Idiomatically Speaking

Once upon a time…well, actually it was just the other day, I was mulling over the colorful idioms—figures of speech—we sprinkle into our everyday conversations. For instance, when I ride the Maple Lawn bus to town on shopping trips, a man in the front always says “We’re off like a herd of turtles!” as we leave the parking lot.

Then others chime in with, “we’re off to the races,” or “off like a dirty shirt.” Then on the return trip, someone always says, “Home James,” to which the driver—whose name is John—replies, “There’s no James here.”

We all chuckle good naturedly, but that led me to questions like, Where do these quaint sayings come from? Why do they endure? How do they become commonly known within a particular culture?

But I’ll leave those questions for another column. Because when I brought the subject up at Pizza Hut recently, where I hang out with my posse after church choir practice, a friend mentioned off-handedly, “wouldn’t it be interesting to write an entire column idiomatically?”

I was dumbfounded! She had thrown down the gauntlet. It was an offer I couldn’t refuse, a chance to achieve greatness. I had to see this through to the bitter end. So here it is—my crowning glory or my agonizing defeat—you decide.

A re-telling of Hans Christian Andersen’s The Princess and the Pea, with alternate ending

Long ago, in a kingdom far, far away, there was a prince who was dying to get hitched to a princess; but she had to be the real McCoy, he wasn’t going to settle for just any plain Jane. He gallivanted across the globe looking under every rock and behind every tree, but he came up empty-handed every time.

The earth was crawling with princesses—you couldn’t swing a cat without hitting one of them—but it was a whole other kettle of fish, to crack the code and figure out if she were the real deal or simply a gold-digger.

There was always something about them that seemed shady, not quite kosher, off the beam, a little fishy. So he would schlep back to his crib bummed out after each of his failed missions.

He felt like he was tilting at windmills and was ready to throw in the towel. All he wanted was to make the genuine article his main squeeze. But he was bound and determined to follow his quixotic quest to kingdom come or die trying.

One dark and stormy night it was raining cats and dogs and the thunder and lightning were giving a show-stopping display of nature’s fireworks. Out of the blue, came a pounding at the city gate, and the old buzzard, er, I mean, king went to open it.

Lo and behold it was a princess standing out there, bold as brass for all the world to see! But, goodness gracious, she looked like something the cat dragged in—like a drowned rat, death warmed over on a bad day—I mean she was ugly as a mud fence! Her hair looked like wet noodles, and her clothes were hanging off her, sopping wet. Still, she swore up and down, cross her heart and hope to die, that she was a real princess.

“Well, we'll see about that,” thought the old biddy, I mean, queen. She didn’t tip her hand, but she had a plan up her sleeve. She was going to set a trap for the ragamuffin claiming to have royal blood.

The queen wanted to test the theory that real princesses were delicate, but she stacked the deck against the interloper. She went into the guestroom, stripped the bed, and laid a pea on the bottom. Then she took 20 mattresses and laid them on the pea, and then 20 eider-down beds on top of the mattresses.

This is where the princess was expected to lay her head and drift off to slumber land. In the morning, the royal family eagerly asked how she had slept.

"I didn’t sleep a wink!" she exclaimed. "I tossed and turned all night. Heaven knows what was in the bed. I searched high and low, but couldn’t find hide nor hair of the bugger. I don’t know what it was, but it was hard as a rock and sharp as a tack. My body is riddled with bruises—I’m black and blue all over. It stinks!"

They were filled with shock and awe. She had passed with flying colors. Now they were 100 percent sure that she was a real princess because she had felt the pea right through the mountain of mattresses.

So the prince took the princess for his bride and they lived happily ever after, just one big happy family….or did they?

Alternate ending

Once the prince discovered that a marriage to the princess would carry on the royal blood line, he got down on one knee and popped the question on the spot. The princess, however, was having none of that. She put her hands on her hips and said, “whoa, hold your horses, buddy.

“You hardly know me from Eve. And don’t give me that ‘love at first sight’ business, I saw your look of horror when I showed up dripping wet on your doorstep.

“You couldn’t wait to get rid of me, and your mom, here, tried to pull the wool over my eyes with that crazy contraption of a bed. None of you gave me the benefit of the doubt when I insisted I was truly of royal blood.

“Now, if you want me to be your one and only, I suggest we back up a few steps. We’ll start with courting, then you’ll meet the parents. We can take long walks and talk a blue streak, sharing our tastes in music and art, our party affiliations and our thoughts on going green.

“Then if we decide we were made for each other,” she said, holding up her left hand, “you can put a ring on it.”

The prince, who had never met such a forward woman, except perhaps, the queen mum, stood there like a deer caught in the headlights before putting his big boy boxers on. He reared up, squared his shoulders, looked her straight in the eye and said, “OK.” It sounded to him like much ado about nothing, but he thought it prudent not to open that can of worms just yet.

