#8, April 16, 2015, Sore Delight

The following is the next in the series of excerpts from my journal, written during the last year of Dave's life.

Something is loosening its grip a bit. I can’t write yet, but I can think about it a little. I don’t think anymore that Dave is going to die. At least not anytime soon, although he still seems afraid of trying to sleep in bed. He’s been developing bed sores from spending so much of his life in a chair, but he still doesn’t want to change that. It’s like he can’t see that it prevents him from doing any of the traveling he says he wants to do.

As for me, I’m getting used to this, and am content that I’m living the life given me. There are still quick, fresh mornings like this that let me breathe, and days that allow pleasant hours. Asking more than that is more than too much, but true delight still sometimes comes.

image: clipart-library.com

#7, April 15, 2015, The Fragile Peace

The following is the next in a series of excerpts from my journal, written during the last year of Dave's life:

These are the mornings I wait all year for--when I can open the window and hear the owls call just before sunrise, then transition to the twittering of morning birds. Mild, bright, and gentle at the same time. Clean. New.

These are not like some days that have slid mildly by in larger seasons. Needs press--some to do with normal activity--washing and cleaning--some to do with Dave's illness--making breakfast for him and his friend because he can't go out and taking him to physical therapy--and some extra ones of my own making--painting, assembling furniture, or working on the details of the kitchen design.

But right at this moment, I hear the birds and feel the cool promise of a gentle day.

One of my oldest friends called last night. Amid their life of going here and there in their new Corvette and of cruises and trips, she wants us to come down to see them. She asks every time, even after seeing Dave's weakness in December. When I say he improves a little, she doesn't know the low weakness he improves from and I don't dare tell her. I want to spare her worry--and to spare me the pain of her reaction, her unintended sympathy for a grim reality not yet known.

If I could only slide through this day with the grateful calm of these moments. But Dave will wake, and people will come. They will obscure the fragile early morning peace, and I will live another day. Oh, God, thank you for the beauty.

Image: betterphoto.com

#6, April 10, 2015, Two Things

This is the next excerpt from my journal, written during the last year of Dave's life:

Two things today.

The first is the marvel of how I can discover my own good fortune through the actions of other people. Dave has a friend whose prostate cancer might have moved to his bones. That makes it very dangerous and what eventually kills almost everyone it inflicts. He had his bone scan 2 days ago, but he and his wife aren't making any plans for what they will do if it comes back positive. They are acting like everything will be  fine, but all the time worrying and not talking about it. I'm so glad that Dave faces difficulties head on and helps me to do the same. I don't have to live their lives, and am so glad for this part of ours. Of course, lately I've taken it too far, but I can fix some of that.

And second--1Corinthians.  The Bible often drops its fruit in minutiae, but sometimes it does it in big pieces. 1Corinthians 10 and 11 are about the body of Christ and the reception of gifts. 1Corinthians 12 is about spiritual gifts. Together they are a recitation of what to do toward God and each other, how we relate and what to value in these relationships. But then, at the end, Paul says, "But let me show you a more excellent way."  More excellent than communion. More excellent than teaching or preaching or serving each other. More excellent. Loving. Just loving. So, if I can love, and love as well as I am loved by God, the rest will come, but even if it doesn't, I will have the most excellent way. Oh, God, help me to love.

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#5, April 9, 2015, Good Morning

The following is the next excerpt from my journal written during the last year of Dave's life:

Today, finally, I feel some refreshment, some calm. I've been looking at my whole life through the lens of Dave's illness--all activities, all schedules, all projects, all philosophies, and it tears me down. It hurts us both.

There is still much good in what remains.

Dave had a good rehab yesterday and was encouraged by it. I woke today faced only by the familiar--a few small chores, a rug to design, a dessert to plan.

Life has felt so ragged, but God has all the loose ends of it in His hand...no--more than that--He has already designed and completed it for good. These days, though full of uncertainty sometimes, can be good. There is nothing here we can't handle with God's help and we can love Him and one another through them all.

I'm so grateful for a new morning washed clean and regenerating everything around me, and a fresh perspective. Thinking today what my sweet friend Vera used to say--"God and I can do it". And even more than that--we can be happy in the midst of it--not for the sake of circumstance, but simply for the joy of life and for knowing He lives.

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#4, April 7, 2015: Ashes

The following is the next excerpt from my journal, written during the last year of Dave's life:

Something about the kitchen remodel has been bothering me and I think I know what it is. Dave said something yesterday again about me being able to do anything I want after he is dead. He is enthusiastic about it and I couldn't understand why, but maybe he's thinking of this work we're doing on the house as a legacy--something he can give me now that will last after he dies.

The thought makes me sick to my stomach.
 How can I do this? How can I ever enjoy any of it?

And then I think of all the times I've wanted to be alone.

