Darkness, Darkness

In the most painful, darkest moments of my life, when I feel so abandoned it as if there are hands gripping my heart, wringing it dry, the Universe reminds me that I am not alone, am loved, and that my life has meaning.

On Sunday, November 4, Da Bears beat da pants off the Tennessee Titans, crushing them 51-20. During the first half of the game I cheered them on while packing books and photo albums in Mom’s den. During halftime, my heart became leaden-heavy, for I realized I had no one with whom to share the euphoric Bears’ rout. The loneliness grew until not only did it fill the room, but also the entire condo; it was as if I couldn't see straight, my world limited to the circumference of the apartment, and my abilities wholly limited by ill health and tears.

Then out of the blue the doorbell rang, as it was Sunday afternoon I was not expecting visitors. So when a lovely voice at the front door said, “Hi I'm Barbara. I'm with the church's flower ministry. I have flowers for Laura” came over the speaker I was stunned. In grubby sweats and my hair roughly up in a claw clip I waited at the apartment door. As I had been crying it was difficult for me to smile and greet her. She handed me a vase of white carnations, a small bouquet created from much larger arrangements that had decorated the chancel and sanctuary during the service a few hours prior. I started to tear up and told her how the day was progressing, of my mother’s death, pending homelessness, and that before her arrival I felt utterly alone. While we talked she hugged me three times, and told me she would keep me in her thoughts and prayers.

The note accompanying the flowers read, “Dear Laura - the family of the First Presbyterian Church is holding you in prayer as you face the loss of your mother and your own uncertain future. Blessings to you and may you feel God's arms holding you.” (Typing these words, just as when first reading the note, I cry.) I believe we cannot hope to weather life’s storms without others’ arms around us, be they God's arms, a child's arms, animal paws, a voice on the telephone, or an email.

Forced at too young an age to survive without company, most of my life has been spent alone, desperate, and self-reliant. Although I am most grateful to all that is good and purposeful in this world for the fortitude of 1000 lifetimes, there are moments when the pain of loneliness, or the deep, pulsating heartbreak of lost love, brutally overwhelms me.

In the winter of 2005, when I was so ill I could barely trudge up and down stairs, I had a physically pain-ridden, terrible day. I needed solace, and tried for hours to reach out via telephone, leaving many messages – but none were returned. By 7 PM the Lyme arthritis was so horrible I went upstairs for a long soak in a hot bath. When I finally returned downstairs to turn off the lights and lock the doors I noticed a small, yellow box on my patio. It was a DHL box, a little larger than a VCR tape, sitting on the doormat just outside the sliding glass door - the delivery person had thrown it over my locked patio gate, and somehow, magically, it was right where I could see it.

The box weighed next to nothing; on the reverse was the return address of my dear, dear friends Korie Beth and Matt. Inside the box was a hand-knit scarf with a note saying, “We love you.” Korie (who is quite the accomplished knitter) made me a beautiful, unique, jewel-tone scarf. I started crying because I felt the tremendous love she managed to pack in a little yellow box; her creative gesture of yarn and needles replenished my utterly empty reserves at a time when I could not refill them myself, and that in my darkest hour something as simple as a scarf could remind me that I am not alone, and most importantly, that in the eyes of friends I have value.

A few days ago I fully realized today that my Lyme disease and accompanying tick-borne illnesses are back and using my body as their rejuvenation factory. That is not a happy thought, but after all the grief and stress of the last six weeks quite inevitable. (I have been waiting for this other shoe to drop since just after mom died on October 4th.) For when we are drowning in stress or overwhelming grief our immune systems can barely function; to wit, I believe the reason Lyme disease ultimately defeated me in August of 2004 is because my Grandmother, Cousin Don, and my beloved 17 year old cat Laertes all died within three months  of each other. These deaths rent my soul from my heart, debilitating me with anguish.

This morning, while imbibing coffee and vacantly staring at the television, I knew full well nothing substantive could be accomplished today. In that spirit, I opened Facebook and read friends’ posts, commenting on one about the parasite Babesia – one of the deleterious co-infections the microscopic, evil deer tick gave me in the late 1990s. Zoe Cassandra, one of my most recent Mills sisters, commented the following: “Just know that through your knowledge I was able to get the help I needed for the tick bites. I am so sorry you have to go through this, but you are one of the strongest women I know, especially when faced with distress. Sending you so much love.” Once again, remarkably out of the blue, at a time when I am sick, alone, and utterly overwhelmed, an angel has appeared to light the darkness in my heart and soul. 

We are imperfect beings, we simple humans, each broken, each wounded. We are not expected to be flawless or unblemished – as beings of flesh we cannot be. The only perfection to which I am privy is unconditional love. Some call this perfection God; some call it Yahweh, some Jesus, some Buddha Nature.  Regardless of name, I believe that which is Ineffable wants me to know that I am loved for, not despite, my brokenness and wounds. Sunday’s Flower Ministry delivery, Korie’s scarf, and Zoe’s Facebook post were each angels of unconditional love.

Blessed be the light bringers!