Only a moment...

In trying to deal with the symptoms of PTSD, I was taught to generate a list of things to do to take me outside the moment of what I was feeling and not thinking ... or ... thinking and not feeling ... or thinking and feeling.  The maelstrom of those moments are terrifying.  

Moment.  That very word calls to mind this scene from Firefly's "Heart of Gold" episode.  I have written of it before, but I shall do so again. Inara is comforting a woman in the throes of the agony of childbirth. She tells her: This is just a moment in time. Step aside and let it happen.

I think about her words a lot.  Much of that show is witty and sharp and smart.  Some of it is brutal in honesty.  Some a haven of another life, another world.

Amos is on my list.  Holding him.  He's very obliging in that respect.  Fires are there.  But anyone who knows me now would surely guess that from all of the photos and videos of fires I have posted on Facebook.  Playing the Monopoly App is there.  That one has had many surprising benefits, for I learned to be patient and to temper despair playing the app.  Now, I win it nearly every time I play. I win by being patient, by trusting that no matter how desperate my position seems, if I hold onto hope I will win.  Of course, I also win by using the app's patterns of play against itself.  I win by being merciless with my enemy.

In a way, I think that is how Luther tells us our foe is with us.  And how we are to be with him.  After all, what mercy is there in reminding satan that he has lost?

I used to think Luther laid it on a bit thick when it came to speaking of the attacks of our foe.  Now, I am convinced he was soft peddling a bit, lest we become truly overwhelmed by what we face.  Even the glimpse he gives in Part III of the Large Catechism, for example, is harrowing enough.

So far we have prayed that God's name be honored by us and that His kingdom triumph among us.  In these two points is summed up all that deals with God's honor and our salvation.  We receive God as our own and all His riches.  But now arises a need that is just as great: we must firmly keep God's honor and our salvation, and not allow ourselves to be torn from them.  In a good government it is not only necessary that there be those who build and govern well.  It is also necessary to have those who defend, offer protection, and maintain it firmly.  So in God's kingdom, although we have prayed for the greatest need--for the Gospel, faith, and the Holy Spirit, that He may govern us and redeem us from the devil's power--we must also pray that God's will be done.  For there will be strange events if we are to abide in God's will.  We shall have to suffer many thrusts and blows on that account from everything that seeks to oppose and prevent the fulfillment of the first two petitions.

No one can believe how the devil opposes and resists these prayers.  He cannot allow anyone to teach or to believe rightly.  It hurts him beyond measure to have his lies and abominations exposed, which have been honored under the most fancy sham uses of the divine name.  It hurts him when he himself is disgraced, is driven out of the heart, and has to let a breach he made in his kingdom.  Therefore, he chafes and rages as a fierce enemy with all his power and might.  He marshals all his subjects and, in addition, enlists the world and our own flesh as his allies.  For our flesh is itself lazy and inclined to evil, even though we have accepted and believe God's Word.  The world, however, is perverse and wicked.  So, he provokes the world against us, fans and stirs the fire, so that he may hinder and drive us back, cause us to fall, and again bring us under his power.  Such is all his will, mind, and thought.  He strives for this day and night and never rests a moment.  He uses all arts, wiles, ways, and means that he can invent.

If we would be Christians, therefore, we must surely expect and count on having the devil with all his angels and the wold as our enemies.  They will bring every possible misfortune and grief upon us.  For where God's Word is preached, accepted, or believed and produces fruit, there the holy cross cannot be missing.  An let no one think he shall have peace.  ~BOC, LC, III, 60-65

The devil enlists my flesh as his ally.  

On my list, among other things not yet mentioned, is burning a candle. I am not an aromatherapy person.  In fact, I would say that I am the very opposite of an aromatherapy person.  I care not for many scents others find appealing.  I am not even a candle person.  Not really.  I did once find a candle at Pier One that I liked:  Fresh Rain.  [Of course it was discontinued.]  Most candles smell too fruity or too flowery or too false.  It is the same with lotion.  Oh, the hours I spent in Bath and Body works trying to find a scent I could stand since their body cream is the one lotion that actually lasts in my skin.  I truly believe, while searching for a candle, my Good Shepherd provided one that smells like an actual rose.

