My unfaithful episcopagus

 My husband Hal was a precocious little boy. He learned to read early and he loved science. His parents had received from a friend an old set of Encyclopedia Britannica volumes and he discovered the section on human anatomy. It fascinated him. His sight-reading ability was not quite up to the level of anatomical vocabulary, but he did the best he could, coming to his own unique pronunciation of certain words.

At dinner one night, he informed his parents that the food they were eating was going down their episcopagus to get to their stomach. The word delighted them and they adopted it. For the next couple of years none of the members of the Thomas family had an esophagus. They each had an espicopagus (pronounced e-pis-co-PA-gus).

Years later I wrote a poetry book for my grandkids based on actual funny things they or their parents said when they were kids. Here’s the poem about their Grandpa’s hilarious mispronunciation:

MY FAITHFUL EPISCOPAGUS

Yes, of course, I love my lips!
My belly button gives me flips!
I like my feet,
my eyebrows are neat,
and my little toe is really sweet,
but the body part I like the best
is my faithful episcopagus!

So sing up high, sing way down low!
Sing for your supper, but eat it slow.
And all of your days,
give high praise
for your faithful episcopagus!

It’s hidden inside me, after my mouth,
behind my throat, but further south.
It’s long and round,
and without a sound
it carries my food, every pound,
‘til it lands in my tummy a while to rest.
Oh, my faithful episcopagus!

So sing up high, sing way down low!
Sing for your supper, but eat it slow.
And all of your days,
give high praise
for your faithful episcopagus!

It carries jelly beans, spinach and peas.
It transports mango sauce and cheese,
all of my lunch,
my breakfast and brunch,
the yummy granola I love to crunch.
There’s none to compare in all the west
to my faithful episcopagus!

So sing up high, sing way down low!
Sing for your supper, but eat it slow.
And all of your days,
give high praise
for your faithful episcopagus!

Had enough?

I’ve had a different adventure recently involving my esophagus. For several years I’ve had trouble swallowing. I coughed and gagged frequently and had trouble sleeping with all the phlegm and other stuff coming up. I usually ended up spending the night in a recliner with my head raised.

This started during Covid and the medical people I could get to online misdiagnosed allergies, sinus problems, gastric reflux and other common maladies. They recommended a variety of over-the-counter remedies, none of which worked. I’m sure people began suspecting me of being a hypochondriac and chronic complainer.

Then late last year my primary-care-physician had me take a barium-swallow-test, and the two medical technicians found my problem five minutes into the test. They showed me the shadow on the X-ray and told me it was a large diverticulum (pouch) attached to the top of my esophagus. I had thought diverticuli developed only in the colon (where my husband harbors his), but no. They can also pop out on the esophagus. I was glad to finally have a name for what was happening in my body. I had an unfaithful episcopagus.

After the test, things happened relatively quickly (I’ll spare you the details), and at the end of January I had an operation on my esophagus. (To be medically precise, it was an Endoscopic Zenkers Diverticulectomy. Is that not impressive?!) The end result of it all is that I returned to normal. I can swallow again. The gaging is gone. I can sleep lying down all night long.

Normal is good.

It’s good to know that, even as we age, there are serious bodily ailments that can be fixed. In some areas of our lives, normal is possible.

I thank God for modern medical wonders, for non-invasive (though the mouth) procedures that were unthinkable even a decade ago.

I thank God for normal.

In addition to that-----

I’ll sing up high.
I’ll sing down low.
And all of my days
I’ll give high praise
for my faithful episcopagus!

illustration for the children's book

Just a tweak

 I’m a fan of traditional western medicine for the most part, but I’m also open to the healing insights of other traditions. I’ve even ministered in the area of inner emotional healing. This past week I experienced another type of non-traditional healing work.

Hal and I spent the week with our daughter Kristin and her family in their home in the forest. Kristin and David (our son) had gifted me with four sessions with a practitioner in natural medicine. This woman is a Christian with a gift in healing and training in massage and in the alleviation of allergies through muscle testing. Kristin had found relief from her headaches under the care of this woman. The kids thought she might help me with my vestibular migraines. I’m open to any help I can get. It was a generous and loving gift.

