Sitting in Church

Swollen foot before the "boot" cast.

There is a popular church song, "On Eagles' Wings" that promises that God will lift you up. Sometimes I find the Eagle's wings are more comforting when folded around me.

Psalm 91:4

[H]e covers you with his feathers,

and you find shelter under his wings.

It has been three weeks since I broke my foot. The break itself is small, but the sprained ligaments down the side of the foot are still making life uncomfortable for me. So, in church, I have been sitting for most of the Mass. Sitting keeps the foot's throbbing at a minimum.

I place my booted foot, resplendent in black foam-filled, air-pumped padding and Velcro trim, on the kneeler and say my prayers while feeling very small. Even the eight-year-old towers beside me. Truly, I am curtained by people which makes the sanctuary seem far away, on the other side of a mountain. But, I am grateful to be where I am, in spite of the differences in my stature. I would much rather be IN church than at home praying with the computer. (I detest televised services having experienced too many of those in bedrooms, hospitals, and nursing homes with my mother.) I am certain I will be able to stand longer next week, and in a few more weeks I will be able to offer someone else a ride. For the time, I am dependent on the kindness of others

I truly am in a good place for having people pray for me. The obvious, temporary injury always gives me something to talk about, something to laugh about, something to anticipate being gone. It is different from the hidden problems that people hide from because they are so insidious and frightening in the manner they debilitate a person: cancer and depression and other illnesses that do not have one wearing band-aids or casts. An illness which allows a person to stand during a church service turns him into a sopping ball of pain when the room in his house is quiet, empty, and closed into itself. It is the harder one to endure.

Years ago, before churches made accommodations for handicapped access and wheelchairs, I sat with my mother in the servers' sacristy during Mass. We were about three feet from the open door, at an angle to view the whole sanctuary and altar, but out of view for all but a few people in the church. Since my brothers were frequent altar servers, it was my duty to stay with Mom until my sister was old enough to take turns for this duty of turning the pages of Mom's missal and being her companion in prayer. I had a folding chair, but I knelt on the cold asphalt tiled floor with no rug or padding. Mom sat in her wheelchair through the service, an exercise that exhausted her during those early years after polio. Later, she was able to build endurance and could last for several hours before needed to lay down and refresh. She was so grateful to be present at Mass.

Whenever I wish to define piety, the picture that comes to mind is that of Mom receiving communion. Father O'Brien would stop to give Mom and me communion before distributing the sacrament to the congregation. He wore a heavy brocaded chasuble with heavy incense odor still clinging to it. As though carrying a halo that needed to be put back in place, the server held the patten under Mom's chin. It reflected the act of Mom receiving the host, the host disappearing, and Mom bowing. Whereas I should have been saying my own prayers after receiving communion, it was hard not to watch Mom sitting with her eyes closed. What had she swallowed? More than bread, it was the Eucharist that sustained her; more than a world of support, she pulled Christ into her heart. I was too young to understand what I watched or felt. I simply knew that I observed the blessings of Eucharist as Mom's whole person seemed to wrap itself around what she had consumed.

I am grateful my penchant for sitting during Mass will not last, but I found a comforting connection to what I had experienced before while accompanying Mom, years ago. The handicap I am briefly enduring has allowed me a different view of my world. It is shorter, slower, and more limited than what Mom and others live. However, as my mobility and endurance return, so will my busy distractions. I will lose the quiet time I have had to reserve for icing my foot. I will stop craning my neck to look up to the eight-year-old. My time for stillness and slowing the world will need to be scheduled into my day.

It has been good to have a brief, forced time for sitting. There will be a time for standing, walking, and running.

Isaiah 44: 29-31

He gives strength to the wearied,

he strengthens the powerless.

Young men may grow tired and weary,

youths may stumble,

but those who hope in Yahweh renew their strength,

they put out wings like eagles.

They run and do not grow weary,

walk and never tire.

WYSIWYG

A new word or acronym is validated when it makes it to print. In 1982, Byte magazine printed the following definition to an acronym for a 20th century phrase commonly used in advertising and slapstick comedy: “ 'What you see is what you get' (or WYSIWYG) refers to the situation in which the display screen portrays an accurate rendition of the printed page.” 

 

I have never danced with any grace. What you see when I move is simply movement.

This is no surprise to anyone nor is it anything I have had to hide or lie to myself about. On this one point I can claim that I have been honest, and as small as that point is, it is the starting point for the string of self deceptions I try to keep at bay.

Being honest with myself.

I work at honesty and transparency, and I truly don’t want to offend anyone by the joy I feel just by dancing. I am simply an awkward, distracted lady who has graduated bifocals. They blur the world for me. Sometimes I miss signs or people who crouch in my peripheral vision. They are easy to miss  as I spin, pretending to be graceful.

I felt no deceit or conspiracy to deceive anyone when I tried rinsing my hair to hide the gray, but I kept failing to keep up with the process. It was not up most in my priorities, because I don’t look at myself. So I would postpone, or do things in the evening, fit the process in of pretend beautification.  Not a good way to establish longtime personal grooming. Time? There was always something else to do. The silver hair does not yet dominate my head (note it is truly bright, catch-the-light silver, not gray) but I am comfortable with it. Yes, that is honestly spoken.

Being honest about my shortcomings.

There are other things I must be honest about. There is the general aging process that has settled in. It truly must be acknowledged, for it has loosened my skin and surrounded my eyes with bags and sags, and my mouth has rays of fine lines that are not sunny. I make lists that I check before, during, and after a shopping trip, IF I remember to make the list. 

Recalling names is another problem. How easy it would be if I could relax into simply remembering Pip or Joe Gargery. I love the logical names of Mr. Pocket (whether empty or full) and am always afraid I will slur or mispronounce a name. Sometimes, I will float in an almost-gotcha mode for a time span of 30 seconds (an uncomfortable time when the person stands face-to-face) to 3 days if someone has asked the do-you-remember question. And then the whole scenario of the friend will surface as though someone unfolded a crumpled piece of paper. 

Recalling former student names is worse. Because my memory is so visual, I will see the student in her desk or answering in class. I will hear her voice and, sometimes, remember a paper she wrote. In spite of all the recall, her name will evade me or melt into a sister-friend-soundalike. Names and tag-lines and quick recall items have always been my nemesis. Various mnemonics help for a time, but the strategies do not unfold memory quickly when time has tucked them away. 

As much as I play with words and love to repeat and memorize lines. I invariable remember the picture that is written in my mind over exact words. (I could describe in detail the wall Frost mended with his neighbor.) I don’t bowdlerize my Shakespeare, nothing so prudish because I remember those lines, it is the subtle meaning, the nuances that are essential to maintaining Shakespeare’s conundrums that invariably I flip and corrupt. How I find this frustrating. Pictures and chopped logic. 

Refresh and relax.

Smoothing the brain comes when I wrap around a book and release judgment or control. Honest in the time and space, I read. Here I am unhampered by myself, my stiff fingers, or the fear of forgetting a name. I delve into the world created for me and, honestly, dance beautifully.