Wake-Up Call
By Mary Gilmer
“…Therefore, I will boast all the more gladly of my weakness, so that the power of Christ may rest upon me.” (2 Corinthians 12:9b)
I was invited to write about my sports injury. Here’s the Reader’s Digest version:
I broke my wrist playing pickleball—I learned a lot—praise God—Amen.
To write about it did sound like a good idea at the time; you know, to memorialize my first-ever broken bone. But the writing commitment quickly went South. It was nasty. Nasty—because the accident was tied to “aging.” Shocking—because I did not know “aging” had to be grieved. And, also overwhelming—because writing about all this nasty, shocking “aging” triggered an emotional avalanche that uncovered unexpressed needs long buried.
Here’s the thing. I had become old. Well, “more” old than “not” old. I am now retirement age. I qualified for Medicare, for Pete’s sake. How could that be? I have never felt old. My awareness of myself has never changed. I’m the gal in the ’60s who played with Barbie dolls that wore heavy blue eyeshadow. And, Barbie Girl here is the same person who recently wore heavy-duty readers to complete said Medicare application online. I am a child of the ’60s, now in my 60s, refusing to identify as a senior citizen. Yes! I AM angry! I could probably have taught a class on osteoporosis, but accept my own diagnosis? Apparently not. Ergo, my neon pink cast.
Off work for 6 weeks, there was plenty of time to reflect. There was endless self-criticism. I accused myself of being an abysmal failure and a complete idiot for having been injured. Renditions of “You Should Have Known Better” played like a looped recording in my head. What made me saddest was this. Holy Spirit had clearly advised me to walk away from the sport—twice—yet I had not yielded. Why on earth had playing pickleball been SO important? Why???
It is here where Holy Spirit intervened, and Jesus’ compassion left me speechless. He showed me He viewed my urgency to play pickleball as understandable and in keeping with what He knew and what I only knew in part. He reassured me that nothing about my misstep arose from ignorance. With such love and tenderness, He explained it like this…
It was He who created me with good eye/hand coordination and above-average physical strength. My confidence on horseback and motorcycles and the joy of an incredibly-fun-decade scuba diving and skydiving was because of this. Beneath all that high-energy activity, however, had been a need. That need was for a personal sense of safety that is supposed to be doled out in childhood. I had not gotten nearly enough. Quite innocently, I had stumbled across a remedy for this serious lack. I discovered when I did things well, I felt powerful. When I felt powerful, I was no longer afraid. Synopsis? When I am powerful, I am safe. Now I see why I sort of became an action-adventure figure on a mission. I was hungry for survival superpowers. And what better way to create the safety I longed for than through skydiving? But wait. That probably sounded completely ridiculous, so let me explain.
Every time I jumped out of an airplane, my brain chemistry would naturally and immediately relay, “She’s dead.” (It never took into account that I had a parachute strapped to me). So, when I landed unscathed on the ground, my brain had to rescind the earlier death sentence in chemical short-hand. What did it now say? It reinforced the narrative about how this being (who was fond of calling herself Skydiver Mary) could never, ever be hurt.
My search for safety through power was met. Yes, it had begun as a corrective maneuver—a dangerous workaround, I suppose—but, you gotta admit, my mission was accomplished. Problem was, I believed I was Invincible because after all, I defied danger and denied death every weekend, just for kicks. Unfortunately, I had groomed myself right into a hyper-independence and worse, was in complete denial about this.
So, back to the pickleball predicament. It had been a very long time, you see, since my last power-producing adventure. Receiving the red-white-and-blue Medicare card in the mail was a death knell. On one hand I was pleased the painful effort of applying on the computer had netted me something of value. On the other, I was filled with dread—as I had heretofore equated Medicare status to seniors who had thrown in the towel. Enter Medicare Mary??? I wasn’t having it. It was a moment where I was prone to grab at anything to reassert my power. It just so happened that the card thing coincided with a call to pickleball from church gals.
You can guess the rest of the story. The Medicare stage of my life had arrived with mandatory precautions and limitations. Ignoring these had ultimately put me in harm’s way. The crux of this mess was that I had opted to quell my fear via a well-worn path, a.k.a. my way. And through that last ditch, personal bid for power, going for that impossible shot ended in a fall that broke my wrist in two places and my tailbone clear through. Most people would have just let that ball pass, you know? But for me, I threw caution to the wind because it literally had been a matter of life-or-death.
Bottom line is, secreting ourselves behind defense mechanisms is counterfeit relief and ultimately dangerous. We needn’t hide our weakness. He assures us safety is in Him and Him alone, and we are directed to boast or broadcast our wounded, needy state. Only through this pride-piercing posture can we gain access to real power—His.
So, I ask, what is your weakness? What is the lack, the great loss, the thing that is still so hard for you to grieve that it compels you to hide behind a superpower? And what is that superpower? Sports, academics, vocation? Your identity in church ministry? How about your spiritual gifting? (Oh no…not that!) All skill, talent, and opportunity are precious gifts from our Creator and, therefore, inherently good. It’s the self-protective mishandling of the gift that messes up the channel.
Superpowers be damned. Our performance accrues us nothing. Freedom only comes through an ego-free dependence on Him, and this, based solely on the fact that it delighted Him to create us in the first place. He implores, “Child, be still.” He wants us to know, to really know, how much we are treasured. Thank God for His endless patience and understanding. I find myself repeatedly asking for courage to trust Him more and me less.
The great pickleball predicament had turned a wake-up call into an altar call. Clearly, He had protected me from far worse injury, so it is with gratitude I surrender my bruised and broken superpower. Although it had failed to provide a sense of safety against the inevitable march of time, it had caused me to turn to my Lord for rescue in a way that I could have never imagined possible. As I vow to yield to Holy Spirit’s continued scouting for areas of my life that aren’t fully mourned, I feel I am settling into that coveted stage of grief called acceptance.
It occurs to me as I finish writing, that a demonstration of surrender is called for. Most people associate grieving with the loss of a person, someone loved and trusted, right? Well, it makes sense to say then, that I am grieving a person; I grieve the loss of Skydiver Mary and all that she bravely stood for initially. I can say now through hard-won tears, “You had served me well, faithful friend. It’s time. I will miss you, old girl.”
…I heard the Lord say a moment ago, “Blessed are those who mourn, for they shall be comforted.”
Here, then, is my “revised” Reader’s Digest Version…
I broke my wrist playing pickleball—I grieved a lot—praise God—Amen.