I love roses.

I am not a candle person. I am not an aromatherapy person.  And yet I burn this candle. For reasons I know not doing so calms me, soothes me, eases my fear.  Burning the candle helps me stand outside the moment and let it happen.

Last week, when my pastor came to visit I was terrified about his coming, terrified about being at my father's service, among other things as noted before.  What I did not include in writing about that visit was that I had the rose beeswax candle burning the entire time.

The level of my anxiety could be noted by the fact that I am no longer able purchase those candles (Amazon no longer carries them and I cannot find them elsewhere).  I have but half a candle left.  A part of me worries about that.  I use many things on my "list" for often it takes many of them to beat back the maelstrom ... or rather to find the courage and the strength to step aside and let it happen.  

Those moments are an eternity, filled with hopelessness and despair, with terror and darkness.

The mind apart from the body.

The body apart from the mind.

Both battling the heart and soul.

Both battling each other.

Even the certitude of Truth seems senseless ... is senseless ... in those moments.

A while ago, my friend Mary, the gentlest of Gospel givers, passed along a Word sweeter than honey to rest upon my tongue:

Here's a thought that Ned brought up today in Bible study (our Sunday morning study is on the different death & burial rites). We pray, "Give us this day our daily bread." As we grieve, it is often hard to imagine going through even one day alone. But how sensitive our Lord has been to put into our very mouths, "Give us THIS DAY our daily bread." He doesn't ask us to pray for the week, month, or year. Only this day.

This day.

This moment.

Funny the things so obvious I miss.  Humbling that God brings them to me despite my sometimes distance from His house, from the pouring of His Word into my hears and the placing of His body and blood into mind.  

The other day, the daily bread I received was someone making a decision for me.  I was distraught and overwhelmed.  One of the things on my list is to do something, anything.  To get something accomplished, something to which I can point.  Something outside myself.  Something beyond the moment.

I was trying to finish painting the closet wall and door that Firewood Man and his friend built for me.  I was certain my mother, a rather talented interior designer, told me to paint the wall white.  I have two gallons of white left from the ceiling and half a gallon of gloss from the master bath beautifying.  I was all set. I had a plan:  prime, paint, finish with gloss top coat.  Only I got an email from my mother telling me that I should paint the wall the same as the other ones.  She was right about doing so, as you can see in the final photo.  Only I did not have enough of that paint left.  Plus, the primer I used up barely covered the raw wood.  [I have never experienced just how much paint it takes to cover raw wood.]  I was in a panic.  I do not have funds for groceries or the rather expensive blood work I have been putting off until this next credit card cycle.  How could I justify buying more primer and paint?  What should I do???

Searching for an answer, for a plan ... and hating myself for not being able to think of one myself ... I seized upon the idea of asking the graphics designer who also volunteers with Lutherans in Africa.  All I could think is that she knows color, understands color.  She could tell me what to do.

It is not about independence.  I mean, I am working frantically and methodically to ensure I can remain in my home as long as possible, that I can remain independent as long as possible.  Part of that work was admitting that I needed help in doing so, that I needed the social worker checking up on me.

But, contrary to what others have said to me, sometimes I need someone to tell me what to do.  That is on my list.  Call someone.  Ask for help.  That help often is telling me what to do in order to step aside and let the moment happen.  Tell me to listen and read me Psalms.  Tell me to look at the crucifix and let Jesus remind me of what is true.  Tell me to work my list: to light a fire, light the candle, organize something, play Monopoly, watch a TV show or movie, read a book, write something, putter in the yard, write a list of things to do later, complete a task. The latter was what I was trying to do, for physical labor puts me into such a state of exhaustion that I do not think or feel or anything. I simply exist. I survive the moment.

