Nearly two years ago, I began to send out passionate emails.
At first, they were only a means to share my distress. My wife was in a coma and not expected to live, or at least to regain any kind of normal life. She had had an explosion in her head called a subarachnoid hemorrhage. For all we knew, it had obliterated all her memories, identity and adulthood. She might die. Or, she might live in some form that I would not recognize as the person with whom I had lived and raised a family. I had been suddenly summoned by life to care for someone who might not know me or, for that matter, know herself. Either scenario – death or greatly diminished life – offered raw material for private horror movies that threatened to capture my own brain and take it hostage. I had to find a way to maintain sovereignty over my imagination. Like Trish, I too was in a battle for my brain.
Plato taught that reality consists of two things, form and substance. The "forms," he said, are products of a perfect world. "Substance" is the stuff of our visible and tangible world. Therefore, substance is imperfect and always in the process of decay but without it, form cannot be made visible and functional. Since we live in a world of matter, form must take on substance if it is to be shared and experienced. That’s what my emails did – gave a form to the substance of suffering, fear and faith and allowed me to share it with others.
Whether we agree with Plato or not, we Westerners seem compelled to use this kind of language when trying to describe how we create things. For what is creation if not a process by which we transform thoughts into things? Our imagination is a kind of womb then in which we conceive ideas and from which we may give birth to tangible and intangible products.
As I found out during the summer of 2004, we often use our imagination to frighten ourselves. I discovered that the undisciplined imagination is a monster factory. It can create private horror movies so vivid that our hearts race and our being prepares for imminent death. Even our closest friends may not know that we are terrorizing ourselves with a horror flick that we have written, directed, and produced in the theatre of our private thoughts. If we are reasonably gifted, we can even distribute our internal horror movies to others. It is a type of emotional terrorism to be sure, but we do it all the time. For example, the Internet is a fear-mongering machine that allows neurotic thoughts to mutate and colonize huge masses of people very quickly. In the primitive times before the Internet, we had to rely on rumor to spread such fear and despair!
Well, my wife’s struggle with life and death became an explosion in my own head. I was reeling and rocking from the blast. My thoughts were in disarray. My emotions were threatening to reduce my inner being to a state of anarchy. That’s why the first thing I did each morning during those months was to open the Book of Common Prayer. There is a section in that book called the “daily office.” It offers four readings for each day of the year: a Psalm and selections from the Old Testament, the Epistles and the gospels. I would read all those passages. Then I would write down any particular verse or phrase that stood out to me. On some days I would sing a hymn or a chorus that the scripture reading brought to mind. Only then would I would pray for Trish and for myself, using the words, thoughts and emotions that had emerged from this daily discipline.
For the rest of that day, I would weave every event, thought and emotion into the fabric of my morning prayer. Every doctor’s report and every conversation with friends got pulled into the thought-structure that was holding me together that day. My mind was under martial law. The enemy had come in like a flood but God was raising up a standard against him. It was up to me to cooperate and to submit my inner world to the rule of God.
At night, I would try to condense all the thoughts and emotions of the day into a short reflection, which I emailed to a few friends. To my great surprise, these emails became widely read and distributed. Since then, I have periodically sent other emails to update my friends on Trish’s recovery. (She is whole and completely herself, thank God.) I also wrote about Montelle Hardwick’s suffering and death. The reason for these emails was to give form to my own questions and emotions about these things and to help our community make sense of our loved ones’ struggles in the light of our faith in Christ.
Many have found these emails comforting and helpful. I am glad. That helps give me meaning and purpose. Lately though, I have been thinking about how our minds should function in times of peace when they are not under “martial law.” For surely our faith is not meant as a mere comfort for the stormy seasons of life!
So, as this present season of life has brought increasing joy and excitement, I have found myself wanting to share how faith can move mountains in our world by moving the thoughts in our heads. I want to tell the story about how my spiritual life, which moves forward in jerks and jumps, through inconsistencies and pettiness and through doubt and despair, sometimes gets apprehended by grace. When this happens, at least for a moment, my imagination becomes a colony of heaven. Under God’s government, even a pitifully small piece of truth, goodness or beauty can make the monsters disappear and make life worth the living. Then, things get conceived and begin to make their way from my imagination into life. Form takes on substance and dwells among us. As we behold it, as through in a glass, darkly, we glimpse behind that substance, the form that holds it together – the Word of God, from which all things are made and in whom all things consist.
