Calm and Quiet

 O Lord, my heart is not lifted up;
    my eyes are not raised too high;
I do not occupy myself with things
    too great and too marvelous for me.
 But I have calmed and quieted and my soul.  Psalm 131:1-2
    

Faintly, I heard my brother calling my name but the ocean was roaring in my ears and I had no idea--none at all--where Harvey's voice came from. We'd been jumping waves at the ocean, spending a beautiful summer day at the beach with our cousins, when a huge roller headed towards us. My brother dove into the wave and let it carry him to shore, while I was caught in it's trough and pulled under, scraped across the rocky bottom, salt water burning my eyes and nose.

I couldn't think. I couldn't pull myself up. I flailed my arms helplessly, certain that at the tender age of 9 I was drowning. Within seconds, though, the crest peaked and threw me onto the pebbled shore.

Suddenly, all was quiet. The water receded. I felt the warm sun on my face and shoulders. I felt the soft sand beneath my body. The shadow of my brother fell across me. "You alright, Linda?"

I nodded and he extended a hand to help me up. "Not yet," I said. "In a minute." The ocean, beloved haven of my childhood, was no longer something I understood.

I'll be frank,  I do not understand any of what is happening in the world right now. I do not know how the corona virus, far across the ocean, mutated from an animal to a person. I do not know how it managed to cross continents and reach our shores. And I do not know how to stop it.

And before I can begin to wrap my mind around it, adjust to a new sort of normal and explain it all to my autistic son, I just need a minute. 

Perhaps you've needed a minute these past weeks as news about the COVID 19 pandemic poured out of our television sets and our social media accounts. Perhaps you've needed to take a deep breath and slow your heart rate, stay for a moment on the soft sand of the beach, still and quiet while the shouting noises of the crowds echoed around you.

Just a minute, Lord. One more minute.

Like David, we need to calm our souls.

Psalm 131 illustrates how David, at a tumultuous time in his life, came to a place of quiet and peace. Scholars disagree on what might have been the circumstances he found himself in: was he running and hiding from Saul, or was he responding to his wife Michal who accused him of undignified behavior when he danced before God? Nonetheless, David needed to deny his own pride and display his willingness to simply serve God (Enduring Word). Verse 1 shows us David's humble attitude, his complete submission to Yahweh. As Jesus illustrated in Luke 14:8-11, David was willing to accept a lowly position.

Despite the circumstances, verse 3 expresses David's enduring hope in God, the satisfaction he finds in the Lord. Notice that he says, "from this time forth and forever more."

I find great comfort in that, in the certain knowledge of "forever more."

In just eight weeks, the world we all knew has drastically changed. Eight more weeks may see another change. And you might be, like me, thinking that you should do something great and sacrificial at this time, some huge gesture that will benefit all mankind. You may think that the little you can offer--phoning a neighbor or taking food to an elderly parent or friend--is only a small drop of water. Take a minute, friend. Rest yourself in God.

Laying on the beach in Rehoboth, letting the warm sun wash over me, I spent moments resting. My brother stood patiently nearby, ready to assist me. And, eventually, I held out my hand to him and he pulled me up. I went back to the umbrella where my aunt waited with a towel to comfort me. It took me a few days before I was ready to tackle the ocean again, to see it as a friend not an enemy. No one rushed me. In the meantime, I played along the surf and built sandcastles with my cousins. One day, though, I was ready to return to the surf that I loved.

One day, we too will return to the world we once knew. We will leave our homes and gather together and praise God for his deliverance. We will "hope in the Lord, from this time forth and evermore." I pray we will take the lessons from this time with us.

So, for now, take a deep breath.  It's okay. We're going to be okay.

We just need a minute or two.

My Mocassins

Pray, don't find fault with the man that limps, 
Or stumbles along the road.
Unless you have worn the moccasins he wears, 
Or stumbled beneath the same load.

I had managed to pull Ron's walker, the beach chairs, and the umbrella from the back of the van and I shut the door tightly, then walked around to the side door. "All set?" asked the van driver, Maryann, brightly.


I nodded as I helped Ron down from the van--two giant steps--and tried to steady the walker on the hilly drive. The beastly thing had already rolled away from me twice as I tried to lift all 30 pounds of it down from the van. There is no ramp into this hotel on the beach, so I needed to lift the walker up three steps while Ron steadied himself on the railing, then hauled him up the steps, then go back for the beach paraphernalia.

