Grace Moments


We were sharing a handful of pistachios while sitting on the back porch swing, the sun setting off to the west, Thrushes and Towhees gently calling an end to the day.  Swinging back and forth on the old porch swing, she munched on the singularly dispensed nuts that I offer her.  As for me, I needed to simply be careful not to knock over the beer bottle that was strategically placed between my feet.  For 90 seconds life is suspended in this animated glory, I dare not reach for the beer for fear that the trance will be broken, the moment lost and the struggle we had earlier in the evening resumed.

These moments are so few and when they hit I dare not breathe for fear of losing them.  They’re what I call the “grace moments” – God reaches out and puts peace in my heart and it’s the same epiphany that Martin Luther no doubt held when he came to understand that we’re saved by grace, not by works.  That same gong goes off in my head as I realize that in this glorious moment, her life and mine are in balance, in agreement, and in the care of a loving God.  That will no doubt change in the next 30 minutes but for now, it’s a delightful and encouraging experience.

I watch as other evening birds fly their last sorties for the day, the 3 bats that have graced the skies above this old farmhouse for as long as we’ve lived here, begin their nightly forage at the all-you-can-eat mosquito bar.  “Go for it boys, fill up” I say.  She laughs.  Something in my intonation tickled her fancy and she laughs out loud again, giggling at first but then rolling into a full-belly laugh, extending those 90 seconds for a minute longer.  I gratefully accept the extension.

I dread the bedtime struggle, the fighting which is a literal statement.  So many parents talk about the fight at bedtime and what they really speak of is the struggle of wills.  For us, it’s a literal fight; fists swinging, glasses smashing, diaper shredding, hard shoving and deep fingernail gouging.  “Try nice-words”, the therapists suggest.  I don’t even respond, as “nice-words” with Bethany are as ineffective as aspirin would be in controlling cancer. 

That struggle however, is still a full 9 minutes away – held at bay by a grace moment, one that’s been extended by a full 60 seconds so for the next few minutes we enjoy the birds, the bats, the creaking of the swing chains, the cool of the evening and joy of knowing that each of us is doing the very best we can.

Comments

Post a Comment

Popular posts from this blog

I Watched a Loved One Die Today

I watched a loved one die today. It was nothing like in the movies, nothing like what I’ve read in novels.   It was neither glorious nor peaceful, exciting nor frightening, there was no opening of the heavens, loud voices or gaseous paranormal activity.   It was in fact, nothing.   She was there one moment and gone the next.   She went from a wonderful mother and dear friend to a stiff and lifeless form that had little visible resemblance to the person I’d known all these years. When I arrived, I could see her struggling for breath through a dark hole surrounded by taught, grey cheekbones and my first thought was “good thing I didn’t stop and get gas in the car first” .   The tragedy in that thought, as shallow as it is, lies in the fact that had I stopped, She’d have been gone before I keyed the debit number into the pump.   Trading gas for life – that’s how bizarre this all is. As I approached the bedside, I could only feel pain for my wife who has done everythin
Read more

Being Fed With Stone Soup

The quiet surgeon went on to explain how his life had gone from being the doctor to being the patient in a span of about 60 minutes.   One moment he’s a surgeon doing what he believed God had designed him to do, the next moment he’s looking at his own x-rays which reveal that he’s now a cancer victim with less than 3 years life expectancy.   Somehow, at the end of all this he was able to say “I thank God for the cancer”.   From that sobering testimony, the pastor turned to face a tent full of individuals who have their own sobering realities stuffed into bodies that are “imperfect” by conventional standards.   He was able to face them and with words that defy logic, speak how each developmental difference was in fact more special than different, more a gift than a curse.   That one set me back a bit.   The tent was alive with human movement but little of it would be welcomed as special in most of the world.   Jesus’s absurd metaphor came to mind, the one where he says “no loving
Read more

The Shock of a Pointed Finger

Again, I notice that it’s 2:30 in the morning.   No one is awake but me, likely no one is in tears but me, at least in this house.   Again, awake as the accusation rolls though my mind – the horrific mental image of my wife and I being thought of as abusive monsters. Given all her bruises, marks and cuts – we figured it was only a matter of time before someone again questioned the source of this entire trauma.   I recalled the first time we were called into question.   In the emergency room for her first massive seizure, the ambulance delivered her, the physicians examined her, and the staff questioned us.   It seemed so bizarre that we would have to explain to trained medical staff what “Mongolian Spot” was.   The bruises they were examining were typical congenital pigmentation found on most Asian children; so much for diversity. Bethany’s life has for many years been one of self-abuse and anyone who has ever spent time with her knows the physical impact on her body as well
Read more