The Summer of Nothing. And Everything.

Remember that question teachers used to ask on the first day back at school?

What did you do on your summer vacation? 

I stopped asking that question years ago, too aware of the inequities among my students that allowed some to go to horseback riding camp at the country club and take cruises to Bermuda, while others needed to work a part-time job and babysit younger siblings. I also stopped asking because my own summers were usually rift with negative things: hospital stays, ER visits, complex surgeries, teaching summer classes, and the exhaustion that came from caring for a chronically ill spouse.

Nothing I wanted to share.

At our first back-to-school PD of 2019, the leader asked that question. I declined to answer. If I had, it would have been one sentence.

I buried my husband.

The weeks following Ron's passing were filled the complexities of a death. I had forms to fill out, finances to juggle, and an autistic son who did not understand the finality of his dad leaving. Then school started back up in September and Allen and I were figuring out our new normal when the pandemic forced us all into a virtual reality. Life was busy, busy, busy.

This summer, though, has been different. The What did you do on your summer vacation? question is one I would be happy to answer.

Nothing.

And in doing nothing, I did everything.

We Americans are oddly proud of our ability to work 60+ hours a week, eschewing our paid vacation days, and working at home on the weekends. Typically, we work 30-90 minutes a day more than our European counterparts. We wear our exhaustion like badges of honor. For all of our work ethic, though, we are only 5th for productivity among the developed countries. Know who's first?

Luxembourg. Tiny little Luxembourg. 

This little Grand Duchy in Europe is only 998 square miles but ranks as the most productive country in the world. They have a 29 hour work week, get 25 paid vacation days, and 10 national holidays. Except for the travel industry, there is no work on Sunday. And everyone in the country speaks three languages: French, German, and English.

Clearly, we've got this wrong.

The Italians have a similar concept when it comes to work/life balance. La Dolce far Niente, the "sweetness of doing nothing", is a sharp contrast to our American expression of "I can sleep when I die." Not to rain on your plans or anything, but when I get to Heaven I plan on doing much more than sleeping. I want to enjoy those streets paved with gold, visit loved ones, and eat a hot fudge sundae without counting the calories.

I Corinthians 10:31 tells us "So, whether you eat or drink, or whatever you do, do all to the glory of God." (ESV). The Apostle Paul provides some motivating factors for his words in 1 Corinthians 6:12, but the basic point is this: Do it all for the glory of God. All of it. Is working ourselves into a frazzle pleasing God? Is it forwarding His kingdom? Or are we serving ourselves and our bottom lines?

When June 12th and summer finally rolled around, I needed a serious rest. Learning to teach high school students English as a Second Language on line and coping with the first year of widowhood following years of caring for an ill husband left me beyond exhausted. I felt like the limp wet noodle my grandmother--God bless her--would threaten to smack me with. We were still in the throes of the pandemic so a long vacation was not in the plans.

So I sat. On my back deck. In my living room. In the chair out front. I napped in the afternoon, and took evening walks to the river. Every Tuesday, my son and I went on a field trip to an open area: national parks, beaches, wildlife preserves. We played games and watched movies. For the first time in a very, very long time, I found myself feeling well-rested. I found myself reconnecting with myself. With my own spirit. With God.

I'd planned on doing a deep Bible study on the attributes of Mary during the summer. I even bought the book. But more often than not, I just found myself sitting outside with a second cup of tea, admiring my newly planted garden, and listening to the sounds of the morning. For the first time in decades, I became attuned to the still, small voice of God. I realized that my life did not have to be about activity 24/7. 

Susan Smalley, PhD, Professor Emeritus at the UCLA Department of Psychiatry, says, “Science is starting to show the value of spending time in silence, in nature, and in not engaging in constant external stimulation. We need time doing ‘nothing’ to be our best selves: well-rounded and creative human beings. The ‘doing’ side of our nature needs a ‘being’ side to be in balance.”