As it turns out, when human beings create, it is because they have become conduits for God’s Creative Spirit, who inevitably takes on the substance of personal dreams and visions if we will but let go and let God take over.
Monday, April 24, 2006
Wednesday, July 7, 2004
Trish #28
Trish is making amazing progress.
The likelihood that she will fully recover is becoming ever more apparent. The actual damage to her brain tissue was rather slight, according to the MRIs and CT scans. However, clinical analysis of her behavior and cognition has revealed a more serious brain trauma than what the physical examination indicates. What this means is that her cognitive "hardware," the brain tissue, has not been significantly damaged. There is no physical reason to prohibit her total rehabilitation. However, the damage done to her "software," that is to say to her mental processes, was significant. She will require extensive therapies of various kinds if there is to be any possibility of her reassuming life as it was.
The therapists are delighted with her progress though. Last week, when asked to finish drawing a clock inside a circle, Trish drew the numbers 1 - 5. They were all crowded into the top right hand quarter of the circle. She left the rest of the circle blank. Today, when asked to do the same thing, she put down all 12 numbers, completely filling in the circle, even though she began by placing the number "12" in the "10" slot and finished by putting the number "11" in the "9" slot!
(Something very similar happened yesterday. When Trish was asked to list the months of the year, she began with March and then named the other eleven months, ending with the month of February.)
These kinds of organizational mistakes indicate frontal lobe damage. Brain damage to the frontal lobe affects our so-called "executive" functions, the part of our mental life that that arrange details in correct sequence. Once again, however, because she has made such rapid progress in such a short time, there is every reason to expect that these cognitive deficits are probably temporary.
We went to the chapel at St. Joseph's today to give God thanks. During our prayer, I anointed her. I prayed that her healing would keep unfolding until she is completely well. Afterward, I asked if she would like to play the piano. "I think I have forgotten how," she said. But I wheeled her to the piano anyway. With great hesitation at first, she put her right hand on the keys. Slowly, she began to sound out a tune: "Through it all, through it all, I've learned to trust in Jesus, I've learned to trust in God." Then she added her left hand. Her rhythm was awkward and her left and right hands did not always agree about where they ought to be in the song. Nonetheless, the tune was discernibly there and she was happy. Her ability to enjoy and to create music had survived! Glory to God.
Now I must tell you about something funny that happened. When we left the chapel and went to her room, I asked Trish if she wanted to read the Bible. When he said that she did, I asked her, "which book?"
"Ruth," she replied.
So I opened up Peterson's The Message to the book of Ruth. She read the entire first chapter aloud. When she finished, I noticed that she was looking at me as if there were something she wanted to say. I asked her what it was.
"Ruth must have uncovered more than Boaz's feet!" she said.
We looked at each other for a minute and then really laughed. We have experienced many funny moments like this since Trish first began to communicate. I can't write about most of them so I chose this one to share with you. (One day after a real funny occurrence, she said, "you must not write about this!" I assured her that I wouldn't. Today I promised nothing.)
One of the most common features of brain trauma is the suppression of inhibition. People who suffer a brain trauma will often say (or do) whatever crosses their mind at the moment. For example, the first day she could even whisper, Trish found surprising joy in using a popular four letter word. She used this word to describe the quality of her food, the appearance of her hair, and the smell that sometimes filled the hospital room. This has been amusing for me and for our daughters. Trish has rarely used even the mildest of swear words. On the few occasions that she did use a swear word, she always added a vehement denial.
"I don't use that kind of language!" she would say.
Though she has recently slowed down the use of her newly discovered explicative, in the last couple of weeks it has come up rather often. This has sometimes been hilarious. For example, one day after she had just received her food, she looked at it for a while, sighed deeply and then said, "this food tastes like s--- but we must give the Lord thanks for it." Then she reverently bowed her head and began to pray!
