Hope... better deemed... Expectation.

It would seem that Advent would be an odd time for a lost and wandering sheep to offer thoughts on this Advent journey through the desert, but whatevs... I'm all about oddness.

Can you believe that for 20-odd years, I lived my life not realizing there were "themes" to each one of the Advent weeks? It's sad, yet entirely true. I clearly was not paying enough attention during Sunday morning homilies to recognize and distinguish one week from the next. However, I must admit, I am a convert. I kind of like having a bit of direction... a bit of a theme to live that week within.

Hope.

A few years ago, our Diocese was fortunate enough to have a Brother from the Taize community in France come and lead a youth retreat. His theme for the weekend was none other than "hope" and for some reason, I got volunteered to give a testament of how I personally experienced and lived out "hope" in a tangible way. I'm pretty sure I blabbed on about something completely removed from what I should/could have said because in all honesty, I was not really the right person for the job and frankly, had nothing positive to contribute to the concept.

However, years later, I had a child teach me what it meant to hope in something... to place expectations in something and that is the story I feel compelled to share.

It was a cold and snowy December night in the final days before Christmas; the roads were icy, the temperature in the low 30's (C), and anyone in their sane mind would have been spending the Friday evening at home with the fireplace going and Christmas music playing. It was the night that the local "inner city parish" was hosting a musical/narrated production of "Touched by a Child" as a fundraiser for a local charity that works to find affordable housing for low income families. The show was sold out, the choir had met every Sunday afternoon for months to practice their four part harmonies, and people with "stories" to share had practiced their dramatic reading numerous times with the local clergy person who wrote the whole production.

The concept was that we, as a music/narrator team, were to tell the story of the Christ child from various perspectives. There was a story from the Inn Keeper, from the Dove, from one shepherd who saw a star in the night sky and followed it to the manger. A total of 5 "stories" were intertwined with music and congregation-inclusive Christmas carols.

Originally, I was to be part of the choir. My untrained alto voice, with enough rehearsals, had almost become acceptable to listen to. However, days before the 'big night', the writer approached me and asked if I might consider reading/sharing the story of the Shepherd because she felt that I could fit the part. It also meant that because I wasn't feeling very well, I could sit with the readers in the congregation rather than being up in the choir roster staring out at the crowd.

I spent that Friday running around to various appointments and late in the afternoon, laid down for a nap. Unfortunately, the nap went longer than expected and I found myself rushing to get out the door in time to battle the road conditions and frigid temperatures. Doing my hair took seconds, I threw on a decent looking outfit, and bolted. I probably sped the whole way, but I literally had to be there. I couldn't bring myself to call the clergy person and say, "sorry, I'm exhausted and it's a no-go".

Arriving at the neatly decorated church, I ran in, dropped my coat, stood in line with the other readers when I felt a tap on my shoulder.

There was one of the choir members I had grown to know over the practices and her 4-5 yr old grandson I had met once (because he was required to sit through a rehearsal). From behind his back, he pulled out a stuffed bear. His words were minimal, but the impact, lasting.

"This will make you better"... and off he ran. His grandmother, my fellow choir member, began to try and explain why I had received the bear. Apparently the funds from the bear were designated to the local children's hospital and when Connor saw the bear and knew that I wasn't feeling well, he insisted that they buy me a bear because his teddy bear always made him feel better.

The tears rolled my cheeks, because it all finally made sense. Conner had placed all of his hopes and expectations in that little stuffed bear... his hopes that it would make me feel better, the expectation that I would be better. He had no understanding of what was going on in my life, but he didn't need to. Because for him, none of the details mattered. All I would need... was in that little bear.

And, just as Conner had placed all of his hope for me in that little stuffed animal, I knew that I in turn, had to place all of my hopes and expectations in the Christ Child that would laying in that manger Christmas Eve... and that if I did that, I would allow myself to be Touched by a Child... Touched by a King.

It seems so stupid that I would need a tangible example of hope before I could physically and spiritually live in it and through it. But truth be told, there is not a Christmas that goes by where I don't pick up that little stuffed bear, give it a hug, and give thanks for a little guy named Connor... who taught what it means to hope and just how I can place all that hope in the birth of that Child, that Saviour, that King.

May we all, this hope-filled Advent week, find that tangible source of hope we seek.

Expectations

I've decided today that having expectations is one of thee most brutal things in the world.

Partly because it is inevitable that when you have expectations, you will be let down - whether by someone else or oneself, and partly because I was fortunate enough to live a small window of my life in which I was able to be expectation-free, and I kid you not, it was one of theeeeee most freeing feeling.