There is something in our brains that scientists call the Default Mode Network (DMN). When we are quiet with ourselves, this amazing network allows us to see patterns in new ways, to problem-solve, and to come up with creative ways to engage with the world. So, in doing nothing, at least for a short while, we are really doing everything.

This summer, I did everything. While I did nothing. I in no way regret the time I spent caring my my chronically ill husband. I'd give him another 19 years in a heart-beat. 

Let's face it, friends. God as the Creator of all Things did not NEED to rest on that 7th day. He did it for our sake, as a model for us frail humans to follow. He did it so that we might recover from the sweat of our brow and the carpel tunnel syndrome in our wrists. 

We've sort of blown it. But it's not too late.

I did nothing this summer. But I also did everything. And even as school starts again and my time is divided into 45 minute segments, I want to continue to build into my schedule this all-important, life-altering practice. I'm getting pretty good at it, but as with any art, I need more practice.

In the fine art of doing nothing. 

Voices from the Edge: God, Dad, and the Fortress of Solitude

“All of us need a private space. Autistic children need their secret places too in which they can hide and retreat to their own world. After all autism is a withinness disability and autistic children need the security of their own hideaways. I had mine, it was a place for me to think and recharge myself.” Temple Grandin

FedEx:Delivered 07/23 at 5:23 PM.

"Allen," I call into the dining room where Allen is playing a game on my computer. "I just got a text that your tent was delivered!"

"Really?" my son shouts back to me. "I thought it was going to be late!" I hear the chair scrape across the

floor and the sliding door Allen keeps shut to block out the game noises is opened. Excitedly, he rushes to the front door, eager to retrieve the package we ordered two weeks ago. I settle back into my rocking chair and pick up my knitting. A lot of preparation has gone into this event. We have put up a shed, sorted through Allen's collections of salvaged items stored for the last year under a tarp on the patio, and engaged in long conversations about the usefulness--or not--of certain things. The patio is now clear and ready for the tent--a pop-up gazebo--that will provide a space for Allen to work on his projects.

Like others who live on the autism spectrum, Allen needs his own personal space. It has not always been easy to attain in a small three-bedroom row house with siblings and a series of "lost boys" trooping in and out. A year ago, he claimed his now-married sister's abandoned room--once my office--as his project room, but I've lately been dropping hints about taking it back. Ordering the gazebo provided a space for Allen during the warmer months but also served as a prompt for him to clean off the patio. Win, win.

Or not. Allen comes in from the front yard, fists clenched together, struggling to control his breathing. "Let me see the text" he yells and grabs my phone. "Well, it says it was delivered but it was not! They are lying to me!"

I sense the beginning of a melt-down, something we struggle to avoid and have been managing well lately. I speak slowly and calmly; chances are, my son will follow my lead. "Hmmm," I say. I notice his breathing levels out. "Well, let's think about what we should do. Let's think about other things we've had delivered that didn't arrive."

Allen sits on the edge of the couch, my cell phone still in his hand. He stares at the text again. In a moment, he speaks. "We look in other places. Like neighbors' houses."

"Right!" I say, happy he is moving into problem solving. "So, let's go do that."

I abandon my knitting and my peaceful evening and we venture out into the summer night, heading in opposite directions as we check the porches and front stoops of neighbors. But, alas, the box is not to be found. I steel myself for what might happen.

But Allen remains calm. "There's that guy down the street with the dog," Allen says. "Sometimes we get packages for him and we have to drop them off. Maybe he got ours today."

"Good thought," I say so Allen grabs his car keys and takes a short drive to the mentioned house. I take the opportunity to call Fed Ex and reach a real live person, which is not an easy thing to do and may possibly cause me to have my own meltdown. I am told, politely, that the package was delivered but the driver will be contacted and someone will get back to me. I hang up knowing that no one will.

Allen returns and does a little bit of verbal stimming--grunts and groans--before he settles onto the couch again. "The thing is," he says, "I NEED the tent. It's, like, my space. My own personal space. I need it to work on my projects. I need it so you can have your office back." He eyes me. "You know, that, right?"

