The cold here today holds that clear, edged quality. It is as if all of creation is being very careful in its ordinary business. The animals are restless against the chill; the birds have emptied the feeders (again), the equines are romping and eating and begging carrots (with success), the cows are prowling the valley and bellowing for silage (so far, in vain).
Today marks one year since our beloved Sophie died. I was glad that I was able to stroke her and whisper comfort to her as she slipped from this life into her rest, glad that she didn’t die alone, glad that strangers weren’t holding her. Cradling her in my arms as she died was hard for me, and I still feel the black sense of loss in witnessing the end of life for such a sweet and devoted little creature as Sophie. But my grief was and is nothing compared to my beloved wife’s pain. Sophie was born 15 years ago her MeeMaw’s laundry basket, in her bedroom. And from that day until the day she left us, Sophie was at MeeMaw’s side, loving and watchful and attentive. MeeMaw still misses her and grieves for her, and likely always will. We may soon get another puppy, if our merciful Father brings us the right one. But no matter how loyal or helpful a new dog may be, he will not be Sophie. There will never be another Sophie-hound.
MeeMaw has been sick for the past two days. She has a very deep, very persistent cough. Up until last night, she had no fever. But as we were preparing for bed, I touched her skin and detected unusual warmth. The thermometer confirmed that she was indeed feverish. Several people at her work and mine have been sick. Our pastor, John, informed me yesterday that his entire household is ill, particularly infant Xander. The lad has RSV, which can be serious at his age, given that it is highly contagious, even in airborne mode. Today, MeeMaw seems somewhat better, but we have scuttled our plans to do some exploring and sightseeing. She needs to rest. And I need to watch her rest.
Yesterday, I was thinking about my recent medical examinations, starting a few months ago with the first comprehensive physical I’ve had in over a decade.
After that initial physical and two subsequent follow-up appointments, a heart workup, a CT scan of my brain, and a colonoscopy, I now know the general situation with my own body and health.
I’m in good health.
Every major system has been examined and found reasonably fit. Yes, some things need monitoring and attention. But the deliberate laying aside of destructive habits and the determination to make my remaining years a testimony to God’s grace has done me good. The phrase my primary care doctor recently used when describing my condition was, “For a man your age, you’re remarkably strong.” I keep thinking about that. A man my age…
Since my late teens/early twenties, I have pushed my body, punished it, abused it. And not in a good way. Very strong attractions to drink, danger, and defiance have served to give me some, ah, interesting experiences in life. They have also managed to teach me some painful lessons about myself, about the nature of life in God’s world, and about the bitter irreversibility of certain significant decisions.
But as I crested the hill of my earthly years at age 40 and began the descent toward old age and death, I encountered yet more of my Father’s largesse. He gave to me a wife, a lady of whom I can say with no exaggeration that she is the finest human being I have ever encountered in my entire life. MeeMaw’s presence in my world has led me to calmer waters, fuller sails, and more magnificent sunrises. My final sunset will doubtless be deeper and more serene because my Redeemer gave her to me as wife, helper, companion, and confidant.
This life is, even at its best, full of phoniness and play-acting, full of pretense and veneer, full of mindless movement. The older I grow, the more sensitive and allergic I become to regurgitated “wisdom” and well-intentioned but completely worthless “activities.” And I now have neither time nor tolerance for such things.
This year, J&K gave me a walking stick, a lovely handmade staff, for my birthday. I used it this morning as I walked in the woodlot, among the sharp rocks and frozen lumps of manure and twisted, knotted vines. Already, the copper shoe and the flawless shaft show the wear of hard use.
I have for much of my life taken the gifts that God has bestowed on me and tucked them into safe places for display or safekeeping, rather than using them. I now understand that to decline to refuse His gifts – even out of well-intentioned though misguided motives – is not only ungrateful, but reprehensible. I am determined to use - wisely and immediately - the gifts I have been given, and time is the most important of these gifts.
My walking stick will not remain indoors, unused and pristine. It will help me over obstacles. It may help me push brambles out of the way, or even fend off some varmint I haven’t yet encountered. I will use it to lean on when I am tired, and I may whack an unruly goat with it on occasion. But it will be used, because it is useful, and because it was given to me, out of love, for my use.
My hours and talents will be, by God’s grace, the very same.
