After sending one son off to school this morning, I sat in a chair by the living room window. As I took in the view, I realized I hardly ever sit in that particular spot. Everyone else was still asleep after a long, busy weekend. My husband and I needed a date night, so we stayed up late watching a movie in our room. Sometimes those are the best kind of 'outings.' So, the day is slow to get started on this Monday.
In the morning stillness, I sat for a moment in a chair I rarely use. I took in the scenery of our home. From that new angle, I could see clearly the kids' and our family's pictures on the shelves. I realized that most of the artwork in our home is our kids' originals. There are books and games scattered around. A few balloons remain taped here and there from last week's birthday party. Laundry is waiting in baskets to be carried upstairs. An unfinished art project covers the dining room table.
We talk about re-decorating our living room. The couch is old and stain-covered. The chairs, except our favorite double-recliner, were purchased at garage sales and are slip-covered. Everything is a little dated.
But it's comfortable. There are signs of life all around.
I have a friend from childhood, college, and beyond. We were in each other's weddings. We have kept in touch as much as possible over the years, living in different cities, having busy lives. A few years ago, her husband was diagnosed with esophageal cancer.
I called immediately when I found out (through the grapevine, because my friend is private and stoic). Her response was amazing. She and her husband had decided to maintain the attitude that he was no more 'terminal' than anyone else living on the planet. How true. No one knows the day nor the hour we will be called to the Lord. So, they kept plugging along.
He did remarkable well for years! Then, earlier this calendar year, the cancer spread to his brain. I stopped by with Crash for an impromptu visit, and Joe held him on his lap. I am guessing it was painful to do so. He patiently and lovingly allowed him to crawl around in his chair, getting into everything within reach. There were smiles and tears.
I learned last week that they had turned to hospice care for help. This morning, he sent a text message to my husband and several others with a picture of his family and a message of gratitude for their friendship. He said, "it's been a pleasure to know you," and signed it "your shipmate."
This kind soul has for years sent handwritten Christmas cards. Hand-written!!! Who does that anymore? And approaching a surgery for a broken hip, he sends a message of gratitude and farewell in a gesture so beautiful I can't even find words.
This messy, cluttered, busy life is a gift. The sun shining through the window this morning is a gift. My dear friend and her sweet husband are gifts to those blessed to know them. My prayers are with them today. Joe's seemingly clear mental status as he approaches this surgery and possibly his final days is a gift.
We know not the day nor the hour. We only have what's before us in the current moment. May we use it wisely. Thank you, dear Joe, for this reminder. Our love and prayers are with you.