If you write someone a letter, you expect some kind of response...

If you ask someone a question, you expect some sort of an answer...

If you give of your finest gifts, you expect to radiate change in the world in some regard...

When you open the window and share a piece of yourself with someone else, you expect that they would do the same...

When you give it all you've got, you expect to be better than, "just not good enough"...

When you turn on the windshield wipers, you expect your vision to be cleared enough to see...

If you are being punished, you would expect it to one day end...

If you are lost in the middle of the valley, you would expect to eventually find your way...

If the answer to your question is, 'I don't know', you would expect to simply be told so...

When you apply SPF 30 sunscreen every 30 minutes, you would expect to not burn...

When you are humble enough to ask for help, you would expect some level of visible assistance...

When you are falling without a hope in hell in stopping, you would expect a friend to be there...

Among many (!) things that I wish I wouldn't have ruined, is the freedom that came in living expectation free. It was a much less frustrating and hurtful time in which it didn't matter if plans fell through or people did not follow through because there was this realization that ultimately, the only thing that mattered was being able to smile and take life in stride.

Maybe I ought to read, "The Simple Life" again...

I wish I had an internal GPS

I managed to get out to the lake this weekend for a bit to enjoy the sun, water, greenery, and quietness for what appears to be the last weekend before I must "clamp down" and devote the next two weeks to studying for the final exam that accompanies clinical. Drove up by myself and so before leaving, grabbed a handful of CD's for the road as my IPod is still fairly music-less.

The drive is a little under two hours and the road is paved the entire way. Rolling hills, flourishing crops, and plenty of animals tends to make the drive quite an enjoyable one. With about an hour left to go on the drive, I popped in a CD that had "E-Arrang't" scribbled on the top in green sharpie.

Moments into the first track, my heart did a bit of a flip as I remembered why this playlist was first created on my old computer and who the recipient of a burned CD was.

It was purchased, created, organized and burned for someone who was a very dear friend at a time who was in desperate need of some cheering. If I remember correctly, the CD was titled "Episcopal Arrangements", though, it was named so with my tongue secured firmly between my teeth. While I didn't make the CD for the bishop at the time, it was a CD that had a variety of discernment type songs in the voicing of Bryan Adams, Cat Stevens, Eric Clapton, and Cathedral choirs from abroad. And, if memory serves me right, my preamble to giving the CD to this individual was something to the effect of, "when you need a distraction from your day to day tasks, just crank it up and relax".

Well, I think I made it to the third track before I had to pull over. It was Bryan Adam's, "Here I Am" from the movie "Spirit".

"Here I am, this is me; I come into this world so wild and free

Here I am, so young and strong, right here in the place where I belong

It's a new world, it's a new start

It's a life with a beating of a young heart, it's a new day, in a new land,

And it's waiting for me...

Here I am

It's a new world, it's a new start, it's a life with a beating of a young heart

It's a new day and a new land,

It's waiting for me...

Here I am"

It's kind of a crapchute, or at least that is what it feels like. Here I am, young, strong, wild and free... and yet, I don't really feel like I'm in the place where I belong. Yes, nursing is great... I love the people, their stories, their willingness to share bits of themselves with an eager stranger... yes, it is a new world and a new start where each and everyday is new and different from the day before and the land is so new, I still get lost on a daily basis... yes, it is waiting for me - there are so many incredible opportunities...

... and yet, I am not where I belong.

Maybe I'm struggling because this song always used to be one of 'vocation' for me - one that I would sing loud and proud from my seat in church every Sunday... it didn't matter where the church was or who the people around me were, it felt "right". I felt at home, I felt as though I was truly living out my calling in sharing my faith and enthusiasm for God, spiritual journeys, and anything church-related, and most importantly, I felt as though my soul sang the words, "here I am..."

While some would wish to go back in time or for the ability to call a "mulligan" (aka, "do-over"), I find myself longing for an internal, spiritual compass that could articulate for this somewhat lost and wandering nursing student, "in 500m, turn right" or "when possible, make a u-turn", or could help me map out how I can best get from my distant detouring state, back onto the route that will most safely direct me to my destination, as the GPS in my car does routinely.

For even when I pulled off onto a gravel road where I could safely dry my eyes this weekend, my GPS sat on the dash and faithfully gave me the directions I needed to get from my tear-stained detour, back onto the highway and heading for the destination.