It was an interesting experience and I’m still processing it. (One of my processing strategies is writing—so you’re helping me right now as I write.) The first session included an hour-long massage that was delicious, followed by muscle testing during which my body told her that the emotion of pity was blocking my healing. What she meant by pity was inappropriate or excessive compassion. I thought of my deep reactions to the suffering in Gaza or the trauma currently faced by immigrants in my own country. In response, she had me hold a jar containing some substance related to pity while she did some pounding/rolling work on my back. She explained she was retraining the nerves in my body so they would respond in more wholesome ways. I didn’t, and still don’t, understand it, but I had told myself ahead of time to be open and just let God work anyway he wanted to. I left the session feeling a deep peace.

During the second session the woman led me in a time of inner healing concerning traumatic events that took place over nine years ago, around the time my dizziness and head pressure were beginning to trouble me. It was very revealing. I know that we are whole creatures, that body, mind, and emotions interact. I thought that I had already made peace with the events, all concerning conflicts in my faith community. But apparently I still had some healing work to do. Or have done to me, as she again gave me a vial to hold while she worked on my back and prayed.

In the following two sessions, my body “told” her that it doesn’t metabolize proteins like it should and that it has problems with heavy metals. The information about proteins especially fascinated me as I know that protein imbalance is a recognized problem in all kinds of migraines. The exercises with holding different vials and her work on my back were to reorient my bodily systems and help them function correctly. So mysterious.

Like I said, I may be baffled but I’m holding my heart open to healing from any source of light. I do feel a great sense of peace and lightness since the treatments, although the dizziness and head pressure haven’t noticeably reduced. I’ve been told before that my rational left-brain and my intuitive right-brain are well balanced. In other words, I’m able to hold doubt and belief together and just wait to see what happens. I’m ok with weird.

I believe in what my traditional doctor is doing, in the medicines she’s experimenting with. And I certainly believe in prayer. I’m also open to the possibility that this condition might be like St. Paul’s “thorn in the flesh,” something God is letting me live with for his own purposes. More mystery.

Back to prayer, here’s a prayer/poem I wrote a year ago. It’s in the form of a conversion between me and God.

Just a Tweak

    Yes, Lord. It’s me again,
    here in this new day.

Good morning, dear one. Well come.
What can I do for you today?

    Thanks for asking. (Even though
    you already know the answer,
    your courtesy encourages me.)
    And thank you for this awesome
    body/mind/spirit.
    I am wonder-full at how
    wonderfully and fearfully
    I am made.

    But since you asked,
    could you just tweak
    this body a little?
    I know I’m growing older
    and that a bit of wear ’n tear is natural,
    but is this particular malfunction
    really necessary?
    Just a tweak, God. That’s all I’m asking.
    You can do it if you want to.

I want.

    Okay, then. That’s what I’m asking for.
    Here, let me sing my prayer to you.

    Have mercy on me and heal me.
    Set me feet upon a rock.
    Put a new song in my heart.
    O Lord, have mercy on me.

Okay. But you’ll have to let me do this
my way, in my time.

    Yes, God. My times are in your hands.
    I’ll wait.
    And in the meantime
    I thank you for your grace
    and your artistry in making me.
    And I anticipate the tweak.

    Amen.

Still open to dazzle

 None of us want to become obsolete, although it does seem at times that life is passing us by. New discoveries, new songs, new fashions, new ways of being in the world surround us. And our kids and grandkids get it. Take an obvious example—technology. I love what my computer does for me and I’ve explored the Internet, to a certain extent. But when something goes wrong or when I need help to find something out there in cyberspace, I have to call on my grandson. Because he knows. I don’t.

And I’m glad for it. Those of us with grown kids and grandkids want them to be able to surpass us. We want them to travel down roads we didn’t know existed. We gladly pass the torch to the next generation and ask them for help when we need it. We’re glad for all that, aren’t we? At least most of the time.

