sacred spaces [Hospital Reflections]

As most of you know, my father recently spent six weeks in the hospital, four of those in critical care and two on a ventilator. This weekend my parents, my brother and our families will gather together to celebrate his health, his homecoming, and his 73rd birthday. I am overwhelmed with gratitude just thinking about it.

Over the last several months, I've become rather addicted to this blog. I had dabbled with the idea for a year or more, starting with a random post here and there, and then one day I just started writing. I didn't have an agenda really, only a desire to 1) write something, anything, and 2) be honest. I never know what direction it will take, and I always carry a secret fear that I'll wake up one morning and have nothing else to say. But for those of you who know me, you know I'm rarely short on words. So, I kept writing... until about two months ago.

In the days and weeks following Dad's heart attack I thought about recording my experience here. I wanted to share a lot, but I ended up sharing little. I am still not sure why, and I am still not sure I'm ready to come back. Even as I type this, I'm fighting like never before the urge to pound on the backspace key until this page is blank. I cannot explain it, but for lack of anything else to say, I suppose I'll try.

I think the time I spent walking through these weeks with my family -- time spent in a bubble of fear, hope, joy, love -- was a sacred space for us. It felt set apart, and it was not a place that I was ready to venture out of or open up for the world to see. Many of you did enter in through the door of prayer or through our front door with meals, arms ready to hold babies, or time to spend playing with E. Somehow you knew to tread lightly enough to protect us, yet steadily enough to let us know you were there. For the thousandth time, thank you.

While our family of friends carried us along from the outside, there were also those who stood beside us on the inside. The kinship found with other families in the ICU was astounding. Some we knew by name, others only by face. In the vast course of life they will remain strangers, but during our time there they knew us better than the closest of friends. They knew what it was like to go to that place every day, to walk the long hallway and sit in the quiet, waiting hours on end for a chance to have a two minute conversation with a surgeon, to catch a glimpse of today's nurse at shift change, to make the most of the 15 minutes you are given to spend with your loved one even though they oftentimes do not know you're there. I think the ICU waiting room may be one of the few places left in this world where everyone genuinely wants the best for each person around him. There is no competition, only sincere well wishes and gut-wrenching sympathy.

We all want life and hope to prevail.

You and I go about this life knowing that nothing in it is guaranteed. We know that each day is a gift, that each person we love will not be by our side forever. We walk through the world navigating the imaginary line of acknowledging life's brevity yet being thankful for what and whom we have, of understanding reality without allowing it to mask our joy or draw us into despair. I believe this space in time has helped center me closer to that line. It's a balance that is likely to fade soon. Perhaps that is why I feel the urge to write this down even though I would rather not.

On Saturday my family and I will be together in spite of countless details that want to keep us apart. The logistics of sleeping arrangements, a messy house, tired bodies, weary souls, neglected laundry, looming to-do lists, relentless work schedules, a confused holiday decor... In general, the unimportant trying to sabotage the important. Amid our planning phone calls, there is an unspoken rally cry that we will not be stopped.

We don't have enough beds? We will borrow air mattresses. We have a dining room cluttered with Christmas boxes? We will unpack them together and decorate. We each feel exhausted to the core? We will be exhausted, together. We will watch with anticipation as my father accomplishes his week's goal -- to walk across the street from his (temporary) house to mine. We will watch the kids play as their Papaw proudly looks on. We will sing Happy Birthday and eat chocolate pudding and take many pictures. 

And our hearts will be full.