Tired

“Only in the darkness can you see the stars.”

(Martin Luther King Jr.)

Tired.

That sums it up . . . I am tired.  After several weeks of short nights dealing with our son’s seizures . . . I am tired.  After several days of having to leave work early to deal or son’s seizures . . . I am tired.  After sitting in the hospital emergency for several hours dealing with doctors about our son’s seizures . . . I am tired.  I am tired of the sleepless nights . . . the frightening screams . . . the seizure wracking paralyze . . . the sympathy of medical people who have no answers . . . have no cures.  I am tired of this nightmare that never seems to end after more than nineteen years.  Yeah, think that sums it up . . . I am tired.  It never changes.

A friend of mine calls it SSDD . . . Same Sh**Different Day.  At least that is what she posted on her Facebook page this evening when she shared the news about her daughter’s appointment at a regional hospital with specialists to deal with a chronic condition.  The news was not good . . . basically the daughter was told that there was nothing that could be done at this time . . . told that she had already been seen by the best and if they couldn’t help, why in the world did she think that they (the new medical team) could . . . basically she was told to grin and bear it . . . nothing was going to change.  It really was not the news that she or her family or friends wanted to hear.  Kind of took the hope right out of that last balloon that they had found.  It sucked . . . and, from the post on Facebook, I think they are all tired.

Chronic illnesses and conditions are tiresome.  Tiresome for the person having to endure them . . . tiresome for the people who love and take care of them.  It is not good for people to get tired.  When people get tired they easily get frustrated . . . they easily anger . . . they easily give up hope.  Giving up hope is the worse.  When hope is gone . . . what else is there?

I feel for my friend, her daughter, and all those who have been circling their lives with prayer and hope . . . and, now they are tired.  They prayed . . . but did not receive the healing, cure, or even a reduction in pain.  They sought expert opinion . . . and the medical experts had no answers or solutions.  They felt patronized as they left the hospital and wished “good luck” . . . and like they were saying, “Don’t let the door hit you in the butt when you leave.”  Chronic illness is a tiresome roller coaster and now they feel as if they derailed.  Knowing this friend, there was resignation in her post . . . there was tiredness . . . a loss of hope.

Yes, I feel for my friend.  I know what she feels because I too have been tired and hopeless . . . just like now.  I have watched my number three child, my number two son, deal with this crippling disability for nearly nineteen years.  I have witnessed how the Epilepsy has robbed him of a normal life.  I have seen how it has made him a social outcast and ignored or even spurned by a lot of the world around him . . . seen as valueless.  I have sat beside him as he cried and mourned that his life was not like all the other people who were his age . . . cried and mourned that he cannot see a life like his siblings in the future . . . a wife, children.  I have seen him get up for new treatments, and I have seen him blown out of the water when they produced nothing but wasted time.  Up the roller coaster, down the roller coaster . . . off the tracks . . . get up and do it again.  It is tiresome.

I have often wondered about whether or not there is some hidden limit on how many times a person can go up and down this emotional roller coaster before enough is enough.  Is it a couple of times?  Is it a thousand times?  A million?  Well, I imagine that our son, my wife, family, and I have hit those peaks a couple of times . . . and, what do others tell us . . . hang in there . . . it will get better . . . we are praying for you.  Nice platitudes, but it does nothing to ease the tiredness . . . nothing to restore the hope.

Anyone who deals with a chronic illness or disabilities knows the routine well . . . anyone who loves and cares for a person with a chronic illness or disability knows the routines well . . . up and down, all around, and do it all over again . . . over and over.  They know all the pat answers . . . all the nice words of comfort . . . all the routines of those around them who cannot help.  They have been angry at God . . . angry at the doctors . . . angry at each other . . . and, just plain angry.  God doesn’t seem to care or help . . . doctors “practice” medicine and really are only guessing at what might help . . . the world seems small and the people in it are irritating even though we love them . . . and, in the tiredness there is anger.  When the anger ends . . . hope is lost.

I have spent a life time on this roller coaster.  I have witnessed the lives of my two brothers who have disabilities . . . over fifty-some years now.  I have witnessed it in the life of my son as he battles Epilepsy.  I have seen it in the lives of the people I have served as a minister for over thirty-some years.  I have seen it in the lives of friends.  I have railed against God . . . and, I have railed with God.  I have cried with loved ones . . . and I have yelled at loved ones.  I have been angry at the world . . . and, angry with the world.  I have been tired . . . and, I have given up hope.

