THE STATE OF THE STATE OF MIND
First, a short update. After extensive tests, and a lot of needles in the veins, the doctors have determined that there is no internal infection. YEAH! The skin around the surgery is still inflamed but this is probably due to reaction to the sutures. I have been going to the hospital every day for IV treatment. So, good news. Not yet out of the woods but no really serious stuff to deal with. Thank you for your prayers.
Now, some reflections on what I have been thinking and feeling since all this happened.
Immobility is a state of mind. Of course, there is physical immobility, an external condition of restriction. For the last 8 weeks, that has been my reality. I have been a one-leg man, hobbling about on crutches with no weight on my right foot. That will end, hopefully soon. The experience has not been positive, but I can certainly empathize with others who are handicapped in some way. European streets are no place for non-walking people.
But there is another kind of immobility, one that I find far more destructive. It is the immobility of the mind. While physical restriction might prevent bodily motion, the mind and soul can still soar. Imagination knows no physical bonds. Even if I can’t walk a step, I can still fly through the air on the magical carpet of imagination, unless my soul suffers a similar restriction.
Suppose that I can’t get past the difficulty of not being able to stand up. Suppose that I think, “Why did this happen to me? I wasn’t doing anything wrong and yet, here I am, strapped to a surgical boot.” Suppose I think that God should have watched out for me, or that even after the accident, He should make it all better. Suppose that I don’t see any “greater purpose” in this. Suppose I think that prayers aren’t answered. After all, I’m trapped in a bed, I find it difficult to do anything at all, and I just complain. Suppose my imagination is just as bound as my foot. Then something tragic begins to happen. Life becomes endurance rather than opportunity. I spend my days wishing I could do things I can’t, rather than enjoying the things that I can do. I don’t try to look beyond my current situation, even if my doctor says, “This is short. Life is longer.”
Sometimes I think the book of Job is the most important book in the Bible. Not because we hear the omnipotent God scold Job for asking what sound like perfectly legitimate questions. No, it’s important because it tells us that things could be much worse—and God is still there. It might be that God doesn’t seem to show up on time, or, at least, not on my time (which, of course, is what I expect). Job reminds me to be cognizant of that form of arrogance, nicely hidden from the public. It’s a “soul” problem, one of those deep-in-the-dark battles we never really talk about for fear that we will be seen as lacking faith. On the other hand, any honest reading of Scripture must admit that God seems to work at His own pace for His own reasons. There are plenty of times when He simply doesn’t answer. We tend to overlook those as they don’t square very well with our “genie” view of God. But when I really look at my own soul immobility issues, I see that I am guilty of the same “genie” expectations.
If I’m really honest with myself, I can’t think of any good reason why God should “fix” me. I’m certainly not a righteous person like Job. If Job can go through all that, and he is admittedly righteous, then why should I expect anything but silence? Frankly, I don’t qualify. Of course, my theology comes rushing in to shout that no one qualifies, and God loves us all anyway, but that’s just a doctrinal excuse for the real fact that there is no reason for God to care about my state of immobility. He’s God. I’m not. The gap is pretty wide.
I try to think up things to occupy the time. Maybe I’ll seriously practice the Blues. I’ve always wanted to play. Maybe I’ll finish the book. Something keeps me from doing that. Do you suppose it’s the fact that the book is also an exercise in personal soul searching? Guitar playing is a comfortable avoidance behavior. Writing isn’t. Writing is hard for me precisely because it is always a reminder of how far short I fall of anything profound, and how the words on the page force me to confront the Spirit that is trying to persuade me to change. But it’s Winter in Parma. There isn’t a lot to do outdoors even if I could enjoy the walks. It’s reflective time. Gray days, rain, cold—all the elements that contribute to hibernating in some attic loft while battling with spiritual forces in high places.
My father contracted tuberculosis at age 20. He spent the next seven years in a sanitarium after they removed one of his lungs. Frankly, I don’t know how he managed. Seven years in a ward. Seven years trying to learn to breathe again. That’s where he met my mother who was a nurse so I suppose I should be thankful. But he had much more patience than I. Maybe it was simply forced on him—the grand scheme of things that none of us can fathom. Maybe it was just bad luck. It turned out good for me. I’m here. But I can’t imagine it was so good for him. How would his life have been had he not gotten sick? Things happen. We do what we can. God knows all about it. I wonder if that’s enough for most of us.
The state of the state of mind. I’m suffering from soul immobility. My foot will be better. I will walk again. But this Sisyphus experience will not be easily forgotten.