My kids have gone beyond me in many areas, including spiritually. The image of the old wise elder going on before, showing the way, is maybe sort of true. But not completely. Both my son and my daughter are experiencing spiritual discovery and growth that almost seem exponential. Some of the grandkids are following the same path. It delights us, their parents. It also makes us somewhat nostalgic.

I remember in our young adult years, and even up into middle age, all that we were discovering and experiencing about the work of the Holy Spirit, spiritual gifts, ministries of healing, and so on. We believed in miracles and prayed huge fantastic prayers. We became lost in the wonder of worship. It was beyond exciting.

Oh, we came down for air often. Life on the spiritual heights is not sustainable for long periods of time. But the mountain of new spiritual experience was there and we were believers.

We did, indeed, suffer a few extremes that needed tempering. I remember a book a small group of us were reading about the ministry of exorcism, new territory for us. I believe the title of the book was Pigs in the Parlor, and it focused on demonic activity even in local churches. It taught us our authority in Christ and how to cast out demons.

Sound scary? It was. But we took it all to heart and began to practice, first of all on each other. We discovered new freedom from fears and traumas from the past. But I think we took the whole thing too far. For a time, we were finding and casting out demons everywhere.

For me, it all came to a stop one afternoon on the Bolivian altiplano. We were participating in a small church gathering of rural believers. The teacher, a local pastor and good friend of ours, was giving an early afternoon sermon. A little old lady, sitting on the ground in the front row, had gone to sleep. A normal thing for an older person to do after lunch. But Pastor Germán wasn’t going to put up with it. So, in a loud voice that startled the poor lady awake, he cast out the demon of sleep.

At that moment something popped in my brain. “This is ridiculous!” I said to myself. And it was. That dear woman was no more demon possessed than the blanket she sat on. From that point on, Hal and I began to pull back and apply some rationality and common sense to all that we had been learning and experiencing.

Now in my latter years, I find that I still believe in a God who heals. I even believe in the ages-old Christian ministry of exorcism when that’s appropriate and necessary. I still believe in miracles, but I prefer the more hidden everyday kind, the ones you miss unless you’re very attentive.

But our kids are on a different path of discovery and I think they’re traveling with more wisdom than we had. And, like I said, it all makes me a little nostalgic. Excitement is fun, if you have the energy for it.

A few months ago, I was preparing for a doctor’s appointment. My doctor had been experimenting with different drugs to help alleviate the condition I had been suffering [see last week’s blog]. I wrote this “Pre-Appointment Prayer,” wrestling with some of my faith/healing/miracles questions.

Pre-Appointment Prayer

I used to think miracle meant
water to wine,
weather control on a massive scale,
taking tea on the lake without benefit of a boat.
In order to be legitimate,
miracle had to thunder, blaze,
astonish and dumbfound.
Nothing short of amazing would do.

Now my imagination has simmered down
and my prayers for healing
are less demanding. I’m willing
for miracle to mean the discovery
of a medication that helps.
I’m OK with a lightening
of the symptoms without knowing
the causes. Mild miracles might
be within faith’s grasp these days.

In other words, I’m willing to settle.
But, and please hear this,
I’m open to dazzle.

Willing to settle but open to miracle. That’s me these days. I wonder if my tempered spirituality is a sign of a wise old age. Or is it a signal that I need a new out-pouring of the Holy Spirit? Or maybe both?

I do know that I’m not willing to settle for obsolete. Maybe it’s time to follow my kids.

Grandma goes camping

 Hal and I went on our last tent-camping trip just before the pandemic hit. We were five-years younger than we are now and beginning to feel the physical challenges of “roughing it.” In fact, we came home one day earlier than we had intended. That was then.

The camping trip I went on last week was not anywhere near wilderness camping. I attended a women’s retreat at a Christian campground. Only mildly primitive. But, even so….

The grounds were rustic, something a group of middle-school kids would relish. I’m years removed from middle-school, and “relish” is not a word I would use about last week. I’m speaking of the physical realities, not the spiritual experience. I had to take my old sleeping bag out of storage. It had been a while and I had not remembered how restrictive sleeping bags are. I’m a restless sleeper these nights, so as I turned over, parts of the bag turned with me and other parts stayed put. I ended up in a twisted tunnel of bedding and had to pull and tug a bit to get comfortable. This happened multiple times throughout the night.

