Opposition in All Things

I feel reasonably sure that the great composers of beautiful music were suffering under some level of duress to produce the lofty compositions that lift our heart, inspire our mind and enlarge our soul will the swelling joy of God's singularly most lovely gift.

I say that because tonight's choir rehearsal was an exercise in both music and pain.
Unless you have been in a choir that seeks to truly be more than just a bunch of people who can cover the parts, you don't know what I mean. Our choir director's version of warming up is enough to make you break a sweat. And most people don't think of choir as being an athletic event - foolish mortals!

The Stake Choir is comprised of over 60 participants for vocals, two accompanists for keyboards, two conductors and an orchestra of various strings, winds and horns along with a percussion section.

This ain't for sissies.

Once we survive the warm up period, the real fun begins. We get into the various pieces of music with "let's go through this section" and "can we try that once again" and the inevitably following phrase of "one more time with feeling". Oddly enough, every piece we worked through tonight began the toil at the letter "C" marked on the score. Why the letter "C" is a mystery that only the directors know for sure. Perhaps all of the music is destined to lapse into pitiful rigour at that juncture.

Add to it the reality of me sitting by the chapel's pews watching the directives and cuing from the BACK of each of our directors. I can't see the various expressions on their face, I'm guessing at which cue in close means what and I have NO idea if I'm blending in with my section since I'm sitting at a distance beside the second row of pews and everyone else is far, far away on Judea's plains up in the choir seats.

I'm sitting up as tall as the saggy bottomed wheelchair will allow (and hey, no nasty remarks about MY saggy bottom will be tolerated!). I'm trying to sit straight, use my diaphragm to tuck in, push up, control the flow and use my air properly to support the notes and bridge the phrases.

I feel like I am literally pushing up from the soles of my feet to the crown of my head. My toes are turning into plump little sausages from the effort. The cast is awkward and I'm not steady enough on crutches anymore to hop stairs like I used to do. Ah, the halcyon days of youth when the fear of rolling down a flight of stairs didn't exist. Now the fear of falling down two measly steps is sufficient to keep me by the pews instead of sitting in my now accustomed corner pocket where sound goes to die.

I've occupied that particular corner for a few years now, mostly because I rehearse like a mad woman to learn my music and because I try with God's most powerful help and aid to not 'lean' on other singers to know my part. So I sit where the hearing is limited and hope that I'm doing my best to offer up my widow's mite of music in the way the Father intends.

But for now, my seat sits empty and I sit in the wheelchair by the pews until I get my cast off in a couple of weeks. I hope...

Just today I had offers from people to have my toes pinched, my cast kicked and a blatant disregard for the fact that a wheelchair doesn't exactly set land speed records getting out of aisles and doorways.

My foot was trampled by a child who was too impatient to let me get out of her way, and an adult indicated that my presence was really inconvenient to those wishing to get out of the room.

Well alrighty then!

No one was tacky at choir. Mostly because by the time we got done, we were all pretty whipped. Music can do that. It can carry you to dizzying heights of joy and then wear you out into a beaten and whipped scrap of your former self.

I have to admit I was thankful for the respite of snarky comments and rude behavior.

Lord knows I didn't set out to break my ankle in two places at age 47. That just isn't cool. Casts are NOT fun at any age. But because opposition exists, I am getting to learn how to be patient and wait on help from others.

While I don't wish anything bad on others, I have to wonder how gracious they would be if someone was constantly offering to hurt their casted limb.

I told the man today who made the "kind" offer to kick my casted ankle "DO IT AND DIE!"

People around us were going "OOOoooOOOoooH!"

I'm sure I'll get into trouble later on for 'offending him' by saying what I did, but that is just not funny to me when my leg is hurting, swollen and sore. Quite frankly, that offer of his isn't funny at any time, but the opposition thing comes into play.

In order to truly appreciate decent manners, you have to endure a few people who lack any semblance of decent manners.

Well, God bless and I hope that dude never breaks a bone.

But he will be comforted in the knowledge that should he happen to ever break anything, I'll be there handy with a pillow and a kind word. It may be the only softness he's had in his life and, based on his idea of humor, it's likely all he's ever gonna get...

I Get By With A Little Help From My Friends...

There they were all assembled Sunday night. My FAMILY... FA - MI - LY. Those people who say they love me and would do anything for me in my fiberglass encrusted position. Or not...

Apparently I have made the sickening and somewhat sudden discovery of a soundproofing heretofore unrecognized in our home which prevented them from coming to help me at all.

I was taking care of business in the bathroom when a big ol' whacking wasp was flying around me. It was huge, evil and menacing with its nastiest venom waiting to be inserted into my freshly punctured skin. It was eyeing my tender posterior as a likely and decent sized target. I was trying to figure out how to run at sprinters speed on one leg.

Since we have two other functional bathrooms, I figure they would have found my lifeless body about Saturday night when Jared needs his next bath in the barrier-free shower.

By that time, I would have been unable to be molded into shape to fit in a traditional coffin and flashes of a redneck Hefty-bag funeral straight to the county dump began to flicker into view.