I assure him that I do know that and that I have called Fed -Ex. It is getting late now and there is not much more we can do tonight except wait, something Allen is not very good at.

He heaves a deep sigh. "There is one more thing we can do," he says. He gulps. "We can pray."

I am surprised to hear this as an option. It has been over a year, to my knowledge anyway, that Allen has prayed. I speak slowly, carefully. Allen is like a baby deer, sometimes, easily spooked. "Well," I say in my totally calm teacher voice, "that is a good idea. What made you think of such a good idea?"

He shrugs but I can tell he is pleased. "Well, Dad always liked my projects, right?" I nod. "But Dad is in Heaven with God now, right?" I nod again and try to keep tears from falling. "So I thought maybe Dad could talk to God about it, and let God know how much I NEED the tent. I think God will listen to Dad because, well, God's a dad, too."

I cannot argue with Allen's logic so together we bow our heads while Allen prays: "Dear God, if you have the time, could you go find my dad? He can tell you why I need the tent and how important it is to me. And if you talk to him, tell him Allen says 'hi'." My son finishes his prayer and looks up expectantly. "I'll check!" he says and goes to open the front door. "Nothing yet." He shuts the door again. "But there's a lot of people in Heaven. It might take God a while to find Dad."

I nod, not trusting my voice to speak.We watch an episode of Marvel: Agents of Shield. Allen prays again. And, after he has gone to bed, I add my own prayer. Fervently. On my knees.

The first thing Allen does the next morning is check for his package. It's also the second and the third thing he does. While he goes outside to move a few things into the shed, I make a phone call to the company that sold the tent. The woman I speak with, Jennifer, offers to send us a replacement or a refund. I tell her I will talk to Allen and let her know.

I am on my way outside, reluctant to damage Allen's fledgling faith, when I hear a thump at the front door. My heart pounding loudly, I go to the door and there, on the step, in all it's banged up and taped back together glory is a long heavy box. There is a picture of the gazebo tent on it.

"Thank you, God!" I shout as I rush through the kitchen and to the back door. "Allen!" I call across the yard. "It came! Your tent came!"

As excited as any small boy on Christmas morning, Allen rushes to the front and pulls the purloined package into the house, unpacking it and laying the pieces out carefully. "Wow," he says time and again. "Wow. God heard me. He must have talked to Dad!"

We haul the pieces to the patio and, with some effort and muscle, manage to get the gazebo upright and stable. Allen walks around happily hammering the tent stakes in place and asking which of the deck chairs he can use. Any of them, I tell him. I am probably as happy as he is that his place, his fortress of solitude, is now up and ready. But in a moment, I am even happier.

Allen, my tall son who has lived all of his life on the edge of the autism spectrum, who has struggled to adapt to a world he does not understand, who has in the last year come to a peaceful acceptance of his father's death, stands in the middle of the tent, his arms open to encompass his own territory. "Every time I am in my work space," he says, " I will remember that Dad still loves me." He lowers his voice. "And, I guess, God does, too."

Seashells and Shaving Cream

But Mary treasured all these things and pondered them in her heart. Luke 2:19

I  decide on coral and teal. If I cannot go to my happy place at the beach this year, I tell myself, I will bring the beach to me, beachy colors that will calm my soul every time I take a shower. Happily, I order a shower curtain and a window shade online. While I wait for the packages to arrive, I gather other items: new peach and white flowers for the washing pitcher that belonged to my grandmother, the little jar of seashells we bought in Bermuda, a pink candle I find in the downstairs cabinet. Amazon delivers on Thursday and on Friday, armed with cleaning supplies and a trash bag, I head up to the hall bathroom to refresh my soul with happy things.

I am delighted with the colors, glad that the light gray walls allow me to change the decor without major expense. I have even indulged in new curtain hooks in the shapes of seashells and starfish. I delve into the top drawer of the cabinet under the window. Time to clear out the clutter! I toss empty shampoo bottles, old toothbrushes, and a dried up jar of Vaseline with happy abandon. I reach into the very back of the cabinet and pull out a can.

