Broken Ankle

Summer of 2015 was supposed to be many things. What it wasn't supposed to be was a wheelchair summer.

The first camping trip of the summer ended abruptly when I was walking down a slope that had loose gravel on top of hard packed earth. I was wearing Fit Flops, a kind of flip flop summer footwear that is supposed to help tone leg muscles. Mine were old and loose fitting.  As I walked down the hill, I stepped on the loose gravel, which acted like marbles under my feet. Suddenly I found my feet rolling two different directions and then went out from under me, but not before my right foot caught in a rivulet in the hard earth and stuck there, causing fractures and dislocation of my right ankle. I landed on the ground and saw my right foot poionting 90 degrees right of center, definitely not good. I felt no pain initially. I tried to move my right leg and watched (and felt) my foot pop, pop, pop three times back more toward center, but it was still awkwardly pointing away to the west of where it belonged.  A bone appeared to be protruding from my skin on the inside of the ankle; my media malleolus was not where it belonged and nothing about my ankle looked or felt right. 

I knew I should not attempt to get up, so I started calling for help. I remember a guy with tattoos on his arms trotting over toward me from an adjacent campsite. He looked down at me, sitting askew in the dirt and sun, then he headed to my campsite to inform my daughter that I needed help. If he said anything to me I do not remember. His face said it all. Someone else from the same campsite approached me, a woman saying she was a nurse, I think, and she asked permission to assess my injuries. By then my son Mark arrived, daughter Rachel and her husband Jose and son Joey, who all rallied around to comfort and hold me while I think I cried and sweated and sat on the ground in the hot morning sun. My son Mark got down and sat behind me to give me something to lean on as I sat in the dirt. I remember a running monologue from my mouth to my son about what I would now not be able to do over the summer, and how I had wrecked the trip for my grands and my adult kids. My son said later that he thought I was going into shock at that point. I had no idea. Grandson Joey kindly knelt beside me and held my hand and someone else stood nearby to offer me shade. Kindness all around.

A nearby Cal Fire team arrived shortly to assess my injuries and stabilize my ankle. I was indeed grateful for these young men who stepped in, wearing a lot of bright yellow gear that I remember thinking must be very hot and uncomfortable. They hoisted me onto something not gravel (some kind of cardboard stabilizing device?), then a gurney, and eventually helped get me loaded into an ambulance while I rambled on, apologizing that they had to pick me up when it arrived. I remember thinking how awful that they had to lift all of my weight and felt guilty for making them do that. Shock indeed. 

The ambulance was some kind of volunteer group stationed in California Hot Springs a few miles up the road. They would drive me a few miles until they met a second ambulance service that could provide me with life support assistance. I was transferred to the second ambulance where I was given an anti-emetic medication for motion sickness. What a miracle drug that was! I had never before experienced a ride anywhere but in a front seat where I did not get nauseous from motion. Way cool! I also got at least three doses of pain killer, maybe more during that ride. I felt pretty lucid at that point, carrying on a conversation with the EMT who was most kind. Or at least I think I was chatting politely. Who knows?

A 65 mile drive to Kaweah Delta Medical Center ER and I was delivered to my next step in treatment. A series of X-rays was necessary to determine my injuries and a plan of treatment. I believe I sat in ER for a good while, seems like I did anyway. In the process i had more pain control meds, then I was given something that I think was the closest I will ever get to an LSD trip. The drug that was used to sedate me while my ankle was set and splinted caused hallucinations that are difficult to describe; like many pastel colors that slowly moved, intersecting with each other. The intersects were where I believed truth and reality could be regained but I was unable to reach them, and it felt as though I would never reconnect with real life. A very frightening kind of twilight zone!

I did finally come around and I don't suppose it was as long as it seemed. I looked down at my foot and discovered it was now in its correct position and swaddled in a very thick, cotton lined splint. It was now close to 4 pm and I remembered thinking I had not peed all day and didn't need to now either. Huh. Strange what I think about. I was discharged after 4 pm, and Rachel helped me fumble my way into the back seat of her car. She and I were trying to find our way out of the hospital complex when a discharge nurse called us back to pick up the crutches she was supposed to have give me. Then we headed to Walmart where Rachel got my RX for pain control filled as well as purchasing a couple of pillows for my comfort as we set out on the hour plus drive home. My discharge instructions were to see a surgeon in my town within 48 hours. I would not heal well without surgery. In addition to the dislocation I had three broken bones in my ankle: the fibula, the medial malleolus, and the posterior malleolus. Prior to this I had never given my malleouses much thought. I was thinking about them now! 

