These past few days have been a fog of fevers, chills, cloudy skies and scenic landscapes. Events have occurred in linear fashion, sure, but in the mind, they occur with a sense of immediate calm. Clarity comes after the moment. After the breath you take, after the time you take to stop when interrupted, and when you're resting on a couch thinking of all the routes and highways that lead from one direction to another, one decision to the next.
There's been what I have been calling a "calm freaking out" moments this week. Like when a doctor comes in to tell you he's going to perform a spinal tap on your wife. Or when I made the terrible decision to self-diagnose my wife's skin infection with my own google-infused research. I felt the calm freak out when my daughter calls me to warn me about my son's potential meltdown at his first baseball game of the season. On the drive to get Lisa in Canton, I calmly freaked out talking myself over the bend of the highway, the gas sign on empty, recalling the last time I ran out of gas--wondering who I was going to call to help, what explanation I would use for my predicament.
There hasn't been one special ending of the week that I can pinpoint. Perhaps you can envision my son stealing the bases at every opportunity during his game (he did not have a meltdown after all), his red socks a streak under the lights. The dunking of chicken tenders in gravy by my little daughter, with her too short dress and scabby knees. Some of the week can be describes in the wire tango my wife and I performed every time she had to use the bathroom. I followed her around with the I-V, the shuffling of my feet in sync with hers in some recovery symphony.
Sounds. The I-V cart's refill beep. The call buttons and the patient next to us who used hers like it was a microphone like she was a fill-in for Run DMC. Our room was just outside the elevator, so I used the time to eavesdrop on conversations, employee banter and the wheels of service. It was the sound of a youth baseball team reciting dugout jokes, or a ball settling into a mitt. It was the drip of washcloth water on my wife's back. Copying machine monotony
Feelings too. The way my hands absorbed my wife's feet into mine. Pinching my little one's behind in the elevator like some juvenile secret. The spasm of a back from the contoured-hindered hospital bed. The way you hold someone's hand during prayer. A hug. A handshake.
Currently my wife is on the downside of a bout with sepsis. Her hospital stay had been a thorn in an otherwise busy and eventful week for the family. Lisa, the eldest, finishing her first year of college. My son's first game. Team pictures, teaching Sunday school, interviewing team, staff meetings, share group and mowing the grass. The only commitment I have said no to has probably been my family. Neglected by a screen--computer, iPod, TV, life.
The infection that spread like red inconvenience wiped clean the agenda written in dry erase. There was something else at play. Like a question from a junior high girl at church on how to handle her friend who was fighting bullying and awkwardness of labeling herself as gay (my advice? Love, be a friend, listen). It was the coordination of friendship, prayer and love. One in itself are great. The three combined are just a fraction of what the Holy Spirit equips us with.
So the week continues. Much has been learned and there is much to be done. Sometimes the only thing to do is wait, be still and listen. I think I'll do mine next to my wife, reading a good book, listening and loving. Sometimes, that's the most important job of all.
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