The Matter of Sister Opaline

When the Sun-glint from her brace caught my eye that Summer day I wondered. About Opaline and her story.

When yet a toddler her body was attacked by the same disabling illness that redirected my own world. For Opaline, however, the impact was evident; dramatically so. Not for months, but years.

In short-order polio wrenched strength and mobility from her lower limbs. Rigid braces received her feet and legs, more or less imprisoning them there.  And – like a prisoner whose parole date is postponed  –  the waiting lengthened. Then lengthened further.

The shiny hip-to-heel fixtures lent support through one elementary school year. Then another, and yet another.

Every morning she rose and called up the ritual – maneuvering each foot into a special shoe. She fitted the cold steel and leather padding about her dormant limbs. At nightfall young Opaline reversed the process. Detaching the braces, she leaned further forward. Then she manually lifted her legs onto the bed.

Lying motionless Opaline sometimes wondered. What would normal movement be like? Running? Dancing?

But this girl was unusual. She carried something within. Resolve. And a zest for living. Ironically, like a distance runner, Opaline entered the Marathon of Life.

Nothing, it seemed, could sideline her. The theme song of her journey could be, “Life’s an adventure. Bring it on.” She matured, completed high school, then college. Friends in our church community regarded her warmly. Smiles typically greeted her when she approached. Neither the crutches nor the braces mattered to anyone. She was Sister Opaline.

Sister Opaline, Sunday School  teacher .

Sister Opaline,  Vacation Bible School director.

Sister Opaline – High School teacher (her “handicap-fitted” car carrying her to waiting students in another town a distance away).

Sister Opaline, Christmas Play director. . .

Delightful Opaline.

She owned her personal imperfections. Opaline looked to encourage others – especially the younger others. Parading either gossip or whining into Sister Opaline’s presence proved mostly futile. Her knack for winsomely shifting subjects was magic. She mined for the best in people. Her naiveté about human nature was flagrant (though no-one accused her of being naïve).

Crutches. (2)

Wherever she seated herself, Opaline’s crutches lay at the floor or leaned at a wall nearby. Her underarm muscles suffered from bearing much of her body weight over the years. Still, her face easily sprang into smile.  The smile seemed visually fragrant like a rose coaxing a passerby to inhale.

Sister Opaline  – Spouse. In a marriage with challenges and hardships of its own.

Our church minister and the common people who worshipped together strove to trust the Bible and its message of God’s big love. And of his available power to bring healings, even miracle-healings. As a nine-year-old, with the aid of crutches, I walked from a hospital. This was weeks after being gravely ill – and after a doctor predicted I would not walk again. And after prayer. By all accounts, through simple trust in a loving healer, continued believing prayer played its role in my astonishing recovery. Was this triumphant faith? To the church family there seemed no doubt. God touched me. Radically so.

And yet there was the matter of Sister Opaline. Would she soon have her miracle?

At a particular church service one Sunday evening I watched keenly, hopefully.

The gangly movements of my Angel-lady comrade entered the center aisle. And moved toward the altar.  She was a little over five feet tall.  Her smartly-groomed auburn hair fell an inch or two above her shoulders. Beneath the shoulders, the ever-present crutches. They bore her along, steadying the balance of a lady hardly a hundred pounds in weight.

Opaline positioned herself in the prayer line.

©2015 Jerry Lout

 

Post-polio. Carried to Wholeness

(conclusion of three-part piece – the Matter of Sister Opaline)

We’ll carry you. Like we did in the winter times, Mrs. Opaline. Please stay. Keep teaching here.              

Her students adored her, the auburn-haired teacher of Geometry, Shorthand and English.

At times during the winter, icy patches lined a critical high school passageway. It was a short outdoor walk linking classroom areas to the school restrooms. With unassuming gallantry senior boys of Opaline’s class physically lifted and carried her to the Ladies Room door. Her crutches, they feared, didn’t give enough stability to get her safely there and back.  Teenage Nobles-in-disguise – they couldn’t  imagine letting her risk a fall.

But now it was time. Opaline accepted that she could no longer teach. Her failing health dictated it.

