Imago Dei and Disability

Egyptian Princess, 2010

Amber Nething

Ink on Paper

via Arts and Services Artist Portfolios

I'm currently reading a book called 'Adam: God's Beloved' by Henri Nouwen.  Nouwen has long been a favorite of mine; his book 'Life of the Beloved' has been instrumental in my growing to understand what it means to live as one whom God truly loves. A man who spoke frankly about deep issues of the heart, Nouwen was marked by significant loneliness and depression.  His experiences taught him that suffering should be held in close, intimate regard by believers.  It is as predictable as the sun in Summer that I should gravitate toward such things, but I do, so there you have it.

Nouwen spent the last years of his life living and ministering at L'Arche Daybreak, a residential community where people with and without disabilities live and work together.  In his time there, Nouwen worked with and assisted a young man named Adam, who had profound disabilities.  He would help Adam bathe, shave, dress, eat, walk, go to the restroom, and so on.  In this incredible little book, Nouwen documents his relationship with Adam and describes his own journey from hesitancy to acceptance, from perceiving difference to acknowledging similarity. I have not even finished this book and it is already tiptoeing its way into my Desert Island five.

Understandably, reading this book has caused me to reflect on my own work.  I spend my days at an arts based day program for adults with intellectual and developmental disabilities.  I am a music therapist, one of those privileged few who is actually using their degree for its intended purpose.  The people with whom I work are all 'profoundly disabled,' meaning that most of them function at a clinically diagnosed cognitive age of less than about 10.  Most of them have few self-care skills, are non-verbal, and need assistance in the most routine of tasks.  My days with them are filled with small actions seeking small victories: shaking a tambourine, lifting up an arm, making eye contact. Externally, we are engaged in the pursuit of the most basic, most mundane things. But the reality is much deeper.  The reality is that in this work, where we are free of the trappings of lofty cognition, or false selves, we are met with a clear and pure picture of Imago Dei: the Maker's mark.  Nothing separates them from me or me from them. We are made, each of us in equal measure, in His image. We work together to hit a drum: Imago Dei. We lift a spoonful of food together: Imago Dei. We walk together, wheelchair and feet: Imago Dei. It is pedestrian and profound.

When I take the time to look beyond what is so wrongly perceived as  deficiency in those with whom I work, I see holiness in our time together. And as is the case when in the presence of something holy, I find that I am changed, I am transformed.  In assisting them in their need, my need is revealed to me.  

How apropos then, that Nouwen notes in this book that 'true care is mutual care.'

Although I am a theologian's daughter, I  am no exegete.  I have no idea what the original language is in Matthew 5. I'm not intimately acquainted with the context. But when I read Jesus' words: 

“Blessed are the poor in spirit, for theirs is the kingdom of heaven," (Matthew 5:3), I cannot help but think of those sisters and brothers of mine with whom I am privileged to pass my days at ASD. The kingdom is surely theirs, and I am blessed by the glimpses into it I am daily allowed. 

Return

We're going to give this another try.  I've been thinking long and hard about resurrecting this blog.  I was thisclose to getting a new domain, because this blog is rife with dramatic collegiate ramblings, but that was vanity.  Plus, I'm proud of the fact that at some point along the way I grew up enough to regain my appreciation for proper capitalization. I've gone through and organized as best I could, categorizing posts and grouping them based on topic.  To the right, you'll see tabs for each of these.  I know I'm talking mainly to the audience of me, and probably my mom (Hi, Mom!), but it's a good reminder for future me, when I inevitably have a nostalgic glance back.  So, on we go...

A History Lesson
(The parentheses are me.)


Of Days Gone By
Posted on: Monday, 20 February
By Bruce Chambers, The Orange County Register, Calif.

Feb. 19--In 1968, my best buddy David McIntier moved from our suburban Anaheim neighborhood to the more rural town of Placentia. I visited often, and juvenile delinquents that we were, we took to "exploring" the orange groves that surrounded his newly built neighborhood.

The common wisdom among us was that the groves were owned by "mean old farmers, who are bound to take after you and blast you with rock salt from their shotguns."
So it was with some trepidation that we passed through the thick groves of the George Key Ranch (the site of my parent's wedding in 1973) and into a well-manicured garden. Quietly, an elderly man approached us to introduce himself. McIntier bolted for home and left me for dead.

I don't remember much of that brief conversation, but I do remember that George G. Key (my great-grandfather) was kind to me and proud to give me a tour of his private garden. He invited me to visit anytime. Unfortunately I did not take him up on his offer until a few weeks ago, long after his death in 1989. I am thankful that Key left enough behind so that I could learn all about the life that he lived to the fullest.

George Key was born in 1896, on a Fullerton ranch where his father supervised the first Valencia orange grove in Orange County, CA. He witnessed the birth of Placentia and as a young man could easily name all the families that lived in town (including the Charles Chapman family of Chapman University, for whom his future father-in-law served as night watchman to the family orange groves ). He married the local storekeeper's daughter (whom he loved from grade school, leaving flowers on her desk everyday) and attended the Placentia Presbyterian church that his father helped found.