My mother lived a hard life.  She understood that life is not easy . . . that life is difficult.  She struggled with me through some difficult times in my life.  I will always remember her words to me in those times of struggle . . . “This too shall pass.” 

“This too shall pass.”

She was right.  When it was darkest . . . the stars came out.  Here in Montana I only have to step out on the back porch and look to the heavens to see millions upon millions of stars piercing the darkness.  Surprisingly, I find hope there in the darkness as the stars sparkle in the sky.  There is hope . . . there is always hope.  Tonight, before I go to bed, I will step out onto the porch, look to the heavens, and survey the vastness of God’s glorious touch to witness the stars.  I will breathe deeply of the cool nighttime air . . . close my eyes . . . and whisper, “Okay, God . . . one more time.”  Then tomorrow I will get up and do it all over again.  Yeah, my friend calls it SSDD . . . maybe it is the thin thread of hope . . . the spark to start the fire going one more time.  I don’t know . . .

To my friend . . . to all those who carry this weight . . . I know your pain, your tiredness, your hopelessness.  I also know, that you have seen the stars and that there is always hope.  It may not seem like it right at this moment . . . but this too will pass.  No, not the chronic illness or disability, but this feeling of hopelessness.   Those stars that pierce the darkness are symbolic of the gifts of God’s presence that pierce the darkness of this roller coaster journey.  They are all around . . . they may not know what to say or do . . . but they care and surround all of us with their love and prayers.  They pierce the darkness of our world.  There is hope . . . always hope.  I know that you, my friend, will get up and do it all over again.  Why? Because we care . . . because we love . . . and, because we do have hope.  God hasn’t abandon us, so why should we abandon God?

Yeah, I am tired . . . but “this too shall pass.”

Hope . . . what a strange and terrifying trip!

Will You Understand?

I think one of the most difficult parts of about introversion is in the arena of friendship.  Most introverts do not have many friends . . . probably because we think of ourselves as being our best friends.  We like being by ourselves where we can have intelligent and enlightening conversations . . . with ourselves!  At the same time, most of us are not that far off the spectrum of introversion/extraversion that we do not want to have a few friends . . . it just takes us longer to open ourselves up for those sorts of intimate relationships in our lives.  Remember . . . the kingdom is within the individual for those who are introverts . . . we like that space that we have created for ourselves, and we are very stingy about allowing others into it.

It has been said that most people can count on one hand the number of individuals in their lives that they consider to be their closest friends.  Now, imagine what that says about an introvert . . . one, maybe two, fingers represent their most intimate friends.  I don’t know . . . all I can go with is my own personal experience; but, I can assure you that there won’t be a whole lot of fingers being held up by me when it comes to what my children would call “BBF”.

As an introvert my world might seem small to a lot of folks, but it is a wonderfully rich and beautiful world . . . a world that is lived out in the space between my two ears (my rock garden, as I call it) and in those spaces that I consider mine (like my home).  The problem for introverts is in the reaching out to include others into their domain of comfort . . . to invite them into the kingdom for an intimate relationship of friendship.  That is something that takes time . . . usually lots of time.  The introvert has to feel safe and accepted for who he or she is in order for him or her to open up even the smallest part of their kingdom to others to see and experience.  They want to trust the people that they invite in to be a part of their lives . . . they want to be understood for who they are . . . they don’t want to get burned . . . they don’t want to get hurt.  Yeah, I know that is the risk in any relationship . . . intro- or extraverted . . . there is always the possibility of getting burned or hurt.

As I stated above, I really can’t name a whole bunch of people that I would put into that “BFF’ category in my own life.  Probably the one individual who comes closest to that is my wife . . . and, even then, it sometimes takes me a while to share even the deepest and most intimate thoughts that I have; but, thankfully she is a patient person who loves me.  For the most part, I think that she understands . . . or at least, the longer we are together, she is getting closer to understanding.  Outside of the wife, most everyone else in my life are “friends” of varying degrees . . . they know bits and pieces of me, but I doubt if they really know the “real” me . . . primarily because I have not opened up and invited them in to know the “real” me.  I don’t think they would understand.