He was really jonesing to grab the brass ring—she was the prize, and he was going to win her hand come hell or high water. Little did he know he had just met his match, and she was going to have him wrapped around her finger before he knew what hit him.

Then they lived happily ever after, or at least stuck to each other like glue, for better or worse, through thick and thin, until the 12th of never…and that’s a long, long time.

[As published in the Woodford County Journal Oct. 7, 2010]

A Note to my Body

I can feel my surgery-sweet blood, traveling down my veins, like a slow, syrupy drip.
It seeps into every part of my body, I shiver and press numb fingers to my pounding head.
My heart beats heavily. I am alone in my grief tonight.
Alone in my convictions to reclaim my life,
Regain composure,
Find clarity of thought,
Peace of mind, body and soul.
I am the walking dead.
The abused and abuser in one moment, one act, one neglectful, thoughtless, self-destructive lifetime.
I turn to my body for answers, but it does not speak. Trust is gone.
I plead, “Tell me what you need, what you claim as your right, what you desire.”
“Eyes, what is it you wish to see?
How can I clear the way to comprehend your vision?'
“Feet, where is it you want to walk?
Can you lead me to the clear, cool waters, walking upstream to see what is offered there?'
“Shoulders, what are you carrying?
What burdens can I remove from you?'
“Jaws, clinched and clinching, what do you want to say?
Would I even recognize your voice?'
“Head, swimming and brimming with, overwhelmed by…what?
What would give you clarity, what would cool your fever?'
“Stomach, round, curved, always yearning to be fed, even when the brain says, ‘Enough!’
How can I satiate you?”
Body, myBody…
I can feel my surgery-sweet blood, traveling down my body, like a slow, syrupy drip…
Walk me to the river.
Let me wash away the sins of my own making.
Let me come up from the waters, renewed, reborn, reclaimed.

Beach Feet

NOTE: The following is an article I wrote when I was a chaplain-in-residence at Georgetown University to students in my dorm. I wrote a regular online column called Feed Your Spirit. (I've updated it here.)\

A few years ago, I was leading a women's retreat in Bethany Beach, Delaware. The church campgrounds where we stayed was literally two blocks from the ocean. We took advantage of the location by planning plenty of breaks in the retreat schedule so we could walk to the beach 2 or 3 times a day.

So I spent a lot of time standing on the shore with my feet planted in the sand, allowing the waves to crash over my feet. It was during a tropical storm that caused some concern but little damage to the area. It was wreaking havoc further south along the Atlantic, but we were just experiencing some residual stormy weather and high winds.

The waves were pretty fierce that weekend. I usually found myself mesmerized as I stood there watching them crest and fall onto the shore. They would crisscross each other, racing to the sloping sand.

Often, I had to replant my feet as the larger waves came and washed over them. I could feel the sand slip out from under me, so I would shift my weight and twist my feet to make sure I didn't fall into the water. It actually took some agility and muscle to make sure I didn't have to trudge back to the cabin soaking wet from head to toe.

Growing up in the Midwest. I didn't have an ocean to visit. I am more accustomed to rivers and streams. I am used to being able to count on the shore to hold me fast without fear of being towed under. The banks of a river are usually more solid, less fragile than an ocean beach on a stormy day.

So my beach experience was a new one, and something that got me thinking about life itself. I thought of many life metaphors staring at the ocean, but the most significant was that life is always shifting and changing...you might need to reestablish your footing, shift your position, change your perspective, in order to meet life head on.

Maybe that sounds 'cheesy,' but you all are in a position of great change and it may seem like the ground beneath you is constantly shifting. Dig your toes in and hang on!

An Unblinding Light

Oprah is smiling at me from the magazine rack across the waiting room at Barnes Retina Institute in St. Louis. With her arms flung wide, her body slightly bent at the waist, she looks ready to laugh with her whole body.

I stare at her for awhile, wanting to be in on the joke. When she becomes blurry, I will know that the eye drops the technician put in several minutes ago have taken effect.

Maybe if they dilate soon, we can get this over with quickly. It’s my sixth surgery to correct diabetic retinopathy, but I am not used to this procedure. I can’t shake the anxiety of waiting.

I close my eyes to help speed the process of opening my pupils wide so the doctor can shine his bright light into them and cauterize the swollen, leaking blood vessels behind the retina and prevent any potential vision loss.

“I’ve had about 67 of these surgeries,” an older man’s voice invades my thoughts. Sitting behind me, he tells his friend about his struggles with diabetes. “I just can’t get it under control,” he says.

I try to remember when was the last time I monitored my blood sugar…and did I remember to take my medicine today? What about that donut I had last night? “I’m killing myself from the inside,” I chide myself. “God, don’t let me go blind,” I almost whisper. I shift in my seat, check my watch and survey the overflowing waiting room. It’s going to be a long afternoon.

The waiting room is nearly empty when my name is finally called. I follow another technician to a smaller room with a lot of strange equipment that has begun to at least look familiar. The doctor greets me kindly, if not warmly.

