed. I felt frustrated that even though I was able to walk, the trauma was still able to change that good thing into something really horrible. My limbs started tightening up. My head started to swirl. “God, help me to remember the good that walk did for me. Help me to remember how I did not feel so terrible when I was on the treadmill and how I lost track of time because it was OK to be walking for my health.”


I am trying to be patient. I am terrible at being patient. I trust that God who saved me, delivered me, from my tormentors, will lead me through this wilderness. Like my spiritual forebears, I’m pretty sure that I will murmur until I reach the promised land As a wise doctor friend of mine once prescribed: one step today...maybe two steps tomorrow. I will try.
--todd