And I stop and sink to the teal colored rug on the floor of the bathroom, holding a can of Barbisol shaving cream in my hand, and cry.

This was Ron's. The only kind he ever used, the kind that was put into his Christmas stocking by one of the kids every year and given on each Father's Day along with Old Spice aftershave. The can still emits the faint, clean scent of my late husband. Quickly, the memories come pouring into my mind: Ron on our honeymoon, carefully shaving while I watched, fascinated by the contours on my new husband's face. Ron on our trip to Jamaica, needing to buy a different brand of shaving cream at the gift shop--at an outrageous price--because he forgot to pack it. I probably said a few unkind words. Ron sitting in his wheelchair, no longer able to hold the razor, giving me instructions while I lathered his face and prayed I would not cut him. Ron in his hospital bed, the nursing aide using an electric razor to trim his bushy gray beard.

Memories, psychology tells us,  allow us to relive special moments in our lives, both good and bad (Psychology Today). And God designed memories so we could relive not only the grand moments of our lives, but the small and  intimate details that make up the years, the relationships. A marriage.

There on the bathroom rug, the shaving cream in my hand, I recall Luke 2:19, "But Mary treasured all these things and pondered them in her heart." I want to believe that these small moments--Jesus in his infancy and childhood, ordinary moments to anyone but a mother--are what gave her the courage she needed to bide him farewell.

It has been a year and a little since I bide Ron farewell. Not forever, but for now. I am learning to negotiate the path one step at a time, making a new life for myself and my autistic son, allowing myself to cry over a can of shaving cream and store up a few more treasures in my heart.

It was a long battle for us,  an uphill battle of many years and many illnesses. We learned in those years, Ron and I, to treasure the small moments of peace: a shared meal from a hospital tray, a day without surgery, a cup of tea after work drunk at his bedside. God was faithful on our upward climb. The road was often dark and treacherous, the path unknown.

The path led Ron to Heaven.

I walk alone now, on a new path of widowhood. I have not "moved on" from Ron, but I have "moved forward," twisting those many years of care taking--what was often back-breaking and soul-crushing--into my life. I hang coral colored curtains and seashell curtain rings. I cry over small things.

God is still faithful.

The tears are a healing balm. Soon I am able to get up from the rug in the middle of the bathroom floor and toss the empty can into the trash bag. I hang my new curtains, place my little memories around the room. I touch the seashell shaped curtain hooks one by one, each one a memory of a happy day. 

My husband is still here, in each action I take, each thought I think. Like the coral and the teal colors I have chosen, he calms my soul.

Heart Beat

Shattered...

Like you've never been before
The life you knew
In a thousand pieces on the floor

"Your husband's heart is very damaged," said Dr. Hoffman. She stood next to our chairs in the trauma waiting room, still wearing a blue surgical gown. "His aorta was crushed by the steering wheel. And he's sustained a lot of other damage in his chest and pelvis. But, he's survived the surgery. There may be other complications later on, but for now he is stable."

My daughter and I were numb after eight hours spent in molded plastic chairs, eight hours of twisting our hands and praying. During the evening and early morning hours, friends and church members had stopped by to pray and wait with us. Now, at 2AM, it was just Bonnie and me and our minister.

"You can see him for a moment," said Dr. Hoffman. "Then you all need to go get some sleep. Don't set the alarm for work or school. Just sleep. We'll call you if anything happens."

Ron lay on the stretcher in the recovery room, still and gray, wires and tubes connected everywhere to his body. A screen above showed his heart beat in glowing green. I touched his right shoulder, one of the few places on his body without an electrode. "Stay with me," I whispered to him. "Tell your heart to keep beating."

