The Hummingbird Fund website is live, and it is the new home for the Offering Kindness blog.
Check us out. https://hummingbirdfundva.com/blog/
Little doses of inspiration to practice kindness
The Hummingbird Fund website is live, and it is the new home for the Offering Kindness blog.
Check us out. https://hummingbirdfundva.com/blog/
The liturgical season of Advent has long been my favorite time of the church year. As a child I enjoyed the urgency and drama of Mary and Joseph needing a place to have their baby, and ending up in a stable. Of course, I didn't meet my first lamb or cow until I was 22, living on a 16th century farm in Cornwall, England. So, my bucolic, childhood visions of a manger did not include mud or manure. I saw my first baby born at a teaching hospital in the Bronx, and there were no mammals other than those in scrubs with masks and gloves. I did deliver a footling breech baby in a thatched hut in rural Guatemala, which actually exceeded the drama and urgency of anything I might have imagined as a youngster during the 1950s and 60s in the steel town of Lorain, Ohio. All of this aside, it has always been the mystery, the awe, and wonder that has captivated my imagination during Advent.
Angels may be my favorite part of Advent. The Christmas story always includes angels that mysteriously appear in the night, gently conveying God's eternal message: "Fear not."
I'd like to experience an angel someday... a real, true angel. I wonder... What will it be like?
"Fear Not. I am with you."
Advent is also known as the season of expectant waiting, which is wholly (holy) ironic, because I am no good at waiting. My cane now grants me priority boarding, and I am all too happy to prance forth ahead of the crowd to take my seat in steerage.
If I dare to probe deeper, the expectant waiting of Advent offers an annual opportunity to remember the hope of a transformative love, born into a world that relegates unwed, teenage mothers, like Mary, to the sidelines of every society.
In my view, newborn babies are inherently holy beings. This changes, of course, when they refuse to sleep, and when they cry with no apparent rationale.
A fresh, healthy, pink, full-term newborn who is ready to nurse and be comforted in a parent's arms is a pediatrician's dream come true, and one of the most sacred moments to witness, no matter the venue.
This Advent I am savoring the season of hope. I am turning my attention toward palpable love, and glorious music. I am seeking out opportunities to see light brought into the darkness, or a deep darkness brought out into the light. I am expecting hope to surprise and delight me. I'm on the lookout for angels.
"Fear not. I am with you always."
Have you ever stumbled on a wooded path in autumn? The brightly colored leaves begin to obscure the well-worn trail, and the abundant acorns act like mini-rollers underfoot, making conditions ripe for an awkward misstep.
I went down today; tumbled right off the path. The fall came as a complete surprise. I was using my new, high-tech walking stick. I was walking slowly with Delta leading the way along a path we have traversed almost daily for more than 20 years. My left foot caught the edge of a small twig poking up from the leaves, and I stumbled without the reflexes to autocorrect.
I fell in slow motion. As I rolled downhill into the underbrush, I actually had plenty of time to hear Peggy gasp behind me.
Ordinarily we can chuckle about these gaffs. Today, it scared us, because the fall came out of the blue. The good news is that I landed fine, even though I launched off the trail in an uncontrolled free-fall.
Once Peggy got me righted, our hike continued without further surprises, but the mood had changed. The sunset seemed more solemn.
Life with ALS brings constant change. Like parenthood in its earliest stages, ALS presents new challenges almost daily. Just when you have almost mastered the last skill or adaptation, there is a new one at your threshold.
This past month has brought a whirlwind of adaptation to the Plews-Ogan household.
I no longer carry anything that requires the strength of two arms. (The lamb stew careening across the kitchen floor ended that, much to Delta's delight.) I need to rest between activities that require effort, like watering the garden. I routinely use a walking stick outside, and I pace myself throughout the day. It's best if I type in bursts of 20-30 minutes. And, we have started major home renovations to create a handicapped accessible bathroom and bedroom on the first floor.
Gratefully, the Hummingbird Fund also presents new challenges and opportunities:
Set Me As A Seal
(by René Clausen, from Song of Solomon}
Set me as a seal upon your heart
As a seal upon your arm
For love is strong as death.
Many waters cannot quench love
Neither can the floods drown it.
Set me as a seal upon your heart
As a seal upon your arm
For love is strong as death.
Listen to St. Paul's Memorial Church Choir
(minutes 25-28)
Each morning's experience is unique. Many mornings bring gifts of insight or peace, or wholeness. Other mornings offer an unadorned groundedness to begin the day. Today I was reminded that every reality manifests an opportunity.
Stillness is my current challenge to harmony in contemplation. The fasciculations of Mr. ALS impose themselves--insinuate themselves-- rather rudely into the experience of stillness.
I am faced squarely with the opportunity to welcome pesky muscle twitching into the morning's contemplation. Thank you Mr. ALS for the gauche interruption of bliss.
Alas, here is another stark reminder that the realities of our daily lives are meant to be lived too. Gauche or not.
I don't enjoy the constant fasciculations that herald the death of motor neurons. Maybe one day I will miss them, but not today, not now.
Slowly, ever so slowly, I am adapting to their gauche presence. Accepting them with poise remains a significant on-going challenge.
Alas, another stark reminder: seeing God in everything and everyone means seeing God in the gauche. Ultimately, it even means welcoming God in the gauche.
Gratefully, this morning I looked up to see the sun spotlighting the tree tops which had just begun to sway, in a breeze that was theirs alone-- a gift of their morning contemplation, and a welcome reminder that God exists to be enjoyed.
The question that most surprised me was directed to Tim Lowry who communicates via eye-gaze technologies.