Traces of gray marked her temples and lines of aging graced her forehead. But it was a diagnosis of cancer that provoked the decision. Opaline loved to teach. She always had. We’ll carry you up and down the stairs to your classes. Anywhere you need, if you’ll stay, Mrs. Opaline.

We lame people – all of us – need carrying at times. A childhood friend recently called up a scene from my polio journey. She watched on a Sunday as my father carried me into our place of worship. He settled me onto a pillow, cushioning my bony frame.  And Opaline – when still a child – was carried to school and back on a gentle horse. Her siblings easily accompanied her on foot.

Facing her condition now, it was Opaline’s faith that underscored an important truth. Mortality itself cripples. Not just accidents or illnesses and the like. She needed carrying in this life. And when such a time came, she would need carrying into the next. The thought didn’t alarm but reassured her. The attractive squint in her eyes, the familiar movement at outer edges of her mouth, testified still to joy. Her Lord carried her now. He would carry her going forward. Regardless.

Opaline passed her church duties to others she had long mentored. She came less and less for the worship gatherings. At last she was moved to Tulsa’s St. Francis Hospital.

I was living outside the country when we received news of Opaline’s death.  The message from Oklahoma was simple, Sister Opaline is now home. I learned shortly afterward, however, that her home-going experience was far from ordinary.

My minister friend, Melvin, sat not far from the hospital bed. He observed Opaline’s responses to what she seemed to witness of the other side before passing away. Melvin spoke of the wonder of her descriptions.

Nearing the end, Opaline rallied. Her eyes opened wide – then wider yet, as though waking up in another  setting. It seemed that she was.

Suddenly her face beamed a radiant Opaline-smile. She was in another place, taking in vivid sounds and scenes.

Oh! The colors, the beautiful colors. . . like none I’ve ever seen, like none I could imagine!  Oh!  And the flowers, such beautiful gardens. . . beautiful, so beautiful!

Her voice trailed. Her eyes closed. Moments later with revived energy and her freshly wakened smile, Opaline resumed the adventure. Now it was sounds capturing her attention.

What glorious music!  The singing and the music is so beautiful.  I can’t imagine. How lovely and beautiful. Oh! Lovely, glorious!”  Again her voice faded. Her eyes closed.

Not long after there was quiet. She was gone.

I have thought a lot on our lives, Sister Opaline’s and mine. The polio battle. Our similar and differing  journeys. I’ve wondered of prayer. Of God’s will. Wondered about a curious mystery – of the miraculous. I am confident that in the experiences of each of us both, the miraculous was in play. Throughout. The supernatural of God entered our worlds and executed his purposes. Undeniably.

At the age of nine – aided by crutches to be soon laid aside – I limped from a hospital.  Amazingly I soon ran. Freely and in the strength of renewed limbs. All the evidence of the experience virtually shouted, Supernatural. The works of a wonderful, powerful God.

And the miracle of Sister Opaline.

Courage, stamina, her giving-switch ever at the ON position. They are marks not of a merely good person – tough, resilient, resolute. Years of rich, contagious smiles in the face of adversity, pain and surely some disappointment. Opaline’s life itself radiated the supernatural. Messages of grace and of joy and love sounded out most clearly from the platform of her limpings.

I occasionally sit back and entertain a visual. While imaginative, to me the imagery seems realistic. And quite possible.

The scene is a court room.

A shabby personage identified as Mortality is presenting his argument. Its a case for fatalism. For futility, for death and decay.

It is the end of the line for her. No rescue,  Mortality declares.  No miracle. No hope. It is over for her, this Opaline mortal.

And Mortality drivels on.

A deafening thunder-clap stirs the room. The court’s great doors heave open.  And Immortality steps through. Vital. Brilliant. Life-pulsing. He then heralds the entering King.

The King’s presence overtakes the environment. A great bouquet of flowers – alive with color and fragrance – is in his hand. A grand orchestra sounds music seldom heard on earth. His eyes survey the courtroom-turned-Ballroom.

She comes into view. Her eyes are adoring, worshipful. Her delight is Him. Her Savior. Redeemer. Friend.