That dear woman listened to my anguish and heard me that I was not asking her to fix me or heal me or any such thing.  All I was asking her to do was to talk to me about color.  She did.  She focused on my color problem and helped me come up with a plan:  use the white paint as another layer of primer and then mix some into the Mellowed Ivory I did have on hand so that the wall, while lighter, would still match the others.  A plan.  A blessed, unbelievably merciful plan.

By the time it came to paint the Mellowed Ivory, my mother offered to fund a fresh gallon of paint so that the wall color could be the same, though in gloss.  Her offer was generous and most welcome to me, for being raised by an interior designer, I have this taste for things matching well, even if I cannot talk or understand color much.  But all that was later.  The daily bread my Good Shepherd provided on Thursday was Anna's plan, was someone who listened to me, who heard that all I needed was a simple answer, a direction to take, and who gave me such so that I could step aside and let the moment happen.

That bread was sufficient for the day, for the moment.

Something I have recently added to my list--absurdly so--is cooking.  I added it to my list because some of the things on there I can no longer do, such as play the guitar (hand strength and fine motor control) and sing hymns (I have forgotten most of the few I knew).  It is an absurd addition because the cognitive dysfunction that plagues me, two aspects of which: 1) makes following directions rather difficult and 2) means I forget what I am doing.  The latter is oft a problem in cooking because I forget that I actually am cooking and burn my food.  Nevertheless, I have had this growing desire to cook a few things, tasty things.

Were I honest, I would say the desire is two-fold: to have some measure of success where I mostly have failure now and to enjoy food before I can no longer do so.  Already my the failure of the autonomic process affecting my innards make consuming food difficult.  What is oft par for the course for dysautonomia is a dying off of digestive system organs.  My future very well may be a feeding tube and/or a colostomy bag.  Add to that the dangers of reactive hypoglycemia, uncontrolled as mine is, leading to diabetes, and my future culinary intake seems dim and meager.

Tonight's (or rather yesterday's now) moment was one in which I stepped aside by trying out a recipe for Bacon Cheddar Puffs that caught my eye.  Bacon.  Cheese.  Bread.  What's not to like?  Primarily, though, the recipe called neither for yeast nor kneading, so I thought I had a chance.

I am troubled by the fact that both ovens seemed to be having issues.  The not-yet-hot-enough indicator light came on in the upper oven in the middle of cooking.  And the lower over seemed to turn itself off even though it was still on (the coils went from red to black).  Perhaps the 1960s appliance was stressed by my using both ovens, having been worried about the rest of the dough/batter waiting while the first tray cooked, as well as three of four burners in the preparation phase.  Perhaps my use of baking stones instead of a greased cookie sheet was the problem.  In any case, I cooked the first batch 10 minutes longer and the second batch 15 minutes longer.  In fact, I moved the second batch from the lower oven to the upper oven for the last 5 minutes.

Because I wanted the success, wanted to have something different from the battle of mind and spirit I was losing, I really, really, really wanted someone to taste them, to see if they seemed like they should be.  However, I failed in enticing either person near to me who could eat them to help me out.  To me, I am not sure if the puffs are what they should be.  I really want to know that.

You start the recipe on the stove, heating milk and butter and then mixing in the flour.  After that, you remove the pan from the stove and slowly stir in four eggs, one by one, until you transition from a ball of dough to something more like batter.  Then, you add the bacon, cheese, garlic salt, onion salt/powder, and pepper.

Mine never puffed all that much, nor did they become golden brown, which are the two indicators of doneness noted in the recipe.  Mine only got crispy peaks and browned bottoms.  I did discover just a short while ago that there was another photo, which seems to be from someone's attempt at the recipe, that looked close to how mine turned out. I was slightly reassured by that.  For I actually ate four of them, two from the first tray and two from the second tray, trying to figure out if they were what they are suppose to be.  To me, they seem far more of a breakfast roll than a dinner roll.  I thought they were to be the latter, but perhaps not.  In any case, I have a dozen left sitting in the refrigerator.