And words fall short in times like these
When this world drives you to your knees
You think you're never gonna get back
To the you that used to be

Tell your heart to beat again

Close your eyes and breathe it in

"Is he still alive?" asked the voice on the other end of the phone. "I just got the  message you left. Mom, tell me, is Dad still alive?"

Bonnie, Allen, and I had huddled together in my bed for a few hours, trying to sleep away some of the fears we were feeling. One of us would drift off for a few moments, but inevitably we would wake up and grab for each other. Thoughts ran through my head: What now? How would we get through this? Could I be strong enough for Ron, for our children?

Tears streamed down my face as I responded to my son, away at college. "Yes," I said. "Dad's still alive. When we left him at a couple hours ago, his heart was still beating."

Let the shadows fall away

Step into the light of grace

Yesterday's a closing door
You don't live there anymore
Say goodbye to where you've been
And tell your heart to beat again.

"The surgery on his pancreas was successful," said Dr. Harbison. "He'll be on a feeding tube for a while, and gradually we'll reintroduce solid foods. But his heart has become enlarged. It's not working at full capacity. He'll spend some time in the telemetry unit, but I think he is going to need a pace-maker. We'll watch him for a few days until he's stronger." 

I made notes on the pad I kept in my purse as he talked. Terms once foreign to me--pancreas, spleen, telemetry- were now part of my everyday vocabulary. "I'm assuming you will give him a diet to follow when he's released, things that are easy to digest and that will keep his blood sugar level. When can I see him?"

"In about half an hour," he said. "We've had some trouble bringing him out of the anesthesia."

"It always happens," I said.

He paused for a moment and checked Ron's chart. "I see this is his--fourth surgery in the last year? This must be hard on you."

"It is," I agreed. "But we're a strong family. The kids and I figure it out as we go along." I smiled as I put the notebook back in my purse. "As long as his heart keeps beating, we'll keep fighting."

Beginning

Just let that word wash over you

It's alright now
Love's healing hands have pulled you through
So get back up, take step one
Leave the darkness, feel the sun
'Cause your story's far from over
And your journey's just begun

"Your pulse is very weak. Mr. Cobourn, I think you're going into A-fib. Are you with me? Stay with me!" shouted the nurse.

I grabbed Ron's hand. "Come on, honey. Keep breathing." I turned to the nurse who was busily raising the bars

on the stretcher Ron laid on. "Shall we call 911?" I asked her. "Do we need the paddles? Is his pace maker working?"

"It will be quicker to run him across the street to Temple," she said. "I'll push. Go hold the elevator!" 

I picked up Ron's things and ran down the hallway of the medical building on Broad Street, determined to stop traffic if I had to in order to get Ron into the Emergency Room across the street. "I'll call them that we're on our way!" I said as I furiously pushed the button for the elevator. The nurse arrived, breathless with her exertion, and the doors slid open. I leaned over my groggy husband and whispered in his ear, "Tell your heart to keep beating. Tell it not to stop."

Tell your heart to beat again

Close your eyes and breathe it in

Let the shadows fall away
Step into the light of grace

"It's his heart" said the voice on my cell phone. "As you know, it's terribly scarred from so many surgeries and infections. And it's only working at 25% capacity. Dr. Araidne needs to do an ablation but since you have medical power of attorney..."

"I know," I said as I opened up my desk drawer and picked up my purse. My elementary  students were  out on the playground and the Reading lesson was on the board. 

"How soon can you be here?"

I checked the clock on the wall. " Maybe 30 minutes," I said. "I'm just up on Academy Road. I can get to Hahnemann pretty quickly."

"Okay. We'll let the surgeon know."

I grabbed my purse and locked the door. I would run by the office and tell the secretary I was leaving for the hospital; my reading students would have to stay in their classroom. Quickly, I strode over to the parking lot and got into my car. "Tell your heart to keep beating," I whispered to my husband. "Just a little while longer."

Let every heartbreak
And every scar
Be a picture that reminds you
Who has carried you this far

"We did everything we could," said the EMT. "There is nothing else we can do. His heart just..stopped. Between one beat and the next." He laid a hand on my arm. "I wish we could have done more."

