Here I sit . . .

So here I sit in Grandma’s hospital room, occasionally glancing up at the monitor above her bed to check her vital signs. I’ve been here for a few hours, many minutes of which I have spent staring off into space and thinking about my life. Don’t think me selfish by thinking about myself. I’ve spent many other hours this last week thinking about Grandma’s life and our lives together. Death often makes you reflect on life. At least until the pain of death wears off and we forget all those things we thought about and reflected on when death was so near to us.

It strikes me as odd how much closer we draw to God in times of crisis, heartbreak, sadness, disappointment, etc. There’s a verse, Psalm 34:18, that says “The LORD is close to the brokenhearted and saves those who are crushed in spirit”. I’ve prayed a lot this week. I’ve shaken my fist at the sky and asked, “Why?!” Haven’t we all? In the end I figure God knows what He’s doing and I don’t, and that He is much wiser than me. So I repent of my fist-shaking and just trust Him.

I don’t really know what to write next. I have all these thoughts in my head but I don’t know how to arrange them. Since I’m bearing my soul I might as well spit it all out. I met a very charming French man last week. His name is Marc. He’s not a Christian. I go to church with his brother, Chris. He’d been in town to visit Chris and see Chris and his wife Abigail’s new baby. Did I mention he’s French? He also doesn’t speak English that well. We met at my friend Holly’s party the week before last. I had dinner at Chris and Abigail’s house on Sunday. It was very nice and I got to see Marc again. Marc and I went to dinner on Wednesday and had a wonderful time. We only had to use the dictionary a few times. Mind you this is my first real date in several years, and it was absolutely wonderful and fantastic. What was I doing? Why did I even bother with this French, Non-Christian, leaving in 3 weeks guy? I don’t know. It was one of those times you say to yourself, “What the hell.” I was being selfish, and stupid.

So Grandma should have passed away last Thursday, but she didn’t. She kept holding on. She was worse Friday. On Saturday, Abigail calls me and tells me that the airlines won’t let Marc change the departure date on his ticket like they had told them he could, so now instead of staying a whole month he has to leave on Tuesday and go back to France. Great. Stupid me. Then mom calls, Grandma is doing better. Great, she’s better, she’s worse, she’s better. I feel like I’m on a rollercoaster. Mom reminds me that this is what we had to go through with Grandpa. Thanks Mom, I really want to remember all that too. I don’t have the energy, resilience, stamina, to go through this again. I shamefully wish to myself that Jesus would just take Grandma home. She’s 88, she looks terrible, she’s unconscious, she has cancer. What does she have left but a broken, aging body and the rest of her days in a nursing home with no dignity and no quality of life.

Sunday after church Marc, Chris, Abigail and I go to the Chiefs game. Afterwards we go to a really bad 3-D dinosaur movie and have dinner at a Japanese restaurant at Crown Center. I feel guilty at certain points throughout the day that I’m not at my dad and step-mom’s house in Lenexa, celebrating Grandpa Art’s birthday with the rest of the family. I was being selfish, doing what I wanted to do. After all, Marc was going back to France on Tuesday. During dinner I look at Marc and suddenly feel really depressed. I send Holly a text that says, “I have decided that the French are too stuck up and full of themselves.” But really I’m just mad at myself that I let myself get into this situation in the first place. I almost send Holly a text that says, “Why didn’t you stop me? Why didn’t you tell me what an idiot I was being”, but I don’t send it. On the drive home to Lawrence Marc pops in a CD that Abigail made, and in one of the songs she sings, “put your life, into My hands” or something like that. It’s a Christian song, so obviously the “My” is God speaking. I think, “Yes, Lord. I need to put my life in your hands. I need to surrender.” Man, how many times have I prayed that prayer? Back in Lawrence we all get coffee. After that they drop me off at my car in the church parking lot. I give Mark a hug goodbye and wish him luck. I tell him to stay out of trouble, even though I know he probably won’t. I get home and go right to bed. As I lay there, I’m too tired to cry. But not tired in a physical sense.

Now it’s Monday, and here I sit in the hospital room. I left work early because Mom called and told me that Grandma will probably make it only a few more hours. It’s now been six hours. I’ve held her hands, stroked her forehead, prayed, read psalms, even sung worship songs (hoping no one outside is listening). I’ve eaten a stale hamburger from the cafeteria. Gross. So here I sit. Contemplating life. And death. Frustrated that Marc is going back to France, that Grandma is still in the hospital, and that I can’t make sense of any of it.