Surviving and adapting to the harsh requirements of Coronavirus conditions has laying me low. At the beginning of March I was eager to be re-rated for an upgraded tennis play level with my Golden (as in oldies) Racquet Club. Exchanging emails with my assigned GR group and the rating officials, I confirmed that I would be ready to be rated at the next regular play session by the raters. A member of my GR group shot an email back: "Raters? what raters?" I answered: "The Raters of the Lost service Arc," referring to my tennis serve. Haha.
Since then, lack of physical activity in my quarantine and an as yet undiagnosed medical condition has rendered me practically unable to walk normally. My head hangs down like an albatross on my chest unless I strain my neck to lift it up. My gait is tentative and my back slouches. The TV commentators advised running outdoors. I couldn't even walk without a cane. Depression and self-pity have been staved off by Holy Comforter resources—Jon and Ann's Zoom services, Zoom coffee hour, Zoom Women's Bible Study on Wednesdays, daily reflections from fellow parishioners, Noonday Prayer, and so many other church activities in a wellspring of faith.
All that faith and reaching out for sharing and communicating succeeded in getting me to put my butt in gear about a month ago. Physical therapy exercises: the march, the deadbug, the "W", "T", "Y" and medicine ball manipulations, and so on. Ann's yoga class. It's slowly but surely working. My stamina is increasing. In my Education for Ministry (EfM) class one day, the facilitator ordered me sternly to "sit up, don't slouch" as we prepared for worship. (Echoes of Mom!…so sweet the sound!) I found an Outpatient Physical Therapy place at The Virginian retirement home across the street from where I live. I've had a parade of great therapists. Yesterday's therapist asked about my Screaming Eagle T-shirt. My dad, I said. She said her father was Navy and remembered being stationed at Leavenworth. Ft. RIley? I said. She said, you know what's there, don't you? Army War College, I responded. Command General Staff School, she said. Carpenter Court? I asked. That didn't ring a bell with her, but I remember it as our quarters. And I can still see the light shining on the baptismal font where my mother, who was picky about pastors, had all my sisters and myself baptized by an Army Chaplain there named Collingwood, brother to the '50's CBS foreign correspondent Charles Collingwood.
