Ebb and flow

I was talking last week on the phone to a friend whose grandson, now in his 20s, has had M.E. since his teens. Our experiences are similar in that when a period of relative "boom" comes in the M.E. energy rhythm, we tend to attempt too much and face "bust" again with almost immediate effect. He tries to climb mountains, then collapses again before he can complete it - he hasn't ever had chance yet to be the man he dreamed he'd be.

The lad's mum has funds enough to send him abroad to the greatest experts in the field. Even they can do little more than tell him what we all know in our hearts. Sleep does not refresh our batteries and our bodies aren't recharged by rest to be "fit for purpose". Once the body is sufficiently drained and exhausted, the pain levels, the muscle co-ordination, the brain's recall, the autonomic systems are in meltdown in ways we cannot predict or prevent.

Walking across a room can still be a mountain or marathon to me! I've had a life of fulfilment, challenge and exploration; my heart goes out to those who have never had enough respite from M.E. to recognise themselves well in the first place.

My little goals are more modest these days, of necessity. Attempting to be as useful as I can, WHEN I can, dreaming of returning to my ministry one day, unable to fulfil the 24/7 vocation of a minister or most days even getting by with basic tasks since my most recent collapse, I've offered to take one service every month or so in the churches of our local Circuit. It sounds so little. But this time last year I could not have offered even an hour a month's voluntary local preaching. 

Last Sunday was one of those occasional services. The steward picked me up and drove me to his church a few miles from my home. Even the journey itself, crunched into the car with its twists and turns on the highway is disorientating enough! 

It now takes me so crazily long to prepare for one brief session in the pulpit and aisle. This is what I do!  Why does it cost me so much now to do it? So long to recover afterwards. But it's the joy and privilege it always was, and perhaps even more precious for what it takes me now to offer it.

People in these churches who knew me "before" are touchingly delighted to see me "facing the wrong way round" again, even if only for an hour. They often say how well I look. Does that just mean "standing up" these days? They see me holding the sides of the pulpit (how it hurts to grip with sore, jerky fingers!) and don't realise that it's sometimes only that which keeps me upright till I can sit down during some quiet hymn or song or reading so the room will stop booming and spinning jerkily, all blare and blaze.

Most don't realise that what I used to do "on the wing" I now need extensive notes for, to keep everything in my head, so we can take the collection in the right slot or remember the punchline to a "spontaneous" illustration. Maybe they think at 49, I've always had this collapsible stick hidden in a closet somewhere, waiting to produce to keep the rubbery pavements from throwing me off kilter! Maybe they are just being kind!


I still chuckle to remember at my hastily-arranged "farewell" service, as other colleagues celebrated their time here and went on to new parishes and challenges elesewhere, as I was reluctantly forced to become a reclusive shadow, one dear lady from another denomination leaned across to me and stage-whispered with a horsey commiseratory pat that set my raw muscles alight with pain:


"I'm so sorry to hear you're jacking in the church!"


I've never "jacked in" my calling and I never will. It hasn't jacked me in, either, or at least God through the grace of his Spirit in Jesus never ever will! But a very different course has to be plotted with Him, now, moment by moment. Trusting in His strength, with no fear of mistakenly thinking my own is sufficient!


Since my hour leading worship on Sunday, I haven't been able to function much. I had rested up to be ready. Afterwards my body had had more than enough. For days now I haven't really had the strength to cook or read or concentrate for more than a few moments at a time.


I once had sessions with an Occupational Therapist, who was slowly learning from M.E. patients why the psychological "treatments" didn't work when the illness was patently all too real and neurological/immune system based. Through the brainfog, swollen glands, untrustworthy vocal cords, in a darkened room with muted light so my eyes could bear it, I told her:


"To me it's a bit like a tide coming in. Moving towards recovery is like waves lapping up the shore; the breakers drag you back a little down the beach before being drawn back up again, gradually towards the strand."


I've had glimpses of high tide and I truly treasure them. Today I'm somewhere wandering among the rockpools, and do those limpets nip!