Smaller world: Reflections after a ski accident

My world has gotten
considerably
notably
remarkably
smaller
over the past couple of weeks

That same world, which was expansive before
has shrunk considerably in the past month
from looking out the window of my car
or across the front range
I looked to the wilder places
at peaks and valleys to explore
at vistas to take in from the back of a bicycle

my view shrunk
to my love, and the handful of people who are closest to me
to what I could see looking up from an ICU bed
my view shrunk
to a small slice of foothills and building
outside the hospital window
to a couple of nurses at a time,
who made sure I wouldn’t die that day
my view shrunk
to swallowing two pills
and eating one small bowl of Jello

Early one afternoon,
a beautiful day of skiing
turned surprisingly and swiftly (and violently?)
into the beginning of a personal and communal struggle

Weeks later,
I roll around with predictions rattling in my head
that cerebral electrical connections
will reestablish communication
and sinews atrophied by weeks of disuse
will be strengthened by moving again
though in very deliberate and intentional ways
even while I roll around, also,
with the idea that I’ll never stop sitting and rolling

Ash Wednesday Reflection

This is the outline of the sermon I shared today, Ash Wednesday. As one might expect, this outline does not contain exactly the words that were spoken, but it's pretty close.

***   ***   ***

So, we’ve come to this time of the church year once again
when we’re invited to remember our mortality

Some of you may remember, or know,
that I enjoy Instagram
that photo-sharing social medium
but I use Instagram not so much as a social media platform
not so much to connect with friends
instead, I use it to see beauty
I follow people who post photo journalism
remarkable poetry
and especially, people who post beautiful photos of things outside

so, I follow people who are much better skiers, mountaineers, cyclists, and poets
than I am or ever will be

One of these people I follow, Amanda Batty,
posted something yesterday
that gets to the heart of the message of Ash Wednesday
this idea that you are dust, and you shall return to dust

the deal is, Amanda Batty is a mountain bike racer
and a little over seven months ago, she crashed really hard
and as I understand it, had to have her foot reconstructed
she’s only just in the past week or so gotten back on a bike

she wrote the following (which I’ve edited for content and for language)


***
I hate feeling vulnerable. I always have. I hate feeling out of control and I hate feeling slow.
I hate feeling broken and less than 100% capable and strong, and it makes me mad
because I still have this absurd mental and emotional attachment to being
superhuman,
to being unbreakable ... To being immortal
[It’s hard to] realize that I’m not exceptional or special or different —
just like everyone else, I too break and scar and will eventually die
[someone told her] “You’re quick to be defensive
because you think people see what you aren’t anymore.”
***


here’s the thing
Amanda Batty realized the thing that's true about each one of us
we live an embodied life
life in a body that's beautiful, and resilient, and also fragile

we are created from the dust of the earth
molded and shaped by our creator
who looks at us and proclaims us good

but still, as many of you know, sometimes we break
and need to take time to heal
sometimes it seems like different parts wear out
(many of you know, it’s happening to me … I’m learning how to need to wear glasses)
sometimes we experience betrayal through our bodies
and we realize that what we had once been able to do
we likely won’t ever again

and make no mistake
these betrayals that we experience in our bodies
they’re different from physical death only in degree
the few dozen sprained ankles I endured
while not crippling, still I experienced a little death
because I thought I was kept from fullness of life
the learning how to remember to bring glasses along
while not catastrophic, still I experience a little death
because I can’t quite see like I once did

but it’s not just our physicality
also, we experience death in the emotional and psychological and spiritual aspects of our life
consider when someone beloved to you is sick or injured
that’s a little death you experience, even as your beloved does as well

whether it’s a stroke or a scratch
a heartbreak or a bad haircut
death, in varying degrees, surrounds us

and then, after all the little deaths
eventually, someday, we’ll just die
our bodies will quit working
it’s humbling
realizing that though we are created good by our God
still we’re not invincible, we’re not immortal
we will die
every single one of us
you are dust, and to dust you shall return

yet, though we shall indeed die,
the promise Christ embodies for us
is the promise that death does not have the final word
that Christ entered into our life and our death,
and has defeated any power death has over us

Oh, death, where is your sting?
Oh, grave, where is your victory? Paul writes

so we begin this season of Lent
acknowledging our mortality
anticipating the promise that we’ll celebrate as the church at Easter
that on the other side of death, God promises us new life

In the name of Christ our Savior. Amen. 

Music, Faith, and Mortality

We just picked up the new Johnny Cash record, American VI: Ain't No Grave. I threw it on the portable music player and have been listening to it since yesterday morning.

I went and picked it up on Saturday afternoon at a fun record store. Of course, I passed right by the prominent display and had to ask someone where to find it, but my cluelessness led to an interesting (very brief) conversation with the guy at the record store where I bought it. He told me that he's a big Johnny Cash fan, which isn't a surprise since I think everyone should be a big Johnny Cash fan. He told me, though, that he didn't think this record was that great. He thought that if Johnny Cash was still alive, he wouldn't have let this album be released. It's not that the tracks were bad, they just weren't that great. He thought that maybe these tracks ought to have been released as b-sides.

As I listened to the record, I could certainly see what he meant. While the voice is unmistakably Johnny Cash (that trademark bass that, when it's just about as low as you think it can be, goes down about a third more) is also unmistakably the fragile and wavering voice of an old man. I think this may be what the record store guy was talking about. He also said that it's mostly spiritual songs obviously sung by someone who's getting close to death.

The fragility in his singing makes the record even more remarkable to me. It sounds less like an album that was produced so that fans would be able to buy it, and more like a guy sitting on the front porch with his guitar singing songs that he loves.

I think the record store guy is exactly right in his assessment, which is why I like this album. I recognize the humanity and mortality in his singing because I've heard the same thing from a number of old people who have been members of church communities that I've also been able to be part of. My favorite example is this old guy who played the fiddle. I'll call him Ralph, 'cause that was his name. Ralph probably had been a pretty decent fiddler when he was younger. He certainly had a couple beautiful (looking and sounding) fiddles, and he knew a lot of songs. By the time I knew him, he was already old, but he was fairly healthy. In fact, he even sat in when we introduced a brand new bluegrass liturgy to the congregation (and the world ... sort of). Ralph had a somewhat extended illness, and while he was trying to recover, I took time to sit with him at the hospital and at the nursing home where he was for a while. I loved visiting Ralph ~ he was great fun to talk with, and he had a pleasant family. If I stopped by when his family was around, we always had a great conversation. I always heard from the nurses, from the other employees, and sometimes from some of the other residents that they enjoyed his fiddle playing. Apparently he'd play in his room, and sometimes in the common areas, which seemed to always be well-received.

Sometimes when I'd stop by to visit, Ralph was by himself ~ his family wasn't around, and he didn't have anything else to do, so we'd talk. But we'd usually only talk for about 5 minutes. That seemed long enough to communicate whatever was necessary to communicate. Then we'd start playing music. See, Ralph always had his fiddle. And his wife Esther had learned to play mandolin to accompany him when they'd go play for people. But she never played by herself, so wherever Ralph's fiddle was, Esther's mandolin was there too. So after we were done talking, Ralph would rosin his bow, I'd tune Esther's mandolin, and we'd play together for a while. I didn't know most of the tunes, but I followed along well enough to the simple changes that went with the old-time fiddle tunes he knew.

If someone had recorded those visits, they probably wouldn't be worth even the b-side to a record. But there was something wonderful about hearing someone's deep love for music, even if they didn't play as well as they once might have. And that's the way I feel about the new Johnny Cash record ~ it's an old musician singing songs from deep within him. There's something there that can't be produced, it just has to be played.