A few months ago, I had an encounter with mud.  I ventured out on the banks of the tidal creek near my house at lowtide. I was unaware of my vulnerability, as in an instant, found myself sucked thigh-deep in the viscous soil.  When I was pulled down, my phone fell from my hand, out of arm's reach.  It was the middle of the day, not a soul around.  I could hear the intermittent sounds of birds; I noted sun rays dappling the gray-green tidal waters.  Seagulls flew overhead.  A faint breeze ruffled my hair.

I panicked.  No one knew I was there.  I couldn't get to my phone.  My neighbor's car was not in his driveway.  I felt my legs sink deeper.  "Think, Priscilla," I said under my breath. "God help me."  I remembered that if a person found they were drowning, the first thing they needed to do was relax, as this would help them float and begin to breathe.  I took a deep breath.  I relaxed my body.  I faced the tidal creek, but soon realized that if I leaned back, I could hook one elbow on a higher piece of ground.  I hoped to leverage my weight with my arm strength to turn around and face the creek bank.  I could then use my forearms to pull myself up and out of the mud. With slow, gradual movements, I maneuvered the turn.  All the while I talked aloud to myself and prayed to God. "You can do this, Priscilla.  You are strong."  "God, in this hidden place, pull me up and out.  Thank you that you are present with me."  The company of the birds brought solace.  After about twenty minutes of making slow, twisting movements with first one foot, then the other, I heard and felt the suction loosen.  I placed all my weight on my elbows and began inching forward on the solid bank. Eventually, i was able to pull my mud-saturated legs out of the brown sludge. I lay face-down on the creek bank.  Out.

"We'll take good care of you," she said with confidence.  "This is a great hospital; we have wonderful care and your doctor is the best."  Patty, the pre-op nurse, said this to me as she helped me get ready for surgery.  I sensed she was not giving me a line, her touch light and cool as she took my vitals.  She was dressed in quintessential nurse attire, no scrubs with dancing polar bears or cats with spectacles.  She wore white hose and comfortable shoes, a triangular nurse hat perched on a pile of auburn curls.  I answered her health questionnaire, and then she began to talk to me like I was an old friend.  I had asked her no questions, just smiled and looked her in the eye.  She went on to say she was cleaning out her house.  "Simple is best," she said.  "I even keep it simple with my cell phone. Can you believe I still have a flip phone?"  I said, "Yes, that is most unusual these days."  Patty went on as she slipped the IV in the vein of my right hand, "I know how to use that phone, and I'm just going to keep it for as long as I can."  Then that cheerful nurse breezed out of the room and said, "Now you relax.  The doctor will be in soon, and we'll have you off in no time.  All is well."  I could have kissed Patty on the cheek. Her optimistic chatter had put me at ease.  And this was before the valium.

The last thing I remember before succombing to the anesthesia was hearing the banter of the team that would perform my surgery.  I couldn't distinguish their words, but they sounded happy, like maybe they were off to play a baseball game.  Ready to batter up.  Ready to hit a few home runs.  Ready to win.

For twenty-four hours post surgery, a competent crew of nurses and techs took care of me, laid their gentle, healing hands on me, brought me ice chips.  My husband walked the halls with me and pushed the IV cart.  He spent the night, sleeping on an uncomfortable chair, his soft snoring deep comfort in hospital room 710.

The first time I traveled to Italy, Giovanni took me to Verona. That June afternoon encapsulated all that Italy can be at its best--a mild blue day, pots of roses on window ledges, and the quiet murmur and melody of people speaking Italian.  Our shadows cast romantic silhouettes as we walked hand in hand down cobblestone streets.  We stopped at the site of Giulietta's balcony, the location where she and Romeo pledged their love to one another.  We have a photograph of me standing by Giulietta's statue, the stone carved to depict the maiden holding up a silk gown just above her slender ankles.  I'm grasping her waist, my hand touching the folds of her garment, my appearance incongruent with hers, wearing Chuck Taylors and skinny jeans, a red knapsack slung over my shoulder.  Just behind me is a wall of notes and graffiti.  Couples come each year to add their names to the wall of lovers.  I wrote our names on a post-it note and placed our symbol of love on the wall.

Currently, I'm experiencing some health issues.  I've hated this reality, honestly.  I don't much like being the weak one--feeling so vulnerable.  Needing help.  I've been fascinated, though, and encouraged by the response from others.  I suppose if anyone is going to give me something I relate to and love, it's words.  I adore words, whether I'm writing them or reading them.  The people who love me seem to know this.  And they've posted their love notes on the wall of my life.  Just as I'd never be able to count all the names on the wall in Verona, I wouldn't be able to count all the lovely words I've collected on my wall since I've been ill...

Sometimes life can be quite inhospitable.  There is news you never expect to hear.  Bad news.  Unspeakable news.  And whatever that happens to be (fill in the blank here), there are questions to ask. What does this mean for me?  What am I to learn?

I am asking these questions now.  It doesn't really matter what I placed in the blank line.  I am faced with how I choose to respond to life's unwelcomed events.  I select rest.  I fight to rest.  And this decision is a battle.  In some ways, an anxious, fearful reaction would be easier.  That is where my emotions want to go--to fling me into the realm of self-pity and worry. I would shake my fist and shout, "No it's not fair." Yet, I believe it is important to walk toward an opposite response to survive this austere geography where my fingers are numb, my lips blue. Frozen. 

For me to stay warm, I must look to the One who can breathe on my winter and offer me warmth.  And so this means...

Next weekend I'll travel a few miles up the South Carolina coastline to speak at a women's retreat.  I was invited to create a presentation about the Holy Spirit.  I am not a theologian.  I felt some intimidation.  I did not want to misrepresent the beauty and mystery of this third person of the trinity in any way.  Yet there was a stronger internal knowledge that surfaced. I knew my relationship with the divine Paraclete encapsulated an intimate and organic connection. I sensed God may want to use me as a conduit to speak about my intimacy with Him, the relationship that holds me together, that stitches up the frayed threads of my life, that keeps me free. Comforted. Empowered. 

I decided to use symbols the Holy Spirit has provided to me over the years.  Metaphors in my life.  If you walk into my house, you'll notice pictures of doors and gates.  The Holy Spirit has used these images over and over to remind me that He makes a way through life's passages.  The door is open.  I can walk through.  When my husband and I travel, he knows to wait for me while I capture photos of colorful portals.  The Holy Spirit delights in revealing Jesus.  Jesus refers to Himself as the door.