Today the George Key Ranch is a county park, site of a 1-acre orange grove (where I used to hunt for easter eggs and fairies). The grove is the last in Placentia and the Ranch is Placentia's oldest home. It's a wonderful display of days gone by.

(I only have one clear memory of my great grandfather. Every time we would go to visit him, he would be in his office, which was furnished with beautiful dark oak furniture. It was an incredibly old-fashioned room, except for this enormous, pink foot-shaped shag carpet my grandfather always had draped over the back of his chair. I guess it made 3-year old me feel comfortable enough to run up to him and jump in his lap, for which I was always rewarded with a kiss and a chuckle. Isn't it amazing how such quiet men can lead such dynamic lives?)

Success

2011 so far. We're off to a great start.

I want a pen pal. a real paper, pen, cursive writing and stamps pen pal. Can I still get one from China or something like I could in third grade? Or does that just cross the line to creepy at this age? Also, i'm re-reading 'Lord of the Rings' and re-falling in love with Aragorn. Life is meandering along and overflowing these days.

'A mystic is a person whose life is ruled by thirst.'--Brennan Manning, 'The Relentless Tenderness of Jesus'

Small Town Love: A Case Study

I love being from a small town. I'm fiercely protective of it, because in our town we practice the lost art caring for one another. Not checking in every so often to see how the family and kids are, or how the new job is, or planning a lunch date to 'catch up;' but actually taking care of each other. We run into one another in the street and our whole day will take a detour to help a friend who needs any old thing: a rolling pin, a book, a shoulder to cry on...maybe I'm old fashioned, but when we talk--especially during this season--about 'being the hands and feet,' this is what I think of.

So, even though it was a somewhat trivial need, I was touched when, after getting to the island yesterday and realizing I forgot my copy of the book I'm (re) reading on the mainland, my mom called no less than 4 people to track down a copy. Each one apologized and suggested we call someone else who was just 'sure to have it.'. We finally found one--that was delivered to our door no less..

December: A Pictorial

A rainy weekend lent itself perfectly to making jam.

Corey, Sarah and I had a positively cozy night listening to the

popping of the seals on our jars and crying our eyes out

while watching 'The Family Stone' and 'Little Women.'

People in Southern California become children when it rains.

I mean that in the best and worst way.

I've embraced it by getting my Middle-Earth on and

listening to Fleet Foxes nonstop. It's blasphemous to say so,

but I'm a little more suited for rain than sun.

Don't tell anyone, though. I might get thrown out.

My mom, my bestest, truest friend Corey and I went to see 'The Nutcracker.'

We trained down to San Diego and took in a matinee.

Lovely dancing, but I must say the highlight was

when the little girls behind us could no longer contain themselves and began

giggling during the Sugar Plum Fairy and Nutcracker Prince's grand pas de deux.

'Ew!! His butt!! ... his butt!!!'

Ah, from the mouths of babes...

We've had just the right amount of festive in our little Long Beach December.

Tomorrow, it's on to the island where we'll really kick the festivities into high gear.

Boats 'n Hoes?

I never thought it was possible given my huge C-Section head, but...


It's a Christmas miracle!!!!

Rest Your Head, You Shall Find a Manger Bed

A few days ago at work, a client and I were brainstorming 'buzz words' for our upcoming Christmas show. We began sharing our favorite things about Christmas time--hot cocoa, carols, yule logs, general merriment.


Then he says: 'It's a holy time. it's a holy thing, a holy name. It's the birth of Christ, which stands for freedom. Freedom...heaven, which is for resting. Heaven is holy.'

Happy Advent, friends.
May it truly be a time of freedom.

Sick Day

This helps.

Autumn always marks a sharp turn in my music choices. I start listening to lots of songs that talk about the sea, refer to boats as women, and use words like 'mammon' and 'jib.' It's a very folky time for me. It's also the time of the year when i'm most susceptible to country music.

Thus, my most played albums since the equinox:

-'I speak because I can' -Laura Marling
-'Craigie Dhu' -Dougie MacLean
-'All Delighted People EP' - Sufjan Stevens
-'The Medicine' - John Mark McMillan
-'Turnaround' - Stan Rogers
-'A Mouth Full of Dust' - Bradley Hathaway
-'Troubadour of the Great King' - John Michael Talbot
-'A Larum' - Johnny Flynn
-'The Queen is Dead' - The Smiths
-'The Wild Hunt' - The Tallest Man on Earth
-'Jacaranda' - Josh Garrels
-'Continuum' - John Mayer

Spock-O-Lantern

Inspired by my friend Sarah and her crazy-bits affinity for all things Dia de los Muertos/Halloween, I decided to try my hand at 'for reals' pumpkin carving this year. If you know me, you know I love Spock. If you don't, let me tell you: I love Spock. My love is a little tongue-in-cheek, a little nostalgic, and a little bit real. I found a template (is that cheating?), and got to work.

Even though he'd disapprove, I am irrationally proud of it.

Saw Sufjan last night.
I'm still processing it.
That sounds dramatic, but he's dramatic, so it's fitting.
I will say this: if Sufjan doesn't mind the gap, then I don't mind the gap.