(The food at St. Joseph's is actually very good. Its just that Trish is on a limited diet that often lacks taste. So I doubt that even her admittedly bland food deserves as severe a judgment as Trish has inflicted upon it.)
Contemporary society has debased our language and cheapened our public discourse. Even our vice President saw no need for apologizing after he recently used foul language to insult a U.S. senator. He was wrong. A certain discretion in language and manners is necessary to preserve human dignity and to promote the shared life that our diverse peoples must experience if we are to live peacefully with one another. Even so, I sometimes find the contemporary Christian control of language and thought stifling and irritating.
We are not nearly as free with our language and thought as even the Bible writers were. This is not because we are so pure of heart and mind. It is because we often equate holiness with prepubescence. There is a strand of American Christianity that seems to believe that God finds us more acceptable when we try to be little boys and girls. In the last few years, we have experienced something like a Christian "cultural revolution" (such as China experienced a few years ago when it disowned all of its thinkers and artists.) We gradually have accepted a notion that loyalty to God and to His church means that we must never ponder or reflect, never question nor debate. And we must never, ever use adult language in any context. Within this view of faith, any allusion to sexuality or other natural physical functions gets perceived as being somehow unrighteous and unworthy of true men and women of God. That's why you have to be brain injured before you can say openly that Ruth may have uncovered more than Boaz's feet at the harvest site!
I am going to admit here -- I'm even going to put it in writing -- that I have often thought the same thing about Boaz. OK, the truth is, since the sixth grade, I have thought about this every time I read the story of Ruth. At first I prayed that God would forgive me for such a terrible, sinful thought. As an adult, I have just hidden it from my fastidious brothers and sisters in Christ. But unless times have really changed the way men think since the days of Boaz, it is difficult to imagine any man, godly or otherwise, being as moved to action as Boaz was by the mere removal of a blanket off his feet!
I don't like crass people or crass language. I do like honest people and honest language. The attempt to convince one another that holiness of life somehow involves a denial of nature or a suppression of the body ends up making our expression of piety real slimy. It gets slimy because it becomes a lie, a false piety. The way a holy life submitted to God really works is not through denying our questions nor by piously saying prayers over things that we don't like. A life committed to God is one that acknowledges our actual feelings while expressing gratitude to Him for His blessing and submitting to his ultimate governance.
Trish played the piano today. She drew a clock -- not yet one you could actually use, but a real discernable clock nonetheless. ( I told her not to worry about it. "Just tell the therapist it was an Appalachian clock!" I suggested.) She walked without a walker while two people helped her. She read the first chapter of Ruth and made a worthwhile theological comment about the text. And she blessed her food, even though she used a choice explicative to describe it first. About all of that I have only one thing to say: "Blessed are the pure in heart, for they shall see God."
The likelihood that she will fully recover is becoming ever more apparent. The actual damage to her brain tissue was rather slight, according to the MRIs and CT scans. However, clinical analysis of her behavior and cognition has revealed a more serious brain trauma than what the physical examination indicates. What this means is that her cognitive "hardware," the brain tissue, has not been significantly damaged. There is no physical reason to prohibit her total rehabilitation. However, the damage done to her "software," that is to say to her mental processes, was significant. She will require extensive therapies of various kinds if there is to be any possibility of her reassuming life as it was.
The therapists are delighted with her progress though. Last week, when asked to finish drawing a clock inside a circle, Trish drew the numbers 1 - 5. They were all crowded into the top right hand quarter of the circle. She left the rest of the circle blank. Today, when asked to do the same thing, she put down all 12 numbers, completely filling in the circle, even though she began by placing the number "12" in the "10" slot and finished by putting the number "11" in the "9" slot!
(Something very similar happened yesterday. When Trish was asked to list the months of the year, she began with March and then named the other eleven months, ending with the month of February.)
These kinds of organizational mistakes indicate frontal lobe damage. Brain damage to the frontal lobe affects our so-called "executive" functions, the part of our mental life that that arrange details in correct sequence. Once again, however, because she has made such rapid progress in such a short time, there is every reason to expect that these cognitive deficits are probably temporary.
