Waiting and Gratitude...

I have been thinking a lot about waiting. Perhaps, because I haven’t been waiting with a sense of ease, lately.

Recently, I had the first blood test in six months to detect the presence of prostate cancer cells in my body. During the weeks before the test, I had to consciously choose something other than fear to replace growing anxiety that the treatment was not working. I was under “should-of-been” attack. I “should-of-been” eating smarter, exercising more, stress-free, ultimately giving health and recovery my best effort.

Of course, I don’t wait in the moment – in the precious present. My approach to waiting is to project my idea of what the future holds into the present.

On December 3^rd I will get another Lupron shot. My $7,500.00 wonder injection (I don’t think that incudes the cost of administering it.)  Personal experience teaches that the side effects get noticeably worse during the three weeks following treatment. As someone who sometimes “future-trips,” the thought of signing on for another six months of this emasculating testosterone-stripper is absurd. Can’t go there. Change the messaging. Gotta get back into today with all it’s mysteries, wonders, joys, regrets and flaws.

Living in the moment… setting both feet firmly in the day maybe the place I have grown the most. Not on my own… I’m constantly seeking help with retraining myself. After all, I was raised, maybe even bred, to be fearful and avoid reality.

Have no idea why, but in third grade I was diagnosed with a duodenal-ulcer. Some still undetermined thing or event made the world a scary place. Seventh grade was ten times worse… frozen with fear to the point I refused to go to school halfway through seventh and for all of eighth. My parents didn’t know what to do.

Mom’s answer was, “Wait until your father comes home.” Dad’s answer was to spank me twice a day with a Ping-Pong paddle or leather-shaving strap. My response? Simple. I refused to get dressed. This went on for months. Beaten before dad left, refusing to change clothes… locked in my room for the day, not allowed to socialize, nothing but my drums, record player and radio, waiting for my dad to come home. A battle of wills that lasted 3 months.

Today it is easy to recognize light years of progress with waiting, waiting to discover wellsprings of hope and possibility. After all, there in my room was Louis Armstrong, Al Jolson, Gershwin, Berlin, Rodgers and Hart. Not to mention, some strange idea of a God that could only be spoken to with the covers over my head so no one would know I was praying.

Today I see that the God I prayed to wasn’t big enough. He was just another authority figure. I needed a God big enough to stop a drunk from beating up on a kid and his dog… a Power capable of healing that family and making it whole.

Back to this recent blood test… six months ago, after a year of Lupron treatment, my PSA was 0.02, making it clinically classified as an “undetectable level.” Last week, my PSA was 0.029. I think this is probably fantastic. My visit to the oncologist on the 3^rd will hopefully confirm good news. The second reading is a product of a “Super-sensitive” version of the test. It reads to the 1/1000^th. The previous version did not. The bottom line for a guy with an advanced and aggressive form of cancer is the treatment is doing what it is supposed to do and I am living in the solution.

In this season of thanksgiving and gratitude, I choose to set my sight on what is good and commendable… a fool for hope and possibility.

 “I may not be the man I want to be; I may not be the man I ought to be; I may not be the man I could be; I may not be the man I truly can be; but praise God, I’m not the man I once was” (Martin Luther King Jr.)

My gratitude grows from a certainty that the best is yet to come. It is worth the wait. Joy comes from sharing the journey with all the extraordinary people who fill my life with laughter, love and visions of soaring… alive and free.

Happy Thanksgiving…

Listening to the silence...

This time last year I was halfway into a month long sabbatical. With the support of family, spiritual director, friends, lay leaders and staff, I was able to step away from my parish and immerse myself in the gentle rhythms of San Alphonso’s Retreat House on the Jersey Shore… my home away from home for 27 years. 

The clergy and staff of the House could not have been more welcoming. My corner room had a desk, dresser, double bed, recliner, shower and an ocean view -- gracious hospitality warmly given to an Episcopal priest who came to immerse himself in silence. 

It’s interesting how relationships develop in places like these. I sat in a dining room, eating meals where no one spoke a word, sitting at a table with a single place setting in a section set aside for a few retreatants. The silence did not impede us from getting to know each other. The silence allowed us to focus energy and attention where most needed.

I arrived exhausted. Tired from the 24/7 responsibilities of a solo clergy person in a complicated church, and hurting from something I call “cancer-tired” – a tiredness that aches in every fiber of the body.

In October 2014, I wrote this sabbatical-reflection while on retreat.

“Barely one week into it, I can tell that I have been so over-functioning that I stopped listening to my body, working to such an extent that I pushed my feelings down as best I could about the stress and strain of the job, my feelings about having cancer and what the treatment was doing to my body and the toll it takes on my spirit.

Taking care of my health has been an after-thought, something set aside while trying to be all that I felt I needed to be and do in order to serve my parish. It was too much…

Since the beginning of June, our parish administrator resigned to take a position in a Cardinal Parish. I returned from vacation needing to figure out our next steps when the finance manager gave one weeks notice. We scrambled to figure these things out while receiving the news that our treasurer needed to step down because the stress and strain was too much.

With school opening in September, we had a man come to our campus, claiming to be God. The man made a threat against our community, saying he would destroy the evil present in the chewing gum stuck to the bottom of the pews and nothing could stop him. We worked closely with the sheriff and public safety officers of our diocese to secure our campus and protect our children, teachers, tenants, staff and families.

Within a week of each other, two much-loved members of the congregation passed away. I was at their bedsides to give each the last Rites and later to preside and preach at their memorial services.

Not long after our preschool director resigned in favor of a position at a large company, sending us scrambling to fill that position, as well as another created by a teacher's sudden departure due to a family emergency.

Throughout this time the church was a hotbed of stressful financial and interpersonal relationships… Dynamics present in one shape or form throughout these past eight years and for many years before. I am tired, tired from this and tired from my body battling the cancer and side effects of treatment. It is time for me to put my health and well-being first.”

The Retreat House was the perfect place for me. No phone. No computer. No texts. No TV. No news. I could rest whenever I needed. (I could practice, too. A keyboard came along to feed my spirit.) To my surprise, in the first couple of weeks no matter how much rest/sleep I got it didn’t put a dent in the feeling of exhaustion. 

Recognizing the impact of parish-life, the treatment and the disease, I was ready to discern whether it was time to begin early retirement from the Church. Long walks on the beach, quiet time in chapel, simple nourishing meals and a growing sense of peace allowed me to listen to a voice that did more than whisper. It slapped me up the side of the head and said, “You need to take care of yourself. You need to do what’s best for you. You need to give yourself the best shot at living and living well, now.” As my Spiritual Director frequently says, “God is not subtle with you, Norm.”

Music! Music has always been there, breathing hope, healing, love and life into my body and spirit, regardless of whether I was weary and lost or filled with joy and gratitude. 

Medical Disability Retirement took effect on January 22, 2014, requiring me to forever leave a church community that I cared for and loved more than self, take a year off from Celebrating the Mass to allow me to focus all of my spiritual and physical energy on getting well, all while feeling adrift without a long-held sense of purpose and identity. 

Thank God for music!

And, Thank God for the many friends who have come to my side, too. The power of your presence and words is overwhelming. Whether in a few sentences, a letter or an essay, you shed light on life well-lived and life worth living -- a life I see shining in and through each of you.