His name is Dr. Blinder. Even in my anxiety, I always want to tease him in a voice reserved for close friends, “So, Dr. Blinder, anybody give you a hard time about your name?”

But he doesn’t invite such familiarity. Soft-spoken and reserved, he looks like he takes his job way too seriously. Today, though, I’m glad he does, so I decide again not to broach the subject.

More eye drops go in, these to numb my eyes. The doctor adjusts the chin rest so that if I lean forward a bit, I can rest my head in front of his machine almost comfortably. The technician fastens a cloth band around the back of my head, “just to remind you to keep your chin down during the procedure,” she says.

During a series of equipment adjustments and murmured communication between doctor and assistant, my heart begins to beat faster…almost imperceptibly at first. “Breathe,” I tell myself as the doctor puts a sort of monocle in my left eye to keep it open. “Don’t forget to breathe.”

It’s a brief warning before the flashes of light begin. The intense white light seems to bore through my pupil and into my body. My toes curl and lift off the ground. My fingers clench around the armrests. I concentrate on my breathing again to suppress the scream welling up in my chest.

“Just breathe,” I urge myself as the laser flashes over and over. “In…out; again, in…out.”

“Try to keep your right eye open,” he says gently. But it is almost impossible, as it tightens defensively against the tortuous light. Twice before, my opposite eye squeezed so tightly, the monocle popped out.

It seems like an eternity, but it couldn’t be more than fifteen minutes before the doctor turns off the light, moves his machine back and says, “OK, all done. You did great.”

Unstrapped from the chin rest, I look around the room. Everything is bathed in red. I know it will go away, but it always startles me. I nod as the doctor tells me to “take it easy” for the rest of the day. We exchange pleasantries.

Walking back into the empty waiting room, I fish around in my bag for the sunglasses I am almost positive I dropped in there this morning. I’m going to need them. It is so bright in here.



*NOTE: Since writing this for a seminary class assignment in 2002, I have had several more surgeries in both eyes. I am legally blind in my right eye and have significant damage in the left one. Doctors say my eyes have stabilized—meaning no current leakage—but no treatment or surgery can get the vision that I’ve lost back. My diabetes continues to be a struggle, and I now take insulin to control it.

Battle scars

I don't always notice it when I'm looking in the mirror. But every so often, it stands out in stark contrast to my pale skin.

I run my fingers along the red-rimmed, slightly crooked valley it left on my chest…and I thank God again for staying steadfastly by my side—through what I blithely refer to as my 2008 “health crisis.”

The valley is created by a combination of two overlapping scars. One is a misshapened, round dent in my throat where a tracheotomy was once performed to help me breathe. The other is a narrow scar that runs from my throat, down along my breast bone to the top of my ribcage. That's from the heart valve replacement.

It's hard for me to believe, but I've had these scars for over a year and a half now. The heart surgery dates back to Christmastime, 2008. I had an infection that destroyed my mitral valve. Bits of infection broke off and floated to my brain, causing a stroke.

The trach came later--sometime in January or February. I was having trouble catching my breath and kept passing out when my breathing stopped altogether. I couldn't talk for a long time and was on a feeding tube at one point.

There was a time where I felt virtually no emotion. I couldn’t write, couldn’t pray, couldn’t laugh or cry. It concerned me; I wondered if I would ever feel again, ever love again, if I would ever be passionate about anything again. But somehow, I persevered and eventually broke through my flat affect.

I kept a journal in the hospital. My handwriting is shaky and I chose the wrong words sometimes. But on Feb. 5, 2009, I wrote, “I’m crying finally….I’m also talking to God again. ‘Hello, God. It’s me, Arlene. I’ve missed you.’”

It has been a slow, arduous recovery, and I still have setbacks from time to time, but it’s mostly behind me, now. When I look at these scars—unsightly as they are—I am not inclined to cover them up. I don’t feel self-conscious about them, nor am I embarrassed by how they look.

I wear these scars like a badge of courage, a gold star of achievement, an emblem of the journey from near-death back to full life. To me, they are beautiful.

They are my battle scars…reminding me of the journey home, with all its bumps, detours and turn backs; all its straight climbs and sharp curves, and all the falls and get-back-ups, too. These scars call out to me—“You are a survivor!”

Shades of Green

Varigated green

Sweeps through the hearty landscape
Vibrant abundance

(A view of the gardens at Maple Lawn Homes in Eureka)

Persona Poem

Arlene
Sister, friend, writer, pastor;
Lover of words, ideas, & stories;
Who dreams of peace in all nations, compassion in all hearts, & tolerance in all minds;
Who needs love, kindness &  understanding;
Who gives her heart, freely; her mind openly; & her self, wholly;
Who fears darkness, emptiness, & loneliness;
Who would like to see wholeness of body, mind, & spirit
for everyone, everywhere, for all time;
Franks.