We went to the chapel at St. Joseph's today to give God thanks. During our prayer, I anointed her. I prayed that her healing would keep unfolding until she is completely well. Afterward, I asked if she would like to play the piano. "I think I have forgotten how," she said. But I wheeled her to the piano anyway. With great hesitation at first, she put her right hand on the keys. Slowly, she began to sound out a tune: "Through it all, through it all, I've learned to trust in Jesus, I've learned to trust in God." Then she added her left hand. Her rhythm was awkward and her left and right hands did not always agree about where they ought to be in the song. Nonetheless, the tune was discernibly there and she was happy. Her ability to enjoy and to create music had survived! Glory to God.
Now I must tell you about something funny that happened. When we left the chapel and went to her room, I asked Trish if she wanted to read the Bible. When he said that she did, I asked her, "which book?"
"Ruth," she replied.
So I opened up Peterson's The Message to the book of Ruth. She read the entire first chapter aloud. When she finished, I noticed that she was looking at me as if there were something she wanted to say. I asked her what it was.
"Ruth must have uncovered more than Boaz's feet!" she said.
We looked at each other for a minute and then really laughed. We have experienced many funny moments like this since Trish first began to communicate. I can't write about most of them so I chose this one to share with you. (One day after a real funny occurrence, she said, "you must not write about this!" I assured her that I wouldn't. Today I promised nothing.)
One of the most common features of brain trauma is the suppression of inhibition. People who suffer a brain trauma will often say (or do) whatever crosses their mind at the moment. For example, the first day she could even whisper, Trish found surprising joy in using a popular four letter word. She used this word to describe the quality of her food, the appearance of her hair, and the smell that sometimes filled the hospital room. This has been amusing for me and for our daughters. Trish has rarely used even the mildest of swear words. On the few occasions that she did use a swear word, she always added a vehement denial.
"I don't use that kind of language!" she would say.
Though she has recently slowed down the use of her newly discovered explicative, in the last couple of weeks it has come up rather often. This has sometimes been hilarious. For example, one day after she had just received her food, she looked at it for a while, sighed deeply and then said, "this food tastes like s--- but we must give the Lord thanks for it." Then she reverently bowed her head and began to pray!
(The food at St. Joseph's is actually very good. Its just that Trish is on a limited diet that often lacks taste. So I doubt that even her admittedly bland food deserves as severe a judgment as Trish has inflicted upon it.)
Contemporary society has debased our language and cheapened our public discourse. Even our vice President saw no need for apologizing after he recently used foul language to insult a U.S. senator. He was wrong. A certain discretion in language and manners is necessary to preserve human dignity and to promote the shared life that our diverse peoples must experience if we are to live peacefully with one another. Even so, I sometimes find the contemporary Christian control of language and thought stifling and irritating.
We are not nearly as free with our language and thought as even the Bible writers were. This is not because we are so pure of heart and mind. It is because we often equate holiness with prepubescence. There is a strand of American Christianity that seems to believe that God finds us more acceptable when we try to be little boys and girls. In the last few years, we have experienced something like a Christian "cultural revolution" (such as China experienced a few years ago when it disowned all of its thinkers and artists.) We gradually have accepted a notion that loyalty to God and to His church means that we must never ponder or reflect, never question nor debate. And we must never, ever use adult language in any context. Within this view of faith, any allusion to sexuality or other natural physical functions gets perceived as being somehow unrighteous and unworthy of true men and women of God. That's why you have to be brain injured before you can say openly that Ruth may have uncovered more than Boaz's feet at the harvest site!
I am going to admit here -- I'm even going to put it in writing -- that I have often thought the same thing about Boaz. OK, the truth is, since the sixth grade, I have thought about this every time I read the story of Ruth. At first I prayed that God would forgive me for such a terrible, sinful thought. As an adult, I have just hidden it from my fastidious brothers and sisters in Christ. But unless times have really changed the way men think since the days of Boaz, it is difficult to imagine any man, godly or otherwise, being as moved to action as Boaz was by the mere removal of a blanket off his feet!
