The fragrance of April Fresh wafts from the jumble of warm towels next to me. I smile as I watch two robins scuffle in the front yard. I pull out a sage green towel, pinch two corners together, fold the length in half two corners to four, fold again and smooth on stacked pile. When I’m done with these, I’ll make a cup of tea and curl up with The Heart Aroused, write my late post(s). The day stretches before me.
Then the Droid squawks.
“Don’t panic yet,” she texts. “We’re at the ER. I will let you know what’s going on as soon as I know anything.”
She attaches a gruesome picture of my dad’s battered face.
She sends photos of blood pools on the sidewalk and ramp and smears on brick.
There follows a flurry of texts and phone calls, and then he’s in an ambulance heading for Petoskey while we try to figure out how he fell because he doesn’t even remember being outside.
Here we go again.
Oh please, no. Not again.
My head spins like the washing machine, and I’m shaking like someone who’s been out too long on a bitter winter day. I pray for a clear head as I try to pack (for how long?), pay bills I planned to pay tomorrow, and organize the family before I start the familiar three-hour drive north and then another hour to the hospital.
That hospital.
We know it too well.
But I spend only one night dozing in a folding chair (Sissy spends two), and he is discharged without need for surgery.
That’s how I find myself bedded down on the couch (I think there’s a board under the cushions) while my dad tosses and turns on the floor (his usually sleeping spot) with his head crushed against the TV stand. And my approach to Holy Week is filled with an all-night television strobe and NCIS at full volume.
So instead of sitting in a pew with my husband and being swept up in orchestral praise, I’m watching my sister’s boss, the Bishop, give a taped Palm Sunday homily on channel 3.
This one who walked with us through my mom’s illness broke his leg on a recent visit to Rome. And now walks with her walker. I see it there next to him.
He speaks of humility.
Of learning how to be served.
Of learning how to serve.
Of Jesus who served.
He speaks of walking the way of the cross.
I draw my knees up pinch the corners of my red quillow to my chin.
This life, it never stacks into a neat pile. It’s jumbled up, and it’s hard, and it’s often messy and smelly, and it never goes according to our plan.
It’s a crossed life, a blood-stained life, He calls us to.
A daily journey through the dust to Golgotha in our own brokenness, but He travels with us.
It’s a here-we-go-again life.
And there’s a robin in the yard.
Sandy, this is the most true thing I’ve read yet this Holy Week. I love you.
You bless me big. Loving you right back.
When I saw the mention of your dad’s fall, the first words that came to mind were, “Oh no. Not again.”
I think your way of entering into Holy week is probably more authentic than most of the rest of ours.
And there was a robin in the yard–a glimpse of joy in the midst of the brokenness. What a gift.
And I had to run around the yard today with my camera looking for gifts.
What a story… I am so sorry, prayers are needed for you to have strength and patience and rest most of all.
Thanks so much, Sharon.
So sorry, Sandy, to hear about your father’s loss…praying God’s comfort for you all…grateful He gave you a robin – a bit of joy and beauty in the hard…
Something about robins and spring and life…
Thank you for sharing that story. Often I take for granted so much. God bless you and your dad as he recovers.
It’s so easy to not appreciate the gifts until they disappear. Thanks, Kathy.
It’s a daily walk regardless of the branches.
Regardless of the branches, yes.
Well, crap. I am just so sorry. But this – this writing is so real and true and I’m so glad to see it, to take it in. Thanks so much for putting down what this is like. I’m wrestling with some hard thoughts this week, too. Maybe they’ll make it into a post, maybe not. Praying you’ll find the way, whatever it is. This falling business is just awful, just plain awful. May God’s grace help you walk the dusty way through it all.
The robins, the buds on the trees, all encouraging signs of life and hope. Right in the middle of chaos and pain and change and upset plans. Ahhh, life, confusing life, yet as you said, our daily journey, He travels it with us. Blessings to you, this week.
I read this when you posted it and I realized I never left a comment about how I could smell those towels you were folding, see you curling up with that pillow for comfort and empathize with how you feel about those robins. Beautiful writing sometimes comes from places of the most heaviness. Gorgeous.
I’m hugging you from here. Praying things will be different? Oh, it’s so hard, Sandy. I sat with a man today whose family had decided to send him to nursing home. He has lost his speech but not his mind. He was angry. And I don’t blame him. Sometimes it just stinks. Getting old. I pray for grace. I don’t think I’ll do it very well. I pray my children will be as good to me as you are to your parents. What a gift you are.
He travels with us.
And you can cry on His shoulder.
I’m so relieved your father is home.
“This life, it never stacks into a neat pile.” Tears here,and yet your hope shines through as you look up, and see the gift: a robin in the yard.