I've thought it, even said it so many times, and now the words turn to ashes in my mouth. I will never be able to separate the new kitchen from what Dave has unwittingly echoed from the back of my own mind.

The kitchen will always be part of his death. And I have done this, not him. I have wished, if not directly for his death, then for the one single thing that could at this point allow my solitude. I have not made it happen by wishing, but I have altered the reality of these days with the knowledge of it. I have changed the aspect of what is happening here every day by what I have wished over and over.

But, if that's true, I can change it back again. It's not too late.

So, from now on, it's not "when he dies" but "while he lives." This, I can do.

Image: joanna.org

She Walks These Hills--Interlude: April 1, 1978

The next excerpt from my journal doesn't surface until April 7th. In the meantime, there is today:

Memory Lane. For a full-time widow, this is not a place one strolls. We move into that address, carry in our furniture and hang our clothes in its closet. It's not a stop, but an interactive experience, one in which we open our imagination rather like we do when we go to a movie. The memory plays itself back and we respond as though it were happening all over again, fully knowing the pleasure or pain of that time right now. Living it with both old eyes and new. Sometimes, it has to do with a circumstance or a person, someone or something that brings with it an experience we shared with our beloved. Sometimes, it's simply a date. Like today.

April 1. April Fools' Day. I've never quite gotten over shaking my head at the irony. What were we thinking? April 1 was the day I moved in with Dave.

Yes, I moved in with Dave before we were married, and it was not our most stellar moment. Even now, I find it hard to understand. Who were we then anyway? Saying we were in love doesn't quite cover it. We were, of course, but we were also out of control, at least I was. Borne along on what felt like some kind of tidal wave, compelled by a desire to escape and the promise of adventure. Knowing it broke every rule of God and man, but also that it opened a whole new horizon of possibility. Eve probably said the same thing. Certainly, God didn't mean this apple, this tree...

But He did, of course.

I simply called Dave that morning and asked. "Will you come and get me?" I was married to someone else, you see. Married, and a mother besides, and in one moment, threw it all in. Even now, I can't separate the profound regret from the exhilaration.

It was glorious in some ways. Oh my, it was. Dave said he wanted to protect me, but instead threw me headlong into intensity. We lived. Oh, we lived.

But there was a price to pay for all of that, and for letting, on that April 1, our hearts rule our heads and our consciences. It took years for the sin of it to unmask itself and to completely raise its horrible head. It nearly destroyed our lives together in the process. What began so hot nearly burned us to a crisp.

But God was faithful even when we were not. And He mercifully dismantled the house we'd built on sin, salvaged what was good in it, then built us a new one built on Him. Often, it wasn't easy or fun, but for all the regrets I still harbor for decisions I've made, I bear no regrets for the decision to follow Him no matter where He led.

In 1978, on that April 1, I ran away from God by running to Dave. Eventually, step by difficult step, Dave and God stood side by side, and I could draw near to them both together. If anyone saw anything good in us, it was based on that journey, one we made together.

Were we fools on that April 1 so long ago?
Undoubtedly.
But because of what God did for us in the interim, Memory Lane today is a sweet place. I live here gratefully and in awe, smiling all the while, even, sometimes, through a tear.

#3, March 28, 2015, There Has to be a Way

These are excerpts from my journals, written during the last year of Dave's life.

The thing I remember most about what I believe was God's vision of heaven, given to me all those years ago in a dream, is that it was the only time I have ever felt complete love and utter freedom from critical judgement. How different it was from this life. Dave tells me all the time how much he loves me and truly does as much as he is able, then will, without warning or intent, cut to the core, leaving me speechless, or nearly so. Like today when he said that I could do anything I wanted to do after he was dead.

The contradiction of it stunned me. I can hardly think of anything I'm doing in my life right now that I truly want to do, at least entirely. The only reason I put one foot in front of the other is that I trust God. There is little happiness or contentment or satisfaction in this life because there is little reward. Death--Dave's death--is the only probable end to all this work and heartache.

And yet, I have to trust God in this. There isn't anything else.

[I'm not at all like Maggie--my sweet stepmother who cared for Dad in his last illness, every bit as disturbing as Dave's and more because of Dad's dementia--who, when I asked her how she was doing it all, told me that she didn't want to be anywhere else. She didn't want to be anywhere else. I have no idea what that would be like. I so often want to be anywhere but where I am. Her love and devotion shine like an unattainable beacon. I will never be able to say that.]

Yesterday, Dave said that maybe we would still be able to go to Panama and that, statistically, he was still beating the odds, but I can't help but feel that Dave is a house of cards and when one card falls, the whole entire structure, the man, will collapse.

Until then, though, there's nothing to do but love one another as much as we can. As for me, I have to seek God to discover what love demands of me. That is my lesson. I will not always like what I have to do, but I do so want to love God in doing it. I'm not sure how, but there has to be a way.

Image: hrmonline.ca