Why the name Move 21?? Pt 1.

I was sitting out front of the rehab unit in early April (About a week and a half after my stroke), it was beautiful out and the sun was hot and shining down. The place I was sitting was the smokers area just out front the doorway off the round-a-bout pick up drop off entrance. Covered in crushed and stepped on cigarette butts everywhere… An unpleasant foreshadowing to the physical state of the “Survivors” inhabiting the facility.

My best friend and current business partner had just come to see how I was holding up, between appointments, bringing a very appreciated distraction as I hated being alone in that place. Now, although grateful for the time together, once the visit ended, I had to remain there as my left arm, leg, face, and mood stabilization were all not quite fully functioning (although rapidly gaining use and my confidence that it would all continue improving to 100% functionality in time), I still had down time to endure.

After watching my friend walk out to his car, I followed out shortly after into the sunshine and took my seat out front. This prompted me to quietly but angrily question God and wrestle internally with the “WHY ME?!?!!” pity party & victim mantra on I had like a hamster wheel running on repeat. Like an ant scolding a gardner, I sat internally letting the creator of the heavens and all of space and time know just how strongly I felt he made a MASSIVE error in his approach to Love me and take care of me. This sure didn’t feel like heavenly protection for His greatest good… At this moment, despite my nervous system ringing like a fire hall siren and my own internal monologue running rampant with obscenities directed at Jesus, and the Holy Spirit, I felt the very soft and gentle but commanding little still voice impressing the need to “STOP, Pay attention, be still, and I’ll show you”.

The front doors sliding opening broke my attention from the headspace and Steve(?); I think his name was Steve (Maybe Ryan??)… Not sure, we’ll call him Steve. I digress… Struggling to get enough momentum to shuffle his wheel chair over the weather stripping and tripping hazards of the doorway tracks, his care aid easily added the needed power to get over the would be mountain range of an obstacle he faced in his own strength. I was briefly introduced to him on my first day there during my guided tour of the neuro-recovery wing, but hadn’t interacted with him since. Locking the wheel brakes near the sloped part of the round-about and placing a very full backpack on his lap, the care giver asked the now excited and smiling young man if he was looking forward to his “trip”. To which a string of nonsensical but obviously joyful “words” came out; as though his mouth was full of marshmallows and peanut butter,  each word required directed effort to deliver. Earlier I had learned that he was the only other individual there around my age (I was a month and a half past my 31st birthday), and together we dropped the average age by about 35 years.

“Steve” had been in the rehab ward for a little over 4 months prior to my arrival and to my understanding no real promise of further improvement despite being 4 years my junior. Youth would not provide any further advantage. Unable to use his hands or arms at all, an eye patch over his right eye, the all too recognizable droop and paralysis of his left eye, cheek, and mouth, causing laboured and often unrecognizable speech all still showing up as the common cognitive rehab giants yet to fall. The one area of promise; movement in the lower extremities so mobility was possible but nowhere near to the full potential his obviously strong frame would have suggested. 

In stark contrast to the beaming smile and anticipation bursting out of misshapen and sagging facial features, sat my miserable and frustrated ass. Thankfully his energy was contagious and just by sheer proximity raised my spirits enough to enter into light conversation and a momentary intermission from my Hank Moody level of self loathing. “How’s it goin today my man?”… After the 4th failed attempt and seeing his mounting frustration the care-aid once again bridged the cognitive gap for her companion. Much like a parent can translate the familiar fumbled annunciation of a toddler, she was able to articulate that Steve was (excitedly) awaiting the arrival of his aging mother to pick him up and help him escape for a “weekend pass”. Our man Steve was awarded a three day reprieve for his committed involvement in the physio plan built for him… “Any longer and his mom won’t be able to handle the necessary level of assistance he requires”… “She picks him up on Thursday and by Sunday we have to arrive no later than 10 am to help him find his way back to your home away from home right big guy?” Shifting her focus on the restless figure awkwardly mouthing the zipper on the backpack clenched in his lap for stability. “Here, let me help get your water bottle out for you”.

