Those who are healthy

Working in urgent care and emergency rooms, we see whatever walks through the door. That means whatever. It means the 64-year-old with appendicitis (yes, at the Children's ER), the 8-year-old who ran over his ankle with a motorized scooter and has severed nerves and blood vessels, and the toddler who had a black marker stain on his foot. At one in the morning. True story.

In the midst of all the real emergencies, it's so easy to become cynical towards the families bringing their kids in with marker stains (and trust me, it happens WAY more often than you would think!). It's so easy to judge parents, grandparents, foster parents who I think should know when to bring their kid in and when it's okay to watch at home. I get frustrated that after motrin, a popsicle, and a sticker, they look just peachy and ready to go home.

Then I read in the Gospel of Luke about the call of Levi, where Jesus tells the similarly judgmental Pharisees that "Those who are healthy do not need a physician, but the sick do." Can you see the 2x4 shaped mark on my head? Obviously no one wants to bring their kid to the Urgent Care at three in the morning. No one wants their kid to be crying and sick and miserable. They came because they need a physician. Even if all that physician needs to do is reassure them, give their kid a popsicle, and tell them what to expect for the next few days. Even if all that physician needs to do is check for an ear infection, eyeball a rash, or, yes, clean off the marker stain with an alcohol wipe.

And what a privilege it should be to treat those kids. What a privilege it should be to offer a little bit of hope, help, or healing. No matter what.

The last few days I've tried to remember that as I walk into my shift, to bring compassion to every patient, not just the ones who I think are sick enough to see me. After all, they wouldn't be there if they didn't need something.

Into the desert

Today marks the beginning of 40 Days For Life, a world-wide initiative to fast and pray and peacefully demonstrate for the end of abortion. I'll be honest, I've been remiss in the past, largely ignoring these events and just shooting up a couple of private prayers every time it came up. However, thanks to the myParish app (weird, but true), I found out about the opening Mass across from Planned Parenthood, said by our own Fr. Greg, and lo and behold, had the day off with no excuse to miss.

One thing Fr. Greg said that struck me was regarding the Israelites in exile, and how exile was a "severe but merciful" response from God to wake them up to the fact that they had already turned away from Him in their hearts. The exile was merely an outward manifestation of the inner truth, but it ultimately led to repentance and redemption as the Israelites were shocked out of their complacency and sin by physical suffering.

As we are also celebrating the Pope's visit to America and the World Meeting of Families, and in the midst of some of the most despairing times in terms of religious freedom and anti-Christianity/Catholicism, it would not surprise me if these 40 days signify an exile for our country as well. It's obvious that we could use a wake up call. That the hearts of our citizens are turned far from God's plan for us. That we are in dire need of "severe but merciful" action by our Creator.

It may not be pleasant. In fact, it's almost certainly not going to be. But in the cross is victory. He has conquered the grave and won the battle. We have only to turn to Him, to not be ashamed to wave His banner, to fight under His protection and not fear death. So I pray for the unborn, and I pray for our country. That we will wake up and recognize our pride and selfishness and realize our need for God, our need to become who He created us to be.

Looking back

The other day I was grabbing a quick bite at Wahoo's when my attention was drawn to a large gathering of (pretty loud) young adults. Not unruly, just festive. In the midst of them was a grandfatherly man with a very recognizable white mustache. Dr. French was my medical school pharmacology professor and powderpuff referee. Apparently 8 years later, he's still going strong, celebrating the first exam of the Neurology block with the students and his co-block director and co-referee Dr. Ojemann.

In a fit of rare extroversion, I said hi to the students and my former professors. (Yes, the profs did remember the only first-year team to ever beat the second years!) The students were jubilant with the prospect of an evening without studying (hence the volume of their gathering), and excited to meet an alum who survived. It brought back lots of memories and nostalgia--those of powderpuff were infinitely more positive than those of memorizing The Oje's neural pathways.

The profs commented that it must be nice to be done with schooling and residency and into my real doctor life. And how! Although I would do it again if given the chance, I'm extremely grateful to be done with that part of my life.

It's a rite of passage for sure, but there is a light at the end of the tunnel.

Little lights of dinners out at the end of exams, sure, but also bigger lights of realizing why it is that you spent so long memorizing all of those details. The light when you use that knowledge to treat a patient, when you actually get to do what it is you trained so hard to be able to do.

And the light of still being able to play flag football. That, too.

True love (but for real)

I don't have anything brilliant to add to this saintly wisdom. Even if I did, I wouldn't say it as well. This is from Karol Wojtyla's "Love and Responsibility" (written before he became pope, and a solid foundation upon which was built his "Theology of the Body"). Much of the first part of the book talks about different types of love, and asserts that attraction and affection are not sinful, or even inferior types of love, just incomplete, as they are meant to lead us to a more complete love.

In this part, he speaks especially towards sexual attraction as a key component for betrothed love (he even goes so far as to say betrothed love is not possible without it), but that it grows into a more authentic love as it points towards the value of the person as a whole. Read carefully. And then read it again.

"True love, a love that is internally complete, is one in which we choose the person for the sake of the person, -that in which a man chooses a woman or a woman chooses a man not just as a sexual 'partner' but as the person on whom to bestow the gift of his or her own life. 'Sexual' values, vibrantly present in their sensual and emotional reactions, contribute to the decision and make it a more intense psychological experience, but it is not they which determine its authenticity."

