MY EYES WERE GETTING HEAVY....

I have always been intrigued by hypnosis, though never enough to participate. Mostly because I never wanted to know for sure whether or not I had been abducted by aliens for egg harvest.

But also because I have a deep-seated fear of the hypnotist turning me into a pole dancer then dropping dead with a heart attack before waking me up.

So how could it be that I ended up somewhere in the middle of the ocean on a Princess cruise ship looking like this, bless my heart:


Please allow me to explain.

Last week, my girlfriend and I left our husbands and all our worldly cares (redundant, perhaps?) landlocked at home with a fridge full of cold leftovers while we embarked on a 7-day Concerts at Sea Cruise aboard the Grand Princess.


It was our second day aboard the fantastical ship - meaning we were already well on our way into a food coma - and we had just come from a relaxing spa treatment. [If you’ve never had a beautiful British girl give you a foot massage, hot towel facial and scalp massage, you haven’t truly lived. There's something about a British accent that makes everything better. But I digress...]

After spending many lost minutes wondering aimlessly through building after building, my friend Vicki and I eventually found our way into the sparsely populated Princess Theater.

An energetic Hypnotist bounded onto the stage and immediately began looking for suckers...uh, volunteers. After several minutes, only two brave shipmates had responded. The rest of the audience shifted uncomfortably in our seats and avoided eye contact with the dude onstage.

AND THEN, he went on to explain how he didn’t believe in embarrassing his subjects and that IN FACT, his subjects would leave the stage feeling better than they ever had...that ONE HOUR of hypnosis is equal to EIGHT HOURS OF THE MOST RESTFUL SLEEP EVER.

Suddenly, the chairs on the stage were filled. Imagine my surprise when I realized one of the chairs had been filled with my very own butt. But then again, I would turn tricks for the promise of eight hours of restful sleep.

Before I knew it, a friendly stranger with beady little eyes was convincing me that my own eyes were indeed getting heavy. I quickly fell into that soothing, floaty place you go to right before falling completely asleep. I could still hear the Hypnotist’s lulling voice, but the audience had totally faded from my awareness. I had absolutely no perception of time.

I can recall about 50% of what happened onstage as a fuzzy, abstract memory. Vicki filled in the rest, amid hoots of laughter and complete with photographs. Unbelievably flattering photographs...

“ON THE COUNT OF THREE YOU WILL BE COMPLETELY RELAXED.”

“YOUR PLANE HAS JUST LANDED AFTER A REALLY LONG FLIGHT AND YOU ARE EXHAUSTED. YOU FINALLY GET TO STRETCH...A GREAT BIG RELAXING STRETCH.”

"THE PERSON SITTING NEXT TO YOU IS SOMEONE YOU CARE DEEPLY FOR. GIVE THEM A GREAT BIG HUG TO SHOW THEM JUST HOW MUCH YOU CARE.”


"YOU ARE NOW LOOKING AT THE FUNNIEST THING YOU HAVE EVER SEEN. YOU CAN’T STOP LAUGHING.”(When he asked me what I was looking at, I told him "Velvet Elvis". And that's all I have to say about that.)


“YOU ARE A ROCKSTAR ONSTAGE AT A HUGE ROCK CONCERT. ON THE COUNT OF THREE, YOU WILL BE BEGIN PLAYING YOUR INSTRUMENT.” ************ Eat your heart out, Sheila E. ************


“YOUR CONCERT IS OVER. YOU DID A GREAT JOB, ROCKSTARS. TIME TO GET UP AND TAKE A BOW.”

I would love to report that after only one 45-minute session, my inner rockstar was truly released. I would love to tell you that I was looked upon as a rockstar for the rest of the cruise...total strangers clamoring to get their pictures taken with me...gorgeous men asking me to sign their pecs and whatnot.

But you've seen the pictures, and they pretty much speak for themselves. For the next five days, everywhere I went I had to endure snickers and whispers of “there’s the crazy lady that thought she was a rockstar”.

Hah. If they only knew about my mad tambourine skills. Which I totally would’ve shown them, if I had not left that last little piece of my dignity on the stage.

I made Vicki swear that I wouldn’t go all Britney Spears again if someone yelled out “Bananas” or some other random word cue. She promised me it wouldn’t happen.

I’m not so sure. Since I’ve been home I keep finding myself wearing sunglasses indoors and fighting a strong desire to shave my head and beat the crap out of cars with an umbrella.

I haven't worked up enough nerve to look in the mirror to see whether or not I'm sporting a tramp stamp.

In Love With Hope...

Possibly one of my biggest design flaws (not counting thunder thighs) is that I truly imagine the world can be perfect.

Logically speaking, I should know better.

I mean, it's not like I don't notice the brokenness around me. I see it every time I turn on the television or read news updates on my computer. I see the irrefutable evidence while driving through my city. I've experienced it within in my own family, within my own heart.

Yet I can't seem to stop myself from imagining that if we all just tried a little harder, loved a little deeper, prayed a little more, then all the suffering would go away. Little children would never have sad eyes. Friends would never be lonely. Sons and daughters would not march off to war. Families would never break apart. Our minds and our bodies would always be healthy.

And then the first of the month rolls around, and my rose-colored glasses are ripped right off my face.

***
Every 30 days I spend time with some very special patients. These are not typical physical therapy patients, in that they are not expected to make significant progress in functional ability. Ever. All are far enough along in their varied disabilities that functional recovery would require nothing short of a miracle. They are referred to by insurance as "maintenance" patients.

