They that wait upon the Lord
Shall renew their strength;
They shall mount up with wings
As an eagle.
They shall run and not grow weary;
They shall walk and not faint.
Isaiah 40:31
Category: Blessings of Habit
Weekly Photo Challenge: Waiting
These men are waiting. They may look like they are quite active, but I know them. One is 80 years old, and the other is not far behind him. They devote their days to making improvements they will never enjoy, such as planting trees on Arbor Day.
They do enjoy much of it, though. The ability to move about and act like men, still, free of huge medical problems, they enjoy. The camaraderie with other men who care about the future of our grandkids and great-grandkids, they enjoy. Rising early and dressing for work, like the good old days, they enjoy. They are real men, more so than some of their self-professed more virile co-males on this planet, who still lie abed at 10:30 a.m.
They gave up waiting for them.
The tree around which they just finished firming the soil is also waiting. The soil, the men discovered, was moist only down to about 8 inches. On this overcast morning, everyone is hoping for rain. It does fall, 1/2 inch that night and 4 inches the next couple of days. In tree-years, it did not have to wait long.
The tree also is waiting for spring, to show off its promised beauty and to grow into the new soil around its roots. It is waiting to increase enough in size to shade the walking trail just beyond it. And someday, it will have waited until, like the men who planted it, the end will be very near and it will be ready for a position on a truck similar to the one parked in the background.
That truck also is waiting for someone who lives nearby to get going on this mid-morning. Is he lazy? Does he have the day off? Is he bound by a schedule that will not allow him to deliver his load until later?
Or is the driver also waiting? Did his wife sleep in and forget to make breakfast? Is he waiting for an important phone call before he begins his day? Is he waiting for the dryer to stop tumbling so he can finish dressing?
How inter-connected we all are! How much one slow one can affect it all!
I Have Slept . . .
. . . but I did not dream.
I love dreams, except for nightmares. I love recalling those crazy twisted dreams and trying to figure what was going on in my head that I could have thought such things when my mind was disengaged.
They say “house” dreams are about yourself, so the one I dreamed with the flooded basement probably was not a good sign. But what about the one where the staircase just went on forever with thousands of rooms on hundreds of floors, all furnished like a ritzy bed-and-breakfast? Hmm.
My other dreams, my wide-awake dreams where I plan how wonderful I will be next year, are another story. These dreams haunt me. I put them off, thinking I need some other thing to be just perfect before I can get started. You know the type: losing weight, writing a book, finishing crocheting that afghan, unpacking the last box from moving several years ago, etc. I know I should make some headway on at least some or at the very least one of these dreams, but the facts stand on the sidelines laughing at me. The facts are that I don’t do what I could and I don’t know why.
I used to keep ironing up to date. Really. I used to keep my flower beds weeded. I used to weigh less.
I think partly I was living before my children and insisted on setting a good example at all times. Now they are grown and mostly gone and no one is watching me.
Except the Lord. He sees. He knows.
What I used to do because I believed I must do it, I now must learn to do only because it is right. My mind allows me choices these days, and I am surprised at who I see living underneath all the exterior rules I had made for myself.
I distinctly remember thinking, when the last child was off to college, “Whew! Now I can rest and do whatever I please. Finally! I am my own puppy!”
I think I need to rethink.
I have slept. It’s time to wake up.
Down Days
The illness my husband and I have shared has hit him much lighter than me. He is nearly well. I have coughed until it hurts my sides and I get a headache.
I guess it is just as well he is progressing so quickly, as he is making a trip to visit his dad today. He has wanted to do this for some time and has waited until just the right moment. The time is now. I will not be going along, due to the probability that I am still contagious. And still tired.
Although I managed to do laundry yesterday, I had to rest between each task. More strength does not always equal more energy. At least I’m not dizzy anymore. I am so glad of that!
I have thought lots about how I feel I’m under attack from the enemy and how my being sick just gives him such pleasure. I have wished for a miraculous healing. That would be just superb, in my opinion, to shake this disease in a moment. I would love that. But it’s not manifesting, here.
So all I know to do is be patient, let my body and the meds do their work. Then I think: The enemy also hates patience, so if I practice patience then I am defeating him, again. The body is miraculous in its ability to fight off disease, absolutely without parallel in this world of many wonders.
So I will keep plugging along, keep trying for patience, keep boosting my God-given immunities with antibiotics, antihistamines, and antitussives; hot teas and lemonades; cough drops and cough drops and cough drops. The day will come. It will.
. . . and Thanksgiving Found!
Today is the second story, the one that makes yesterday’s post complete in expression of the beauty of blessings. If you didn’t read yesterday’s, you kind of have to read it now. Today’s won’t make as much sense without it.
Fast forward one year. It is Thanksgiving Day, again. We are planning the 500 mile trek home again. Our arm is better. We are playing more carefully, now. We are so totally ready, again.