Goodbye Church Lady, Hello Breeze

December 16, 2015, I was "let go" from my job as church lady. I had been working in that capacity for over 11 years, and with the organization for over 16 years. I had been a pretty confident, accomplished, can-do church lady at one time but that was when inspiration ran high. But I was out of steam, no gas in my tank, no wind in my sails. I have known it for a while.

It's complicated to be a church lady. You wouldn't think so, but it's true. I didn't just sit around answering the phone and saying snarky quips like, "isn't that special?", I promise. I did a lot of hard work. I dealt with a lot of people: church family, homeless folks in genuine need, folks that were hurting and in need of counsel when there was no pastor available to help them, people looking for a church from which they could score some dollars for their next fix, people who ran the show unabashedly, and people who asked permission before sticking a small thank you note on a bulletin board. I dealt effectively with people having serious medical emergencies right in front of me and a teenager heartbroken because he found a dog hit by a car on the road side.

I had steep learning curves at the outset, and am self taught now in so many ways. I thought I knew Microsoft Office when I took the job. (I did not, but I do now.) I had never created a website before, never published a booklet, never set up a functional filing system, never purchased an entire system of office computers and server. Steep curves! I learned a great deal, and found people who could teach me and mentor me.  But I also flexed and grew my creative muscles there. My fingerprints are all over that church from the logo on their stationary to the format of their website and their newsletters to the color of the walls in the sanctuary. I designed and installed bulletin boards, encouraged the shift from those old boards to electronic ones, ordered supplies and scheduled the events calendar, researched and found and executed an entire ChMS (thats fancy talk for a church database system) not once, but twice, and then struggled to figure out how to transfer all the data and make them work!  I led small groups, oversaw women's ministry, served on committees, planned and executed group activities and events, wrote a regular article in the monthly newsletter in addition to gathering and reporting, formatting, editing and publishing the document. I created floral pieces for holidays and encouraged others to flex their creativity too, taught classes in cake decorating and floral design, shared testimonials of Gods work in my own life, cried many tears of joy and tears of grief, I even made the three little wise men who grace the back of the church organ each year at Christmas. I poured my heart into a church that I loved and called my own for over 20 years.

Life ebbs and flows, and the truth is my time as a church lady should have ended over a year ago. Things had changed. Close friends had moved on for various reasons. The winds have shifted. The pastor who hired me had moved on, my team wasn't there anymore. Don't get me wrong, there are still some good, talented, caring, God-loving people at the church. But I felt like a fish out of water. The leadership that allowed my sails to be unfurled and filled with joyful service was missing.  I couldn't seem to catch a breeze anywhere. My heart wasn't in it, and I knew it. But I had poured myself into that ministry for so long that I couldn't let it go. And I did not trust God to care for my physical needs. That's the truth.

I did let go of Sunday mornings. I was heart heavy. I couldn't even describe it. I started to let go when my daughter's wedding was imminent, and I had flowers and cakes and dresses and details to fill my weekends. Then after the wedding, I just couldn't bring myself to return. Sunday mornings had once been a joy but now-- there was burden and pain, and that still, still air.

Truth moment: I refused to let go. I was afraid to.  So I kept hoping.  Hoping that Things Could Change, that new inspiration would come to my heart, that a little breeze would stir. It wasn't that God wasn't present there. And yet, there was the stillness. 

Then last June on a weekend getaway with family, a freak accident happened. One minute I was walking down a hill toward our campsite, and the next I was sliding and flailing to the ground, my right foot twisted 90 degrees west of normal. Broken. Dislocated. My ankle was trashed. This. Was. Not. Good.  Or was it?

