Let me just say up front I don’t believe in luck or karma or anything like that.
I believe in a Sovereign God who can (at any moment) intervene and sometimes does but who, in general, allows humans to make free will choices and lets the world run according to natural laws He set in motion at the beginning.
That said, I do have a kind of superstitious personal habit of refusing to speak aloud any hope one week, month or year might be “easy” or “good”. Because for decades our days, weeks, months and years have snowballed into a chaotic blur combining lovely moments (birth of grandchildren and a few others) with stress-filled and often life-changing events barely leaving time to catch our breath before the next one comes barreling down the pike.
So when, in late January, I declared February a “month at home” and a “month of rest” I knew better.
I’ve shared earlier that I was diagnosed with Covid Sunday, January 29th. Truly, I have not felt worse within recent memory but am so, so thankful for vaccinations (which did not prevent me from getting it but definitely impacted the severity!) and modern medicine. Both of these meant my extremely exhausted body (just came off nearly three weeks tending my two grandboys plus a week long trip to my dad’s) and immunocompromised state did not end up in the hospital or with awful complications.
My whole family ultimately succumbed to the nasty bug-including my 87 year old dad (who was the first soldier down).
What I haven’t shared is that last Thursday evening I got a call from Papa who was in his local Emergency Room, alone and fitted out for what they thought would be emergency surgery for a non-Covid related situation.
Still talking to him, I rise from my comfy post-supper chair in front of the TV and start tossing clothes in my suitcase (only partially unpacked because, well, Covid) because I’m coming!!!
Calls go out to kids, my husband agrees to stay home and tend animals and we are off within forty-five minutes of the call.
Thankfully, after careful reexamination of imaging, observation of vital signs and a surgeon willing to let Papa decide to take a risk waiting until morning while remaining hospitalized and on IV antibiotics, we avoided emergency surgery.
Fiona, Julian and I arrived Thursday night and got a few hours sleep before showing up early Friday to reassess the situation and help Papa figure out a plan going forward.
He was able to come home with us-weak, tired and on medication-with serious admonitions to take it easy for a few days.
I cannot adequately express the love, gratitude and sheer pride I have for my kids and their willingness to drop everything and come running. They’ve gained this knowledge at a terrible price. I could not have navigated this last, frightening incident without their help and wisdom.
I’m deeply grateful it turned out to be a tiny blip instead of a giant health crisis.
I’m overwhelmed by the outpouring of prayer and concern from folks near and far.
If you are so inclined, pray for a teeny, tiny break for me and my family. We are really kind of worn out.
I’m looking forward (shhhh!!!) to a quieter latter half of February.
Stay tuned for some new posts I’ve been working on and for another trip through Lent together coming soon. ❤