Speaking of cocoons, I was in one this morning. I slipped my light blue and white hospital gown on, had an IV stuck in my arm (very gently I might add), and I was rolled into a little tube and stayed there for about forty-five minutes. Now, I should preface this with I have some post traumatic stress from having been treated with radiation almost fifteen years ago for Hodgkin's Disease lymphoma. When I was diagnosed at age twenty-four, it was unexpected and shocking, as it always is. But especially when you are a twenty-four year old, vegetarian runner, who just danced at a Dead show for three hours and was moving to Alaska. But rather than Kodiak Island, I headed to Michigan. And, I spent a lot of time at the University of Michigan's teaching hospital. Some of my time there was spent in a simulator. And what this is, in simple terms, is a machine that measures me and where all my organs are. And from that information, my treatment is calculated on the radiation machine and lead blocks are made to protect some of my vital organs from this radiation. I spent three hours in this simulator being measured. And the machine was right over me about an inch from my face. Needless to say, I had some claustrophobia after that. And when I am in an MRI machine, it can get triggered.

Today, I did things differently. I usually go in, hold my breath and count the minutes until I can get out of there. Not today. Every moment, even if it is an MRI room with gray walls, is meant to be lived. Even those that are gray and metal. So, today, I brought my grandma with me. This is not just any old grandma. This is my adopted Grandma Jean. And as I am running late, I swing open the glass door to the waiting room, and there is Grandma, arms spread wide, smiling in her bright blue skirt. Never have I walked into a medical waiting room and experienced joy. I did today. She gave love to me, the receptionist, the MRI technician, the nurse, everyone. And as they put the IV in, she sang. And so did I. I can tell you, I have never sang while being poked before. It didn't matter what anyone thought, she just sang and hummed. And I know she prayed, as my little feet stuck out of my cocoon.

From the outside, it might have looked like nothing was happening in the little metal cocoon that I was in. But, of course, as we know with cocoons, there was a lot happening. I breathed (at one point too much because they had to do that part over, too much movement, she said). I prayed and I panicked a little. When I panicked, I tried to distract myself with dreams of vacations I wanted to take, or dramas in my life that I wish I could solve. But then I heard from within, you don't need to distract yourself, Jenny. I am right here. I imagined Jesus had crawled in and laid on top of my back and was holding my hands. That's how much I need God sometimes. I am right here. Don't underestimate me. It may be hard to see me in this place, but I am here. You will get through this, and you do not have to do it alone. Grandma Jean was that reminder for me this morning. She sang me into my cocoon and she squeezed my foot on the way out. The nurse rubbed my shoulder and smiled at me. And I didn't abandoned myself by holding my breath. I stayed with me, through my breath and through my prayers. I felt loved, through the gray walls and the metal. I still could breathe. I still could experience God. It didn't have to look how I wanted it to look. It was what it was. And I didn't have to hold my breath.

As far as the MRI results go, I don't know yet. It was an annual check up; being proactive. But whatever the results, God will remain with me. She may be harder to see sometimes, but she is not absent. She is not gone. Sometimes she even gets in and lies on top of us. She's always there, we just need to use our imaginations a bit. Like Mary Oliver says, "Whoever you are. No matter how lonely. The world offers itself to our imagination." I have imagined for a long time, that I go this world alone; that God goes on hiatus when Jenny Finn's life turns dark, even if for a moment.  I have imagined that when I am in pain, in the places where God is not felt, that God is not there. Today, with my singing, praying Grandma, my imagination stretched a bit, and opened me to a faith that goes beyond metal machines and gray walls. God doesn't like being limited. Therefore, my little mind must stretch.