Glad and sad, and strengthened by the conviction to nurture hope
Our friends drove away at 6:30 a.m. yesterday after spending five nights with us last weekend. I can’t help but feel both glad and sad.
Glad
Glad for their unrestrained goodness to us.
They arrived with three Styrofoam coolers full of frozen homemade casseroles and three kinds of soup in two-person portions plus a whole pan of lasagna we’ll serve to company soon. Katie had spent two days preparing it all; we’ll be eating it for weeks. They had carefully tended what they called their Interstate Meals on Wheels all the way to our home north of Cincinnati from their home 90 miles southwest of Atlanta.
Saturday Byron took me to a concert in this year’s Cincinnati May Festival (it’s been happening for 149 years) while Katie spent the evening with Evelyn. “We had fun,” she said more than once: Going to Skyline Chili (a Cincinnati tradition), working on a jigsaw puzzle, watching Heartland after Katie struggled to figure out how to navigate our TV remote controls.
Most mornings while Evelyn slept, three of us talked and laughed and rekindled a friendship that has lasted for 50 years—and we did that while Evelyn was awake, too. When she was able, she seemed to enjoy all of it.
Sunday night Terry and Shirley, mutual friends from decades of shared associations, entertained us with a wonderful dinner.
We had a nice lunch after church Sunday and took a picnic to a beautiful park Memorial Day afternoon.
Sad
How could all this goodness make me anything but glad?
But, as is true with even happy experiences these days, I can’t help but also feel sad.
Sad that a break from my routine of daily meal planning and preparation is such a needed relief.
Sad that only two of us went to the concert inside the shining jewel of our Music Hall. Just a few years ago we had talked about all of us attending the Festival.
Sad that Evelyn was ready to leave our patio fellowship Sunday evening and come home long before I was.
Sad that it felt necessary for our out-of-town friends to note how much they enjoyed being with Evelyn. Sad that her several funny or wry comments in a weekend of nonstop conversation seemed worth mentioning and remembering.
Sad that promises to soon see each other again must inevitably come under the shadow of an unspoken if possible.
No complaints
Accompanied by the drumbeat of tragic news from Ukraine to Uvalde, I know I have nothing to complain about. My life is not bad, but it’s totally changed in ways I neither welcome nor would have chosen. It’s sad. But every glad experience or gesture or memory accompanying the sadness gives me the will to walk on.
I’m not complaining. I’m coming to see that this mixture of glad and sad is the lot of everyone living in this troubled world. The beauty and the goodness that accompanies the sadness leads me to long for the joy we can only imagine in the presence of God someday soon. We could spend the rest of today writing a list of life’s tragedies and troubles and sticky irritations that will NOT be present there: everything from mice in the attic and water in the basement to murder in schoolrooms and dignity dissolved by disease from the life of someone once vibrant and active.
Nurturing hope
As our friends drove off yesterday morning, I looked down at the two-inch marigold starts I had planted by the driveway before they came. I wanted to be proud of the way our house looks when they got here, but the fragile little flowers seem to be struggling.
Maybe they need warmer soil for their roots to expand. They probably could use some fertilizer. I’ll check to see if it’s time to water them. I haven’t given up hope that they’ll be beautiful before summer’s end. It will take some time—and some work. But hope always thrives best accompanied by active nurture. I’m pleased for the energy and health to take on the coming days.
Soon I’ll close my computer and get busy tackling the list of phone calls I must make and appointments I must remember and duties I must complete to make this week end well.
• Today I’m taking Evelyn to nearby doctors who are competent and attentive.
• Many mornings I’ll sit on my deck to work at the computer or read or pray or watch squirrels frolicking in the pine trees behind my house.
• I’ll welcome the hardworking housecleaner who will be here half of Thursday.
• I’ll arrange details for a get-together with friends this weekend.
• I’ll take charge of laundry and weeding and medicine and bedtimes.
With each day’s allotment of energy and insight, I’ll be on task. And I’ll be glad.