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.”