There may be tears in his soles that hurt
Though hidden away from view.
The burden he bears placed on your back
May cause you to stumble and fall, too.

In my childhood and youth, going to the ocean was a favorite activity. How I loved to jump in the waves and build sand castles at the ocean's edge! A day at the beach was full of adventure and family fun, chasing my cousins and my brother in and out of the umbrellas, hunting for seashells, and running under the boardwalk to cool off our hot feet in the damp sand. I loved to bring my own kids to the beach, each one carrying their own bucket and towel. And, when the kids were grown, I loved to just come and sit at the water's edge, letting the song of the waves wash over my weary soul.

But the peaceful lull of the ocean's side is more a memory now. It's too much trouble to get there.

The house I rented for the week is lovely, but not nearly as close to the beach as advertised. We have enjoyed the pools and the quiet, but I was determined to sit by the ocean and spend at least one afternoon trying to let the waves work their magic on the stress produced by a hectic school year. The transit van, the resort office had told me, would take us "right to the beach." So far, though, we had only made it to the hotel where we would pick up  the beach wheelchair I'd had to jump out of the van 15 minutes ago to reserve, following a security officer down a labyrinth of hallways and stairs to the storage room where the chairs with their bulbous tires are kept. The officer wheeled it up to the pool area, where it now waited for Ron.

Just walk a mile in his moccasins
Before you abuse, criticize and accuse.
If just for one hour, you could find a way
To see through his eyes, instead of your own muse.


Slowly, steadily we made our way across the lobby to the pool area and I settled Ron into the chair. But I could not handle the walker along with the other stuff I had to carry so, amid Ron's protests, I left it in the security office. Then I pointed out to the guard at the desk that there was no way I could push my 350 pound husband through the beach sand to the water's edge. We waited another 10 minutes while the guard called someone. The guard pushed Ron down the ramps by the pool and onto the sand where a lifeguard took over. I struggled with the other stuff alone.

We made it to the seaside and set up camp, but Ron wanted to go sit at the water's edge. So with some heaving and ho'ing, I managed to get him out of the beach wheels and into a chair at the edge of the ocean. I settled him in with bottled water, sunscreen, and a towel. Then I sought a few moments peace under the umbrella, keeping a watchful eye on Ron.

Brother, there but for the grace of God go you and I.
Just for a moment, slip into his mind and traditions
And see the world through his spirit and eyes
Before you cast a stone or falsely judge his conditions.

Ron loves to talk to people, so he was enjoying himself at the water's edge, splashing in the surf. And, as much as I love my husband, I was enjoying a few moments of peace, away from the demands of caring for an ill spouse. I ran down to check on him every few minutes,making sure he was hydrated and was not burning. People were stopping to talk with him and a few men offered to help him when he needed to get up. For a few moments, I had the luxury of letting someone else take care of Ron.

But peace however hard won, is seldom lasting. While I am certain no criticism was intended, several women did stop by my chair to ask if my husband was alright, if he was "safe" down there. I smiled and nodded and tried to go back to reading. But the peace of the ocean was pretty much gone for me. 

"Handicapped accessible" is a sign placed on all buildings that have a ramp or an elevator, even if located in a hard-to-find corner. Buildings constructed before 1970 do not fall under the guidelines of the Adults with Disabilities Act. While it is true that "new" construction must provide access for all, no such requirements are attached to older buildings. So when I booked this little cottage by the sea and was told it was all "handicap accessible" it was only true to a point. Yes, the van will take Ron to the beach, but the van has no lift. Yes, there are beach wheels available, but the ramp ends at the pool area. And as kind and understanding as people may try to be, telling me "it's only two steps up" does not help me when trying to maneuver a large man over concrete.

Eventually, we needed to backtrack our steps. Several of the men who had volunteered to help Ron did their best to  get him back into the beach wheels, and I got a lifeguard to push my husband back up to the pool, while  carried the rest of the load. Once we traded the beach wheels for Ron's walker, we called the van driver and then needed to negotiate down the steps to wait for her outside. By the time we got back to the house and I unloaded everything, whatever peace I had felt at the ocean's edge was pretty much gone. I got Ron into the house--also advertised as accessible but with four wooden steps--and he fell into bed for a long nap.

And I sat on the back deck with a cup of tea, contemplating how easily we take for granted access to things we enjoy, assuming others can have the same freedoms. 

Remember to walk a mile in his moccasins
And remember the lessons of humanity taught to you by your elders.
We will be known forever by the tracks we leave
In other people's lives, our kindnesses and generosity.

