Companionship

It hasn’t been a relaxing day. It never is when I get up before seven in the morning. Even less, when I don’t sleep well through the night.

A couple of days ago, the nice lady on the phone told me when I needed to arrive at the medical facility today. The scheduled procedure will hopefully help relieve my confusion about what to do next so I won’t have so much pain when I walk. And, tie my shoes. Or, pick up that piece of ice I dropped in the kitchen.

So, I got up early. It’s not that I wanted to get up early. I just want to get rid of the pain more than I wanted to sleep later today.

I had been warned that it would be noisy inside the MRI machine. They say the sounds are often close to 120 decibels. That’s about as loud as a jet taking off.

Even with the earplugs, it was loud. In the weirdest way. Hums and buzzes and beeps—clanging and whirring and banging. But, it’s not random.

The processes required to produce the images also make the noises. High and low, long and short, they go on for the entire time one is in the tube (or tunnel, however you want to describe it). And, there is rhythm.

I suspect a percussionist might find interest in the sounds. But, I agree with my old friend, who, being told he had an “essential” tremor, uttered the words, “I think I could do without it.”

I could have done without them. The sounds, I mean. And, being in the tiny tunnel.

Still, I survived mostly unscathed. But, feeling overwhelmed, I drove home, opting to forego my stop at the coffee shop.

I eased down into my recliner. And, I just sat. For over an hour. I didn’t sleep. I didn’t watch television. I just sat staring at nothing.

I might still be sitting there if an angel hadn’t offered me some food.

No. Wait. I’m getting ahead of myself. That wasn’t exactly what happened.

What happened was, I got a phone call. From an old friend in my hometown. He had no agenda but just called to talk for a while.

We talked. About people. About tasks still to be finished. About the past (we go back nearly 60 years). Tears. Laughter. Hardships.

Blessings, all.

When our call ended, many long minutes later, the funk in which I had found myself was gone. All because a friend offered me bread to eat.

No. Wait. Where does that bread keep coming from?

Oh. I know.

Elijah. Elijah had a task he needed to accomplish. When it was done, and he was successful, he ran for his life. An angel made him some pita (or something like it) and sent him on to God.

It’s an oversimplification, I know. Still. The man of God defeated all the false prophets of Baal and brought an end to a long drought in the land. Then, he ran for his life and hid.

The angel didn’t come with any intent to fix Elijah. He simply ministered to him where he was. Food and rest.

God would take care of everything else. In a “narrow silence”, a quiet and small voice, He would speak.

But first, the man needed bread.

Isn’t that what we do for each other here?

In times of distress, we feed each other. After sleepless nights, we offer places of rest.

I’m still waiting for the answer to my medical questions.

But, the road I’m following is lined with people—other humans—who care for me, and then send me on, strengthened and rested, to God.

As several of my friends keep reminding me, we’re just walking each other home.

And sometimes, the daily bread He gives us comes straight from the hands (and hearts) of our fellow travelers.

I’ll do my best to share some naan when my turn comes.

“Bread. That this house may never know hunger.”
(from It’s a Wonderful Life)

“But he insisted so strongly that they did go with him and entered his house. He prepared a meal for them, baking bread without yeast, and they ate.” (Genesis 19:3, NIV)

I’ve been a little under the weather the last few days. That means staying in bed a lot later than normal and sitting around the house the rest of the day.

The natural result is that I have been feeling a bit down this week.

In an effort to budge myself from my easy chair yesterday (and, coincidentally, out of my moodiness), I suggested to the Lovely Lady that I might go write a line or two. Her response surprised me a little.

“Are you going to write about sad stuff and make everybody else feel the same as you’re feeling?”

Misery loves company.

It was a favorite maxim for the red-headed lady who raised me. Chiefly, it was her favorite go-to to remind her children that peer pressure would bring them to an unhappy end. Troublemakers attract troublemakers. Abusers of substances do their best to draw others into their addictions.

Even the Apostle, my namesake, quoted a Greek playwright in 1 Corinthians 15, suggesting peer pressure can be damaging.

“Communion with the bad corrupts good character.” (from Thais, by Menander)

I wonder.

What if I’m the bad? What if the one bad apple that spoils the whole barrel is me?

Perhaps I’m being a bit extreme in applying the truisms. I only started out to remind myself not to make people around me miserable. I never intended to accuse myself of being rotten to the core.

I’ve always thought of myself as the influenced. What if I’m really the influencer?

And yet, today, as I started down to the coffee shop, I couldn’t help myself. I gazed at the tulip tree on the corner, remembering it a mere two days ago. Brilliant in its blazing purple and pink decorations, it was the gleaming harbinger of spring. My heart had almost sung at its appearance just hours before.

Now?

It stands—dejected and brown—savaged by the cold front that howled through the day before yesterday. What kind of song can be heard when the petals hang sagging and rotting on the branches?

I did the only thing that could be done.

I took a photo to share with my friends and acquaintances. Surely, you will want to share in my disappointment.

Misery loves company.

Peer pressure. Do you feel miserable yet?

This afternoon, I walked up to the nearby university to collect the Lovely Lady from work. As we walked back home (along the very same sidewalk near which the tulip tree stands), she pointed out the green and growing flowers along the way. She mentioned the warmer temperature today and we talked about the happy interactions we each had this morning.

That’s odd. I felt joyful, almost grateful, as we neared our home. The bright daffodils in the yard, most of them planted decades ago by a wonderful man who had a big influence in both our lives, finished the job as we wandered up the cul-de-sac.

As it turns out, joy and gratitude love company, too. Just as much as misery does. Maybe more.

Peer pressure.

The daffodils planted by my father-in-law over fifty years ago still have the power to lift the spirit. Especially when viewed in the company of one who knows and loves me.

It works with friends. And, siblings. And, maybe even dogs.

I took the photo of the daffodils because I just had to show you. Fabulous, aren’t they? So much better than misery.

His promises are still sure. Springtime and Harvest still roll around at His behest.

One day, He will wipe away our tears and we’ll live in the light.

Encourage one another.

Peer pressure.

“We should all be thankful for those people who rekindle the inner spirit.”
(Albert Schweitzer)

“So encourage each other and build each other up, just as you are already doing.”
(1 Thessalonians 5:11, NLT)

He's Taken Leave

Random wanderings with Paul Phillips

A Loaf of Bread

One Bad Apple