Patience

My last memory with my dear old Pops before the sickness came is a tender one. This particular memory is a gift straight from the God Who knew I would need just such a one to pull out and hold on days like these.

It was a rainy day, really. Gray, and the kind of wet that seeps into your shoes and sloshes around. The week had been trying, and both body and spirit felt a bit trodden down, worn out, downright exhausted.  I didn't know how I was going get everything done for school and grad class and all the other things filling up the cracks. Dad, lovable worrywart that he is, is always telling me to drink some caffeine as I drive to and from my grad class in the evening so I won't drift off at the wheel.

He must have thought caffeine wouldn't be enough that Wednesday.

During my lunch break at school, I felt my own weakness all too deeply. That's when I listened to the voicemail and heard his voice telling me that he and mom were going to come pick me up after school and chauffeur me to class. And they did. Dad made sure there were pillows in the van so I could sleep. He and mom came in our trusty, too-old van (a true Johnson jalopy), windows all fogged up from the heat pouring out the vents while rain slid down the glass. And so I slept. While I was in class they bought groceries to stuff my rather mournfully empty refrigerator once we got back to Bainbridge.

Dad is no-nonsense most of the time. I'm a Grown-Up, you see, and I can care for my needs. But it is nice, so nice, to be able to pull out a memory like this one.

Even Grown-Ups need to be taken care of.

Rest at last.

And so we wait. God's arms are heavy with my family right now, but His are the arms that don't grow weary of holding.