This is the next in a series of transcripts from my journal, written during the last year of Dave's life.
I am tied to Dave’s health condition and attitude on any given day and don’t know how to get untied without loving less at the same time. I want to love him and empathize, but don’t know how to do it without sinking down with him on the days he feels so sick and discouraged.
I am tied to Dave’s health condition and attitude on any given day and don’t know how to get untied without loving less at the same time. I want to love him and empathize, but don’t know how to do it without sinking down with him on the days he feels so sick and discouraged.
His illness is not a straight line. Some days, he smiles even in
weakness and some he can barely raise his eyes above the rim of his
dizziness and weakness. I can’t make any of it go away. I can’t
protect him. I can, however, walk with him, witness to his weariness
and discomfort. I can show him that I will be here no matter what
even when we are both afraid.
So, yesterday, when Knute came over and asked me how Dave was doing,
I just cried. He, Dave, was so discouraged, so weak and tired of
being sick. Then later, he took a nap, went to rehab, and was better.
That’s when I got it. The minute he felt better, I did too.
That’s OK up to a point, but doesn’t include much trust in God.
Somehow, it has to be possible to enter completely in while still
trusting that God will be holding me. And He will. I know it. This is
way past any of my own ability to lift myself out of it. I have to
enter in, resting in God, and let Him hold me up.
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