Broadly smiling, the King laughs. He extends a hand.

Opaline runs to him. They dance.

Dancing. 'Opaline'

I eagerly expect and hope that I will in no way be ashamed, but will have sufficient courage so that now as always Christ will be exalted in my body, whether by life or by death.       – Philippians, new testament    

©2015 Jerry Lout  

Opaline. Interior Design

The visiting minister opened his Bible. Taking it up he preached on believing faith. And on healing. He then invited any person desiring God’s healing touch to come forward for prayer.

Several people with varied ailments entered the center aisle. They started toward the front. It was like a mini-pilgrimage for the hopeful. The regulars of the church turned to see their friend Opaline – the elegant woman inelegantly rising and joining with others.  Her friends were moved for her. Her Christ-like example constantly inspired. Most uplifting was her simple and her certain love for Jesus. Her shoulders elevated slightly from the rigid crutches supporting them, Opaline inched forward in the line.

 She had lingered at other times, trusting that a miracle of healing might one day come. She could linger again now. She held strongly to a certain knowing. A healing grace from her Lord would come. Still, she conceded that the when was not hers to dictate. She rested in the trustworthiness of a now-and-not-yet principle often at play in God’s mysterious but all-wise workings. His ways are perfect, Opaline reminded herself.

For Opaline there was no question whether Jesus healed, nor whether she or her circumstances mattered to him. She knew that she mattered. He confirmed his love and presence often. In many ways. She felt it, knew it inside. And she responded by loving in return. Loving him. Loving people. Now here in the healing line, as in other settings, she was just ready; open for whatever he may have for her. It was Opaline’s way.

The Church Family looked on, and prayed. They were hopeful, almost straining to believe. Indeed if a miracle could be willed into being (faith aside) her friends would have already seen to it.

With a kind smile the minister greeted her. He spoke words of Scripture and then prayed.

Nothing.  Some moments of hopeful waiting followed. Nothing. A gradual swivel and Opaline retraced the pathway to her seat. She drew her Bible to its familiar resting place on her lap. Clasping her hands on it she lifted her heart in petition – for those up front receiving prayer.

Years lumbered by. Indeed the years themselves seemed to even limp at times. Variations of the healing-line scene replayed occasionally. A preaching message. The invitation for healing. Opaline at times joining the others. With crutches, braces and her distinct angular limp navigating the center aisle. And again, returning to her seat – her hardware companions carrying forward their duties into another day, and week, and year.

If Opaline was disheartened, evidence escaped notice. No sorrowing looks of disappointment; no clues of sadness.

Maybe her mindset became, Perhaps next time. No one likely knew. Regardless. If her spirit did need rallying – it surely rallied.

Opaline was a deep well. Interior graces like contentment and peace and endurance – in the middle of whatever suffering – deepened her, flavored her. Prayer and solitude and worship. These cultivated the graces. She chose – aware of her frailties both inner and outer – a kind of lifestyle she felt most natural to Jesus. Her inner deepening was traced to her frequent times with him; Worship of Jesus was central to Opaline.  No time for wearying whys or for self-pity snivelings.Life’s an adventure. Bring it on.

Decembers came and went. The Christmas Plays didn’t flounder. Summer Vacation Bible School was Clock-work On.

Opaline’s Sunday School children bounced and giggled when she entered their brightly decorated room. They showed off coloring work and clay figures; it didn’t matter the quality.  It was meaning that mattered. What message from God was each child here to catch today? The view separated the treasured from the trite. Her high school students moaned on a rare day she might be absent. They loved the engaging, gifted instructor. And her smile. Always the smile.

Opaline lived. Limping toward her miracle.

Long ago at a wedding festival the host cheerily exclaimed to Jesus, You saved the best for last.

For Opaline he did the same.

Opaline
Opaline

©2015 Jerry Lout

Standing already. Why Not?

Why Not?

You did what?  My body, settled in the wheelchair, jumped a little. The doctor’s tone was sharp. He was not pleased.

Who told you to stand up?

It was Monday in what would become my final month at Hillcrest Hospital.

I had been at our Okmulgee home for a rare weekend visit. Sunday afternoon I rested on a living room sofa while mom busied herself in the kitchen.