I don't like crass people or crass language. I do like honest people and honest language. The attempt to convince one another that holiness of life somehow involves a denial of nature or a suppression of the body ends up making our expression of piety real slimy. It gets slimy because it becomes a lie, a false piety. The way a holy life submitted to God really works is not through denying our questions nor by piously saying prayers over things that we don't like. A life committed to God is one that acknowledges our actual feelings while expressing gratitude to Him for His blessing and submitting to his ultimate governance.
Trish played the piano today. She drew a clock -- not yet one you could actually use, but a real discernable clock nonetheless. ( I told her not to worry about it. "Just tell the therapist it was an Appalachian clock!" I suggested.) She walked without a walker while two people helped her. She read the first chapter of Ruth and made a worthwhile theological comment about the text. And she blessed her food, even though she used a choice explicative to describe it first. About all of that I have only one thing to say: "Blessed are the pure in heart, for they shall see God."
Monday, July 5, 2004
Trish #27
Trish came home today for a therapeutic visit. The visit came about suddenly. Last Friday, one of her therapists said to me, "Trish is doing quite well. Monday most of us will be off work anyway, why don't we consider allowing her to visit home? I think it will be good for her."
The neurologist came in, looked at Trish, talked with me a bit and agreed.
So this morning, I went in and signed a paper promising not to allow Trish to drink any alcohol nor to drive a car. (Trish thought that was really funny.)
The day went well. I brought Trish home. She promptly had a nap and then ate lunch. She then took another nap. After that nap, she got up in time to have dinner with us. I returned her to the rehab center where I helped her get a shower, dried her hair, coached her as she brushed her teeth and so forth. After all of that, it was time for bed. As I tucked her in and said goodnight, she looked up at me and said, "thank you for a beautiful day. Aren't those grandchildren the most gorgeous kids you have ever seen?!"
I am now trying to make sense of the thoughts and emotions I have experienced today. ( I thank you, by the way, for allowing me to do this. I know that many of you are copying these e-mails and passing them on. I know this because I hear back from thousands of people who read them. I have too many e-mails from all of you to respond immediately but I am resolved to respond to every single e-mail as I am able. Your willingness to walk with me through this illness has been a life-saver.)
Today I learned that when you are caring for someone who is disabled, it takes a lot of time to do simple things. Many years ago, I remember hearing folk complain about how the government was forcing businesses to make buildings accessible to the disabled. Back then, I had no opinion about this because it made no difference to me. Tonight, I can assure you that if you ever have to deal with wheelchairs and the other kinds of paraphernalia that disabled people must use to make life work for them, you will never complain about any of the regulations requiring ramps, Braille and the like. For when a building is inaccessible to the disabled, it is not only them who are kept from using the space but those who serve them as well. (All of you who are planning some building or remodeling project, please take note.)
Another thing I learned today is how crucial the concept of "home" really is. We did a lot of work to get Trish home today. We did it because her therapists thought she might make greater strides toward recovery this next week were she to go home for a few hours and remember who she is and where she belongs. For weeks now, she has been in bed. Strangers have taken care of her most basic needs. She has been subject to a hospital schedule. She has had to eat what the hospital serves. She has been wearing clothes that are convenient for those who care for her. She has been surrounded with sounds, odors and tastes that are not of her choosing. Even though she has received excellent care, a hospital is an unavoidably alien and strange world. To the extent that she has been adapting to that world, she has been losing something of her own being. Home is where you don't have to struggle to remember who you are. Trish needed to go home so she could remember who she is.
Trish and I have an upstairs bedroom. My sons-in-law were kind enough to help Trish up there for her nap. When we laid her down on the bed, I lay down beside her. I looked at her for a moment and then asked, "what does this feel like?"
"It feels like home," she replied. "I had began to imagine it differently. Now I remember what its like."
Almost immediately, she was asleep.
The word "home" presses all kinds of emotional buttons for me. In a therapy session a few years ago, a psychologist asked me, "If I pushed you to sum up your life's theme in one word, what would it be?"
"Exile," I replied. "I am an exile. I have lost my home."
