Sidelined

I watch the tiny, blurry figures dart around the turf square on my computer screen. A team dressed in white is pushing the ball through to the other side of the field when a pass is suddenly intercepted. A girl in red receives the next pass wide to the left and begins a fast-break down the sideline. One defender in white makes a quick change of trajectory to cut off a path to the goal cage. The two figures run towards the corner of the screen side by side, both sprinting at top speed. As they pass the 25-yard mark, the defender turns towards the sideline in an attempt to get in front of the fast-break and slow her down, but in the moment where she should have stepped in front of the ball, the player instead falls to the turf. She doesn't get back up.

"I heard it pop!!" I gasp between sobs, "I heard something in my knee pop!". The athletic trainer tries to bend my leg, but stops when I curl into a full-body cringe. She and my coach, who had also run onto the field, pull me to my feet and help me hobble to the sideline.

. . .

An ACL tear is a fairly common injury for those who enjoy athletic activities. The knee is one of the most complex and unstable joints in the human body. The femur and tibia are joined by a plethora of ligaments and bend across a half-moon of cartilage. To understand the role of the ACL, picture the two bones as vertical posts in a section of fencing with two cross pieces forming an "X" between them. The PCL runs cross-wise from the femur to the tibia, preventing the joint from hyper-extending backwards. The ACL runs from the end of the femur to the front of the tibia, preventing the joint from extending too far forward. Injuring the ACL is like losing one of those cross-braces.

When I planted my left foot to turn in front of the other player, my tibia remained straight while my pivoting momentum turned my upper body and my femur towards the sideline. The force of slowing suddenly from a sprint pushed these two bones together while at that awkward angle. The "pop" that I heard in that moment was my ACL tearing apart as it was ground between my two bones.

. . .

Being the atypical person I am, I did not display the usual symptoms of immense swelling, loose joint, and non-specific soreness. It took a week and a half to eliminate diagnostics down to an MRI, which showed a complete ACL tear and deep bone bruising in the tibia (which explained the point tenderness which had lead to a wild goose chase for the athletic trainers).

I am medically minded, so hearing all these things was interesting, but the overwhelming thought that entered my mind as soon as I was told was simply: I'm done.

An ACL tear is repaired by surgery, which requires recovery time. In the meantime, dynamic movement can easily cause further pain and injury to the joint. Dynamic movement like running, cutting, pivoting, jumping. Dynamic movement like field hockey.

My season was over. My field hockey career was done.

. . .

I've tried out many things in my few years. Softball, piano, guitar, jewelry-making, crocheting - even one season of long-distance track and field. But field hockey is the only thing that has ever stuck this long. I've played ten seasons of field hockey. Ten years. That is half of my life.

As a senior in college, I had already begun the process of letting go. I was in the first stages of grieving the loss of something that had formed me, taught me, carried me. I never imagined that loss would come before we even entered conference play.

The formal diagnosis began a flurry actions and questions: When should we do surgery? Should it be here or at home? Will I be able to finish my academic semester? Will I be able to do clinicals?

After many phone calls home, an appointment with the doctor who had been following my case, and a few text conversations with the athletic trainers, it was settled: surgery over winter break, pre-hab for surgery with the athletic trainers, and a hefty brace to get me through clinicals. It felt like a best case scenario, all told.

And so the dust has settled. And I feel a hole gape in my chest.

I do my exercises to strengthen for surgery while my teammates do sprint workouts and shooting drills. I absentmindedly weigh myself in the training room and find that my ten pounds of "hockey weight" - muscle that I put on during season - is gone in just three weeks. I glance to the back seat of my car and the hockey stick laying there with a new, bright green grip that I applied two days after the injury, before I knew I wouldn't be playing again. I walk out to practice with my lopsided stride and watch as drills and line-ups adjust to fill in my position. I join the team huddle to listen to plays that I will never be part of.

I know that field hockey has given me gifts that will last a lifetime. I know that the lessons I have learned and friendships I have made cannot be taken away by this injury. I know that field hockey will always be a part of me.

But right now all I can feel is what I've lost.

photo credit: Scott Eyre

Act IV: The End of the Beginning

It still blows my mind to think that this is my last year of undergraduate school. The past three years seem to have flown by, yet I feel miles ahead of the eager freshman I was in 2013. I guess that's the whole point of college.

When I started this journey, I was convinced that I'd never want to be done with college. I remember an excited conversation with a fellow extrovert in which we decided that between the freedom of managing our own days and the constant availability of people to hang out with, extroverts were made for college. However, contrary to my expectations, I have reached a point where I'm okay with college ending. More accurately, I'm okay with nursing school ending, as it is on the verge of becoming soul-sucking, and I want to just BE a nurse.