I took a deep breath. "He's been through a lot. Too many hospitalizations. Too many surgeries. Nineteen years of too much for one man to deal with." I let the tears fall from my face. "He stayed as long as he could. He kept his heart beating for us."

The EMT bent to put the instruments back into his bag. "The medical examiner will be along later. But I think cause of death is obvious." He straightened up. "You took good care of him, Mrs. Cobourn. Never doubt that." He sighed. "Frankly, he shouldn't have lived this long. He did because he loved you."

'Cause love sees farther than you ever could
In this moment heaven's working
Everything for your good

"Dad's okay now," I said to my three children, huddled together on the deck out back while the EMT's finished up. "He's not in pain anymore. I promised him...I promised him we would all be okay. I promised him we would  move on with our lives. I promised him we would always remember him."

Tell your heart to beat again

Close your eyes and breathe it in

Let the shadows fall away

"Good-bye," I whispered as I leaned over the casket. "It will take some time, I know. But I want you to know I will be okay. Your love will always be part of me. My heart will beat for you."

Say goodbye to where you've been

And tell your heart to beat again

Voices from the Edge: Handle with Kid Gloves

It was the White Rabbit returning , splendidly dressed, with a pair of white kid gloves in one hand and a large fan in the other: he came trotting along in a great hurry, muttering to himself as he came, "Oh! the Duchess, the Duchess! Oh! won't she be savage if I've kept her waiting!"

—Lewis Carroll, Alice's Adventures in Wonderland, 1865

Allen has pulled a shopping cart from the corral and tied our market bags to it. He adjusts his face mask and prepares to push into the market. I stop him with a touch on his arm.

“Remember what I said about the gloves?” I nod to the heavy gloves he has been wearing for the last two days as we worked on the yard, clipping bushes and clearing up the debris from many winters of neglect.  

He shakes off my hand impatiently.  “What?”

I put on a smile. “I asked you not to wear those work gloves in the store because you’ve been using them in the yard. They are full of dirt. We don’t want to spread anything.”

His outburst is instantaneous. “Then I can’t go in!” he says loudly. A couple of people turn in our direction but after years of mothering this autistic adult, I know it best to just ignore them. “I need to protect my hands! The CDC says so because of the virus!”

I speak calmly, my mind exploring alternatives. “You could put plastic bags on your hands, the ones they have for the vegetables.”

But my son is adamant. “NO! I have to wear gloves! I have to!” I fear we are bordering on a meltdown, the last thing any mother wants in a public place. And at 6 foot 4 inches, Allen’s meltdowns can make others wary. 

“Okay,” I say to him. “We’ll just go home and get a clean pair of gloves.” He is mollified for a moment but becomes agitated once back in the car.

“I just have other things to do!” He says. “I don’t need this!” He is taking short breaths, hyperventilating, and begins a series of grunts and groans, verbal stims.

“I know,” I say as I pull out of the parking lot. “It’ll just take a few minutes.” I keep my tone light. No pressure. All is well. The more I believe it, the more Allen will, too. 

He is silent for a few minutes, slapping his hands against his thighs, but his breathing is becoming even. I can almost feel the fury leaving him as he sinks back against the seat.

We are two blocks from home when he speaks again, his voice quiet and regretful.  “I hate when the beast in me comes out. I don’t like it at all. I don’t like to act that way.”

“I know,” I tell him. “None of us like to get mad.” As Allen has gotten older, he has gained more control of his meltdowns. They are now few and far between.

“I really try to have good intentions,” he tells me. “Like helping you shop and do the yard work. But then things go wrong. And I feel like a beast. And I just want to roar and I feel  like I could just, like, eat the whole world.”

Lately, Allen has been able to verbalize his feelings more clearly and be open with them. I am proud of how hard he is working at it.  “But you knew how to control it,” I tell him. “ You knew what the problem was and you told me.”

“And you solved it,” he said.

