Transit

Monday, November 7, 2017

Overnight I realized I was letting go of the last thing I held dear.

I gave Zane up when he seized in my arms and went apneic, blue, despite my strongest medical efforts to treat him. Nothing. I promised You if You saved Zane, You could have him. And then Zane took a breath.

I gave Lyol up when he disappeared suddenly for ten minutes at the river. We turned our backs and he was gone. We ran the banks screaming his name at the tops of our lungs and dove as deep and as long as our lungs would allow, scouring the muddy waters for his body. Nothing. I promised You if Lyol was still alive, You could have him. And then Lyol was found hiding with Sheba, the dog.

I gave Addison up when she was completely lethargic and dehydrated for days, pooping copious amounts of blood and refusing to eat anything, even fruit and ice cream. She couldn’t do anything but moan that her tummy hurt and cry because she was pooping in her pants. She stopped peeing. She stopped drinking. She stopped moaning. She stopped crying. She stopped. Nothing. I promised You if Addison made it to Europe alive, You could have her. And then she stopped being sick.

I gave Juniper up when she had malaria at two months of age. So tiny. So fragile. So tired. Such a small arm to have an IV going into it. So tiring to watch the quinine drip into her veins every minute for days on end, waiting for a change. Nothing. I promised You if Juniper survived malaria, You could have her. And then she recovered.

I had nothing left to give. Or so I thought.

I had my wife. And it was killing me. I was so stressed thinking of all the things I needed to do to take care of her, realizing there was no way I could do it.

And then it hit me.

I don’t need to.

I don’t need to, because You will anyway. She was never mine. Nor were my kids, for that matter.

You made my wife. You created her. You formed her in her mother’s womb. You loved her before I ever met her.

But I have learned something. I have grown. I will make You a promise. She is Yours. This promise is contingent on nothing. She is Yours. I trust You.

And knowing this, today was a good day.

I was frustrated, sure, that today of all days the internet wasn’t working most of the day and I couldn’t talk to Danae. But it picked up and we chatted before her flight to Ethiopia. And then we chatted while she was in Ethiopia awaiting her flight to America.

We started joking again. Joking about the most inappropriate things as only we can. The potentially lethal diseases. The chronically debilitating diseases. Blindness. Dementia. Inability to care for one’s self. Taking bets on whether she goes nutso from MS or I go whackadoo with Alzheimer’s first. We joke about racing scooters and changing diapers and misfiring frontal lobes and drool.

The diseases that cause the most sorrow. We joke about them. Not because we aren’t worried. Terrified, even. Not because we are brave or courageous. Not because we are naive. Not because we are immune. Not because we think You will prevent anything bad from ever happening to us.

But because we know, come what may, we will always have each other. And we will always have You. You are our guarantee. Our only guarantee. And our only need.

Thanks. Danae is over the ocean right now, ready for an MRI tomorrow afternoon and a visit with the neuro-ophthalmologist the morning after. With neuro and multiple sclerosis specialists at the ready, should that be the case. And treatment to soon follow, if be.