When my pastor was here, he talked to me about Christ on the cross, about His understanding of what it is like to be alone and to be alone in suffering. Tonight, I found myself wondering what helped Jesus to step aside and let that moment happen.  

When he first spoke about the crucifixion, I thought of a passage from the Christian Book of Concord:

This means that the Law condemns all people. But Christ--without sin--has borne the punishment of sin. He has been made a victim for us and has removed that right of the Law to accuse and condemn those who believe in Him. He Himself is the Atonement for them. For His sake they are now counted righteous.  ~BOC, AP, V (III), 58

I do not often think of Jesus as a victim.  Truth be told, I actually never thought of Him as a victim until I read these words.  It was not until a few days later, still pondering Jesus understanding of being alone in suffering that I recalled another shocking sort of bit from the BOC:

And He did all this [became man, suffered, died, and was buried] in order to become my Lord. He did none of these things for Himself, nor did He have any need for redemption. ~BOC, LC, II, 31

I wonder how often Christians call to mind that Christ had no need for redemption.  All of that, all of what He did from birth to death, from suffering life in a fallen world even unto a horrible, painful, lingering death, was not for any need of His.  He was not proving Himself.  He was not establishing Himself as God, as the Messiah, as the King of Jews.  He was saving mankind.

So, Mary's ... or rather Ned's ... bit of sweet, sweet Gospel flowered in my mind as I thought that not only does Christ teach us to pray only for the day, only for a moment in our lives, but does so because our High Priest is one who understands, who has been tempted in every way, who has had moments for which He needed to step aside and let them pass.

What agony of spirit must Christ have born each and every day watching His beloved brothers and sisters, sons and daughters, suffer.  What anguish He mush have battled seeing death and destruction, greed and violence, pain and illness all about Him when all of that is not what God intended for His creation.  This life, this world, is not God's grand plan to teach us a lesson for our sin.  No, this life is a consequence of unbelief.  Christ willingly stepped into the pain and agony, the battle of mind and body, of heart and spirit, to bring us belief, to take away the right of the law to accuse, to condemn, to kill.  Just think, there is not a place Christ could look for relief from the reality of a fallen world.  What mercy we cannot even fathom that burden, the knowledge of what was lost.  What a gift Christ chose to do so for us, for me.

I doubt I will ever be able to write what Easter is for me.  The associations of Easter are not what they should be, nor what I want them to be.  And, right now at least, I cannot escape them.  As an evangelical, I only had Easter itself to bear. As a Lutheran, the dissonance between what is in my heart and mind and that which everyone else seems to experience now lasts an entire week, making "Easter" all the more difficult for me.

I remain thankful for Pastor Brown's blog entry about it being okay to have a sad and lonely Christmas.  Added to that great mercy was a more recent post on mourning.  I cannot begin to add up all the times I have heard over the past three years that I need to move on from what I have lost.  However, grief is not something that keeps to a schedule.  And what few understand is that each day, each week, each month, I am losing more.  Right now, I ... mostly ... can still recognize what is being lost, even if such a horrifying, overwhelming moments comes later, follow the loss.  A part of me longs for the day when I will not longer understand what is happening to my brain and my body, even though that day is my greatest fear in this life.  

Those two supports, the freedom to be sad and lonely and to mourn, have become a trio of mercy for me, by adding to them the sweet, sweet gift of the Lord's Prayer, of a God who understands His creation so intimately as to not ask us to think about the week or the month or the year or a lifetime.  We are only to think of this day and, in doing so, remember all that He provides in that daily bread.

Perhaps you realize, by now, that not having closure or success with the bacon cheddar puffs, I set out to try and write about Mary's bit of Gospel, to capture it for later, to speak of it in the hopes that others will speak it back to me when I am caught in another maelstrom.

It is how I got through this night.

I am Yours, Lord.  Save me!