My summer was spent at home in recovery from my accident. I learned a lot about what brings about healing. Body and soul. I was so relaxed, so calm, at peace as I sat at home for those days of bones mending. I learned to crochet, I spent time sitting in the sun, contemplating the flowers growing, and listening to music. Nearly three months in a wheelchair and then one on crutches, and finally, back to work. But the air remained dead calm. My personal prayer time was filled with a lot of begging God for direction. At work others had moved in to do the things I couldn't do, or had simply taken over my responsibilities. I felt inadequate and ineffective. I took a 2 week vacation and spent time with my family in the mid-west, and then returned to the job I knew so well. But the air was still, so still, for me.

I guess it was pretty obvious to my colleagues, or perhaps they were tired of the stale air that seemed to surround me, as someone up the ladder decided it was time to let me go. It wasn't that I did anything wrong, they said. No, they couldn't tell me why. I was just, "let go." There was no incident, no event that precipitated the separation. (This did not help my trust issues.) That was 9 days before Christmas.  With an ankle still in the healing process, I had to pace my days to get my Christmas plans executed. Well, at least as much as I could. I pushed through.

Fast forward to January of 2016.  The Christmas tree is down, the ornaments are stored and the season of busyness is behind me, I am left with time to think about all that has happened. I confess at first I had a major pity party including tears and lots of "sorry for myself".  But you can only do so much of that before you sink into an abyss. Not my favorite place to hang out.  I decided I needed to lick a finger, hold it up high and find a breeze again. My sails needed filling in the worst way, and there are many ways to capture a current.

I started perusing the web, looking for something that inspired me. Pinterest is good for that. First, I found something called Whole 30 that I could use to kick start my year with some better eating habits and I latched on to it. I kept looking and I found a lot of artists out there sharing what brings them joy.  I found some pretty inspiring women like Anna Mason at annamasonart.com, Dawn Nicole of http://bydawnnicole.com;  Lindsey at https://thepostmansknock.com, and of course Patsy Clairmont and Ann Voskamp and a host of others. I  needed to tap into my creativity again too, and perhaps recapture a little of that lost joy. I'm hard wired that way, I know that about myself. I needed to capitalize on the gifts God gave me, and exercise them again.

Dawn recommended a couple of books that intrigued me so I ordered one (Amazon, you make it too easy.) So this funny little black square book came to me, 'Steal Like an Artist" by Austin Kleon. Honestly I was disappointed when I opened the Amazon box, because the book was so small. Softbound. Insignificant. But, my mom used to say that the best things come in small packages. (I always thought she meant jewelry.)

I began to read.  Austin packs a punch in those little pages. He shares his heart and his work in this book, and while he doesn't know me, his writing caused a little stirring within. Something I've felt before. Something softly brushing past. Was it a breeze?  Yes, yes, a breeze! Possibly even a God breeze. And that is what can inspire me and fill my sails again.

I am on a new path, with no more church lady responsibilities or burdens to carry. I am on my way, doing what Austin suggested: create, emulate, fake it till I make it, and then make it my own as I explore art in as many forms as I can possibly discover. To steal like an artist. Read the book, and join me?  I'm anticipating a year full of sailing ahead.

A little water color painting fun. I guess since Grandma Moses didn't start painting until she was 80 years old, I have at least 20 years on her to get some practice in. This is a monotone posterized photo of one of my grandchildren which I painted from a tutorial I found on line. Easy, fun, and I was surprisingly satisfied with the result for a first attempt! 

This was another tutorial I found online that helped me remember and learn some techniques for water color painting. All that is left to do is paint... and paint... and paint. Practice is what i need now. 

Dr. Craig Childres on Parental Alienation and what you can and can not do.