Regardless of all this, there is one year left, and I want to live it well. So here we are at the final installment of "my goals for this year":

1) Be present.

Don't wish away these two semesters, no matter how weary I grow of studying. Be where my feet are.

2) Connect beyond graduation.

Weave pieces into my life that won't evaporate as soon as I toss my cap and call it a wrap. This looking forward while being planted in the here and now will require balance, but don't many important parts of life reside in the tension between two good things?

3) Eat well.

Form habits that will stay, so when I'm in a rush or out of my routine I will still care for my body. If nursing school has taught me nothing else, I know that what you put in your body determines how well and long it will work for you.

4) Listen/watch/read the news.

Being in a college bubble may not be a valid excuse for obliviousness, but it happens to be my excuse. I am putting aside this excuse in order to be a more involved and aware citizen of this earth and with the idea that this awareness will draw me towards needs that I can care for.


So there you have it: the goals of senior year.

photo credit: Hannah Daley and the three other beautiful women and I get to share a house with this year: Leona Good, Maddie List, and Abbie Luther :)

Anything at All

"Make me pretty"
she pleaded into the night,
hands clasped together,
brow drawn tight.

"Child," a voice answered
from deep in the dark
"you are now just beginning,
a bright little spark.
Why do you ask
things so plain and so small?
For hollow and simple,
when you can have anything at all?

Ask for eyes as wild
as the tossing seas,
as eager as the tide
when it reaches for the shore.

Ask for legs rooted deep,
like a tall branching oak
that stands so strong,
yet bends in the breeze.

Ask for arms as wide
as the sun's rays reach
and as strong as the winds
that come before a storm.

Ask for a spirit unyielding,
like a mountain steadfast,
but a heart just as soft
as the morning's first light.

No, my child,
don't ask for plain and small,
don't ask for simple
when I can give anything at all."

My writings posted elsewhere...

I had the privilege of writing again for the Mennonite Church USA blog, this time around the theme of "Love is Verb". Check it out at the following link:

http://mennoniteusa.org/menno-snapshots/love-is-a-verb-doing-what-you-can/

Laboring With

In May I had the privilege of accompanying five other nursing students and our professor on a two-week trip to Haiti. We worked with Midwives for Haiti (www.midwivesforhaiti.com) in mobile clinics, a local hospital, and birth centers. Needless to say, it was a wonderful, stretching experience. The following is a reflection I wrote after a day at the hospital.

In most cases, I feel like the English language falls terribly short in expressing the intricacies of human existence and emotion. One phrase where I do think it is spot on is "laboring with".

On a technical level, this means providing support to a woman throughout the stages of delivering a baby.  This could be providing water, massaging, verbal coaching, or suggestions for techniques and positions. These are all things you learn and observe in nursing school, but in the US they are often performed for the laboring woman, at least in part, by a significant other, friend, or family member. The nurse checks in frequently and remains for the duration of active pushing, but the nurse is not the sole provider of that care.

When we walk into the labor and delivery ward of St. Theres hospital, the labor support looks very different. Whether due to policy or culture, laboring women have no one with them other than the hospital staff, who are low in numbers and greatly overworked. Our addition as two nursing students and a nurse midwife almost doubled the number of staff.

Here, standing beside cracked exam tables, under the half-hearted breeze of a single fan, assisted by a one-wheeled IV pole, a Doppler and the power the human spirit, is where I learned what it means to "labor with".

You don't know the meaning of laboring with until your skin smells like someone else's sweat, until you squat beside a woman to rub her back as she moans through another contractions, until you feel your abs tense with every one of her pushes, until you literally support her body with your own.

By the time her howls reach a climax and you hear that first gurgley cry, it's easy to feel like you've somehow birthed that baby alongside her. But one look up at her sweat-streaked face and exhausted smile is enough to remind you who deserves all the praise and more.

This is the privilege of laboring with. You get to see the incredible beauty of a body that can build another tiny life, to feel the awesome strength that brings that tiny life into the world, to witness the moment when a mother first sees her child. No matter where you are or what you have, birth shows you these things.

Baking the Heavy Away

The weather is beautiful this week. And it feels like it's about time.

It's the end of the semester, so everyone is just limping towards the finish line, one due date at a time. But these past few weeks have felt especially rough. I told a friend recently that it felt like those around me were in the middle of an air raid, and I was just waiting for the next hit.

The unexplainable pain of a little life taken much, much too soon.

The gut wrenching story of hurt and wrong and indifference, close to home.

The tears left when a prayer for any answer leads to an answer you were hoping wouldn't come true.