“No,” I tell him. “You solved it. You knew what you needed and asked for it.” I shrug. “I just happened to be smart enough to buy several pairs of gloves.”

We pull up to the house. I take a moment to admire the work we have been doing. The overgrown rose

bushes are now trimmed, the ground beneath them covered with mulch. The bushes on the hill are sprouting the little yellow flowers that were hidden under dead leaves. It has been a long, long time--years--since I have had time to give to a garden. I wonder briefly what Ron would think of the outside now.  I go onto the porch to get a clean pair of work gloves, passing the little stone I have placed by the front steps. “ Goodbyes are not forever, goodbyes are not the end. They simply mean I’ll miss you, until we meet again. “ I return quickly  to the car and hand the gloves to Allen. He puts them on and seems happy with them. 

“You can use these for market gloves,” I tell him. “We’ll wash them each time.” He nods and turns his hands

over, stretching his fingers. Sensory issues are a problem sometimes, but the gloves seem to be passing

the test. 

After the End: Finding Rest

"And there was a certain royal official whose son lay sick at Capernaum. When this man heard that Jesus had arrived in Galilee from Judea, he went to him and begged him to come and heal his son, who was close to death." ( John 4:46)

I leaned my head against the wall for a moment, pausing to try and infuse some strength into my weary body. The walk from the parking lot, through the medical pavilions, and down the long hallway to the main hospital seemed to get longer every day. There were times when I ran down the hallway at top speed, anxious to get to the trauma ward or the surgical unit, afraid it would be my last chance to see my husband. There were other days, like today, when I could barely put one foot in front of the other. I felt exhausted, convinced I could easily melt into a puddle of tiredness onto the beige rug of the hallway. Desperately, I needed rest.

But after years of caring for a chronically ill husband, rest was not likely to happen.

The nobleman in John 4:46 would have known what I was talking about. While we are not told how long his son was ill, we can surmise it was not a sudden illness. Can you see him pacing the floor of his son's room, sitting by his bed and holding the hand of his child? Can you imagine him calling upon all manner of healers and doctors to try and bring relief to his boy? I can; for years, we left no stone unturned to try and find a cure for Ron. We traveled up and down the east coast, seeking answers to his chronic pain. I can empathize with this father, then, who likely had connections as a nobleman, perhaps was even in the employ of Herod.

Maybe he'd been give false hope. Maybe along the way a charlatan or two had promised a cure. In our nineteen year battle, we encountered more than a few of them as well.

But then the nobleman, this worried father, heard that Jesus was nearby, just 20 miles away in Cana. Had he heard of the first miracle Jesus had done at the wedding, turning water into wine? It is clear he knew something of Jesus; he addresses him as "sir", which in the Greek is kyrie, meaning "lord." It seems from what is told in the book of John that he had traveled alone; his servants later met him on the road. What is also clear is that he had faith that Jesus could heal his son. When Jesus said, "Go thy way, thy son liveth," (John 4: 50) he did not question it. He knew it to be true.

Even as Ron suffered for so many years with so many maladies, I never stopped believing in God's ability to heal him. I did sometimes wonder why He did not. It was often hard to reconcile that to a Father I believed loved Ron.

To me, the most important part of the story of the nobleman is not the healing of his son; we have many examples of Jesus' ability to heal. What strikes me is this: This worried and heartsick father, probably weary from sleepless nights keeping vigil at his son's bed, did not immediately run home. No. He believed what Jesus said. He believed his son was healed. I can hear across the years the sigh of relief he breathed. I, who have experienced the exhaustion that comes with caregiving, can also feel the weight of his body sag as his shoulders round, his head bows, and now bereft of the adrenaline that kept him moving forward, can now rest. That night may have been the first good night's sleep he had in a long, long time.

And it happened because he took Jesus at His word, never doubting his son was now well.