http://drcraigchildressblog.com/2014/07/29/stark-reality/

A Birthday Wish

In my home town in Bakersfield, California we host one of largest Relay for Life events in the United States. This annual event happens the first weekend in May. Because of the proximity of the event location to my home, I can leave my windows open and hear the entire event taking place. Traffic is crazy around here that weekend, but its a very exciting time full of celebration, fun, friendship and remembrance as teams raise dollars for the American Cancer Society, Relay's parent organization. If you look at the American Cancer Society's website, you will see their tagline, “the official sponsor of birthdays”.This year's Relay event raised $1,294,331.62 in Kern County alone. That must be some birthday they are sponsoring! Today, May 18, marks a birthday that is special to me. My late daughter in law, Morgan Welch, would have been 32 years old today. Her family in Florida will gather at her grave site, place flowers there, and add another little angel or other figurine to the collection of treasures they bring to her each year. There is a magnolia tree near the grave that opens its huge, creamy white, fragrant blooms around the time of her birthday each year. I spent some time this past week reflecting on birthdays in my life. At 23, I was a new bride, and would soon discover I was expecting my first child. Morgan became a bride in that year of her life too. That year she noticed a persistent little sore that resembled an insect bite on her breast. It was treated with antibiotics and told to go have a wonderful wedding and not to worry about it. In July she was married to a handsome young groom dressed in Air Force Dress Blues at her home church in Fort Walton Beach, Florida. She was diagnosed with IBC five weeks after her wedding day. When I celebrated my 24th birthday back in 1981, I was in the thick of life as a new mom with my firstborn son, Mark. He would grow up to be that handsome groom that stole Morgan's heart and hand in marriage. When Morgan turned 24 in 2005, she was deep in the fight for her life against stage 4 IBC. Morgan would not live to see another birthday. Morgan died in January of 2006 from Inflammatory Breast Cancer. Back then there were few sources of information about IBC, and there was little research happening for this disease. There was no money to fund research for a “rare” form of cancer. The squeaky wheel gets the grease, and those with IBC apparently didn't squeak loud enough to be heard or perhaps they didn't know how to squeak or to whom they should squeak. But that doesn't mean that women of all ages were not being diagnosed with the disease. The average life expectancy from the point of diagnosis of IBC in 2006 was 2 years. Two years! There was much reason for despair. But not everyone was willing to take it on the chin, and one of those people was Morgan Welch. She had an incredible team of compassionate, intelligent, savvy medical professionals on her side. She had a husband who was faithful and true, her helpmate, her caretaker, her support and her cheerleader. She had family on both coasts and people all over the world praying for her. And she had a desire to live! What she didn't have was the financial support needed to undergird the research to conquer her disease. She asked why nobody was doing research. Why wasn’t anybody greasing the wheel of IBC research? The answer was simple: money. And she and her husband, with their youth and faith and grace and courage, kept asking why, and kept insisting that surely somebody could do something to help them! They charged the doctors to seek out the support dollars they needed to get to the bottom of IBC. Morgan and Mark said, to their medical team, “Help us! And if you can't save Morgan, don't give up! Keep searching until you find a cure for the rest of the women who suffer from this horrible disease, and don't give up until you find a cure.” And that medical team, they were inspired, and they set their sights on conquering IBC. Now Morgan and Mark were only two people and they didn’t make the whole thing happen. I cant even begin to count all the wonderful people who worked to make it happen. I will never know them all. But I am thankful for every blessed soul who worked to make the dream of research for a cure for IBC come alive. And I was thrilled to be there on the day of the dedication of the Morgan Welch Inflammatory Breast Cancer Clinic at M D Anderson Medical Center in Houston, Texas. The story doesnt end there. The research continues. The need for funding continues. And the women I am privileged to know today who are living--LIVING-- with IBC, their lives continue. Thank God their lives continue! And we want them to be able to celebrate the day with them when they hear their doctors say, "NED: no evidence of disease." And we can't have that celebration without the research, and research costs dollars. Its that simple. We mark the years of our lives by remembering our birthdays. We also use the anniversary of a birth to reflect on those who have lived and died and left an imprint on our hearts. Today I am remembering Morgan, and how this young woman imprinted on my heart. I invite you to join me in remembering Morgan today on her birthday. Would you join me? Would you make a donation to the IBC Network Foundation Advocacy group in honor of Morgan’s birthday? Think of it as your personal sponsorship of future birthdays for every woman living today with IBC today. Morgan would have liked that.