Recently I have been perplexed about this idea of friendship.  Perplexed because some things have changed in the relationships I had with some others in my life . . . people who I thought I could trust.  What once was is no longer . . . and, I am not really sure what happened, not really sure what I did . . . if I did anything at all.  For several weeks now I have felt burned and hurt . . . and, why, I do not know.

I do not know because in a span of less than twenty-four hours I went from being a friend—though not “BFF”, but what I would consider to be good friends—to nonexistent.  Outside of an acknowledgement from these individuals when I am in the room, they walk past me as if I don’t exist.  They only speak to me if I speak to them.  Gone is the kidding around, the joking, laughter, and conversation that makes up a friendship.  Gone is the sharing about family and life.  Gone is the friendship . . . and I have no clue as to what happened to kill this small bit of intimacy from my life and theirs.  No clue at all.  It is confusing . . . and, it hurts.

These are folks that I have known for a little over five years.  Over those five years I slowly worked up the courage to open myself up to these individuals . . . to share little bits and pieces of my world and allow them glimpses into that world.  Slowly I began to trust these individuals . . . began to believe that they understood me . . . understood the world of introverts . . . to accept me for who I am.  But, apparently I was wrong . . . and, it hurts.

So, it is in the life of an introvert.

There is a part of me who wants to kick myself for having allowed myself to allow others into the inner-world of my life, only to have it be thrown out so easily when some sort of unknown infraction has been committed on my part.  Kick myself for risking a part of myself to be open and seen . . . for being so foolish for believing.  Now there is discomfort in my little part of the world . . . some hurt, frustration, and a whole lot of confusion.  True, this is not the first time that it has happened to me . . . shoot you don’t get to my age without having had your heart and life stomped upon a few times; but, you would think that I would learn the lesson.  There is risk in any relationship no matter what you are . . . introvert or extravert.  I just think extraverts being extraverts bounce back a whole lot easier because there are always more people to meet and be friends with.  It takes longer with introverts.

One of my favorite songs by the Avett Brothers speaks to this longing that is deeply felt by those of us who find ourselves to be introverted.  The song, The Perfect Space, radiates what most people desire in their lives . . . what most introverts really desire . . . trust and that place where they can feel save and natural for who they are.  The problem is that most people don’t understand.  The song starts out with this longing of the “perfect space” . . . the music is gentle and hopeful . . . before it jumps into a rocker tune of frustration where the singer tells all of those abusing this desire to “get out!”  Once they are all out, it returns to its gentle longing.  I guess the people I thought were my friends beat me to the punch . . . they kicked me out before I could kick them out.

I wanna have friends that I can trust,

that love me for the man I've become not the man I was.

I wanna have friends that will let me be

all alone when being alone is all that I need.

I wanna fit in to the perfect space,

feel natural and safe in a volatile place.

And I wanna grow old without the pain,

give my body back to the earth and not complain.

Will you understand when I am too old of a man?

And will you forget when we have paid our debt

who did we borrow from? Who did we borrow from?

Okay part two now clear the house.

The party's over take the shouting and the people,

get out!

I have some business and a promise that I have to hold to.

I do not care what you assume or what the people told you.

Will you understand, when I am too old of a man?

Will you forget when we have paid our debts,

who did we borrow from? Who did borrow from?

I wanna have pride like my mother has,

And not like the kind in the bible that turns you bad.

And I wanna have friends that I can trust,

that love me for the man I've become and not the man that I was.

I don’t get it . . . but, what I do get is that it will be a long, long time before I put myself out there again.  I don’t like to get burned . . . I don’t like to get hurt.  Like a good introvert I long for that place where I “feel natural and safe in a volatile place”—the world out there.  Will you understand?

Jeez . . . Lost in the Mail, Again!

Somehow I missed it again.  It must have been lost in the mail . . . again.  I never did receive the annual salary survey from Parade magazine.  According to its own press—which has to be the best press—the issue of Parade that shares the results of their annual salary survey is their most talked about issue every year.  Why wouldn’t it be?  We Americans are nosy people who always want the lowdown on what other people are doing and make . . . we are inquiring minds.  Each year Parade throws out the results of their annual survey so that everyone can know what a select group of our fellow citizens makes.  Once again—going on over 35 year now—my survey has gotten lost in the mail . . . or, they figure what I make wouldn’t make it onto the chart . . . either way, I did not get to share my salary . . . again!