Minutes later an old station wagon rumbles up, the dual tone style with wood grain panelling, my parents had one when I was very young. Steve is helped into the back seat and safely buckled while we load up his wheel chair and bag into the back of the vehicle. They drive away leaving the lingering smell of hot leather, Werthers Originals, cigarettes, and a faint masking attempt of Listerine still engulfing the bench beside the lane way. I close my eyes and lean my head back feeling the sun against my face and neck. Stretching my arms out and leaning backwards to fully elongate my back I feel a yawn building up. Without missing a beat I bring my left hand over to cover my mouth (the same arm that was lifelessly hitching a ride on my torso not two days prior) while also bracing the weight of my shifting body onto my feet to stabilize my movements. “Thank you Jesus” my heart groans in a shame filled recognition of my own blindness to the miraculous future available to me and the blessing my family received that my path is going to walk out SO vastly different than it has for others. Steve was in his late 20’s, clearly had a level of athleticism, and from here on out his future was all but set. There would likely never be a family, a wife, children, or a dream career. No destination vacations, or romantic getaways. No weekends on the boat or even driving his own car. Living on his own and growing into his prime years with vigour and confidence. The trajectory for this young man was bleak at best by even the most generous standards. 

My head and body fall forward into my hands and eyes closed; once again the reassuring, soft and gentle internal voice packing the force of a wrecking ball to my negative headspace… “You’ll be restored”… Guilt immediately floods my entire system… “Why NOT me?” The scene from “The Matrix“ where Neo limbos backwards to dodge the bullets plays out in my imagination. “What did I do to avoid THAT nightmare” “Why do I get to to back home in a few days, back to my own thriving business, my two young kiddos, beautiful wife, new(er) house, BMW in the driveway, and as the leader of my family, while Steve is bonded to a set of wheels and assisted living for most likely the remainder of his days?!?” “Why was his life ripped from him while mine is so preserved?!?” Silence…. Deafeningly quiet… 

…

“OK… SO???”… 

Nothing. 

“That's it???”… 

Nothing…

I feel the prompting “Settle and find your calm” 

… “OK” …. 

*exhales*… Belly box breath, Like we do with Ava (my infant daughter at the time was struggling with night terrors and respiratory challenges)… In..1..2..3..4, out..2..3..4, In..2..3..4, out..2..3..4. 

…

…

…

“Just be still a while. Close your eyes.”

…

…

…

…

In..1..2..3..4,

Hold..2..3..4,

Out..2..3..4,

Hold..2..3..4,

In..2..3..4,

Hold..2..3..4,

Out..2..3..4

Hold..2..3..4,

…

I sat for about 15 minutes just finding my breath, settling my heart, surrendering my thoughts. It’s hot out but the warmth from the sun feels more like a reassuring embrace from a loved one, than any level of discomfort. I feel safe.

My right hand on my chest, left on my stomach bringing direct awareness to the direction of movement each is making (Stomach in and out, chest still) while meditating on the promptings I’m allowing to flow through my imagination. 

There’s a mountain range that spans the entire horizon with sharp jagged peaks and snow covered caps. A harsh and unforgiving landscape towering in-front of me. I’m standing frozen in place in a field of tall woodland grass looking at a long worn-in trampled path. Leading me directly towards the insurmountable obstacle given my obvious lack of necessary equipment, bare feet, and hospital gown attire. 

I begin moving forward but I’m not walking. It's a floating feeling drawing me closer. 

Simultaneously as I move towards the mountain range, they shift laterally out of my way causing massive upheaval with a vast disturbance of the ground where the base of the mountain sat only moments before. The internal prompting and unspoken but immediate understanding is that this enormous plot of disturbed ground is now as fertile as could possibly be for the planting and sowing of seeds for His gospel. A garden that will grow to produce an unbelievably large harvest for His glory. This is to be the very spot I am meant to nurture and foster an army for the kingdom of The Lord. “With the faith of a mustard seed I can command a mountain to be moved into the sea.” The internal unspoken words are whispered through my sub-conscious. “These mountains were moved for you by grace, and grace alone you are healed.”

I’m reminded of the prayer I committed to 4 weeks earlier while in church, the weekend before our 3 day family trip south of the border to Seattle, WA; a celebration of the explosive start to the year and completion of the first quarter of 2014… and less than 7 days until I would hemorrhage. Sitting in the back pew of the far right side of Trinity church with my wife and kids. I felt a surge of the spirit bolstered by a fearlessness and confidence that everything was in His hands and safe. “God, I’m ready to take up my sword and to get into the fight for your army. Send me where you need me. Amen”. I could tell this time it was a deeper commitment, a shifting of my heart, and the calling from Him to enter the “warrior phase” of the masculine journey… A concept introduced to me from the book “Way of the Wild Heart” by John Eldrredge that I was reading at the time. The last gift my mom gave me before she passed away when I was 24.  I had missed this phase as a youth growing up. I was searching for a worthy cause and a great adventure. I thought it was my emerging real estate company and the responsibilities of raising a family… Boy was I in for a wake up call!

... Part 2 coming soon...