Amputee

.
. . .The Surgeon reviews her chart. "Why are you here?"
. . .Her pale fingers clench the thin, sweat-soaked sheet. "I want to let go of past wounds, but they're bleeding into the present." The faded red stains spread like a yawn, tickling the hem of her future. "I've tried band-aids, I've tried stitches, and I've tried tourniquets. The blood won't stop."
. . .He places her file on her bedside table and sets cloths and medical tools beside it. There is no need to wash His hands, they're already clean.
. . .Her gaze fixes on His scalpel. He doesn't bother to hide it. "You're a specialist?" she chokes.
. . ."The best."
. . ."What's your price?"
. . He moves aside a crinkled pamphlet on Phantom-Limb Syndrome. "No anesthesia."
. . .She touches a shaking finger to the bead of sweat slipping down her temple. "And will it be gone forever?"
. . ."Some days you will feel its shadow more than others, but I offer your last--and best--option."
. . .Her breath crawls into her lungs in tentative wisps. She lies against the pillow. Her eyelids close, but their thin film can't shut out the terror.
. . .She holds out her pulsing heart and whispers, "Goodbye."
. . .His smooth experienced hands peel her blood-coated fingers from around the rhythm of life. Her heart trembles as He places it beneath a guillotine. The cord tightens, raising the blade to the peak. A quiver of anticipation. A twitch.
. . .Slack.
. . The glinting metal plunges like a stone into the ocean's abyss. With a dull clunk, cold-edge meets soft life-tissue. All color in the heart bursts like a mighty splash and drips over the guillotine edge. In its place, rests a pale white heart.
. . Silence twirls through the air like stunned smoke tendrils. The white heart releases a single beat. It grows louder. Faster. Stronger. There is no seam. There is no stain.
. . It shudders when the Surgeon's thumbprint brushes its surface. He leans over and breathes flakes of snow over it like a winter whisper.

. . ."Be whole."

"Purge me with hyssop, and I shall be clean;
Wash me, and I shall be whiter than snow.
Make me hear joy and gladness,
That the bones You have broken may rejoice.
Hide Your face from my sins,
And blot out all my iniquities.
Create in me a clean heart, O God,
And renew a steadfast spirit within me."
(Psalm 51: 7-10)

Raisin Transformer

Like genuine country folk, we loaded the snow machines (aka. snowmobiles) the day after Thanksgiving. On the horizon sat a trek through the unknown, the growl of a mini chainsaw, and three-foot-deep snow angels....it was time to hunt down our Christmas tree.

Having traveled home with one tiny "overhead" suitcase (packed far beyond what's allowed) and a backpack, my snow clothes were doomed to remain in my Missouri dresser. This forced me to rummage through the "reserves" closet and pull out a full body snow suit that probably belonged to my great-grandmother. Once I zipped it up, I crept to the mirror and glanced in with a cringe.

I looked like a transformer.


Unable to resist, I stomped up to my brother, making robot sounds. He tried to force my arms down like little Randy in the movie "A Christmas Story".

Though I resembled a 70's hippie-dork, I found myself quite warm when tromping through the thigh-high snow to pull out the tipped snowmachine. No worries about a faulty powder-skirt in this onesie. But when our excursion ended and the snow melted through the thinning lining, my suit and I encountered a deal-breaker moment:

When wet, it smelled like raisins.

This may not bother some people, but I'm a picky raisin eater (meaning I pick them out of whatever I'm eating). I'm an even pickier raisin smeller. In conclusion, though my transformer-adventure was almost as thrilling as the movie, the suit remains in the closet for the next unsuspecting visitor.
I hope they like raisins.

.

Favorite God

I have returned to Missouri.
I can't say I was excited to step foot onto the un-snowy ground. I can't say that I wanted to be here. I can't say I was optimistic or positive. And I certainly can't say that Missouri noticed my return.
But God did.
He stood on the airport tarmac in the biting wind, the humid cold, and the grey air, waving a bouquet of yellow roses, lace, and cheer. He reminded me that Missouri is my home away from home and that having a 'home away from home' is okay. After all, He picked it for me last March and then He found me an apartment. He showed me good churches and introduced me to wonderful friends.
Yes, I can call Missouri home, and that makes all the difference in the world to my attitude.

Suddenly, with my Jesus-bouquet in hand, positives charged around every corner with bursts of confetti and surprise: I was picked up by one of my favorite people. We laughed about some of our favorite memories. He gave me Christmas/birthday presents from one of my favorite stores.

The presents were two of my favorite things. Then we chatted over one of my favorite hot drinks. Then to add a cherry to my sundae of encouragement, God gave me my favorite weather...snow.

All of these favorites crammed themselves into a few late-night hours when I was flying with numb toes, a sore throat, a lost voice, grouchy flight attendants, and I had just bid farewell to my family. The result?

It felt good to be back.

I'm ready. I'm ready to tackle the new semester. I can't help but think how lucky I am. How lucky that, when there's only one real God in existence, He just happens to make first place on my 'favorites' list. Good thing our world didn't get stuck with a grouchy, black-flowered, pessimistic God. Otherwise, this journey back to Missouri would have gone so differently and I wouldn't have had Someone to wave to on the tarmac when my plane landed....