The Gift of Communication

At first I titled this entry, "the gift of language", but while thinking about it - language does not get us anywhere if we cannot communicate with someone else.

Take, for example, the adorable 85 year old Baba that will go down in the books as being my "first patient". Other health care professionals on the unit seem to dislike having "Baba" as a patient because every time they enter her room she either:

a) talks non-stop

or

b) only uses an English word for every 20 Italian words and even then, it is said with a very thick immigrant accent

In the short time that I have come to know her, I've learned a few incredibly valuable lessons regarding communication.

1) When 'pretending' to speak Italian, one must simply add "isimo" onto the end of every word. This way, even if the patient is confused by what you are asking them, they will laugh at your feeble attempt to try and meet them in the middle.

2) As much as I want it to be, "Crap-isimo" is not a word in the Italian language. If I had the opportunity to add it to the vocabulary of Italians, the definition I would attach to the word would be, "Wooooow, I screwed THAT up royally!" or alternatively, "DOH!"

3) If one truly does not understand what another is saying, a smile and a gentle hand on the shoulder go a very long way.

4) People prefer being spoken to directly and greatly detest having to use their adolescent grand daughter as a translator when trying to tell you that they are constipated.

5) Communication is so much more than simply the language we speak from our lips. It is about reading the pain in someone's face as they undergo an uncomfortable procedure or dressing change and reassuring them when it happens. It is about engaging their eyes as a sign of deep respect and admiration for the journey they have traveled and the experiences they have to share. It is about smiling as if to tell them that being in their presence has truly made your day. It is about holding their hand with a warm and gentle embrace as if to say, "I'm here, I'm with you, I want to help to lift you to your feet when you've fallen". It is about sitting in silence in their presence in place of saying, "I shall keep watch for you", reassuring them that they are not alone but very much loved and looked after. And finally, it is about a journey - a journey of two people towards a deeper sense of what the other means by their frantic, indiscernible speech or their playful twinkle in their eye. It is a journey that requires many steps, many detours, many bathroom breaks and many, many servings of patience, teamwork, and laughter.

She has taught me lessons that I hope to never forget and lessons that are applicable to so many various relationships in life outside the hospital walls. For even when we speak the same language as friends, acquaintances, and colleagues... we struggle immensely with communicating. We send virtual messages in place of phone calls, we neglect requests to respond, and we get overwhelmed by day-to-day responsibilities that before we know it, the day is done. Some lessons I wish I could write in a card and mail to people who have, for whatever reason, stopped communicating simply to remind them that I am still here - patiently waiting for the gift to communicate with them.

God's Altar Cloth

I had a very wise friend who loved to knit. She would knit tea cozy's, afghans, dish clothes, blankets... you name it, she could probably knit it. I remember watching her in a daze-like state wondering how someone could be so swift and gentle with their hands... never ceasing the loop, pull, crossover maneuvers that resulted in a glorious pattern of wool. I guess my watching her distracted her from what she was doing and she missed a stitch. Carefully pulling her needle out from the row she was working on, she began to tug the line of wool and watch as the stitches slowly undid themselves, one by one. And when she had reached the place where the mistake had happened, she gracefully slipped her needle back in and continued on.

I was astonished that she could do such a thing. I was under the impression that when a mistake happened, you had to go all the way back to the beginning and start fresh. When I built up enough courage to ask her why this was not the case, her response threw me for a loop and I've never really forgotten it.

She told me about how knitting was like life - it is a series of choices and movements we make as a human being. We all have the same starting point - we are all just a mere knot on a stick... but it's where we go from there and how we dance our dance that determines what our blanket will eventually look like. Regardless of how hard we try, we will occasionally drop a stitch or force a new one where there shouldn't be and sometimes we can go back and fix it. Other times, our "extra" move simply means that we end up with an extra stitch - an extra loop, an extra step to take each time.

This all seemed okay and made sense but then I asked her why she chose to go back and try and fix her mistake rather than just leaving it be. Surely one extra stitch was not going to make a world of difference.

She told me that when she made the mistake, it was because she lost a stitch. A loop fell off the needle and was laying limp in between two knitted stitches... and this couldn't be.

Sometimes in life, we miss a step. We are in a hurry to get from A to B or we don't feel that it's a step of crucial importance, but when we think like this, we are wrong. If that dropped stitch were to just be left alone, it may be okay, but alternatively, it may cause our creation to fall apart - to be pulled and unraveled and become nothing more than a heap of kinked wool. We must go back and pick it up and carry on because if we aren't careful, we will drop more stitches and there will just be more damage in the end.

