Moses
answered the people, “Do not be afraid. Stand firm and you sill see the deliverance the Lord will bring you today. The Egyptians you see today you will never see again. (Exodus 14:13)
Waiting.
Patience. Ugh. Nine days ago, Dad went into the hospital. I don’t think
there’s a day that he hasn’t said, “I want to go home.” Then, at some point the
physical therapist uttered to me that horrible word: “rehab.” Dad has been
fighting it. Yesterday, I wore him down. He’s still complaining, but at least
as of yesterday, he agreed. “But I still feel I’d be better at home.” That agreement has been forgotten in the mists of confusion.
I understand how he feels, at least a little. When I called the ambulance to have him taken to the hospital, my life came to a screeching halt, too. I can’t make him better. I can’t bring him home. I am facing the fact that I may not be able to take care of him on my own. I still hope that he’ll come home and that we’ll be able to manage, and maybe even go out to dinner once a week, but that remains to be seen. I know that they’re going to want his diet to change, and he’s not going to want it. I know that he’ll need more physical care than he did, and probably more physical care than I wanted to ever have to give him. But all of that is in the future.
This week has involved a lot of “standing” (even while sitting.) Everything is hurry up and wait. Nurses say “in a minute” and an hour or more passes because they’re trying to care for multiple patients, and they have to wait for something, and …. Doctors come in, listen to his heart and walk back out. And what they tell me and what Dad tells me, and what this friend tells me, and that friend tells me are at loggerheads.
All I can do is wait, but waiting feels like failing. Waiting feels like losing. Waiting feels like laziness. I suppose that, like the Israelites beside the Red Sea, I’m at least a little afraid. There’s nothing I can do, so I get on my gerbil wheel and run. When that gerbil wheel was a treadmill, it wasn’t a bad thing. When it’s my mind, it can make life difficult. It’s hard to have peace when you’re going around, and around, and around…. But that’s where I am, standing, and waiting, and slowly, things are moving, but it’s oh, so slowly.
Those who aren’t as near the situation as I am have it better and worse. They can keep on with their daily lives better than I can, but they’re even more helpless to do anything. They must also stand and see. I’ve been on that side of things, too.
I understand how he feels, at least a little. When I called the ambulance to have him taken to the hospital, my life came to a screeching halt, too. I can’t make him better. I can’t bring him home. I am facing the fact that I may not be able to take care of him on my own. I still hope that he’ll come home and that we’ll be able to manage, and maybe even go out to dinner once a week, but that remains to be seen. I know that they’re going to want his diet to change, and he’s not going to want it. I know that he’ll need more physical care than he did, and probably more physical care than I wanted to ever have to give him. But all of that is in the future.
This week has involved a lot of “standing” (even while sitting.) Everything is hurry up and wait. Nurses say “in a minute” and an hour or more passes because they’re trying to care for multiple patients, and they have to wait for something, and …. Doctors come in, listen to his heart and walk back out. And what they tell me and what Dad tells me, and what this friend tells me, and that friend tells me are at loggerheads.
All I can do is wait, but waiting feels like failing. Waiting feels like losing. Waiting feels like laziness. I suppose that, like the Israelites beside the Red Sea, I’m at least a little afraid. There’s nothing I can do, so I get on my gerbil wheel and run. When that gerbil wheel was a treadmill, it wasn’t a bad thing. When it’s my mind, it can make life difficult. It’s hard to have peace when you’re going around, and around, and around…. But that’s where I am, standing, and waiting, and slowly, things are moving, but it’s oh, so slowly.
Those who aren’t as near the situation as I am have it better and worse. They can keep on with their daily lives better than I can, but they’re even more helpless to do anything. They must also stand and see. I’ve been on that side of things, too.
Father, it’s hard to stand and wait when the
“Egyptians” are at our backs. It’s hard to stand and wait when we see the “Isrealites”
trapped between the Egyptians and the Red Sea. We want to act. We want to help.
So often there is nothing we can do but stand and see, and remember that You
are the same God who sent the plagues on Egypt. You can certainly handle the
tiny armies that come against us. You can open the sea and we can walk through
on dry land. I confess, I want to see that. I want to see the Red Sea of
failing health split and Dad and I walk through. I want the drama and the victory
of the divided sea. That may not be the path on which You’ve called Dad and me,
or the rest of my family, but still, clearly, we must stand and see. Show us,
Lord, what You want us to see.
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