Floor-to-ceiling windows frame acres of light.
The walls showcase B&W close-ups of architectural details: poems in stone. The photographer with the impeccable eye will also perform my root canal.
Scared and fretful yesterday, I memorized part of an old prayer. It’s still with me now, as I leaf through a glossy magazine, where posh Londoners show off their new home. One bathroom features a pschedelic paisley-on-steroids toilet. As you’ll know from previous posts, I’m acutely attuned to plumbing. I show Dreamer, then the receptionist, and we all laugh.
I turn the page. “Oh look. They also installed a personal pole dance room.”
More laughter.
Comic relief helps. A friend died under general anesthesia, a freak allergic reaction. I try to imagine her larking about heaven.
When the Anesthetist arrives, he’s witty, direct, and unhurried. A man I can trust. I tell him about my friend.
“I’ll watch over you,” he says.
Down comes the mask:
- claustrophobia
- soupy air
- aroma of magic markers
“Hold my hand,” he says. “Squeeze as hard as you want.”
I summon the prayer, but it fragments: From this little room and this short hour . . .
“You’re doing great, Laurie.”
. . . I can lift up my mind beyond all time and space . . .
“You haven’t squeezed once.”
. . . unto Thee, the uncreated One . . .
“Just float.”
The mind shrugs. A bodily sigh. All is serene, surreal. Hypnotic. I’m a kite, riding a chemical thermal.
. . . until the light of Thy countenance illumines all my life.
Beneath the crown and dentin my diseased molar holds four canals, each one different. For over two hours Dr. T. wields drill and file. He rasps and reshapes, routing out wider routes, clear to the roots.
Then the bleaching. The final sealing. Like every painstaking work of God: artful, thorough, radically cleansing.
Another severe mercy.
I awake in a different room, brimming with light, still feeling held; tooth saved, the deep work done.
From this little room
and this short hour
I can lift up my mind
beyond all time and space
to Thee, the uncreated One,
until the light of Thy countenance
illumines all my life.
Tell me your favorite thought or prayer for difficult times.
Photo by Daniel Frank on Unsplash
Laurie, that John Baillie poem you quote is lovely. I especially appreciate the new name he created for God: Uncreated One. It speaks grandly of his power, mystery, and holiness. Sometime before my husband’s liver transplant in December of 2018, God gave me this breath prayer: “I trust You, Jesus, my gracious, sovereign Savior. The word “gracious” includes his lovingkindness and care; the word “sovereign” reminds me He is in control; nothing happens without his permission or without his power to endure. Praise God you awoke in brimming light, still being held, the deep work done. We too are basking in the light of my husband’s healing and still being held in his gentle hands.
Nancy, what a serene and secretly muscular breath prayer! Thank you for sharing it with me. Each word brims with meaning. I’m rejoicing to read of your husband’s continuing recovery!
oh my gosh, Laurie, this brought tears to my eyes….lacing the words of that prayer in between a challenging procedure.
My go-to prayer lately? A breath prayer–Inhale Lord I am your child Exhale I let go with you.
(a variation of lines that Malcolm Guite spoke last year…. it has stuck with me.)
also? your line about being intimately acquainted with plumbing. That was amusing. Wishing you all the best as your healing journey continues.
Jody, it’s a beautiful fragment from a prayer I found in a little book published shortly before WW II. A dear friend gave me the book and its words and thoughts have seen me through this long illness.
Guite’s powerful words feel perfectly timed for the breath.
Thanks for your good wishes, friend. And I am wishing your family great joy!
One of my declarations in difficult times is Psalm 121:1 “I will lift up eyes to the mountains. From whence does my help come? My help comes from the Lord, the Maker of heaven and earth.” Laurie, the modern translation twice includes the word “help.” One year my “word for the year” was HELP. Since I oh-so-frequently need help, I was recently struck by this oft-quoted verse with its dual mention of help. The modern translations punctuate the first sentence by ending with “the mountains.” Then the Psalmist asks a rhetorical question. “From whence does my help come?” Ah. We know, indeed. “My help comes from God, Maker of heaven and earth.” Now, on a similar experience in a dental chair, I recently sat facing an oral surgeon selected to pull an infected molar. After inhaling the tranquilizing gas, the assistant asked me if I was feeling “floaty.” I felt ‘nery the tiniest fraction different. “Oh!” Seemingly surprised, she said,”We’ll give you a bit more.” After a second round I was still very well grounded in the chair and feeling nothing more than the same perplexity as the assistant. After a longer and third round of deep inhalations, I began to feel the intended affects. Hmmmm. I don’t drink, smoke, vape or “run with the girls who do,” so why my tolerance for this controlled substance? And it’s called “laughing gas”? Laugh I have, after telling this story several times. Niki
Niki, you are the third reader to recommend Psalm 121. I’m feeling a need to set the words to music so I can more easily memorize them.