A thought from nowhere suddenly stirred me.

Try your legs. Stand up. For a few seconds I gazed at my limbs. They hadn’t supported my body for months. What if. . ?

Why not?

I wobbled upward, drawing support from the sofa arm. Once fully upright I leaned against the nearest wall. Steadying myself I called out, Mother. Mother! She released her dish towel and it landed on the floor. Some quick steps from the kitchen and she was with me.  She steadied me a little. Then we stood together. Just standing without movement. Upright. My mom and I looked down and took in my spindly legs. Astonished.

Not accustomed to bearing weight, my legs quivered and Mother lowered me again to the sofa. It was then I smiled. Eager to tell the nurses – and the doctor. And Monday came.

Being a youngster, I had been scolded over a generous number of misdeeds before. But never rebuked for trying to walk. Scolded for using my limbs – by a person whose job it was to restore their use?  The thought bewildered me.

I saw later that recovery usually requires process. To put weight on my limbs too soon and without proper oversight could hurt – even ruin – any hope for recovery. Inside though, I couldn’t quiet the rush of emotion. I would soon walk. Walk.

Running with Meaning

In the first blog post of this series, Running with Meaning, I spoke of my dad having a limp of sorts – disadvantages in life. Then the idea of California, notions of work there, a place for beginning a family; these possessed his thoughts. Some why not dreams stirred in Clyde Baxter.

Perhaps you are meeting with hardship, illness or work troubles. Relational pain; maybe a personal struggle.

I think it can serve us well to look about (in my instance a new look at a pair of nine-year-old inactive legs). And to look up. Hope comes from a place beyond ourselves. Up.

We revisit Opaline – the angel of a shared affliction – and her narrative soon. Faith marked her journey –  differently in some ways than mine. Still with wonder. And surprise.

Why not?

©2015 Jerry Lout

 

 

Terriers – Friends – Wheelchairs – Smiles

Nurse Deborah discovered me. How, I’m not sure. She wasn’t assigned to my care. I’m glad she appeared.

One night, finishing her shift, Nurse Deborah dropped by. The visit launched a routine that I kept a lookout for. Her short pop-ins at the door consoled me. And I probably had a crush for her. The door edged open. Her nursing-capped-head tilted into view. We hear the saying – a smile that could light up a room. Nurse Deborah owned that smile. But what made her pop-by-visits priceless was her greeting.

I’m going now, Jerry. Have a good sleep, I’m praying for you! And her smile.

Life wasn’t dull in the hospital. Not always. I wakened in mid-flight late one night careening to the floor. Next morning I studied their work as staff installed bed railings. 

A coal-black Terrier I called Jack comforted me in ways stuffed animals do. Jack couldn’t wish me well or promise prayers like Nurse Deborah.  But the stuffed puppy gave me what she could not – continued tangible nearness inside institutional walls. Hospital or not my quarters remained a not-at-home place occupied mostly by strangers. Jack was hardly ever out of reach, often nuzzled at my neck between chin and one ear. It didn’t matter which ear.

Black Terrier

Mother moved in with her Tulsa niece and family at times. From there she jostled along on her daily bus rides to see me. Her prayer vigil pilgrimages, simply her presence there, calmed me.

Daddy’s visits, when he could make them, lifted me in a different way. Striding to my bedside he’d align two of his working-man fingers. This formed his strength-test instrument. Extending the fingers before me he smiled. OK, squeeze hard, buddy. By this he checked my strength, hoping to see progress from one visit to his next. I looked forward to the drill, each time giving it my best.

But I weakened more. My breathing muscles strained. Doctors consulted about next steps including the Iron Lung. The frequency of Dad’s strength-tests trailed off as my squeezing pressure faltered. Reduced to a limp hand encircling Dad’s fingers. The limp word again.

The Bible gives an invitation for people who are sick. It’s in the Book of James.

Is there any sick among you? Let him call for the elders of the church; let them pray over him, anointing him with oil in the name of the Lord. And the prayer of faith shall save the sick and the Lord shall raise him up. .

