#14, May 3, 2015, Open Windows

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

Slept late last night with open windows. This year’s first. Woke to a gentle breeze and birdsong. The chimes’ soft ringing. Have been waiting for this and it’s so beautiful

.

Dave is getting better, feeling a bit stronger. I don’t know how long it will last—it feels like a last gift and I’m going to try to enjoy it like one.

Went to the movies and early dinner with Bryan yesterday. Talking about short trips to Decorah and Davie’s. Also thinking that when the time comes, I will not be able to burn him, to cremate what is left of him. I just can’t.

image: flickr.com

#13, April 29, 2015, Dangerous Voyage

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

Not sure what miracles look like, but when we went to the doc yesterday and he told us that Dave has either stabilized or improved in every measured medical value and that he looked and felt better, and that the palliative care doc is really close to telling him not to come back until he gets sicker, well, it feels like a miracle.

Then read Paul’s story in my Bible: “Sirs, I perceive that in this voyage will be hurt and much damage, not only of the lading and ship, but also of our lives...” and then the angel tells him that no one will lose his life on this voyage, and they don’t. 

Is this the dangerous voyage that we survive?

image: elliestudio.com

#12, April 22, 2015, Lesson from a Dead Cat

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

A ragged day yesterday.

Woke up at 4AM, and knew the cat was dead. Just knew. Buried him by 6, then got ready for the plumber by 8 to fix the water heater, then had to be off for the dentist by 12:30, with Dave weak and coughing all day. 

Glad he’s talking about getting a walker. He wants to live and I want him to. Silly how sorrow and loss and a dead cat of all things, to which I was only mildly connected, warned me about the depth of loss I would feel if I lost Dave. I see now that it will be awful and any attempted preparation will be useless. The only good use of my imagination now is not to try to get ready for what I think will happen.

I need to just live. Just live and praise God.

image: bytesdaily.blogspot.com

#11, April 20, 2015, What is Lacking

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

Our minister wasn’t in church yesterday and in his absence, a young parishioner took the pulpit and preached about the Holy Spirit—His power, His accessibility. He urged us to not only believe, but to actively seek Him, who is our way to supernatural power. Then our ad hoc preacher summoned everyone to pray for Dave, not knowing that the only way to physically heal him is supernatural—that docs have already done everything they can. 

It was then—when he made the call—that I realized my own error. I have not believed in the Spirit’s power. I have not thought to ask for God in this other than to deal gently with Dave's inevitable decline. Even now, I can say the words, but the expectation of healing is not there. Lack of faith? Lack of love? Both, I think. And they make a sham of my physical care of him.

image: Bird's Eye View

#10 April 18/19, 2015, A Balance

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

Reading Reynolds Price and wanting to write again. Must strike a balance between living life and writing about it, even in illness. He did it. If I want to, I can, too.

We had a visitor today, someone we rarely see, but who is needier even than we, and on a day Dave felt less than great. The friend intimated that he could tell how hard things are without me saying anything. How bad do I look, anyway? I finished reading A Whole New Life as he was walking up the driveway, thinking I felt pretty good. Don’t get that. And it doesn’t much matter. This is our life and I thank you for it, God.

Dreamed later about being hurt, about having to meet people in public who make me sad and awkward. Everybody asks me about how we’re doing and I’m still trying to figure out how to be honest and decent at the same time. 

image: theodysseyonline.com

#9, April 17, 2015, A World Singing

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

April.

Just to write it makes me happy. Yesterday was sunny and 70 degrees and today will be just like it. Enough breeze to move the chimes to song and loud with birdsong.

I can breathe.

On days like this, I want to live forever—to feel a gentle sun and the breeze on winterweary skin. I forget we are immortal, that even now my body is wearing out, that I will have a new life in time, that a new earth and new heaven wait. But I can’t imagine it now.

And maybe I don’t need to. Not yet. 

image: padstyle.com

A Personal Easter

A pause in the series of excerpts from my journal. A reflection on what being alone has showed me about Easter.

So I look back now that Lent is over at  failure. No great surprise, since I expended only feeble effort. I did not fulfill the Lenten plans I made, plans formed for my own spiritual benefit as well as promises to pray for others. I was consistent neither in those things I planned to do, nor in those things I promised I would not do. I failed. Every one.

 But God, in His goodness, used even this. In my failure, I began--only began--to see that I can't do these things alone. I can't overcome sin without help from God, the only one who ever defeated it.

My desire and effort, though incomplete, can give me access to His sufficient strength but, like Paul or Peter or anyone else who has lead a godly life, I have to truly want to. That's the part that keeps escaping me. I have to be crucified, too, and it begins with wanting to.

I have to finally, finally give up. I have to admit to my weakness, guilt, and persistent error if I am to ever rise with Christ. 

I was baptized into death. Only Christ can raise me up. I have to yield completely to Him. I cannot raise myself. Ever. But Christ rises and can bring me with Him if I let Him.

So, I have to walk with Him into death--a death of everything I thought I wanted, a death of all my plans, a death of my own self-protection. I have to walk with Him into His plans, and a life with Him that He promises will be more than I could ever have dreamed.

Every time I step away from Him, even glance or have a momentary fleeting thought, I sin. I can't help it. This happens because I was made by Him to live with Him. If Easter means anything personal, if the struggles and confusion of this last year, the first of my widowhood, have done any good work, they serve to show me my weakness. They show me that I can't do anything eternal alone.

I have to leave behind all the pride and strength I've spent a lifetime building up. I have to leave it all and cry out for God's help because what I can do alone is of little consequence. I can make decisions. I can do work. I can organize, and gather, and build. But I can't settle my soul. I can't keep safe. I can't avoid sin. I need help, God's help, for these and like so many of us, I don't want to ask for it.

That is my crucifixion. To admit I need help and learn to ask for it.

Christ walked out of tomb on that dark night before the Easter dawn triumphant, and it's a fine thing to witness. But this year, that's not enough. I've been watching too long. This year, I want Him to take me with Him.

For your Maker is your husband; the Lord Almighty is His Name.--Isaiah 54:5

image: alighthouse.com