Funny how, years later, her words are only now starting to make sense.

There are days in which I wish I could drop the past and leave it be. Days that I wish I could just start a new education and carry on with my life rather than going back all those rows to pick up that lost stitch... it would mean I would have to undo so many stitches...

But what I have only now realized is that I can't leave those dropped loops hanging in the middle of my afghan... they require my attention so as to one day, truly have the most beautiful blanket to lay upon the altar of God.

I thought each stitch was independent of the stitch beside it, above it, rows beyond it... but it's not - they are all from the same pile of wool. The further I go on this journey of discernment and healing, the more I come to understand how the stitches from years ago are truly interconnected with the stitches I am stitching now. Kind of mind boggling, but oddly reassuring.

Ultimately, my goal is to knit the most elegant and incredibly awesome altar cloth with my pile of wool I was entrusted. And the reality is that in order to do so, it means going back and picking up those dropped stitches, and pulling them back into the fabric. Because if I don't, not only do I risk a catastrophic unraveling, but I risk a finished product that is truly not reflective of the gifts and dreams I was entrusted with at my baptism.

So, to those stitches who have been knit into my cloth recently, bear with me. Please remind me that you are still part of the wool and I will pick you up again when I get there. To those stitches who have been waiting patiently for our paths to cross, hang tight. They will some day soon. And to those stitches who were dropped along the way, take heart, cry out for I am coming back to pick you up and tie you into where you belong. You will not be lost for long, I am coming.

Forgive Me

Everyday, at 10:11pm, my phone goes off to indicate that I have an email message to attend to.

I realize that the timing is a bit odd and actually invades into personal time whereby I should not be attending to anything other than peaceful reading, studying or sleeping... however, in a lot of ways, I need for my phone to go off at 10:11pm every night.

The email that I get is always from the same place... it was something that I signed up for years ago and occassionally the message that comes through is one that I've read before. But, for the most part, the message is a new one - and one that I oddly... need to hear on that given day for some reason.

Today, I had to laugh. After a crazy busy day of errands that have accumulated while in school, I was racing to put clean laundry away while reflecting on the day when I phone did it's little "bleep bleep" sound.

This was today's message - a quote from Robert Frost:

"Forgive me my nonsense as I also forgive the nonsense of those who think they talk sense"

At first - seems kind of comical - a poet's take on the Lord's Prayer. But when you really stop to think about it... it's not a nonsense quote at all... just a different way of saying it. Huh... imagine that. :)

To some, it's a coincidence, but to me... it's a gentle whisper.

Having a degree in psychology, it always astounds me to people watch. I don't stare them down so that it becomes a creepy and awkward situation, but at the same time, I love watching people and how they react to different situations in life.

For example, take car-racing friend. For the first time in her life this week, she played hockey. Helmet, gloves, stick and runners - she is part of our new ball hockey team this summer. Following the 4-0 loss, there were glum faces in the dressing room. Car-racing friend threw her helmet off in frustration and began going on about how much she "sucked" at this sport.

For us as a team, it was our second ever game. The score did not reflect the effort and energy we had invested, but there were a lot of great things that happened. Defense learned about keeping the other team out of our goalie's way and forwards learned how to line up for an offense face-off. There were wonderful passes being made, great team spirit and 15 exhausted ladies who have invested an hour of exercise back into their life that they wouldn't have otherwise done.

15 pairs of eyes and I bet every pair saw that game in a different light.

Funny how that works, isn't it?

This week was my limit. Our program requires that we take 15 credits in 5 weeks and this translates to literally, 8-5 days packed with lectures, labs, seminars, and study hours into the wee morning when we get home.

One of our seminar topics this week was discussing a "patient" by the name of Katherine, a middle aged woman who is in our care after suffering her second heart attack. She has all the "risk factors" that make her high risk for suffering another one: morbidly obese, a smoker, suffers from Type II diabetes... you name it. If she doesn't change her ways, she will die of a heart attack. Our seminar group was discussing what we should do with her. She is not being compliant with the cardiac rehabilitation program and our choices include discharging her on account of non-compliance or "reading her the riot act" (essentially laying it out for her that she will die in short succession if she keeps her life on this track).

Out of 11 of us... 10 voted to discharge her. 1 fought to keep her in the program a little longer and try to elicit a change in her behaviour/lifestyle.

I was overruled and we discharged her. I was devastated.

