The Sadness of the Soul

Dear Readers,
I always take sickness as a personal affront. Yes, it is an extremely intimate experience; at the moment my white blood cells are fighting off the virus that is making me feel like crap. I've always seen sickness as a good time for me to get some (usually) much-needed rest; its a good thing that forces me to slow down and take time for myself.

Maybe that's the irony of this situation: I've done nothing but rest all month. The fact is that my ms has just absolutely wrecked my body this past month. I went home in early July because my back had a nerve right under my right shoulder blade which was giving me a dull aching pain. I couldn't balance, which resulted in me barely being able to walk. This was helped along by the fact that my legs felt like lead. I lost all coordination in my right hand. I could barely walk, barely sit up, couldn't write. I lost all function, all way in which I could live a normal life.

So maybe right now I'm just a little angry about having to sit here sick. I've been sick long enough. I just want to live.

For the Love of God

Matthew 22: 36-40

White buildings shot up from the
pavement, scraping the sky in an attempt
to challenge wind and earth with
their skeletons of steel. We walked

along the gray pavement, turning our
eyes from the Babel towers emblazoned
with the pagan designs of commercial
manufacturers. The heat rose from the

streets in waves of liquid light. She
must have been hot in those black
clothes, hair knotted in an act of
disobedience while the plastic crucifix

bounced against her chest as if it wanted
to break free. Just another street-walker,
begging for money. She told us she was
hungry, her own body odor making our stomachs

do somersaults. Those rotten teeth
made us wonder if a crunchy taco would
crack the fragile remnant of what once was
tiny white child's teeth. How did she make

it this far, begging for food or
working low-end jobs to gather a pitiful
sum to hoard and save in order to
live better than the animals which

she lives among now. A hug goodbye,
the purifying water that now can
wash me clean of her signature scent,
like so many others like her.

How could I forget the greatest
commandment, and the outpouring that
should come from a love of God which
shows us the despair of the uncleanly?

The Delicacy of Healing

Dear Readers,
My mom is a huge proponent of miraculous healing. At least once a week while I'm having symptoms (which I have been for the past month) she sends me some kind of link or offer to go and "get healed". Usually these things are at revivals involving hundreds of charismatics who get taken by the spirit and do who knows what. I'm not quite a skeptic, but I'm definitely bordering the boundary. This isn't helped by my mom's insistence on the subject; sometimes I just want to be left alone with my disease. I feel like a healing should come from someone I know and trust, not as one of the hundreds who have come blindly with a hope of getting a fresh set of eyes, or a healed back.

I know that I don't put lots of stake in dreams, but sometimes they actually speak to me. In this dream I was back at Westmont for the summer; I wasn't in school, but they were having some kind of event that I was invited to on Kerwood lawn. My dad showed up in his workout clothes to embarrass me (this isn't TOO far off either). But, I think the most important part of the dream was me: in the middle of it, I looked down and noticed that there was a small hole in the middle of my chest with a delicate sprout growing out of it. It was kinda pretty, but I had this urge to pull it out at the same time. I asked my dad about it, and he said it was a disease I had to get rid of, but I had to be careful about how I took it out because I needed to remove the whole thing.

I often feel like my MS is a lot like this little plant. It gets worse and worse inside of me, yet I need to remove it delicately; I can't have someone else rip it from me. The fear of getting more symptoms will always be with me, but I can't just let someone I don't know lay hands on me and take this disease from me. It's my cross to bear until the Lord gives me someone to remove it from me.

Dear Readers,
I hate being considered a kid. In every church/workplace/family reunion/etc. that come along, older people have a hard time relating to me. It's like they have all made this assumption that I would rather talk to no one than to them. If I'm in a place with no other young adults I'm shoved into the "young" category all by myself, stuck in a place where I have the intelligence to reply, but am never asked to.

Right now I'm on the annual Olson family reunion. The two sides of my family combined create a continuum of ages. My twin sister is the youngest on my mom's side (oldest is 28, not tooo old) and I'm the oldest on my dad's side (youngest is 3). While Julie and I have each other, we get lonely being on the outskirts of the spectrum, either too old or young to want to/actually participate in what the others are doing. I'm barely 21 and still am not considered an adult at this family reunion, left to try to construct relationships with my 15 yr old cousins.

Which is why I'm getting used to making my own fun. Like this blog for example, is one of the activities that I can perfect in my free time. It's an exciting life.

Dear Readers,
I am a bad traveler. Not only do I get super stressed out by the process of packing/getting to the airport, I don't feel like the ratio of enjoyment on the trip outweighs the costs of actually getting to the vacation. I hate the box seats in airplanes, waiting in those endless lines to just get rid of that overpacked suitcase which contains way too many shirts and shorts for only a 7 day trip. The whole process seems worthless to me, and although I realize its necessary, I can't remove this bad feeling I get whenever I'm on the shuttle approaching the airport.

There's a part of me that doesn't want to admit this hatred of traveling; I feel like I should be cool enough to see the joy in an unexpected situation. It's taken me a long time to actually realize the regularity of my life. I ate bean soup at least 5 times a week for the whole month of May; I wear the same pjs every night; I get enjoyment out of watching the same movies and shows over and over again. There is a part of me that is scared to venture out into the unknown, to step out of my comfort zone and explore the world around me. Sometimes I'd much rather stay in bed....or at least in Oakdale.

Which is precisely why I'm so frightened to go to Italy: not only is there a new routine to get used to, but a new language! But in proportion to my fear of the unknown is a desire to explore outside the boundaries I've set for myself. I have an acquaintance who was raised to work; that's all he does. He has never traveled for fun....ever. And I fear turning into him. He has a lot of the same tendencies I do, but exaggerated because of a family that hasn't pushed him to step outside his routine. That is maybe one of my biggest fears: to miss out on an opportunity that would possibly be life changing.

Italy here I come!

The Dream

Dear Readers,
I was baptized at 11 days old. I left the same church at age 18. Before I came to Westmont, I hadn't ever had to make a new church family; it was built into my life. I knew everyone, especially since church attendance barely ever topped 100 people. The parties, the fundraisers, the music, even the functioning of the church service was held up by my family, and other people in the church had their own roles. Every family was vital.

I guess that is what I have missed the most about leaving my home church (which has fallen apart since I left home, thankfully not from my departure....). There has been no place in Santa Barbara that has replicated the family aspect of St. Matthias, nor has there been any church where I felt I could help. Reality is huge; Montecito Covenant has it all together; Ocean Hills has plenty of servers. There is no place where I am needed.

I had a dream last night that got me thinking about all of this. I was in church, singing a solo when a family came in that obviously didn't belong. There was a girl who was not dressed appropriately for church, who I had the impulse to make a connection with, and I remember going with her into the courtyard and giving her a massage while she cried. I woke up feeling like I had been meant to be in that situation, to help someone who felt out of place, maybe by even just being there to rub her back. That familiarity, that sensitivity and love is something that I have missed giving and receiving from churches in a long while.