Every 30 days – whether I need it or not - I get a heartbreaking reminder that there will always be suffering and brokenness among the oh-so-mortal people who inhabit this oh-so-mortal planet.

And every 30 days, I am humbly reminded of just how perfectly God uses broken people to inspire our broken world. To inspire me.

***
One of my favorite patients (ever!) is a man I will refer to as Joe. He is a total quadriplegic due to the debilitating effects of a progressive neuromuscular disease and has been primarily bed-bound for the past 15 years or so. Joe is able to operate a wheelchair by using an adapted chin mechanism. His chin, his eyes and his mouth are the only parts of his body Joe can move.

As you might imagine, speech is very difficult for him. Joe's vocal cords have become so weakened that he can barely be heard above a whisper. Much of our conversation involves lip reading on my part. And since I suck at lip reading, I very often try to jump ahead of him and wrongly anticipate and interpret his words. He is forevermore patient with me, smiles, and repeats his words over and over until I finally get what he has to say.

And boy, has this guy got a lot to say.

As the owner of a brilliantly quick mind and a wicked sense of humor, he is overflowing with conversation each time we meet. Every time I see him, he has a list of questions that he has saved up for me regarding his disease or a particular topic of interest. These exchanges have somehow morphed into a bit of a game between us. Instead of giving him complete answers to his questions, I always leave him with ‘homework’ to discover the answers on his own and report to me upon my next visit.

I usually forget the topic, but Joe never does.

***
As I walked into his room last week, he couldn't wait to tell me how many muscles comprise the hamstrings and took a great deal of time to painstakingly name each one. I sagely nodded my head, hoping he wouldn't guess that not only had I forgotten about the homework, I had also forgotten the name of that pesky Semimembranosus.

After we had stumbled our way through the hamstrings discussion, I removed Joe's Dallas Cowboys slippers and began exercising his withered legs. I soon noticed that he had grown uncharacteristically quiet.

“What’s up, Joe? Are you feeling bad today?” I asked.

“No. I’m ... okay.” He whispered. “It's Mom. She ... she has ... cancer. Must have ... surgery.”

[Joe receives daily provider care and lives at home with his Mom. Together they have forged a dynamic duo that not only triumphs over Joe's disabilities, but has also carried each other through the recent loss of his Dad.]

“I'm sorry, Joe. I'll put your Mom in my prayers. Are you scared?”

“Yes, I ...” was all Joe could manage before his face crumpled and his eyes filled with tears. He tried to speak again, but conversation became more and more difficult.

I sat down beside him on the bed, straining with everything in me to understand his trembling whispers.

“She ... she ... she doesn’t. Deserve. She doesn’t deserve this.” He finally replied.

“No, Joe. She absolutely does not. And you don’t deserve it either. Life really sucks, sometimes. But you know what, Joe? Everything is going to be okay in the end. If it’s not okay, then it’s not the end. We just have to hang on, buddy.”

“I ... like ... that. Will ... do that.” Joe said, with a shadow of a smile.

“And you know what? Maybe old Nostradamus and those Mayans will be right and the world really will end this year.”

“Be ... okay ... with me.” Joe said, really smiling now. “Ready for ... a new ... body.”

“Ah, Joe. Won’t that be great? I mean, yeah, I'll be out of a job - not much demand for physical therapists in heaven - but I'm good with that. I plan on spending my days floating on the clouds and eating red M&Ms. And watching you run, of course.”

Joe rested for awhile, obviously deep in thought. I felt overwhelmed with sadness at the unfairness of life. And more than a wee bit angry. Angry that even with a buttload of faith, sometimes life really does seem to be TOO hard. TOO sad. TOO much.

“Thanks ... for prayers” he whispered.

“You’ve always had my prayers.” I replied. “I just need to pray harder for your Mom.”

***
And so I have.

Certainly not because I know God will do what I want Him to do. I pray because I trust God to do what is right.

It's not about getting heaven to do my will. It's about aligning myself to God's will.

And God's will for me is clear.

Clearly, He doesn't want me to get lost in my imaginings of a perfect, unbroken world.

And clearly, He is not a big fan of my snazzy rose-colored glasses. He never ceases to knock those glasses off and force me to look deeply into the eyes of suffering. But in doing so, I learn to trust Him more. God is clever that way.

He's selfish, too. Because God doesn't just want all my faith and all my trust. He also wants me to put all my hope in Him. Somehow He knows - God knows - that if I miss seeing the brokenness, then I will miss the hope.

****
Joe understands hope. His body failed him years ago. Yet he has always trusted that Jesus will not.

I bent to hug him before I left. “Keep the faith,” I whispered in his ear. “God is good.”

“He ... is.”

As I turned to leave, I heard Joe finish his sentence:

“... my ... Everything.”

***************************************************

I asked God for strength that I might achieve.
I was made weak that I might learn humbly to obey.
I asked God for health that I might do greater things.
I was given infirmity that I might do better things.
I asked for riches that I might be happy.
I was given poverty that I might be wise.
I asked for power that I might have the praise of men.
I was given weakness that I might feel the need of God.
I asked for all things that I might enjoy life.
I was given life that I might enjoy all things.
I got nothing that I asked for,
But everything I had hoped for.
Almost despite myself,
My unspoken prayers were answered.
I am among all men most richly blessed.

THE CREED FOR THE DISABLED (Written by a Confederate Soldier)