But a lot has happened in another family we know. The family that opened its home to us last year, when we were sort of stranded, in a medical way of speaking, had lost its only source of income. The dad–we’ll call him Clarence–had been jobless for weeks, had found new employment several hours away and had moved his entire family there to be with him. Things were looking rather good for them and we rejoiced that after such a long trial, these kind people had found some relief from their troubles.
Clarence also had medical insurance at this new job and needed elective surgery. He chose the weekend of Thanksgiving for it because he had days off and so did his parents; they could all be together.
We visited with them over the phone a time or two before the surgery. He felt a bit uneasy, as anyone would before surgery, and Clarence and my husband were pretty good friends. Clarence would call my husband his best friend, but my husband is shy of being called by superlatives.
I think it was the Wednesday. You know–THE Wednesday before Thanksgiving. We were readying to go, I know that for sure. Then the call came. Clarence’s wife wanted prayer for his surgery. I told her of course we were praying. She said that no, she meant really, really pray, that something was not going right. She began to cry. I listened. My horror grew as I realized the medical terms she was quoting from the doctors were the warm-up words they use to prepare the family for death of the patient. I think she wanted me to help her accept this might be happening. I don’t remember what I said, but I did not want to commit myself to anything quotable until I had spoken with my husband.
I called my husband and told him what I thought. It did not register with him. He came home as early as he thought appropriate, and by then I had spoken several more times with Clarence’s wife and when my husband walked in the door I told him, “I think Clarence is dead.”
The grief that washed over him made me sorry I had to tell him.
He called the wife and spoke with her a bit. When he hung up, he said he was going immediately. He took our older son, Clarence’s older son’s best friend. The two of them stayed up all night waiting for the doctors to admit the truth: Clarence had suffered from a fatal reaction to the anesthesia. He had gone out of this life saying to his wife, “Something’s not right. Something’s not right. Tell them! Something’s not right.” She heard these, his last words, I am sure, forever, although that was maybe 12 or 15 years ago and she is happily remarried now.
But my husband and my son were there. They were able to help Clarence’s family assimilate the truth and deal with the aftermath. This kind family who had opened their home to us during the previous Thanksgiving, now missing one member, were the needy ones. And although our plans were again foiled by the events around us, by troubles and tragedies around us, there was the blessing: We could be there for them.
And we realized: That Thanksgiving Dinner we had shared the year before was the last event, ever, that we shared with him before he moved his family and then died. If we had not had reason to stay home, we so would have missed that one last dinner.
And that was the 8th blessing.
And we know that in all things, God works for good with those who love Him . . . Romans 8:28
The Lost Thanksgiving and . . .
I have a surprise for you.
I recently mentioned resenting interrupted Thanksgiving Days, but today’s post begins the tale of two interrupted Thanksgivings and their attending blessings. Hope you enjoy them.
The first one was when my youngest two sons were about 8 and 6. We were about to leave for our annual “over the river and through the woods”.
Our children had laid out all their clothing according to the master list I provided years ago and stored in each suitcase. (Remember, I was a home-school mom.) Last minute details on cleaning the house before we left were panning out nicely. (I was a bit OCD about coming home to a dirty house.) (Okay, I was a bit OCD about “what if we had a wreck and someone had to come into our house . . . “)
Anyway, we were near completion on everything. The only thing remaining was supper, baths, and sleep, during which I would pack all that nicely laid-out clothing and then sleep during the trip.
I was on schedule and smiling at myself on the inside. In a carefree voice, I told my kids to go out and play, that all the biggest chores were done.
In a few moments they came back inside, the 8-year-old with his arm broken.
My husband had a late meeting that night, so it fell on me to drop all packing chores and take the poor babe to the doctor. It was so late, I called first, and our wonderful family practitioner said if I came straight there, they would stay open for me. That was blessing #1.
One x-ray told all: My son’s injury was the type of break that would require an orthopedist to finish breaking, which was a surgical procedure requiring an overnight stay in the hospital. So after a couple of calls to my husband and to our house, we traveled on to the next town and succumbed to the ministrations of ER. Once there, the inevitable questions came, about who and how this child could be so severely injured. It was a downer, but along came my husband’s close friend, who happened to be the ER physician on call that night, to vouch for me, and to give me his own phone number for “who to call in case of an emergency” when I could not remember my own mother’s phone number. Blessing #2.
(That poor ER nurse was certain I was a childbeater, but what could she say?) Blessing #3.
Anyway, our family doctor had called ahead to our preferred orthopedist, who dropped everything and came to our rescue. Literally, he arrived in the ER in a tux. When I apologized for calling him from such a special occasion, he said, “Are you kidding? I would have taken any excuse to get out of there!” I count that as blessing #4.
