The Only Way Out of the Swamp is to Go Through it

Introduction to Swamps

Have you ever felt “unseen” and even more alone while someone truly believes they are comforting and supporting you?

Navigating the complexities of life can often feel like traversing a murky swamp. There's no magical leap to the other side, no fan boat cruising by to rescue us. We're immersed in the danger of the unknown, struggling to move forward through the muck, sometimes feeling hopelessly stuck, as if lifting a foot for the next step is impossible. Even though there are well-wishers on the swamp bank, shouting advice, it can be isolating, and their voices blend into an indistinguishable cacophony of guidance, each person convinced they hold the key to your situation. Yet, in the midst of this chorus, it becomes evident that their advice is often more a reflection of their own beliefs and experiences rather than a genuine understanding of your individual journey. It's as if they all believe they possess the map to your swamp, but in truth, they are simply lost in their own wilderness of perspectives.

In the midst of the swamp, finding your bearings becomes a formidable challenge. I understand this struggle all too well, having journeyed through my own swamps. At the age of 28, I was diagnosed with Stargardt's Disease, a juvenile form of macular degeneration, which gradually robbed me of my vision, leaving me with 20/400 vision even with correction. I embarked on multiple swampy journeys as my vision deteriorated.

I would grieve, adapt to my new normal, and find solutions like audiobooks and strong magnifiers to keep reading. It was cumbersome, but they worked. It not only took determination, but I also leaned on my sense of humor when I tripped over unexpected twigs that were hidden in the muck.  For instance, I learned to triple check before entering a public restroom.  Whenever I mistakenly walked into the wrong one, my face would turn red as the surprised patrons were probably uncomfortable.  But as I turned around I would giggle, because I

knew their  modesty was not in jeopardy as  the urinals were the only thing large enough to signal my distorted vision that I needed to turn around.

But just when I thought I had it all figured out, a swamp monster would unexpectedly show up on my doorstep and carry me back to wrestle with new reptiles in the mud.   This happened when it was time to relinquish my driver’s license. I tripped on tree roots as I tried to figure out how I was going to be a “good mom” when I couldn’t read Harry Potter to my kids or take a turn driving carpool.  As my life went on and I considered new

directions and vocation, I was wary of moving forward. For instance, as I thought about going to graduate school, I wondered if the frogs and alligators in the swamp would just be too much.  Instead, I learned to wear my muddy shoes to class, and they actually helped me. I integrated my own swampy conception of disability theology into my Master of Divinity courses, which, to my surprise, earned me several graduate school awards!

As I struggled and questioned, I actually started to notice familiar terrain. I learned to pause and allow myself to be amazed at the world around me. As I slowly let go of the need to constantly fight, the beauty of the landscape unfolded. I discovered the countless shades of green, the majesty of the trees and the intricate tapestry of vegetation. I watched in awe as frogs leaped gracefully and swamp birds took flight. I realized that my foot, once mired in the mud, wasn't as stubbornly stuck as I'd once believed. It slipped out comfortably, like a leaf gliding on a serene pond, and I began to move forward with newfound clarity and appreciation.

I even made friends with the swamp monster, a messy but sweet companion who seemed to value my presence. This was when I became a palliative care chaplain at an acute care hospital. I walked with patients and families as they faced life and death decisions, providing them with a compass and a glass of water instead of merely paddling away.

Have you ever been cruising along, confident and comfortable, when your life path turns a corner that your GPS tells you are at a dead end?

In 2018, I was confronted with another daunting diagnosis – Parkinson's Disease. My mantra, one I often repeated through the years, was “There are many ways to be okay.” Yet now, I had to confess, there were times when I said it without truly believing it. Even though this challenge shared some common threads with my vision issues, it was a vastly different terrain. It was a journey of immense and unfamiliar difficulty, one that I could not simply label as “resilience” and pretend to have all figured out. 

I recognized that I needed to risk losing my way in order to find it.  To really get healthy, I made the decision to leave the job I loved, and instead of moving through the swamp, slogging my way step by step, perhaps this part of the journey needed to be done differently.  Instead of heading straight for the other side of the swamp, I needed to move slowly, adding depth ad detail to my map.

I noticed that the water was deeper here and perhaps I could float downstream a bit and see what I encountered. I knew right away that this was the right decision. So, with a heavy, yet peaceful, heart I abruptly left my palliative care position and reached out to grab a floating log in the murky water.  

When I announced my retirement, people asked me, “What are you going to do now?” And I honestly replied, “I don’t know.” I decided to just see what each sunrise in the swamp would bring. The sunrises were, of course, spectacular. I experienced them so many times before in my previous trips through the swamp, but this time I let myself linger and soak them in.  I saw a rock, not far away and walked toward it with unexpected ease.  As I made myself comfortable, I turned my face to the sun and delighted in its warm glow.

The first day after I left my job, I wondered what I was going to do, when I heard someone crying out in distress. It was a stranger cowering in terror at the sight of the swamp monster! I went over to him and took his hand, smiling and waving at the monster, showing the traveler that the monster  was quite harmless as it  waved and moved on.  After talking for a bit, my familiarity with the swamp helped me point the traveler in the direction we  discerned he needed, and we parted ways. 

I went back to my rock each day and it seemed like each sunrise brought a new traveler or a new insight. Years of experience, study, and training in swamp navigation for myself and others, served me well as I helped people craft makeshift rafts with vines, provided a compass, or simply offered a reassuring touch on their shoulder to encourage their journey. 

And finally, it all started to come together for me.  The swamp kept calling me back because I love it. My vocation is to hear and see each traveler as they journey forward.  While not everyone I encounter is grappling with difficulties, I've come to realize that, if asked, I can often find ways to be of value.

My interactions are not limited to passersby alone. I am deliberate about exploring the wildlife that calls the swamp home. I find joy in dancing with the swamp monsters and often wonder why so few others want to stay and play. The highlight of my day, however, remains the sunrise, when I turn my face to the warm glow and embrace the profound truth that there are indeed countless wonderful ways of “being okay.”

Define “okay”

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