When speaking with our prof the next day, I was told that "in the real world", she would have to be discharged. It comes down to funding, to making priorities and to realizing that our patients problems should never become "our" problem as her caregiver. And, because I couldn't rationalize this decision in my heart, my prof and I ended up talking at length about Ms. Katherine.

Wise-professor took off her reading glasses and set them on the table without breaking eye contact and after a lengthy silence asked if she could give me a piece of advice that has worked for her in her practice as a primary caregiver. She began to tell me about how important it was for her, to establish those boundaries. She preceded her metaphor by claiming that it was a bit "out there", but it would be good to try. She then told me that every morning before going to work, she would put on her armor. It was not "real", but a mere image that helped her immensely. "I put on a helmet, a body armor, a belt, and carry my shield..."

As far as she let on, for her... it was just an expression of imagery. A mere coincidence that this imagery can be found in various places within a thick, ancient manuscript of how to live one's life.

But for me, it was more than just a survival mechanism in clinical... for me, it was a gentle whisper that wherever I go, there God will go too. Long gone, but not forgotten.

What does it mean for me? For God?

It kind of bugs me when other people wish something for me and it ends up coming true in inconceivable ways. Let me unpack that sentence a little bit more. I was exchanging facebook messages with that person in my life who wonderfully drives me nuts. They are that person who understands my thoughts better than anyone else and because of that, they are both wonderful and annoying. For sometimes, having someone know what you're thinking is the most annoying thing in the world. Anywho, I digress. This individual sent a message along asking how my Easter was and I responded truthfully by saying that for the first time in 25 years, I had not more than a snipet of the Holy Triduum in a church... of any denomination.

When asked, I explained to her that I was providing relief for a young man whose parents were in Vancouver and he required 24 hour supervision. Thus, preventing me from attending more than the occasional church service. And, I continued on to say that frankly, I'm not sure church is where I'm meant to be. Her response was something along the lines of, "I hope you manage to find Easter in other avenues of life, whether it be in Brady or what's around you".

I am rather in awe to confess that I think her "hope" for me actually became manifest in ways that I will never fully comprehend.

Easter Monday coincided with my 25th birthday this year. I was actually born on Good Friday, but it's not uncommon for my early April birthday to fall somewhere within the most holy weekend in the church calendar. I didn't have any grandiose plans for the occasion because I would be living with Brady until that Wednesday. At some point in the morning, Brady came upstairs and asked if we could go public library. I tried to explain that we couldn't, because the library was closed for the holidays. He seemed to accept this answer and went back downstairs. Moments later, however, he came and asked again. So, once again, I tried to explain that the library was closed but that we could go tomorrow (Tuesday). He quickly became agitated and began biting his hand (as per usual when he becomes anxious) and jumping up and down. My feeble attempts to calm him down by saying, "Deep breath bud" didn't really work and so I got up to try and calm him down with gentle physical contact.

Before I knew it, my forearm was locked in his teeth.

When he finally opted to free my arm from his lovely bicuspid grip, it was worse than I had hoped and he managed to pierce the skin in three locations. My birthday afternoon was spent with icepacks, copious amounts of polysporin, and hours on the phone with local health links trying to figure out how to prevent infections as the human mouth is pooling with bacteria.

However, this is where I was taken aback and cursed my friend for her Easter message to me.

Moments after the incident occurred, he came back upstairs and into the kitchen. "Brady sorry Dreea (his attempt at saying my first name, which is not really close, but we have a mutual understanding that this is my name)", picked up my arm, kissed it, rubbed it a little, and then gave me a hug. He turned around and went back down to watching his movie.

It was at this point that I began to cry. Brady seemed to sum up every Easter lesson known to Christians because he demonstrated to me, what it meant to forgive. Of course I was hurting and bleeding and worrying about future infections and complications. Without a doubt, it was the most upset I have been with another human being in a very long time. I was confused - why couldn't he just be verbally upset that the library was closed? It was something completely out of my control and yet, I was the one who got hurt.

But, at the same time, of course I could never stay mad at him. My hurt and anger and pain seemed to melt away in the moments following his child-like apology and understanding. Did his kiss stop my arm from hurting? Not a chance. But to my surprise, his simple gestures stopped my heart from hurting. In a huge way. Of course I forgave him. How could I not? He said he was sorry. Will he ever do it again? That I don't know. I do know that next time I have bad news for him, I will keep my distance and let him work through his aggression on his own, but I can't guarantee that it will never happen again.