Sure, enough, our son had to remain in the hospital overnight, and our entire plans for Thanksgiving were canceled. Our families, 500 miles to the north, were totally disappointed, as we were, too, of course, but we all were more concerned about this little boy and his well-being. Hard to recognize blessing #5. Hey, not everyone has this kind of understanding in their families.
If you’ve read many of my posts, you know we take Thanksgiving Day quite seriously in our family. I immediately began thinking about the get-together our small Bible-study group had planned, for celebrating Thanksgiving, that we had thought we would miss because of going to be with family. I made a couple of calls and we soon had a very special celebration lined up with these other people we loved almost like family. Blessing #6.
Our son was mending, but still woozy from pain killers, and even then, still in some pain, but we all went to celebrate with these friends in one of their homes. They took us in like the orphans we felt we were. All their children treated our injured son to amazing understanding and rare privileges children reserve only for those times when life pleads that we be kind. (Blessing #7)
We were glad to be there, to be thankful for blessings we knew of, never realizing that God was busy, preparing other blessings not so obvious, indeed, of which we could never have even dreamed . . .
Tomorrow: Thanksgiving Found!
I Am Thankful for Thanksgiving Day
We don’t call it “turkey day”. We don’t even always have turkey.
But I love Thanksgiving Day. What other holiday do we celebrate that is totally intended to be 1.) Christian, and 2.) American?
So very few people actually are at all able to assimilate this truth.
But it is true: The celebration of Thanksgiving Day is a Christian and an American act, no matter who else joins in.
Or doesn’t.
We have always taken it quite seriously, too, often beginning with the five kernels of corn, proceeding to telling what we all are thankful for, and ending with glorious stuff topped with whipped cream, we do the whole thing.
All our kids and grandkids come to be with us that weekend, as opposed to the December holidays, when they run to their other in-laws. They all volunteer to bring food and the dear daughters-in-law have developed quite a repertoire they love to contribute: pumpkin pies, Polly’s Apple Pie!, sweet potato casserole, ham, dressing, whipped potatoes, blueberry pie, and Good Pie, so far.
Our one daughter does whatever needs doing as the day progresses, helping me like a sweet little slave, even helping clean her one remaining unmarried brother’s bedroom before he comes home from college, but her specialty is the banana-bread-bar-none.
Their dad and I contribute turkey, corn, peas, apple gelatin, cranberry sauce, whipped cream, cherry pie, raisin pie, olives, pickles, sausages, and oh, a whole lot more.
They all stay with us, here, in our house or in our guest house, for most of the entire weekend, usually arriving on Wednesday. That night I supply two soups, something venison, and something special. This year it was venison chili, and pumpkin soup, a whim, for me. You see, it is my tradition that I make one “whim” soup.
Another tradition is that my husband goes a little crazy at the grocery and comes home with several $6 bottles of pickled things like jalapeno-stuffed olives or hot vegetable mix. Mmm! The two stoves and three refrigerators stay maxed out.
We have the big meal on Thursday for lunch, at noonish, but we don’t really worry about the clock. We play games like Balderdash and Scattergories, we eat leftovers forever, and we laugh ourselves silly. I’ve noticed the daughters-in-law developing very good relationships with each other and it gives me joy. I love it.
My enemy hates it. I think he hates the show of a whole family being joyful together. I know he hates the act of giving thanks. And, of course, being our enemy, he hates us.
What makes me say all that? Well . . .
I’m trying to think of a single Thanksgiving Day that he did not try to spoil.
- One year, back before we had our own grown kids and were still going home to our own parents, we hit a dog and could not make the trip as planned because of a ruined radiator.
- Another year, we were rear-ended in rush hour traffic, making us unable to make the trip because the trunk would not open for our luggage.
- Another year, we were hit in an intersection by someone who did not know how to drive on ice.
- Once, one of our sons broke an arm and needed surgical repair and overnight observation.
- Once, one son got diarrhea and was admitted to the hospital for dehydration. And then my husband had a wreck. Same year.
- Once, one of my husband’s best friends died and we stayed here for the funeral.
- We hit a couple of deer and all the body shops were booked until January.
- One time, our fridge conked out. (It was 2 years old.)
- Once, I got sick.
- Once, my husband and I both got sick.
All these happened on or just before individual Thanksgiving Day weekends. I know once I post this, I will slap my head because I have just remembered the one I forgot.
We get tired of these attacks. Number 10, above, is this year. (2011) I have a fever and a cough as I type this. My head hurts. I did not get to play games with my family, for fear of infecting them with we-know-not-what, since the doctors are closed this weekend.
My wonderful daughters-in-law ran my kitchen like pros and everyone but me had a lovely time.
But I had a lovely time, in a small way. From my bedroom where I quarantined myself for the sake of their health, and because I truly felt like crud, I could hear how wonderfully my family plays and laughs and carries on despite adversity. And from my bedroom, I loved them.
And Thanksgiving Day.
Home's Cool! 