Three adjustments to the gas—gosh, you ARE (serenely) resistant to its usual effect. I’m glad you’re getting good mileage out of the anecdote.
I’ve never experienced the laughter, either. I’m thinking of “chair-borne” Ed Wynne now, in the original “Mary Poppins.” That might be fun! Instead, Nitrous Oxide causes me full-blown panic—my mind goes haywire unless the mix is exactly right. They did use some of it this time but, thankfully (knowing my history), mixed it with some other really good magic.
Oh Laurie, please videotape your soon-to-be musical rendition of Psa. 121 so I learn it! also, was the friend whom you mentioned who died while in surgery our precious Kelly Echenbacher? We were at Zion Faith Assembly with Kelly and Jim. Knew them well. Sat at the hospital with the family through that whole terrifying ordeal. Think of her still, at times.
Niki, yes, it was our darling Kelly. I loved her dearly. How consoling that you and Bob were there.
❤️❤️❤️
Thanks for reading this, friend.
p.s. If I knew how to make those hearts appear in this box I’d send some right back. I am so low-tech, ha ha.
Love the poem. It will go in my prayer arsenal!
Joe, great to hear from you! I know what you mean. Nothing like the right words at the right moment. Or the right song . . .
May your weekend brim with well-being!
Thank you, Laurie – I am both wincing and in awe at the way you express this. You always manage to find the poetry in life!
Since my house burned down
I now have a better view
of the rising moon
― Mizuta Masahide
Dear April, I love that haiku so much. Thanks for reminding me of it this morning.
Your words gently point me toward the beautifully true as well.
Wow! You turned a dreadful event into a holy one!
Grace alone. You of all people know what a fraidy-cat I can be. Grace plus kindness plus that potent Scottish fragment of pre-WW II prayer. So apt. And still potent all these years later.
My favorite thought or prayer for difficult times: Hear my voice when I cry, O Lord. Be merciful to me and answer me. When you said to me, seek my face, my heart said, your face Lord I will seek. Ps 27: 7-8
And it is your voice I hear Laurie, when I recite the verses. You recorded them 30 years ago. They have been my companion, my anchor, my plea, my faith and hope through lots of life. I recite them out loud, I write them down, I meditate on them over and over in my mind, until I turn my face to Him. Can take awhile sometimes, I might add. I realized this morning it is your voice I hear in my head. His words, your voice; calming me and leading me to breath faith into His truth. I say again, His words, your voice. Quite a gift 💙
Goodness, your words this morning sharply bring back the memory of recording that passage. My father had just died and I’d been diagnosed with Stage IV clinical depression. It was an effort simply to speak those words of solace aloud. (I was so slowed down; Bill had to finesse the raw recording with some serious studio magic.)
The fact that to this day you hear those words, in my voice—shattered as I was at the time—and continue to find strength in that echo, says so much about God, so much about grace. I want to make your phrase my ongoing prayer: “To breathe faith into His truth.”
P.S. Michael waxes poetic, if brief:
A sleep of anesthesiologists
A den of dentists (think den of predatory animals)! 🙂
And btw, Laurie, I perfectly understand your concern and care in going under. I was appalled, frankly, before a recent colonoscopy, for which I spoke at length on the gurney to the anesthesiologist prior to the procedure. I have an extremely rare, Mayo-Clinic-diagnosed medical condition, which warrants extreme care when I go under! I liked this doctor, she listened, she understood, and told me how I would soon be handled when wheeled off to my procedure. Imagine my surprise, no shock!, to see her nowhere around in the procedure room. Instead, I met an anesthetist who would be administering the medicine and in charge of all concerning it. I courteously complained to her and my gastro guy, who just played dumb. I was assured that the anesthesiologist (whom I know has had far more training), would be in the hallway should anything go wrong! Apparently she was overseeing a whole *colony* (how’s that for a plural?) of colonoscopy patients. The plan was for her to duck into the rooms whenever something had gone awry. By this time, I was fully unclad, thoroughly prepped (and you know that is no picnic!), so I felt I had no choice but to let them proceed. But I was far from a happy camper or colony member! Just thought I would share that real-life experience. And, mercifully, I had one small polyp, benign, and successfully removed.
Love Michael’s suggestions!
And the colony, too.
Lynn, I am relieved you came through safely. But how frustrating and unnerving for you. Yet here you are, in the aftermath, safely relieved of the polyp. And with your sense of humor intact. And hopefully another 10 years before you have to do it again!
Love you!
Thanks, Laurie. Yes, happy ending :), but no, not ten, but five years. I’m still high risk w/ family history + 2 procedures w/ polyps of my own. But again, grateful for removal and very grateful for this kind of detecting procedure!!!
“Polyps of My Own”: You’re a composer. Does that strike you as an intriguing song title??
