I spread a yoga mat on the floor and begin stretching. This daily habit helps get my body parts moving and warmed up for the day's work. In the beginning, I hardly believe that I'll be able to complete even one round of simple stretches and postures. The dizziness is still there, but subsides slowly as I stretch and breathe my way to the end of this simple routine. A little light begins to seep through the blinds, and it feels more like morning.
Sunday mornings like this have happened often. I drag myself out of bed, and in spite of pain and unbelievable weakness due to anemia, I prepare to drive 30 some miles to Carlsbad, one haltering step at a time. Here, there is an element of being more or less coerced into living in the moment. It works out so long as I don't get ahead of myself.
Later, I prepare to sing and play, organizing the sheet music to be sure all pieces are accounted for. The amazing part happens next, when I begin to play the introduction to the Entrance Song. Thanks to some serious cateracts, I place the sheet music as close to my face as possible. Even then everything is out of focus. At times such as this, I'm glad I practice at home during the week.
Playing a two-manual organ
A skeptic will no doubt explain this as an adrenaline rush, or maybe just plain stupid, e.g. getting up at 5:00 am, driving 30 miles, and throwing myself into the liturgy with abandon, in spite of my terminal illness. It's an opinion that I can also respect. Yet, for me these moments are seasons of sheer grace -- in the words of St. Paul, a sort of "strength manifested through weakness," by the grace of God. And, who knows? Perhaps if I had never stretched my humanity to that degree, I would have missed out on some awesome experiences.