The simple wooden bunkbeds were arranged in rows in cabins. Five of us slept in my cabin, which meant none of us had to occupy a top bunk. (In that case, I would have gone right home.) It also meant little privacy, which one can live with for a limited time. But the bathroom was housed in a separate building which presented a problem. As you all know, older bladders shrink, along with other internal organs, which can mean multiple trips to the bathroom. But one can also adapt to that situation if it’s for a limited time. I just kept my slippers, robe, and flashlight close to the bed. However, those forays out into the night made it harder to get back to sleep. (Stop, grumbling, Nancy, I told myself over and over. It could be worse. You’ll live.)

I didn’t sleep at all the second night which was especially problematical since the following day was the all-day fast out in the wilderness. Actually, I had been looking forward to it. I fast at home sometimes, usually for 24 hours. This was a longer fast. We were all sent out to find private spaces in the forest or along the river. We were given a back pack with a notebook of spiritual teachings and prompts for reflection and writing, and a supply of water and sports-drinks. We also carried a folding camp chair.

I knew it would turn out to be a warm day, so I dressed lightly. First mistake. The morning was cold. I had chosen a large field with a spectacular view of the surrounding mountains. But the tall trees to the side kept the sun from reaching the field and I began to shiver. Then shake. My dizziness increased and I did not feel spiritual at all. I finally got up and went seeking another spot, finally finding a lovely place in the forest with sun coming through the trees and a view of the river. But two hours had passed in the meantime.

Our pack included sports drinks, which I usually don’t consume, but I thought that extra electrolytes would help me, so I drank both bottles, noting how much they tasted like colonoscopy preparation.

I made it through the day, fighting my lack of sleep and my dizziness the whole time. When we gathered at the meeting room at the end of the day, our leaders led us through some debriefing exercises. They went on longer than I had hoped for; I was anticipating a small nourishing meal to end the day. Then our leader told us our fast would end at breakfast the next day. Slight let-down. But sleep awaited.

And I did sleep well. After breakfast the next morning, I discovered why the sports-drinks had tasted like colonoscopy prep. They were colonoscopy prep. Or very near to the real thing. I experienced painless but uncontrollable diarrhea all morning long, meaning I could not participate fully in the teaching. I did manage to sit in the back of the room by the door in case I needed to dash out. The staff was understanding, even did an extra load of laundry for me. But I was exhausted.

OK. So much for this tale of woe!

In spite of the challenges, by the end of the week I had no doubts that the Holy Spirit had touched and refreshed me. I was meant to be at that retreat. I wondered why at different points. Most of the teaching and the experiences the staff led us in I had been experiencing all my life. It wasn’t new stuff. But I came to realize that certain spiritual practices never get old, that for the rest of my life I still need to seek healing for past hurts and wounds, to let the Spirit reveal areas of sin in my life that need confessing, show me people and events that I still need to forgive. This is all deep stuff and the Spirit ministered to me in all these areas.

Even during that long, difficult day of fasting. At one point near the end of the day, a phrase popped out of one of the readings and I felt God giving it to me, something to carry with me into the future. The phrase was Live the glory! I’m looking forward to understanding what that means. Near the end of the afternoon, we were told to open the packet of letters written to us by family and friends. Hal had collected them in the weeks before the camp. The letters were like light coming through the leaves, warming and blessing me. Through the letters, I received a second word from God: Write the glory! An affirmation of my life’s calling. Yes.

The blessing and refreshing touched all of us at the retreat, regardless of age. It’s good to remember that.

However, I need to consider the physical challenges the next time I have a retreat or camping opportunity. Hal and I are still hanging on to our little two-person tent, the camping stove and dishes, the blow-up mattresses, the sleeping bags, and other valuable paraphernalia. Sunday evening as I was telling him about my experience at the retreat, I added, I think it’s time to give away all that stuff to whichever grandkid wants it.

In fact, maybe we could exchange our camping equipment for a few nights at a resort hotel. That sort of camping I can still do.