People say that California--especially Southern California--has only two seasons: 'Summer' and 'Colder Summer.' While they have a point, they aren't entirely correct. When Fall arrives here, you feel it. It doesn't slowly show up on trees; it's not gradual. Fall seems to be immediate. There will be a morning (like this morning) when you'll walk out the door and you'll feel it in the air and taste it when you inhale; it's like biting into an apple. But if you're not paying attention, you'll miss it, and that's why it's my favorite time of year.

songwriting class

A lyric sample from the songwriting class i teach at ASD:

'Love is young, love is old
It makes you fearful and bold
Love you'll take to the grave
Makes you scared, makes you brave.'

Our band is called The August Apples. Look for the debut album sometime...soon. When we buy a microphone.

A lot of people pooh-pooh the LA County Fair, but today I:

-Ate the best turkey leg of all time.

-Saw the fattest pig that ever lived.

-Almost bought a Sham-Wow.

-Saw a poster-sized needle-point portrait of Michael Jackson.

-Tried to figure out a way to steal this little guy to my left.

But I still couldn't convince anyone to ride the Tilt-a-Whirl with me.  

gustate et videte? gustate et videte.

-I was reading this book on my mom's kindle about being the 'marrying type.'  My motivation in reading it was, admittedly, flawed: read it, so I could consequently be angry that such a book exists and justifiably think things like: 'Who is this person to tell me these things?! There's nothing wrong with me! Just because i'm 26 and completely single doesn't mean i'm not the 'marrying type!'

Anyhow, in the middle of doling out terrible (read: 'actually pretty good') advice like: 'protect your heart,' and 'keep Jesus first in your life,' and 'God's got a plan,' and 'singlehood is useful' (There's another novel of a blog just waiting to be written), the author said something that has since stuck. In speaking about finding a mate, she mentioned that marriage relationships are most successful when those in them are part of the same 'spiritual weight class.' I begrudgingly agreed wholeheartedly. Then I sighed and got a little sad.

-I celebrated my 2-year anniversary with Arts and Services for Disabled yesterday. It's been a quick, full, heart-healing two years. I've learned things I never knew were there to learn, made many wonderful friends, and rediscovered the magic and absolute necessity of creativity in my time at ASD. And, on the coattails of the burgeoning nostalgia, my boss' boss called to ask me to present our little silent film project at the Western Region Association of Music Therapy Conference at the Queen Mary in March. My palms are already sweaty.

-Speaking of the silent movie, check this out: 'Love is in the Air'

-I'm reading 'The Cloud of Unknowing.'  I'm also reading 'Tarantula' by Bob Dylan. One is much better than the other. Hazard a guess.

On Pelicans and Promises

Today on the way to work, God told me he loved me through a pelican.
And I was once again reminded that His ways are higher than mine.
And that sometimes, there is action in inaction, and magic in patience.

My sister got home yesterday. Very glad i was to see her. (Yoda.)
She brought me a letter from one of the girls at the academy, Yanga.
In it, Yanga--an orphan, who grew up in a township--encouraged me to read James 1:2-4:

'Dear brothers and sisters, when troubles come your way, consider it an opportunity for great joy. For you know that when your faith is tested, your endurance has a chance to grow. So let it grow, for when your endurance is fully developed, you will be perfect and complete--needing nothing. '

Then she asked me how she could be praying for me.
Feels good to get schooled by a 14-year old.

The Gladdening Light

Usually at dusk, at sunset--my favorite time, when my soul's nerve endings all seem to be lit up--during my silence, I am led to a room. a plain, wooden-paneled room. dark, but not without lightness. Warm. Regal. Plain. I come through a door to find the beloved three sitting at a plain, sturdy table. Jesus, with a full, rich, dark beard and smiling, knowing, slightly sad eyes. It's on him my eyes are fixed, but the other two are there. The Father is all light and power and brightness and bigness. Sometimes He laughs--a great, booming, thunderous thing at which I myself never know whether to laugh or to cry. He seems relaxed there. almost jolly. And the Spirit, who has ushered me in and goes with me when I leave, seems to be nothing more than a shimmer. or a disturbance of light, like the bending of heat waves on a desert oasis or those bright stars you see when you close your eyes and rub them. Mysterious, beautiful, and surprisingly constant.

These Beloved are enjoying a meal off wooden plates and cups.  They always invite me to join them. And I do. And we sit. We commune. I hear them smile and laugh at the goings-on that delight them, And I feel just a bit of their immense joy. I hear them sigh and speak together in concerned tones about what saddens them, and I feel a bit of their sadness. But in the end, they always turn their smiles, their light, and their beauty upon me, kiss my cheek, make the sign of the cross on my forehead, and tell me to go out, remembering who they've made me to be, mindful of my salvation, and sure of their love for me. And I turn toward the door, which is almost bursting from the banging, and knocking, and pushing of all that waits beyond this peace, trying to distract me, trying to turn my attention away from these beloved Three. but they don't send me alone. They will see me tomorrow, but until then, that shimmer of knowledge, that wind of conviction and assurance will walk before, beside, and behind me. Leading my steps and holding my hand, for I shall not walk alone.

Amen and Amen.