Almost Important

The woman had been born retarded.

And, as though that were not enough, as a child, she pulled a boiling pot off the stove onto herself, scaring her face and withering one arm.

Kids at school teased and tormented till she had to drop out and just stay at home.

Her family coped with her affliction as best they could—but, well, you know families. It was not easy for them, or for her.

Although my friend Wes is not a clergyman, the family asked him to conduct the woman’s funeral at a back-woods church last week.

As Wes and I visited our friend Barbara White yesterday, he told us about the funeral; he read the burial service from the Book Of Common Prayer and gave a brief sermon on “The Value Of A Diminished Life”.

Afterwards, people told him it was the most meaningful funeral they’d ever attended. They had not realized who had been dwelling among them.

Yesterday morning I’d laid out my work on the kitchen table and just started to get down to it when Wes called asking if I wanted to go to Dave’s Diner for breakfast. Ever ready to avoid work, I agreed. At breakfast he suggested we drive across town to visit Barbara—she had her first chemotherapy treatment Monday and she may not feel like visitors later in the week.

Barbara has been diagnosed with peritoneal cancer which originated in an ovary. Her doctor said that with chemotherapy she may last another year or so; without it, he recommended entering a hospice program now. Barbara, who is in her 80s, is going to see how her body handles this first chemo treatment then decide.

Recently Barbara’s grown daughter Mary died of cancer after long chemo treatments. Barbara drove Mary for the treatments every couple of days for months and months, so Barbara knows what she herself faces with chemo.

Fortunately, Barbara’s many friends from her church have volunteered to drive her for treatments and doctors’ appointments. And I’m very pleased that my son, Donald, and his wife, Helen, have involved themselves in some of Barbara’s hands-on care.

Since Barbara’s apartment in the retirement home is so tiny (and so Wes and I could smoke our pipes), the three of us sat outside in the beautifully landscaped garden on benches beside Turtle Lake to talk. As we talked about medical issues, church stuff, family matters, etc. we watched two small alligators glide through the water.

Wes and Barbara discussed reactions and the side effects to various medicines—things I know nothing about.

Two large fountains spray high in the air from the lake. Acres of flowering ginger border the waters. A waterfall near us splashed and cascaded over a waterwheel circling at the base of a dam as overflow from the lake move toward Julington Creek and the St. Johns River visible in the distance.

Our discussion turned to the movement of the Holy Spirit which Wes and Barbara detect in their respective churches.

We talked about how the Spirit falls from above. We can not “work Him up”, but He, while always present, yet sometimes, at His own discretion, He moves, “comes down” in ways that we can become more aware of Him.

Sometimes that manifestation falls with abrupt power and a mighty rushing wind like on the Day Of Pentecost; at other times, He falls from above with silent pervasive power like morning dew forming on Spring grass—unseen till it’s there.

As we talked about God’s Spirit, we also talked about revival—a wide-spread, noticeable manifestation of God throughout a community.

I think that there is nothing more important any person can do than to receive from God, even when we feel the slightest nudge in that direction. Maybe, especially then.

Problem is, we try to live ordinary lives in a supernatural world, not realized who is dwelling among us.

As we talked, I felt we three stood on the verge of something important.

Our conversation was almost important.

But, unfortunately we veered into religious small talk about spiritual gifts; as the token skeptic in the gang, I’m inclined to think that in myself, what Wes and Barbara term gifts of the sprit are merely tricks of the trade.

Mid-lake a free-floating log hosted a line of large turtles sunning themselves; when a new turtle tried to climb aboard, the log rolled dumping the others in the water and all had to climb on again.

That was fun to watch as they did the same thing again and again.

As Ralph Waldo Emerson said, “All the thoughts of a turtle are turtle”.

Finally, afternoon heat drove us inside the air-conditioned lounge and we never returned to talking about the fall of the Holy Spirit.

Instead, we talked about teeth.

Specifically the typical lack of teeth among backwoods crackers (I’m a prime example of that toothless clan). But we joked about us Florida hillbillies. And I felt comfortable about my friends’ teasing.

Then the conversation turned to baldness—which Barbara faces as a result of her chemo. Wearing a bandana, cap, or a wig concerns her.

Ever the gallant Christian gentleman, Wes, who is a trifle hair challenged himself, offered to go to her church with her and sit the two of them on the very front row so they’d look like bowling balls in a rack.

What a funny mental picture!

Anyhow, by the time I got back home, six hours after I’d left for breakfast with Wes, my files still littered the table.

I felt depleted as I always do after contact with superior Christians. I need to withdraw more.

Yes, I know no man is an island, but I should stay as close to the tip of my peninsula as I can.

I feel unfit for human contact.

Later in the evening, Ginny and I drove to the library and to a fast-food place for supper. When she checked her blood sugar, the reading was only 54—that’s close to pass out territory—the lowest reading she’s had in ages.

I’m concerned.

Ginny is the best thing that’s ever happened to me.

I love her with all my heart.

The other evening she was ironing clothes singing I Dreamed A Dream—that song Susan Boyle sang wowing the entire world. (But, while Ginny is beautiful, she resembles Susan Boyle more in appearance than in singing voice).

Nevertheless I got such a kick out of hearing her sing.

I love to see her happy.

She is such a joy and delight.

Although, I’m not beyond teasing her….

For instance, last Friday, I knocked one of my few remaining front teeth loose.

Yes, while slurping a bowl of vegetable soup, I bit down on a chunk of carrot wrong and knocked my tooth loose. It wobbles in the socket and will soon fall out.

Yes, I broke a tooth eating soup. Not many people make that claim.

Not that losing one more tooth will make much difference in my Florida Hillbilly appearance, but I’m extremely conscious about my facial deformity (hardly any bones in my face so I can not be fitted with dentures—growing up my children teased me by calling me Gnaws after the famous shark in the movie).

I know it’s my vanity, but I feel all too aware of my appearance and avoid smiling or eating in public where my sloppy eating may disgust people.

An aside: Once over 50 years ago I avoided a man who wanted to be friends because I saw he had such bad teeth. I’ve often wondered, since my own teeth fell out and my face fell in, if perhaps the Lord touched me with this gentle judgment to my vanity over my own teeth because I deliberately shunned that man.

Be that as it may, as Ginny and I ate lunch at the BBQ restaurant Sunday, we held hands across the table as we usually do as we talk.

I worried aloud that when this next loose tooth falls out like all those others, Ginny will not find me attractive any more, that she will be ashamed to be seen with me.

“O sweetheart,” she assured me patting my hand, “I’m not ashamed to be seen with you. I’ve never been ashamed to be seen with you. I never will be ashamed to be seen with you”.

“That’s what I like about you,” I teased. “You are a shameless woman”.

We got to laughing so hard the waitress thought something was wrong and came over to check on us.