I, too, take Jesus at His word. So many years of caring for an ill husband has left me depleted. During the years of caring for Ron, a restful night's sleep was only a dream. According to Crossroads Hospice, "caregivers must sacrifice a great deal from their personal and professional lives." I was among the 60% that still worked full-time (and often had two part time jobs as well). I can concur with the 55% of caregivers who say it is an overwhelming way to live. I need time to recover in body, mind, and soul.

God did not heal Ron. But God did take Ron home to heaven to live with Him. And it is now, as I approach the one year anniversary of his home going, that I am finding rest.

How can you take Jesus at His word? What promise can you claim today?

That which is "yes"

i thank You God for most this amazing
day:for the leaping greenly spirits of trees
and a blue true dream of sky;and for everything
which is natural which is infinite which is yes

(i who have died am alive again today,
and this is the sun's birthday;this is the birth
day of life and of love and wings:and of the gay
great happening illimitably earth)

how should tasting touching hearing seeing
breathing any—lifted from the no
of allnothing—human merely being
doubt unimaginable You?

(now the ears of my ears awake and
now the eyes of my eyes are opened)

ee cummings

They are always in bloom on Mother's Day. I stand outside on my deck early this morning, a knitted shawl around my shoulders, a mug of tea in my hands, and I marvel at the white daffodils, their yellow faces pointing up to the sun, that mange to bloom every year despite my neglect. Unlike my grandmother, who planted them by the fence on the Mother's Day after Bonnie was born, I do not have a green thumb. For years I told my husband and children never to give me plants for Mother's Day because it was, for anything blooming in a pot, a death sentence.

But my grandmother could make flowers bloom from concrete. The day I brought my infant daughter home was a Mother's Day and my parents and grandparents descended on my house with cake and dinner and a pot of daffodils. They were, Grandmom told me, "Narcissus Ice Follies". The name meant nothing to me. But now, forty-one years later, I am still greeted by their cheerful faces, the seedlings from the original plant having kept up the heritage of their parent.

I turn to go back inside where it is warmer, my head full of thoughts of Mother's Day past. There is no smell of burnt toast and eggs this morning, no dishes piled in the sink from Ron's attempt to make me breakfast in bed. There is no ill-chosen gift in the wrong size or the wrong color waiting to be opened on the dining room table, no card he would have forgotten to sign still in the Walmart bag. Allen --although he has promised me doughnuts this morning--is still asleep. Darling daughter--who knows me well--has sent me a T-shirt proclaiming, "It's what I do! I read and I know things!" and some brightly colored yarn. Perhaps Dennis, oldest son, will call later on.

It is my first Mother's Day without Ron. I am missing the smell of burnt toast more than  I could have imagined. I am trying to remember what he gave me last year. "Something one of the aids would have gotten," my daughter has reminded me. Ron was long past being able to leave the house by then. I think about sorting through my jewelry box; was it the turquoise earrings Veronica had ordered? Or the butterfly bracelet Phyllis got?

The sight of the daffodils stops me. "White daffodils" my grandmother said before she took the spade she had brought with her and went to plant them," mean rebirth. They are a good flower for your new baby."

Rebirth. We are in the midst of a pandemic, with people sheltering in their houses and most of us working from home. We do not know how long it will last. But we have hope that one day soon, the bans on gathering will be lifted. We will meet again for worship and family celebrations. I think of the words of Isaiah 43:2: "When thou passest through the waters, I will be with me; and through the rivers, they shall not overflow thee; when thou walkest through the fire, thou wilt not be burnt; neither shall the flame kindle upon thee." God is still with us.

God is still with me. Ron has been reborn into a new and eternal life. His heart, so damaged by infections and surgeries, was a good heart. A loving heart. A kind heart. He has left his heart with me.

And I, too, am being reborn. No longer the care-giver to a critically ill man, there are new paths for me to walk. I watch the daffodils lift up their trumpet shaped heads and proclaim, "This is YES!" Yes, to life, yes to beauty, yes to what lies ahead, lifted from the no of sickness and death.

The ears of my ears are awake. The eyes of my eyes are open.