I won't bore you about why I had come to feel that way. It had to do with my birthplace and with our mountain people's deep connection to their land. It had to do with what I perceive to be the drastic changes that have taken place to the spiritual landscape of Christianity in America. It had to do with a season of life in which I could not seem to make anything work. It had to do with a hunger to return to a people whom I believed might possibly understand me and what I was about. It had to do with a profound feeling of being 'out of sorts' with the modern world and its values. All of these things compounded into a stew that was cooking my insides. Everyday I longed to return "home." The trouble is, I had come to believe that "home" was irretrievably lost.
In many ways, this nostalgic homesickness was for a place that never was and for a time that never existed. In that sense, homesickness truly is, as the word implies, a "sickness." Such homesickness can eat at the foundation of your emotional life until nothing satisfies. It becomes an insane fixation that corrupts ones' soul. In another way, though, homesickness is a cure for illusion and idolatry. For Christian spirituality can be characterized as a sort of homesickness.
"Why is the heart of the Christian heavy?" asks St. Augustine. "It is because he is a pilgrim and he seeks his own country."
I can assure you that tonight "home" is no longer a geographical location for me. Tonight, home is wherever Trish is. Home is being with my children and their families. As I have learned these past five weeks, family can be gone in the bat of an eye. It has, therefore, become exceedingly precious.
I spent years grieving the loss of "home." I grieved so hard for "home" that I couldn't seem to get on with making peace with the location where God had placed me.
Tonight I know how silly that is. Tonight I know that Trish is my home. Tonight I realize that you, my dear friends, scattered as you are throughout North and South America in the many places where Trish and I have lived and ministered -- you are our home.
Trish now knows this better than I. When she was just beginning becoming conscious, before she could talk above a slight whisper, she said with a lot of emotion, "Take me to the Merimishe." (New Brunswick!)
"Why do you want to go to the Merimishe?," I asked, amused at this reference to a place we had not visited for over twenty years. "Because I want my grandchildren to meet Gerald and Ermine," she replied.
Gerald and Ermine were our friends in Montreal when Talitha and Tiffany were infants. They were so kind and dear to us then. The years have gone by since then and we have seen them twice in these two decades. But to Trish, coming out of a coma, the Merimishe, which is the Price's ancestral home and where they returned after their retirement, does not seem so far away or so difficult to visit. Since the day she talked about Gerald and Ermine ,she has asked about friends in Nashville, and Kentucky, West Virginia and Montreal, Mexico and California. Her spirit seems totally unhinged from geography. She seems to have pulled people who are precious to us in Phoenix, Nashville, New Brunswick, and South America all together in some "place" in her head where distance means nothing.
Of course, that is what the Communion of Saints is all about. It is the relationship among the living and the dead, those far and those near, ones we met just today and those whom we have known since birth. Most people never get an opportunity to gather all the friends they have known until the moment of their death. Trish and I have been given a great gift in this regard. For through these e-mails, God has allowed us to gather together almost everyone we have known throughout our lives. Even after all these years of separation, my people in the mountains of West Virginia didn't fail to reach out to us in our hour of trail. The folks in Canada who cared for us when we were just starting our family -- they have been here once again for us. Our Latin American friends, who allowed us to adopt their language and their culture -- how precious their support has been. My Nashville family -- they have never abandoned us, have never let us drift away from their hearts and they have given us their overwhelming support these past few weeks. And then the people of Phoenix -- when we had to walk through the fire, they did not hesitate to walk into the fire with us. All of these wonderful friends and loved ones have gathered around us and have not allowed us to fall. Wherever you may be tonight -- that is my home for you are my family.
Like Trish said, it was a beautiful day. Struggling with that wheelchair, trying to fit it into the car, huffing and puffing to get Trish from the hospital to the house and then back again, washing her hair and drying it, putting her into the hospital bed once again and then saying goodnight -- it was all beautiful. How could it not be beautiful? Knowing that God is going to allow us more time together to visit the Merimishe, the Appalachian Mountains, the hills of Tennessee, the enchanting city of Santa Fe, the peaceful and hospitable cities of Latin America and the cities and towns of the Sonoran desert where we have lived these past ten years. All of these places are home now. We can live in any of them with joy and peace until the day when God calls us to the home of the soul.