Elders of our church came to my bedside. These dear people had already been praying. They rested their hands on me. . .

Through your dear Son Jesus – Lord, heal Jerry.  For a God whose descriptive name is Father, childlike praying seems fitting.

And a change began. My paralyzing slide ended. Placing the Iron Lung option on hold, medical staff watched my breathing rally. Strength increased.  Wonderfully my sleeping limbs began stirring – as  waking from hibernation. In a short period I advanced from bedridden-patient to wheelchair-jockey.

Polio.Wheelchair Pic

Then, remarkably, to standing upright. Within the month I left Hillcrest Hospital walking. Aided by crutches – but walking.

Kindness displays. Anywhere kindness is present it can’t do otherwise. God’s kindness. Exhibited through nurses – through mother-visits – papa-rendered ‘strength tests – doctor’s care – stuffed animals – healing-prayers.  In the form of many faces he comes. He came in all these and more.

I was – and am – immensely thankful.

A question tugged at me in coming years. . What about Opaline? For now, thanksgiving reigned.

 

In what ways have you received comfort, kindnesses? Think about them a little. Comment if you wish. Thanks a lot for coming by.

©2015 Jerry Lout

Prescription – Pain. Somber Prediction

 Mom’s fly swatter instruction of past times over my use of bad words met with failure in Hillcrest Hospital’s therapy room.

 Hold his hip firm against the table. Steady now. Here we go – Up with the right leg.

Two people in white – a spindly man and a large-boned woman – stood opposite each another at the therapy bench. I lay face-up between them. They applied stretch treatments to paralysis-affected limbs. The therapy helped arrest stiffening of the muscles.

I took in their words. The stretching maneuver was underway. The leg in motion, kept straight as a board by pressure of a hand on my kneecap, rose upward. The stiffer the muscles the greater the strain. And the pain. Up, up until a searing sharpness passed through my leg, prompting me – their child-patient – to bark *%#$!  Though not loudly. 

The therapists shared knowing but not unkind smiles. Neither spoke. Their tasks – these disguised angels – inflicting pain on helpless children. Surely this brought pain their way.

An Australian nurse, Sister Elizabeth Kenny, had devised an effective treatment to limber up the muscle tissue of paralyzed limbs. Nurses at Hillcrest wrapped me, along with my polio peeps, in confining, steaming hot packs (I close my eyes today and smell the heavy, moist odor of sweltering chamois-like blankets). Mercifully the blankets held my body in their constricting grip for only short periods.

I never swore about the hot packs. As I grew older I extended myself grace over the therapy-table profanity lapse. Though not justified, cursing can slip through a set of teeth in a moment of sharp pain.

Remedial pain. Our world is rich with special Wisdom Sayings when we pause to listen. Some of these coach us about preventing needless pain; others on the actual usefulness of it.

Our limpings – whether of a physical or of a nonphysical nature – can meet with useful pain at times. Yet, we have to pay attention to detect the usefulness.

He who will not be taught by his elders will be taught by the world, African seniors counsel their youth.

No discipline is enjoyable. . it’s painful! But afterward there will be a peaceful harvest of right living for those who are trained in this way.    the Bible’s ‘Book of Hebrews’.

My father and mother didn’t discipline me perfectly. Nor have I my own children. Yet, we do our children no favor by withholding loving – and yes unpleasant – correction when needed. Emphasis – Loving. Just as failing to administer pain-inducing treatments to better a patient would, in fact, be unkind.

Still, my condition worsened. From waistline to feet my limbs went useless.  My upper body declined, my respiratory muscles weakened. An attending doctor informed my parents I would not walk again. Regardless.

A stuffed black Terrier Pup consoled me – along with one particular nurse. While specialists discussed my case – and the Iron Lung.

 

Polio. Hot Packs (2)

 

Question. What caught your interest most in this post? I’m very interested in thoughts, feelings of any readers.  Thanks again for following!   Alert! In part due to reader requests, Soon we’ll post Running Life’s Race Twice weekly instead of one per week – doubling the episodes.  🙂

*hot pack photo.nurse: OHSU Historical Collections & Archives

©2015 Jerry Lout