Life is funny. The mix of sacred and dailiness that are woven together
to form our days and piece together our nights sometimes seem to clash.
For one person a Monday can be a life altering moment while
for someone else it's just another day to mark off the calendar.
When I left the hospital on Monday morning, saying good-bye to
Shelly for the last time, people were still carrying their Starbucks
around and chatting at the nurses stations like the world hadn't just shifted
on its axis.
Of course, the two men that I had cornered in the elevator as I sobbed
my way down the 2 floors to the hospital lobby probably felt like their world
had shifted in a very awkward way.
I could tell this when I wept out loud to them, "I'm sooooo sad!"
Public displays of grief tend to put strangers on edge.
One man was nice enough to say,
"Yes, there are a lot of sad people on this floor."
The other man stood rigid with a laser like gaze locked down at the floor
as if he was trying to bore his way through the metal with his eyes
and make his escape.
You have never seen two people exit an elevator so quickly.
Bless their hearts.
But something has happened in these past few weeks.
Death has a way of revealing what is important in life.
What matters in living and the spending of our time.
What gives breath to our days and weight to our years.
I have found myself grabbing my kids in breathtaking hugs.
Holding hands with Scott. Calling my family. Talking to friends.
Weeping. Laughing. Praying.
These 3 three things have braided themselves into the cord
that laces my conversations, pulling me closer to the people that God has given me.
Stripped down to its core only one thing shines in this life....love.
In that....the sacred and daily are one.
In these moments when my heart feels so raw, when I am wishing I could have
one more good chat with Shelly and laugh about our kids and eat some chocolate
together, I keep thinking, "I want to love better."
More hugs. More kisses. More words of encouragement. More time together.
More prayer. More laughing. (Not more weeping, please.) More holding hands.
And to the gentlemen in the hospital elevator...
my husband wants me to apologize for the awkward bond we now share...
but I hope you went straight home and squeezed your kids.
Because any day is a good day to do that.