It is a mercy to have the procedures readily available. I sure don’t envy you The Dire Prep every five years, but I’m so glad you continue to come through it all.
Oh yikes, what a lyric that would be!
If anyone could make it sound beautiful, you could! I brag on you all the time to my beloved, my man of very few words. But hey, my Renaissance man does everything else, and I do mean everything! Sheridan and I are totally pampered!
You are so sweet!
This time, Laurie, after reading your beautiful, rapturous, and dare I say, sometimes hilarious post, I took time to read all the comments and your responses. May I not just sing praises for your writing and comments, but *theirs* as well? My goodness! You are leading a lyrical group of poets here. (An aside: I just looked up the collective noun for plural poets, and it is officially “group.” Why poetry to designate a pod of whales, flamboyance of flamingoes, exultation of larks, but merely a group of poets?! How completely pedestrian is that! Poet Laurie and collective poetic group here, we need to work on this. Group simply will *not* do! Pod of poets? Nope. Passel? Don’t like it. Posse? Yikes! Profusion? Maybe. Plethora of poets? Better. Please work on this, Laurie, to distract yourself next time you are sitting in the dental chair)! I can’t think of a good word for a collective of dentists or anesthetists for that matter (drill sergeants)!? Nobody wants to talk about these professional, much less experience them. When she sees our dentist, our daughter keeps talking so as to avoid him and his instruments entering her mouth. My husband calls him and the hygienist names to their faces, like Hun, Torturer, etc., hoping they will be insulted and tell him to leave! (And by the way, it doesn’t phase them). I, on the other hand am always polite, and meticulously brush, floss, and swig two mouthwashes like mad, but still I now see both a dentist *and* periodontist. What’s a girl to do? Well, you, my poet friend, set a sterling example: We need to pray and work as partners with our dentists, secure in God’s hands, and sure we are working with our dentist, not against him. I’m so glad that this experience went well for you, and that that root canal x 4 has relieved your pain (which I presume you experienced before this procedure). It seems to me that God too is a dentist of sorts, having our best spiritual condition in mind, and that His filing, reshaping, and cleaning out of sin-filled wounds is far more important in the end than dental procedures. Sometimes I feel the pain. There is perhaps no spiritual anesthesia, unless one could say it is the Holy Spirit, and surely I do not wish to discount His comfort. But in the case of spiritual cleansing, I’m thinking it is best I be alert for that and not hazy. And I know this, too: The sooner I cooperate with the Lord, the less deep the need for cleansing and surgery will be—*and* the sooner I will be showing a radiant smile of joy!!!
Love you, poet leader!
x,o
Lynn
Laurie, I need a personal spellchecker on your blog. Sorry for those two errors. Ugh. The perfectionist in me that cares about stupid stuff like that emerges.
Oh, me too. I’m the same way. I can fix them for you if you like.
Lynn, you’ve got me brainstorming now for a suitably quirky collective noun. What an intriguing project. If I get a brainwave I’ll be sure to tell you. And vice versa.
I’m with you when it comes to dental encounters—all cooperation, charm, and gratitude (seeing as they have all the sharp instruments).
I adore the community that gathers here, and I treasure the wisdom, affection, and insight offered. You all give back so much! And I’m the richer for it.
Sounds like the happy effects of a morphine pump.
What? No relevant Moody Blues line?
I’ve yet to experience the morphine high, hope I never need it. But aren’t we lucky that kind of palliative relief is available, should we or those we love ever need it!
Psalm 139 for me.
Your posts always dive right into my heart eliciting smiles, laughter, and thoughts worthy to ponder for a while. Thank you.
Oh hurray, just what I want them to do. Thanks, Carol, for chuckling and musing along with me. I so appreciate you!
And Psalm 139, YES! That’s a beauty.
Breath prayer… (In) Jesus, Christ, (Out) Son of God, (in) have mercy on me, (out) a sinner. (And repeat) In the first panicky short breaths, those words are all that fit. When peace begins to seep in, I can lengthen the phrases in between breaths.
Your post gave me a chuckle. … Reading your words…. The splendid way you combine serene beauty, with holy comfort, technical excellence and raw humor, always delights me. I, too saw that paisley toilet and had to show it to my hubby. 😁
Pacia, another witness to that wacky plumbing! I couldn’t believe my eyes.
I love the way you’ve set that sterling prayer to the rhythm of the breath. I’m going to adopt it as well. Thank you! And thank you for your always generous encouragement, friend.
Nigh impossible to read your words minus hearing your tender voice. Now it will accompany my day as a melody, a refrain of memory and joy.
Thank you for this, Laurie! And know that all the others that have gone without comment have been loved.
As are you.
Dear Judi, what a gift to read your words today. You make me feel sung over. Oh the memories we share!
You are so welcome. And I feel so loved. Thank you.