Full Use

My physical therapist can't be over five feet tall. She has waist-length black hair and teeth so white, I can't help but stare at them when she smiles. She probably wears a size two. You get the picture; she's tiny.

She performs a maneuver she calls unlocking my shoulder. I think of it as the Death Grip of Hell. She rests my elbow against her hip, and with all the might of an angry Thor, jams her thumb into my armpit. Because I lie flat on my back while she does this, my tears pour straight into my ears.

Cathy whispers, "You okay? Hang on. Almost there. And? Relax." She shakes out my arm after each thumb-jamming. And we do another one. And another, until she can tell I'm about to pass out.

Yesterday, between sobs, I apologized for being such a baby. Cathy shook her head and looked at me sternly. "I've seen a lot of patients," she said. "Shoulder injuries? The absolute worst."

This was not even mildly comforting. (Well, maybe a little.)

Last week, I performed another exercise that involved sitting up straight and resting my knuckles on the table right behind my fanny. Cathy told me to gently -- gently -- lift my hands straight up my back until I could feel a slight stretch and hold the position for thirty seconds.

I could not move my fingers up so much as an inch. More tears.

To watch me move throughout my day, you'd never guess my right arm has limitations. I drive, I sweep the patio, I drain penne pasta. The other day, I rearranged the furniture in a classroom. And yet, I can't take off my t-shirt without bending over so far, my head nearly touches my knees.

What scares me is how quickly I learned to compensate for what I cannot do. By standing on my tippy-toes, I can reach shoulder height shelves. I use a wooden spoon to tip out-of-reach items into a free fall so I can catch them. My left arm is doing double-duty and seems no worse for the wear, and I've discovered how to use my thighs, knees, and even my toes for brand new duties.

Perhaps worse than all of my go-around strategies is the loss of muscle memory. Surgery was only eight weeks ago, yet I cannot remember if I used to apply eye-liner with my right hand or my left. When I dress, I think, "Right sleeve first? Over my head after arms go into the sleeves ... or before?" I frown in concentration, but I honestly can't remember how to complete the most basic tasks.

But the party is over. Tactics have morphed into bad habits, and memory loss is no longer an acceptable excuse for taking the easy route. It hurts to put both arms into my shirt sleeves at one time, to stack plates using both hands, to type with the keyboard right back up on the desk where it belongs. But hurt it must.

I hate the phrase, "No pain, no gain." I've spent decades learning to be gentle and loving with this body, to speak kindly to all of its parts, both in sickness and in health. This tension between my arm shouting, "No! Stop! This hurts!" and my brain replying, "Suck it up" is more than just physically tough. It's messing with my head.

It's no surprise that everything I read these days is about either discipline or courage. And that's irritating to no end. I avoid both by the fistful.

I was telling my friend Lauren the other day that my relationship with God is like a marriage. God and I hang out together because we enjoy each other's company. Just that simple. I believe I'm on solid theological ground here. Jesus often described our relationship with God in terms of weddings (and never courtrooms). And it is for this reason, this marriage analogy, that I resist thinking of my time with Him in any sort of a disciplinary way.

Lauren listened to my earnest little rant and said, "Well, you know, Jesus also described our relationship with God like a parent and child. There's all the love, of course, but no shortage of discipline, too."

Dang it.

Here's the truth. I want to regain full use of my right arm. Talking gently to it isn't going to get the job done. I have to show up to every physical therapy appointment and relinquish control to a person I barely know and only loosely trust. Every morning and every night, I have to make time --  no exceptions -- for an ever-increasing stack of stretches and exercises that hurt.

The results are slow but profound. Every day, I can inch my hand a tiny bit further up my back, reach a little closer to the top shelf of the medicine cabinet, shift the car into drive without wincing every time.

The lesson here isn't difficult. God's gentle love and kindness and acceptance and joy for me are real, as lovely as sharing a pot of coffee with my sweet man on our back patio. I can choose to keep my relationship with Him right here in this comfortable nest, never poking my head out to see what else might await.

Or, once in a while, I can say yes to stretches that make me uncomfortable, perhaps even hurt. Keep talking to the homeless gal that hangs out on our campus, even though she never remembers my name. Take her lunch. Listen without interruption.

Stop hiding from our next door neighbor because he's rightly angry with us for the noisy mess we made during our home renovation. Invite him over for coffee. Apologize.

Prioritize prayer over Facebook. Wrestle with the parts of the Bible I don't like.

No matter how I think of my relationship with God in all its complexities, I know this is true: He requires my trust, and He asks me to set aside my own agenda. And if I do?

Well. I bet I'll find myself reaching new places I never even imagined.