This has really boggled my brain as of late as I have spent the last 2 years punishing myself for the mistakes I've made, removing myself from contact with those who know the truth and those who want to tell me all about God's love and mercy and forgiveness. But Brady, in his childhood mentality, has made me feel like the Grinch on Christmas morning as my heart seems to be growing. I now must set out to discover whether this is the case with God. Whether God is open to letting me kiss the bleeding wound I caused, rub it better, and say the words, "Dreea sorry God" or if I have missed my window of opportunity or worse, bit too deep for a mere kiss, rub and apology to rectify.

I don't know the answer, nor really who to ask. However, in my quest to wholeness and interacting with those who carry the light in this rather dark journey, I shall keep this question close at heart should I find someone who is safe enough to ask.

In the meantime, shall continue to give thanks for individual who sent along a message of hope, and a young man who taught me a lesson that I never would have learned otherwise.

WWJD

Tonight is a strange night. Not because I am sleeping in a strange bed or because I am away from family for the Holy Triduum, nor is it because we lost the championship game and I have to hang the skates up for another season. Truth be told, I'm not sure why tonight is strange... but it is.

On the drive "home" from the arena tonight, I started thinking about how Christians everywhere had come together to be with our Lord tonight. To sit in his presence as he broke the bread, to pay witness to a king humbling himself for the lowest of the low, and to sit in the shadows of darkness and keep watch just like he asked.

The memory that came to mind was one from elementary school; I was having an extremely difficult time "sharing" my best friend with the new kid at our school who obviously didn't get the memo that Krystal was my best friend and there was no room for sharing as far as recess time went. One of the teachers, noticing my upset, asked me to try an exercise with her. All she said to me was, "what if the shoe was on the other foot? What if you were the new kid and had to make friends and no one was willing? What would you do?"

Although I refused to see the logic in her words until many years later, she had a point. One must always seek first to understand and once they understand, can seek to be understood. I have since learned that she was influenced by St. Francis and that the lesson is a wise one.

Tonight, as I lay here, I wonder what it might be like to be in Judas' shoes. What would Judas do if Jesus offered forgiveness? Would there still have been a suicide? Would there still have been a crucification? If Judas dropped to his knees in remorse and repentance for reporting, would the church be different? Would the course of events have lead to a happier ending? If Judas spent time in his "cell" contemplating his actions and the consequences they had in the lives of others, would the other disciples have let him back to the table? Or, would they have crucified him themselves? Is there ever any way that Judas could right the wrongs? Would his personal testimony of the man Jesus was be a tale of incredible love and mercy or would his story be one riddled with fear of what was to come?

The only thing that I understand about our dear and fearful friend Judas, is why he may of felt that the only punishment suitable, was death. The guilt one carries when they betray a friend, a colleague, a mentor, a prophet, a king is more powerful and draining than anything else in the whole world. Truly, I understand that in a very tangible way. But surely, with enough self-inflicted punishment and remorse, God allows u-turns for even Judas is first and foremost a child of God, isn't he?

Hm. While it will be a night of staying awake for me tonight, my heart shall ache for the lost disciple this year, in hopes that a piece of him finds God in that garden and rather than turning against Jesus, he may find the strength to drop to his knees at the side of his fearless leader and seek forgiveness and strength for his frail and tempted soul.

And the winner today... Dr. J

"How is the medication working?" (Dr. J)
"Yes, I think so, but... it seems to leave me with a really dry mouth" (YS)
"Does this bother you?"
"Well, yes. You see, I was playing saxophone the one morning in church and there were a subsequent number of squeaks that are not normally part of my music because I couldn't gather up enough saliva to keep my reed damp enough..."
"Oh, you play the saxophone?"
"Yup!"
"Where are you going to church?"
"Well, I don't really refer to it as 'going to church' because I am really and truly only there for the music"
"You aren't there for God?"
"Nope"
"Are you mad at God? Because as a Christian (pointing to themselves at this point), just know that you are never alone in that journey"
"Ok"
"I once had a patient call God a very, very, very, very, very, very, very bad name - one that would never come out of my lips... are you afraid of God?"
"Uhhh... (voice quivering slightly)..."
"We should work on that. Find someone that we can talk to about that. We can both do that and we will compare notes next time."

I no longer felt completely alone on this journey where judgment seems to come before acceptance and more importantly, really respect a health care professional who is up front with me and calls it like it is - even if it threw me for a loop initially.

Tonight, I give thanks for the gentle way in which the truth was sought about a touchy subject and the reassurance that was shared, reminding me that I am not alone, not an alien, and not forgotten.