"We are bound to recognize that the choice of a person of the other sex as the object of betrothed love, and a the co-creator of that love by way of reciprocity, must depend to a certain extent on sexual values...[but] the choice of a person is a process in which sexual values cannot function as the sole motive, or even - if we analyze this act of will thoroughly - as the primary motive."

"So that if we consider the whole process by which a man chooses a woman or a woman a man, we can say that it is set in motion by recognition of and reaction to sexual values but that in the last analysis, each chooses the sexual values because they belong to a person, and not the person because of his or her sexual values."

This guy knows what he's talking about

Sippin' Suds

Random Laura memory for your reading pleasure:

One of the first times I ever remember enjoying beer was following an indoor soccer game when I was in medical school. A gal in my women's group played for a team that needed a sub, and being (un)arguably the most athletic option in our group, she asked me if I would join her. I remember sucking wind so hard I had to go to the restroom at half time because I thought I was going to vomit. I remember a few good touches and a lot of bad ones, and the muscle memory of over 10 years coming back to me by the end of the game. And I remember going out for pizza and beer after the game.

This may seem routine to most of you, but to my sheltered, introverted, prohibitionist 23-year-old self, it was quite a thrill. First of all, to think I was meeting new people, going outside my comfort zone, showing off my athletic prowess (that last part may not be what actually happened)--it was kind of amazing. This is what young, single adults do when they're not crouched in their room rotating a model of a human skull to memorize nerve pathways! I was basking in the glow of the guys calling me "Mia Hamm" (so maybe I didn't suck so bad after all). I marveled at our captain's vast knowledge as he discussed draft options with the waiter (How does one even know that many beers?). And I can still taste that wonderfully greasy cheese and Shiner Bock merging together to form perfection.

I remember wondering if it was only because I had exhausted myself and my salt stores on the field, or if it was because I was drinking something besides Coors Light, or if it was because I was enamored with my new-found social graces, but that beer tasted good! This must be why people drink it, I thought. It took a few more years for my palate to fully agree, but considering that now my standard day-off activity is microbrewery flights with the womb-mate, I've come a long way, baby.

Also, speaking of bocks, Paulaner's Salvator is pretty delish as well.

"Take a moment to remember..."

It’s now been over a week that we’ve been down from camp. The end of summer party has come and gone. The counselors have returned to their homes. I am (almost) unpacked. I’m still trying to capture the enormity of the four weeks, to somehow process it. My journal entries provide a raw look at what transpired during those weeks, so that’s where I started.

As I read the musings of my heart while at camp, I was struck by the intensity of it. So much longing, so much doubt, so much desire, so much gratitude and regret and openness. It’s no accident these writings spring from the grace of daily Mass, frequent confession, adoration, and daily prayer. When I am close to Him, my true heart is known. I can know myself more accurately, see His work in me more easily, hear His voice more clearly. That doesn’t mean it’s easy. Camp is hard—the writing is evidence of that—worry, anxiety, frustration. The storms, the fatigue, the soreness, the feelings of inadequacy. But more than that, there is comfort. Prayers of gratitude and safety and confidence in God’s love also fill the pages. I can almost hear the sigh of relief as the words move from questioning to resting in Him, over and over again. He is in control, and He came to give us life to the full.

The Suscipe of St. Ignatius made its way to the front of my mind numerous times at camp, and is one of my favorite prayers. It embodies the abandonment necessary to give completely of oneself without calculating the cost. This is the radical availability that we live at camp, which is one of the greatest lessons and challenges of the whole summer. 

Take, Lord, and receive all my liberty,
my memory, my understanding,
and my entire will,
All I have and call my own.
You have given all to me.
To you, Lord, I return it.
Everything is yours; do with it what you will.
Give me only your love and your grace,
that is enough for me.

The Burning Bush

The things that happen at camp are unlike anything that happen off of the mountain. Ever. How do I explain to people who have never been up here the epic lightning protocol poetry slam, or engaging teenage boys in conversations about virtue and love languages on a 13-mile hike, or a Hanz and Franz 230 wake up call, or Mass every day in front of the meadow (or in a car wash parking lot), or the deep conversations that happen in a pick up truck in the rain while on a sandwich delivery run. 

Those things don't happen anywhere else, and in a way that's what makes this place so special. God works in a way up here that is unlike anywhere else, and that makes it challenging to remember that He works just as much (though differently) off the mountain, every day of our lives. It's easier to see it up here because we don't have the distractions of cell phones and traffic jams and work and television. It's easier because we know that's why we're here and we want to be intentional, because everything here is oriented towards restoring the four harmonies. It's also a little bit harder because camp is exhausting and the definition of sacrifice, but ultimately, it's all more full. Life to the full. 

What's hard about it is bringing it down from the mountain. Because this is a very brief reality that needs to overflow into our lives when we leave. We need to have those deep conversations, take time for prayer, connect to nature, sacrifice our preferences for others, live in the dirt and grime and exhaustion of our state in life. I may still never be able to articulate these experiences, but I hope that they show themselves in everything I do from this day forward. That's a tall order. But our God is big.