What Got You Here

In the pre-dawn darkness of Wednesday morning we loaded up our trusty 4-wheel drive with a thermos of Sleepy Monk coffee, a package of Walkers Shortbread, folding chairs, fleece blankets, and Gracie-the chocolate labradoodle. We wanted one more trip up the logging road while the beautiful fall weather still held.

For the past four and a half years we’ve been hiking up this same road, pausing at the top for coffee and some quiet time to connect, reflect, navigate tough issues, laugh, cry, argue, and simply be together in the beauty of that space.

This time, however, we drove to the top, my only steps the slow and careful ones across the uneven road to our chairs. It will be a while before I’m able to hike that road again as I recover from my knee replacement surgery less than four weeks ago.

The recovery process has been kinda remarkable, in large part because of all of those previous trips up and down that logging road. While always grateful to have discovered what many would see simply as a dusty gravel road, there was a new understanding of all she has done for me, and for us. Hiking that same route over and over, side-by-side, regardless of the weather, has prepared me, and us for this time of recovery together. Because of all of those trips to the top and back, my body was strong at the time of surgery, paving the way for a good recovery. Because of all of those trips to the top and back, we know how to accomplish hard things together. Because of all of those trips to the top and back, the emotional weather conditions of each day don’t keep us from keeping on keeping on.

It isn’t that it’s all been easy. Nerves wear thin and blow things out of proportion. Our first fight post surgery was arguing about the best way to make oatmeal. Everything takes longer than expected, especially when one person is doing the work of two, in addition to taking on the role of in-home concierge nurse. Sleep can be illusive when you have to get up in the middle of the night to take some more pain meds, and have to choke down a few saltines and a couple of prunes so as not to take them on an empty stomach. It’s an all-consuming process in the beginning, and will continue to be a major focus if I want to get back up the logging road in the not-too-distant-as-in-several-months future.

What hit me as we sat with our coffee that morning is that it’s important to remember what got us to where we are. To acknowledge what, and who, have made today what it is, and to remember it in preparation for what life has in store for us down the road.

Like most coins, this one has two sides. The positive side of that coin is that our growth and successes are built upon the back of our efforts, and often the support and efforts of others. The flip side is that we sometimes find ourselves at a place we didn’t intend or realize isn’t in our best interest, or the best interest of those we love. This too is built upon the back of our less-than-healthy actions, and perhaps that of others as well.

Recognizing, and remembering, what got us here is the key. It is what will help us choose whether to stay the course, or shift in a new and better direction.

The logging road is part of what got me here, and she is waiting patiently for our return. I can’t wait.

Sub-Mission

I’ve never liked the word submission. I know. Weird, right??!!

In my experience, the idea of submission has often been used (directly or indirectly) in reference to a woman submitting to a man. Of placing herself under the authority of someone else, most likely her husband, the leaders of a church, or some other male authority figure. Like I said, not my favorite word.

However, recently I’ve come up against that word in a different context from the one I’m used to, challenging me to consider if submission doesn’t have its time and place for a girl like me.

Submission is a combination of 2 words. Sub, which can, among other things, mean lower than, beneath, or under, and mission, which is an important assignment with an intended outcome, an expedition, or a calling. Submission, then, is getting beneath something that matters. It’s placing the strength of my will under the mission in order to achieve it.

Three weeks on the other side of a total knee replacement surgery, I am finding that in order to recover, heal, and rebuild, I have to embrace the reality of what will be required of me to achieve the outcome I want. Doing so is an act of submission to what is true now in order for it to become what I want to be true in the future, which is a strong knee ready to take me wherever life leads.

I’m having to submit to the facts that this is a marathon and not a sprint, that pain is part of the process, that I can’t do it alone and need help, and that doing the hard work, which sometimes means doing less rather than more, is the only way. Or as my daughter’s coffee mug says, “There is no secret. Keep going.” That’s how it is with any worthwhile endeavor, whether writing that next book, healing from past trauma, getting an advanced degree, raising good humans, building an NFL team, or recovering from knee replacement surgery. It’s hard to admit, but submission is required.

Submission to the process required by this new knee is me getting under the mission, and supporting that mission with everything I’ve got.

Submission is a choice requiring no one’s authority but mine. And I like that. I know. Weird, right??!

Fear-Less

Sitting with our coffee the other morning, looking out over the hillside below, I finally said it out loud. “I’m scared about my knee replacement surgery.”

From what I’ve learned, there’s good reason to be at least a little scared. Of the surgery itself, (think saws cutting through bones) not to mention the sometimes rough road to recovery. The work required to rehab even though it’s painful, to regain mobility, range of motion, strength and stamina are nothing to sneeze at.