Out from Behind My Fear

So its one thing to think about doing outreach events. I think about them a lot. And that’s about all. But my women’s Wednesday night Life Group at my church havs been studying the book of Acts this year. Its impossible to read and consider Acts and not be inspired by Paul’s story. It was a natural progression of our study that in February we were challenged to put our feet to the pavement and actually DO an outreach event. For me, the fear was never far from my thoughts as we planned the caper. The idea of walking up to strangers and saying anything besides, “Excuse me, do you have the time?” was pretty much out of the question. But I was roped in. That happens when you are involved in a small group: nowhere to hide. The plan was simple enough. We would bake cookies and bag ‘em up, then deliver them to the residents of the apartment complex next door to the church the week of Valentine’s Day. Our objective was to simply greet the people and tell them that God loves them and our church is nearby. So we bought cases of frozen cookie dough because it simplified the task of preparation. Thank God for Otis Spunkmeyer and those cute little cookie dough pucks he makes! Several woman gathered to bake the cookie dough on a recent Saturday. And then on Tuesday Feb. 11 a few women met to package up our baked and frozen cookies. Then Wednesday, Feb 12, instead of sitting at tables discussing Acts, at 6:30 PM we divided ourselves into teams, passed our maps of the property, and headed to Park Sorrento Apartments just east of us on Bernard St.to give away cookies. Someone was singing "onward Christian Soldiers" as we drove to the parking lot and I felt silly, like a kid being encouraged to march. But she was right to pump us up in song, and that song carried us through the first steps, armed with cookie bags, to the apartment complex doors. I hesitated, then knocked. Many people were taken aback at someone showing up at their door with a gift. Some tried to pay for the gift. Two or three refused the gift. Most smiled and thanked us and graciously received the gift. A few wanted more information and we gave that to them. All recipients got contact information on the package pointing them to Heritage Bible Church. By the time we left Park Sorrento at 7:50 PM, we had delivered cookies to almost all of 264 apartment units. We had accomplished a step into relationship with our neighbors and we all agreed enthusiastically that we must plan another event soon to connect again with our new friends. As for my fear? Well when I knocked on that first door, God answered, a grateful person accepted our humble gift, and there was nothing more to fear.

Home for Halloween

Recently a neighbor came knocking on my door. She needed a jump start for her car but I could not help her. One of the drawbacks of owning a Prius hybrid vehicle is that you can’t do the old jumper cable trick. The Toyota people do not recommend messin’ with their battery pack: the owner’s manual says DANGER and I tend to listen to advice like that. I told her I was sorry but I couldn’t help her. She walked away from my door with an expression on her face that was a mixture of disbelief and disgust. There is another day when you can pretty much count on the neighbors coming to your door: October 31. Many Christians choose not to “celebrate” Halloween, and I don’t disagree with that position. But instead of saying no to participating in a pagan activity, why not consider saying “yes” to your neighbors coming to your door? If you think about it, this is the best opportunity you have all year to welcome friends, neighbors, and strangers! If your porch light is on, chances are there will be children at your door, with mom and dad not far behind. What if we chose to welcome them, share something special, and show them a friendly face in Jesus name? If all the doors that open to children and parents chanting, “Trick or Treat!” are non-believers, I think we are missing out on the best opportunity we have to love these people. Just last week I was at Target and I stopped by the “dollar” item section of the store. You know, the shelves near the store entrance that is full of seasonal merchandised priced cheap. I picked up 8 packages of glow in the dark bracelets, 15 to a pack for $1. Neat! That is 120 treats I have for my little guests that only cost me $8. That’s a bargain! I can add a little message to the bracelets about Jesus and light and invite them to our church. A recent quick flip through Pinterest or Googling “fall décor” will inspire you with lots of great fall outdoor ideas, some that could even be modified to reduce the “scare” factor. What a great opportunity to share God’s love. Case in point: Last year I was baking cookies on Halloween night, later in the evening. A little girl, maybe 13 years old, walking around alone and dressed in a very low cut, inappropriate dress, came to my door. I opened it and she inhaled deeply and exclaimed, “Oh, it smells like Christmas in your house!” Now I have never equated peanut butter cookies with Christmas, but this girl did. It gave me opportunity to talk to her about Christmas, Halloween, young girls walking around alone at night, and lots of other stuff. We chatted at my door for several minutes and I sent her on her way with warm cookies. I haven’t seen her since that night. I pray for her when I think of her. Maybe she remembers something I told her about a God who loves her and died for her. I call that a win-win, and an opportunity for evangelism that I do not want to miss.