Life is largely about discovering the nature of the irresistible and irrepressible longing that haunts our dreams and woos our hearts. It is about looking down one avenue after another, pursuing first this adventure and then another. It is about daring to do more than to merely exist. Its about risking one mirage after another in order to find, if possible, some piece of earth that will not move that we can call our own. In all this exploration, one turns down many a blind alley and hits many a dead end. But then, sometimes someone discovers, as Trish and I have, the pearl of great price -- the Holy Grail -- the gold at the end of the Rainbow. It is the realization that we have never really longed for any geographical place nor for any title or material possession. All we have been struggling for is to know, beyond any doubt, that home is simply God Himself.
The neurologist came in, looked at Trish, talked with me a bit and agreed.
So this morning, I went in and signed a paper promising not to allow Trish to drink any alcohol nor to drive a car. (Trish thought that was really funny.)
The day went well. I brought Trish home. She promptly had a nap and then ate lunch. She then took another nap. After that nap, she got up in time to have dinner with us. I returned her to the rehab center where I helped her get a shower, dried her hair, coached her as she brushed her teeth and so forth. After all of that, it was time for bed. As I tucked her in and said goodnight, she looked up at me and said, "thank you for a beautiful day. Aren't those grandchildren the most gorgeous kids you have ever seen?!"
I am now trying to make sense of the thoughts and emotions I have experienced today. ( I thank you, by the way, for allowing me to do this. I know that many of you are copying these e-mails and passing them on. I know this because I hear back from thousands of people who read them. I have too many e-mails from all of you to respond immediately but I am resolved to respond to every single e-mail as I am able. Your willingness to walk with me through this illness has been a life-saver.)
Today I learned that when you are caring for someone who is disabled, it takes a lot of time to do simple things. Many years ago, I remember hearing folk complain about how the government was forcing businesses to make buildings accessible to the disabled. Back then, I had no opinion about this because it made no difference to me. Tonight, I can assure you that if you ever have to deal with wheelchairs and the other kinds of paraphernalia that disabled people must use to make life work for them, you will never complain about any of the regulations requiring ramps, Braille and the like. For when a building is inaccessible to the disabled, it is not only them who are kept from using the space but those who serve them as well. (All of you who are planning some building or remodeling project, please take note.)
Another thing I learned today is how crucial the concept of "home" really is. We did a lot of work to get Trish home today. We did it because her therapists thought she might make greater strides toward recovery this next week were she to go home for a few hours and remember who she is and where she belongs. For weeks now, she has been in bed. Strangers have taken care of her most basic needs. She has been subject to a hospital schedule. She has had to eat what the hospital serves. She has been wearing clothes that are convenient for those who care for her. She has been surrounded with sounds, odors and tastes that are not of her choosing. Even though she has received excellent care, a hospital is an unavoidably alien and strange world. To the extent that she has been adapting to that world, she has been losing something of her own being. Home is where you don't have to struggle to remember who you are. Trish needed to go home so she could remember who she is.
Trish and I have an upstairs bedroom. My sons-in-law were kind enough to help Trish up there for her nap. When we laid her down on the bed, I lay down beside her. I looked at her for a moment and then asked, "what does this feel like?"
"It feels like home," she replied. "I had began to imagine it differently. Now I remember what its like."
Almost immediately, she was asleep.
The word "home" presses all kinds of emotional buttons for me. In a therapy session a few years ago, a psychologist asked me, "If I pushed you to sum up your life's theme in one word, what would it be?"
"Exile," I replied. "I am an exile. I have lost my home."
I won't bore you about why I had come to feel that way. It had to do with my birthplace and with our mountain people's deep connection to their land. It had to do with what I perceive to be the drastic changes that have taken place to the spiritual landscape of Christianity in America. It had to do with a season of life in which I could not seem to make anything work. It had to do with a hunger to return to a people whom I believed might possibly understand me and what I was about. It had to do with a profound feeling of being 'out of sorts' with the modern world and its values. All of these things compounded into a stew that was cooking my insides. Everyday I longed to return "home." The trouble is, I had come to believe that "home" was irretrievably lost.
In many ways, this nostalgic homesickness was for a place that never was and for a time that never existed. In that sense, homesickness truly is, as the word implies, a "sickness." Such homesickness can eat at the foundation of your emotional life until nothing satisfies. It becomes an insane fixation that corrupts ones' soul. In another way, though, homesickness is a cure for illusion and idolatry. For Christian spirituality can be characterized as a sort of homesickness.