It is not easy being Ron. It is not easy being me. I am often left to carry the burdens Ron cannot. And it is a crying shame that words like "handicap access" are not really what they should be. Just as Universal Design for Instruction allows teachers to build in--not add on--access to the curriculum for all students, Universal Design for buildings needs to take into account the needs of all the population. 

So, while the sounds of the ocean will continue to lull me into peace, the journey to the ocean with a handicapped man cannot be taken lightly. Today, we're headed to the pool.

Take the time to walk a mile in his moccasins.
Mary T. Lathrop, 1895

Just Being: At the Beach. Part I.

I love the beach. It is the place in the world where I feel the calmest; the lap of the waves, the call of the seagulls, the scent of the salt water all bring me back to happy childhoods romping in the surf at Rehoboth, not a care in the world. Even in those years when trips to the beach meant dragging baby equipment, sand toys, and a cooler full of juice boxes, the peace to be found at the ocean's edge was worth the price.

Yesterday, I wasn't so sure.

Bethany Beach is different than Rehoboth and has a parking system best described as odd. First you need to find a "Park-o-matic" machine, plug in your credit card, and receive your time-stamped ticket. THEN you wander around, looking for a place to put your vehicle. At Rehoboth, it was not unusual to dump kids and spouse at the boardwalk with accouterments, then drive to the third block back before finding a suitable spot. I assumed--erroneously, it turned out--that the situation at Bethany would be the same.

First of all, unloading a disabled spouse with a walker is not the same as unloading active toddlers with strollers and diaper bags. It's harder. You can pick up a toddler and tuck him under an arm; you cannot in any way hurry along a disabled spouse. Just getting Ron's Rollator out of the trunk of the car requires more arm muscle than God intended women to have. Once that was out and Ron was settled on the seat, I lugged out the beach umbrella, chair, towels, and cooler. Then, with a jaunty wave, I was off to find a parking spot.

This is not a quest for the faint-hearted. Only the first block of Bethany, as I soon discovered, is for the sun-seekers. The other blocks are given over to residents and businesses. By 11:45, most spots were already taken. (I blame this squarely on Ron, who is not a morning person. I, as the world knows, am. I could have been on the beach at 6AM.) After 20 minutes of our allotted two hours, I found a spot about four blocks from where I had left my husband. Then I walked back and began the fun part of the day: getting Ron and his walker to the sand.

I scooped up all the equipment and dumped it in a spot as close to the ocean as I could get, burning my feet along the way and leaving Ron perched on the Rollator at the end of the wooden path. Then I went back to help Ron, valiantly trying to push the darn walker through the sand. Not to be. Finally, I folded the walker up and carried it on one arm while Ron leaned on the other. Okay, now you have the image. Me, with my 350 pound husband on one arm and his 30 pound walker on the other. We finally made it to where I had dumped our stuff and when I began to struggle to put up the umbrella, a tanned and blonde young fellow came to help. Blessings on you, young sir. Someday, you, too, will be old.

I settled Ron into his seat with a sandwich and a coke, and sat in my own beach chair with an iced tea for a few moments of quiet. Ahhh. There is , as my mother often pointed out to me, no such thing as rest for a woman, so as soon as Ron had wolfed down his sandwich, he wanted to go sit by the water's edge. Now the beach at Bethany has what is best described as a cliff that drops off to the water's edge. I was contemplating how to manage this feat of strength when Ron called on a young fellow sitting near us for help. Vacationers are generally nice people, so while the young fellow carried the Rollator to the surf, his girlfriend and I help to steady Ron down the cliff.

Ron was settled and said he would be okay for a while, so I climbed back up the cliff to the umbrella and my novel. I gave the nice young folks a brief explanation: "He was in a car accident 14 years ago. He's had 26 surgeries and he's frequently in the hospital." The lovely girl puts a hand to her chest and gave a gasp. Then, because they are young and tanned and in love and because Ron and I were once all those things, too, I went on. "We've been married 37 years. You don't give up on someone because they are ill."

"Of course not," said the girl. She gave her boyfriend a steady look.

"For better or worse," I said and smiled.

They both nodded, this golden couple on this golden day, and the girl touched my shoulder. "Good for you," she said. "Good for you."

And so for a few moments out of what has been an incredibly long journey, there is not pain or hospitals or classes to teach or bills to pay. There is just me and the ocean, listening to its soothing sound as I sit not reading my novel, just for a short space of time being.

Good for me.