I was in a panic as the threat of doom swirled ever closer and I could feel my lungs collapsing, my heartbeat fading away all the while I am calling out for help and no one comes...not even the dog! I am sensitive to stings of almost every kind in that slight way that requires some kind of intervention and the horror is that the only thing I had between me and almost certain and semi-clad humiliating death was a pair of crutches.

Left to my own devices, I did what any self-respecting mighty woman would do.

I smacked the ever loving fire out of the wasp in midair and began to pound the snot out of him as he lay on the tile wiggling and squirming in a vain attempt to rise again and seize the day.

There is a certain berserker quality that takes over when bug killing is required. The viking in my blood rises to the occasion and I believe giblets of thorax and wing sections were liberally splattered across the floor, the wall and the appliances near me.

Thankfully none of the giblets hit me or we would have been back to running on one leg in the vain hope that I wouldn't trip on the pants around my ankles.

Incensed at what I was certain was a blatant attempt to cash in on my life insurance policy, I completed the task at hand, got myself back together and hobbled out on the gut infested crutches to my chair. I asked them why they didn't come rescue me.

Looking as blankly and innocently as possible, they said "We didn't hear anything..."

Sure.

Screaming people are always covered up by a brisk game of Wii Tennis and besides, we would all enjoy a pool table.

Oh wait.

I won't enjoy it.

I'll be DEAD long before any of you cretins come to save me!

Now I understand that statement that I heard years ago, "You can pick your friends, but you can't pick your family."

Perhaps the halcyon glow of my value when dead has made them feel a wasp killing was good enough to bring them the cash while preventing the finger of blame going in their direction.

Sadly, I killed their minion, so the wasp can't talk for himself... or buzz or whatever it is they do. And does anyone reliably translate from Wasp to English for court proceedings?

Either way, I'd be dead and cluttering up the floor and possibly blocking the dog door which would greatly inconvenience the family and resident canine.

'kay, y'all. I'll make sure the next time I'm trying to go potty that I send one of YOU in first to take the hit for me.

Then I'd get to decide how YOUR insurance money gets spent.

Love ya bunches...unless a wasp is involved. Then you are on your own.

It's Hunter Orange...

We have always tried to plan things in advance. Partially because I am somewhat OCD about knowing what's coming and being all 'Scout prepared' and part is because I can't stand to be so free-flow that everything is a surprise to me.

Well, the train not only had a rough patch on the tracks, it jumped the rails and rolled around in the meadow giving Tootle a run for his money.

The idea is that we exercise to improve our conditions and make our bodies stronger. The reality is that the kind people who pave the streets don't care that the collar of asphalt they create around sewer lock out's, manhole covers, etc., are a danger to cars, trucks... and 5k participants. As a result, I now have a broken ankle.

The toes went into the drop-off and the ankle followed with a nasty crack. I knew it was broken before I staggered to a stop.

I didn't cry until I got the x-ray results that said for sure and certain my ankle was indeed broken. Yeah. Broken. And all of this happened THREE DAYS before Thomas flew into Huntsville from his mission.

I can't imagine doing anything normally because thus far in my life, it hasn't happened.

The cast is hunter orange. They were out of camoflauge (the idea behind that being that no one can SEE the cast...), they didn't have enough lime to do my leg, they only had bright red and no Alabama Crimson, and they were out of blue. So, that left me with woefully inadequate choices of day-glo orange or plain white.

Go big or go home... I saw it on a shirt several years ago and liked the idea behind it, so I decided to go big.

I have a hunter orange cast. I figure if I'm gonna be in this thing for 4 weeks, I might as well have a good time with it. It's not like you can really hide a 10-ton cast anyway.

The funny part of this, okay the ironic part of this, is that when Thomas got off his plane and saw us there - Jared was in his wheelchair, Sister Scanlon was in a wheelchair, I was in a wheelchair and Beth was on crutches.

He said, "Did you wait until I was gone to fall apart?"

Going on a mission $10k.

Parking in the airport garage $2.00.

Seeing family and friends all gimped up . . . Priceless.

4 weeks... only 4 weeks....

Then maybe I can resume a normal life. Or at least as close to normal as I usually get.

Dear Denise,

While I do not normally spend slavish amounts of time generating fan mail or letters filled with weeping devotion to celebrities, there are times I'd really like to pop a letter in the mail to Denise Austin.

Dear Denise,

Your smiling, sweatless countenance is enough to try the patience of a saint. You are killing me. Although I confess you are toning up places in my body I didn't know existed, I'd really feel like we were in this together if you had to mop up your own puddle of sweat from the floor when we got done.

But no.

You remain high and dry and willfully smiling at my sagging body and keep cheerfully encouraging me to 'move a little more each day'.

I never envied nuns before, but they can sure hide some serious body flaws beneath those habits they don. And I can't imagine them taking time from their prayer routine to do a few rounds with the smiling face of the lovely Denise on DVD for pleasure. I think that would come under the heading of 'penance'.

Rest assured, however, that I continue to dutifully walk, ride my bike, lift the barbells and sweat like a horse pulling a conestoga uphill.

I thank you for the DVD's.

But could you please break a sweat just once for me?

Sincerely,

Shelley

P.S. My best friend Beth said she agrees. You nearly killed her yesterday. I think there is a law in Alabama about attempted murder...