The stone in your stomach when your eyes are opened to yet another way that our society cripples spirits.

Hit after hit after hit. Not touching me, but hitting all around me. Is there a word for that? When you feel the ripples of the quakes that are leaving cracks in people you love? I sit on couches and chairs and floors, hold hands and hearts and stories, and hope that somehow, if my tears mix with theirs, the pain will be less stifling.

But I can't.

I can't make it less. I can't shelter you. I can't pick up the heaviness of it all and carry it on my shoulders so that you can stand tall once again. Though I want to so, so badly - I can't.

So I wrap my arm around your shoulder and ask you how you're really feeling. I give you space to grieve and time to remember and reassurance that doing those things is important and valid.

I bake.

I bake until my roommate gives me and my mountain of pans and bowls a funny look, because I cannot lift the heavy things off your heart. I cannot shelter all the ones I love from this air raid, or any other. But if I put sugar and flour and bananas in a bowl, I know that in 45 minutes there will be something good in this world, something I can hand to you that says "I'm here", something that will make you smile despite the well of tears.

So as the ground shakes beneath our very feet, I will do my best to bake the heavy away.

Thoughts on Healing

I am  full.


This does not mean I don't have  cracks.

This does not mean there were never  holes in my soul.

But it does mean that I have found the  hope  to patch the cracks,
and the  love  to fill the holes.


I am
      full.

Doctor Grasse

To my knowledge, I was Dr. Grasse’s patient only once. On the day I was born, he was the one to catch me.

According to my memory, I was grandpa’s patient many times.

After all, a doctor teaches.

So I got lessons on nutrition, though probably not the same kind he taught his patients, as he handed me the turkey leg at Thanksgiving dinner, when I was still in a highchair and the piece of meat was about as big as my head. Or when he dipped my finger into the icing of my birthday cake, which I have no doubt I was eager to follow along with. Or when we stood at the stove, measuring out butter and sugar for peanut brittle.

I got lessons on anatomy at the yearly pig butchering, as we would all gather around the table where he was dissecting the heart and showing us the atriums and ventricles, veins and arteries.

I got lessons on operation – of machinery – as I sat on his lap on the tractor, clinging to the wheel, focused intently on steering toward the bale of hay that we were going to pick up and feed to the cows.

A doctor prescribes.

So I was prescribed books. Whether it was the Baby Blues comic book that I read through at least once every time we visited, or the children’s bible that he and grandma gave me for my birthday.

I was prescribed movies. From “The Wizard of Oz” to “Charlie Chaplin”, he would draw from his vast library in the basement, always seeming to have a particular one in mind, which he would find amongst the countless VHSs.

I was prescribed a jean jacket for each year of my life, graduating from small to slightly larger as I outgrew them one by one – though each stayed in the closet in case another tiny farmer came over to visit. Rubber boots too, from one size to the next, so that I was always equipped to tromp out to the cows or the chickens or the rabbits, garbage dish in one hand and a container for eggs in the other.

A doctor examines.

So I sat with him one evening in the pool of a hotel as he examined his life, prompted by my intermittent questioning. We examined his boyhood, his college years, his travels to Ethiopia and Nigeria, and his work here in Arkansas. I was amazed by the places he had been, the things he had accomplished, the lives he had impacted.

A doctors consults.

So I saw him, over the years, consulting a power much higher than his own. In his morning devotions with grandma, in his regular attendance to Calico Rock Mennonite, in his readiness to admit, whenever asked about his admirable life, that it was not with his own strength, but God’s, that he had come so far.

A few months ago, we sat with my grandparents at the kitchen table in grandpa and grandma’s apartment at Menno Haven. During a lull in conversation, my uncle absent-mindedly stroked his jaw. Grandpa, who had been silent during the conversation, suddenly looked up and said “does your jaw hurt?” We all chuckled and my uncle assured him that it was just a mindless habit, but it made me realize something.

“Doctor” is not a job. It is not a profession. It is not a way to make money. It is not something that you do during office hours and leave at the hospital when you come home. It is a calling, a way to live your entire life. Grandpa, Dr. Grasse, Meryl – whoever you knew him as, you knew him to be a doctor.

He spent his life teaching every kind of lesson, prescribing - from antibiotics to literature - , examining his own experiences and those of others, and consulting the Great Physician on how to best care for the people that he encountered at every moment in his life.

Now, as he finally rests, I can only be grateful that I had the fortune to be one of his many, many patients. And I can’t help but picture him standing next to some heavenly exam table, asking an angel “So tell me, how long has that wing been sore?”

I read this piece at my grandfather's memorial service in Calico Rock, Arkansas. He passed away on January 29th, 2016 at the age of 92.