Up until now however, I’ve banked on all the other things I’m feeling about it: That while not looking forward to it, I’m glad I’m getting it done while I’m still “young”. That I’m grateful for the clarity about my decision to proceed, and for a loving guy to walk me through it, literally and figuratively. That I’m committed to taking the pain meds until I don’t need them, and confident that I’ll be better off for having it done.

Heck yeah. Let’s do this thing.

But afraid? Scared? I haven’t wanted to think about my fear, face it, or feel it. Until that morning on the hillside with the sun cresting the ridge. “I’m scared about my knee replacement surgery.” I couldn’t believe how good it felt to finally say those words out loud. To myself, and to the man I trust with my whole heart, and now with my soon-to-be new knee. Come to find out that naming it out loud actually took some of the fear out of it.

There’s a children’s book that our daughter reads to our grandson. It’s about courage and being brave and how we can’t be those things without first being scared. Fear, it turns out, is the doorway to courage. Being scared is the first step to bravery.

Deciding to get a new knee feels like a brave choice. And being scared is part of the bargain.

My fear had been there all along, quietly waiting for me to finally look her in the face and call her by name, knowing that once I did, I could get on with being brave. I won’t be surprised if she rides shotgun with me for a while, as I suspect that I’ll need to continue to be courageous even when I’d rather not. Thankfully, fear will be there to help me out.

The Farewell Tour

“Well…you need a new knee.”

Not the words I’d hoped to hear from the orthopedic surgeon recommended by my physical therapist who I trust almost as much as Jesus. He continued, “You are young, strong, and you want to keep doing these things that you love for a long time, so there couldn’t be a better time to do this. Go take that 100 mile trek in England, and then let’s get this thing done.”

That he called me young and strong made me want to kiss him on the spot, but orthopedic surgeons aren’t known for being the touchy-feely type. I was trusting him with my knee, not my heart, and his words rang true. I’d gone in to his office with the intention of walking out with clarity, and I had it. We took that 100 mile trek through the Lake District in England, dubbing it the “Farewell Tour” for my right knee.

I’m not looking forward to the surgery, or the early days to follow, (Hello, Oxy. Nice to meet you.) but I am grateful for the chance to get a new knee. A bionic knee. One that will help me continue logging as many miles as are mine to hike on the trail that is my life.

A farewell tour signals the end of a thing. It’s a chance to showcase something one final time. In this case, the right knee I was born with, but for musicians, it usually means performing the best of their best. The fan favorites. The songs people know by heart and that that particular band or performer are known for. For those who love the band, the musician, and the music, attending that farewell performance can be a spiritual experience, connecting them to one another and the music they collectively love. It is an experience where the whole is greater than the sum of the parts.

Maybe life is like that. As our years accumulate, we have the chance to offer the best of our best. The music written in the key of our life. The songs we’re known for. Our fan favorites. The ones they will continue to hum long after we’re gone. We get to offer what we have to give. Not for the applause or the standing ovation, but for the chance to give away what we have gathered up from the life we have lived, starting with those we love the most. It too is an experience where the whole is greater than the sum of our parts.

Every gig worth the usually exorbitant price of admission includes an encore performance. The audience calling for one more song, and another, and another, and another, until the performers have nothing left to give, and it’s time to exit stage left. To leave the scene without a fuss, because they know their time, on that stage, is done.

Maybe life is like that too, with calls for one more song, and another, and another, and another, until we have nothing left to give and it’s our time to exit stage left. To leave the scene without a fuss, because we know that our time, and this stage, is done.

My Sister's Hands

Yesterday my sister got a new knee. But I just can’t stop thinking about her hands.

I’d know her hands anywhere, and could probably pick her out of a lineup from them.

With those hands she unloads my dishwasher whenever she visits, makes caramel icing for every family birthday cake, sets the table for a party the day before, and lights all the candles before company arrives. Those hands make sure that the decks are cleared and all ducks in a row, so that when people walk in they feel welcomed, loved, safe, seen, and heard. It’s those hands of hers that deftly arrange guests at wedding tables in a way that no one’s feelings get hurt, everyone feels included, and all the people that drive all the other people crazy sit together. With her hands she holds grandkids close, carries on with important traditions, and lets go of the ones that have seen better days. She prefers to keep her hands out of messy food, but loves digging in the dirt. She always wears rubber gloves to keep her hands out of hot water, but fearlessly sticks them into places of the heart where angels fear to tread. Hers are hands that pray without ceasing, love with abandon, and welcome without judgment.

Yesterday, my brother-in-law sent me a photo of her just before they wheeled her into surgery. Looking at that picture I found myself filled with gratitude. Not just for that brand new knee, but for her beautiful 75 year-old hands that are simply an extension of her heart.