"Why is the heart of the Christian heavy?" asks St. Augustine. "It is because he is a pilgrim and he seeks his own country."
I can assure you that tonight "home" is no longer a geographical location for me. Tonight, home is wherever Trish is. Home is being with my children and their families. As I have learned these past five weeks, family can be gone in the bat of an eye. It has, therefore, become exceedingly precious.
I spent years grieving the loss of "home." I grieved so hard for "home" that I couldn't seem to get on with making peace with the location where God had placed me.
Tonight I know how silly that is. Tonight I know that Trish is my home. Tonight I realize that you, my dear friends, scattered as you are throughout North and South America in the many places where Trish and I have lived and ministered -- you are our home.
Trish now knows this better than I. When she was just beginning becoming conscious, before she could talk above a slight whisper, she said with a lot of emotion, "Take me to the Merimishe." (New Brunswick!)
"Why do you want to go to the Merimishe?," I asked, amused at this reference to a place we had not visited for over twenty years. "Because I want my grandchildren to meet Gerald and Ermine," she replied.
Gerald and Ermine were our friends in Montreal when Talitha and Tiffany were infants. They were so kind and dear to us then. The years have gone by since then and we have seen them twice in these two decades. But to Trish, coming out of a coma, the Merimishe, which is the Price's ancestral home and where they returned after their retirement, does not seem so far away or so difficult to visit. Since the day she talked about Gerald and Ermine ,she has asked about friends in Nashville, and Kentucky, West Virginia and Montreal, Mexico and California. Her spirit seems totally unhinged from geography. She seems to have pulled people who are precious to us in Phoenix, Nashville, New Brunswick, and South America all together in some "place" in her head where distance means nothing.
Of course, that is what the Communion of Saints is all about. It is the relationship among the living and the dead, those far and those near, ones we met just today and those whom we have known since birth. Most people never get an opportunity to gather all the friends they have known until the moment of their death. Trish and I have been given a great gift in this regard. For through these e-mails, God has allowed us to gather together almost everyone we have known throughout our lives. Even after all these years of separation, my people in the mountains of West Virginia didn't fail to reach out to us in our hour of trail. The folks in Canada who cared for us when we were just starting our family -- they have been here once again for us. Our Latin American friends, who allowed us to adopt their language and their culture -- how precious their support has been. My Nashville family -- they have never abandoned us, have never let us drift away from their hearts and they have given us their overwhelming support these past few weeks. And then the people of Phoenix -- when we had to walk through the fire, they did not hesitate to walk into the fire with us. All of these wonderful friends and loved ones have gathered around us and have not allowed us to fall. Wherever you may be tonight -- that is my home for you are my family.
Like Trish said, it was a beautiful day. Struggling with that wheelchair, trying to fit it into the car, huffing and puffing to get Trish from the hospital to the house and then back again, washing her hair and drying it, putting her into the hospital bed once again and then saying goodnight -- it was all beautiful. How could it not be beautiful? Knowing that God is going to allow us more time together to visit the Merimishe, the Appalachian Mountains, the hills of Tennessee, the enchanting city of Santa Fe, the peaceful and hospitable cities of Latin America and the cities and towns of the Sonoran desert where we have lived these past ten years. All of these places are home now. We can live in any of them with joy and peace until the day when God calls us to the home of the soul.
Life is largely about discovering the nature of the irresistible and irrepressible longing that haunts our dreams and woos our hearts. It is about looking down one avenue after another, pursuing first this adventure and then another. It is about daring to do more than to merely exist. Its about risking one mirage after another in order to find, if possible, some piece of earth that will not move that we can call our own. In all this exploration, one turns down many a blind alley and hits many a dead end. But then, sometimes someone discovers, as Trish and I have, the pearl of great price -- the Holy Grail -- the gold at the end of the Rainbow. It is the realization that we have never really longed for any geographical place nor for any title or material possession. All we have been struggling for is to know, beyond any doubt, that home is simply God Himself.
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