Though I did not get to participate—yet another year—I do understand how this issue of Parade is so popular . . . inquiring minds want to know.  We want to know so that we can see how we stack up compare to others in the family.  We seem to get our value based on the value of others.  Sad as that might be, it is true.  In this year’s survey . . . well, let’s just say that my value is way down there, but not at the bottom.  Puts me solidly in the 99 percent . . . and, I do not think that the top one percent even know that I exist.  So, at least I am in some good company.

One of the things l like about this issue of Parade is that it gives me the opportunity to pat myself on the back for the jobs I thought I wanted, but was smart enough not to get.  I was always fascinated with the accordion, kind of enjoy polka music, and thought that Weird Al Yankovic looked like he has a pretty good gig . . . but, according to the survey, Joseph Hughes or Abingdon, Maryland only makes $6,000 playing the accordion.  Good thing there isn’t a single muscle in my body with any musical inclination beyond playing my iPod.  Thought about being a writer, but everyone knows that writers don’t make any money . . . but, I do know that a lot of writers started their careers writing for newspapers . . . usually starting out writing obituaries.  Gloria Ross of St. Louis makes $13,000 writing about dead people . . . tough job, not much pay.

I thought about becoming an actor . . . actors seem to make great money.  According to the survey Sandra Bullock makes $63 million, Matthew McConaughey makes $19 million, and Daniel Radcliffe makes $17 million.  But, then there is this guy by the name of Tom Egly of Alexandria, Virginia who makes only $5,000 being an actor . . . a “background actor” . . . that is an actor who stands in the background of the show, movie, or play.  I could do that, but I’d want a whole lot more than $5,000 . . . I’d want at least a cool $6,000 or a chair to sit in instead of standing around.

Now, there are some jobs I wouldn’t mind having when I retire.  Harry Pecci of Richboro, Pennsylvania makes up to $12,000 as a stadium beer vendor.  Yeah, he is the beer guy.  I’d even take a cut in pay for the job if it came with the perk of free beer every couple of innings.  I saw that a school principal makes around $60,500 in South Dakota . . . as a minister I think I could handle being a school principal.  Couldn’t be that much difference between a school full of unruly kids and a congregation.  I’d like to be an ex-Vice President of the United States . . . they make a cool $230,700.  Like a principal of a school, being a Vice President couldn’t be too difficult . . . I mean, come on, look at what is out there.  I couldn’t do any worse.  I wouldn’t want to be a state senator . . . especially in New Hampshire where the salary is only $100.  This was the lowest paying job on the survey.

I did notice that there were no religious jobs on the survey.  Not sure what that means . . . I know clergy are vastly under-paid for the jobs that they do, but there is always at least one or two minister-types on the survey every year.  Usually there is the super-duper television evangelist with the slicked back hair, tan body, and lyrical voice who makes mega millions . . . and, then there is the tired worn out, pale, whispering preacher who barely makes enough to buy a cup of coffee.  If they had sent me the survey I could have been that one just about the other . . . you figure out which one.

Maybe next year . . .

In the meantime, well, I have taken a philosophical view of this whole “what people make” curiosity.  It really does not matter what a person makes because he or she—in the end—cannot take it with them when they die.  Besides, that is not what they are worth any way.  The reality of the situation is that none of us is worth more than a little over $160 dollars.  Yeah, you read that right . . . $160 dollars.  That is what all of the elements that make up our bodies is worth . . . $160 dollars.  It does not matter what one earns, he or she is still only worth $160 bucks when he or she dies.  If you don’t believe me check it out . . . read Nick Berry’s article over at the DataGenetics website (http://datagenetics.com/blog/april12011/index.html).  Also, I think that what a person’s worth is measured in family and friends . . . measured in love.  With that in mind, I am one of the wealthiest people I know . . . but, then again, Parade magazine never asks for that sort of information in a survey . . . or maybe they do, but it got lost in the mail . . . again!

Oh well, there is always next year!