Monday, January 28, 2019

The Numbers Of Our Days





The numbers are constant. Twenty-some thousand white blood count. Eight o’clock phone call from the nurse’s station. Another delay. When it looked like coming home was an option. Pills at four-hour and twelve-hour intervals, Room 432, Stage 3 to stage 4. Phone call on top of phone call. Souls turn bitter that marinate in this. Being steeped in friendships leads to thanksgiving.

Three of us huddle together after church.  These two friends voice prayer for my wife and her mom to a God that is triune. One by one friends text. They drop by. Those inside the inner circle give permission to call them anytime; to scream, to ramble, to question, to complain, to be…Trying to count them, the sum of caring people surprises me.

“As for the days of our life, they contain seventy years, Or if due to strength, eighty years, Yet their pride is but labor and sorrow; For soon it is gone and we fly away.” The Psalmists’ cry is that we learn to be wise with our days. A lifetime of 24-hour days. Hospital stays and every trial seem an interruption. They are not. They’re part of the whole. It’s not a giving up or a giving in. It’s a working out, sorting out, hanging in; “And confirm for us the work of our hands; Yes, confirm the work of our hands.”

Photo by Jack Sharp on Unsplash