"All that is gold does not glitter, not all those who wander are lost; the old that is strong does not wither, deep roots are not reached by the frost."

Sunday, February 7, 2010

ARE YOU THERE GOD? IT'S ME, YOUR TARGET

You should see my Sunday school pin. It's five or six inches long and represents my twelve years of service, as a youngster, sitting in a windowless classroom at Saint Andrew's Episcopal church, studying the teachings of the Lord, our God. I can't remember a lot of what I learned, but, the basics - Jesus loves the little children, Noah rises and shines, and people should be nice to each other - were seared onto my poor, unworthy soul. I carry these lessons with me throughout life along with - wait your turn, don't be late, and clean your plate - like loose coins and ponytail holders at the bottom of my purse. I know where they are if I need a quarter or my hair pulled up in a pinch.

I can't say I'm religious or spiritual anymore. I don't kneel at an alter or take communion. I sleep late on Sundays and eat pancakes in my pajamas for brunch. I break commandments. But, I will say, sometimes I talk to God. I'm pretty sure my Sunday school teacher would not approve of my going directly to Him with my comments, questions, and concerns, but, along with being a lousy Episcopalian, I am impertinent, impetuous, and impudent.

Every time I want to tell God something, ask him a favor, or beg him for a sign, I always take in to account that He is very busy. I don't want to distract His attention away from a soldier praying for his safety in a dark place outside Baghdad or a mother praying for her child's health in the cold corridor of a cancer ward. I know, in the bigger picture, my problems are much less important. I can wait my turn.

Last week, I was driving to Bickford from Woodstock when I started to cry. I wasn't even with my dad yet, and the type of day it would be had not been determined, but I was extremely overtired. And, when I say cry, I mean a type of wailing that comes up from the belly, circles the room, and assaults the ears. It's earthy and primal; it's unfiltered grief. If allowed, it can fuck up a whole day.

So I said, "God, I swear to Christ, if you are there, you gotta help me out. You have to see me through this day. I need the strength to stop crying." (If you are shocked that I would swear at God, then you might not love someone with AD. You're probably not a caregiver.)

Mid-gulp for oxygen, I stopped. Like a click of the remote, from thunderous death-defying-avalanche documentary to calm drink-a-Corona-on-the-beach commercial, my tirade was over. It did not wind down with a sniffle or hiccup. I did not have to breathe in through my nose and out through my mouth for a minute. I mean, I just stopped crying. It was communion on the fly. I was a target, God hit a bulls eye, a choir sang.

I don't know where I stand with my faith, but that was surely a sacred moment and something close to holy happened. I made it through the day, and the six days after, without any tears and I felt blessed.

Typically, when I ask God for stuff, the answer is no. My mom did not survive her auto-immune disease, my father was not spared the indignities that come with memory loss, and I did not make the high school cheerleading squad. But, if that was the sign I've been asking for these past five years, I'll take it. Thank you, God. I'll talk to you later.

2 comments:

  1. I have to say inspire me to be a better person. You are the caregiver to someone with a horrible disease and are doing it with dignity and pride. Keep up the writing because I know how therapeutic it can be!

    XOXO, Mara

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  2. Please keep these coming. And hang tough. I'm thinking of you.

    ReplyDelete