He writhes in agony. Pouring a glass of milk is five minute task. His muscles constrict and contort, often causing him endless hours of pain. He is a prisoner in his own body. During the years since he was diagnosed, he has given himself two black eyes, several punches to the stomach, and bloody swollen cheeks. He has a rare form of Tourette Syndrome. He literally beats himself up day in and day out. He lived through much of his childhood believing that there was no hope, that he would spend the rest of his life behind the iron bars of his own flesh. His eyes were empty, devoid of light or peace. The strange thing is that I understand his pain. I have been there, if only inside my mind. I too have constant spasms of self inflicted abuse.
While my bruises and scars are not visible to the outside world, I see them every day. Every day I am reminded of the terrible deeds I’ve done, the hateful words I’ve spoken, the bad choices I’ve made. Each memory is like a punch to the stomach, the eyes, the mouth. I am a prisoner inside my own mind. Like the young man, I am my own worst enemy, held captive by the demons inside that attempt to destroy the life I’m trying to make for myself. I have had days like he has- despair and agony threaten to overtake me and I am left writhing on the floor, begging for release of my chains.
For people who suffer with Tourette Syndrome, there is good news. Recently scientists have discovered a way to slow down the frequency of the tics, offering hope to millions. Doctors install a device deep into the brain that gently “speaks” to the area causing the tics. This process slows down the attacks, causing much needed relief for the sufferer. Since having had the surgery, the young man is no longer in despair. He is a husband and a new father. He is hopeful. The tics have not left his body; they cannot because there is no cure for this disease. However, they have significantly slowed enough for the young man to live a meaningful and enjoyable life. Finally, he is at peace. He has found a way to overcome the demons in his own flesh.
I too have found a remedy for the brutal attacks that overtake my mind, soul, and spirit. While I will not be cured, I can be made whole again. There is a Book full of hope, promise, and peace. It speaks to the inner parts of me that are bent on destruction and failure. It softens the blows of the enemy, speaking Truth to the innermost parts and silences his threats of death and hatred. Every time I read this Book, I hear words of encouragement, love, and acceptance. I am reminded that every foul thing I have ever done has been forgiven. This gives me strength to go forward one more day. Like the young man, my condition is incurable. Also like the young man, I have found hope and new life through a device that speaks directly to the very places that held me captive. I am free.
"The thief does not come except to steal, and to kill, and to destroy. I have come that they may have life, and that they may have it more abundantly."
John 10:10
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There is a reason why Easter only comes once a year. It is afraid of me. The reason why is because I make roasted lamb for dinner. Lamb on any other day may not seem like such a big deal but on Easter? Let’s count the ways it’s just a tiny bit uncomfortable for me. In every hymn book in America you can find some sort of reference about Jesus being the sacrificial lamb. (Think, “Oh Lamb of God”, "Jesus, the Lion and the Lamb”) Song titles and fragments of songs about the cute, cuddly creature bounce off the corners of my mind as I mix together the ingredients for my homemade marinade. As I fire up my oven, it isn’t long before mouths are watering and we’re inhaling the scent of Bambi meeting his demise in my 20 year old G.E.
As the brown sugar, vinegar, red wine, and ginger bubbled and boiled over the main course, I would be reminded later why this particular Easter seemed to outdo all the others. Easter might be afraid of me, but it sure gained my respect this year. We’ll start with the church service. Normally I provide the special music for Sunday worship. This year I had to hand my torch to a more worthy voice, compliments of my companion of late, Bronchitis. (Come to think of it, maybe this was a blessing in disguise. My song choice was “Worthy is the Lamb”) From Sunday service we’ll move on to meal preparation. I should have known it was a bad idea to wear white without an apron. Score a point for the kitchen demons and grab a clean, non mustard-stained shirt that isn’t white. Here’s where it gets interesting.
The San Jose Sharks are winning and everything is coming together perfectly. Score one for Momma. Two hours later the Sharks are down by one and the meat still has another 30 degrees until we can eat it without threat of disease. By the third hour, everyone is starving, the Sharks are losing by 2 points, and the smell of that dang meat is starting to get nauseating. Finally, it’s time to dig in. While everyone raves about Bambi, I am less than impressed and decide that next year I’ll be serving Porky Pig instead of our beloved Disney character. With the passing of dinner and the hockey game I remind myself that even though it’s another loss, we’re still in the playoffs and the other guys aren’t. I turn my oven up to 425 and prepare for peach pie. The kitchen demons are plotting away…
Suddenly an otherworldly stench fills the air, smoke billows through my living room and I am forced to open every window in the house. As the kitchen demons set up their next play, I carefully remove the broiler pan with charred marinade in the bottom and remind myself that next year I will remember to take it out of the oven before turning up the heat. By now I’m exhausted, high from Bambi fumes and depressed from the pitiful performance of my guys in teal. I can hardly think straight as I stuff the charcoal mixture down the garbage disposal. Nice slap shot from the kitchen demons. It will take another hour to get my sink unclogged, the floor mopped up, and the pipes put back together before we can enjoy my frozen peach pie from Claim Jumpers.
Fast forward 10 hours. I fully believed I was back in this game. I had once again opened every window in the house as the heater blasted and upholstery cleaner covered every inch of carpet and furniture. Wickless candles, carpet spray, and burning incense should do it right? I took the kid and the dog to the park expecting to find the charcoal marinade smell had finally found an escape route. It is now 24 hours later. I have a headache from all the incense, the heater is still blasting charcoal marinade smell, and my carpet and upholstery now reek of generic Febreeze. I can’t get that smell out of my house and the brain fog is jumping on the happy train from various scents in the air. The kitchen demons may be celebrating today but tomorrow I will remind them that I married a pastor and there’s a whole year before Easter comes again. I have plenty of time to plan. Next year’s meal won’t come with a shred of guilt. Bambi will be safe, Jesus will still be glorified properly, and I never liked Porky Pig much anyway. I am so looking forward to Christmas.
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