Some Mondays I greet the new
week with joy and enthusiasm for all its possibilities; other times, I think, “Ho,
hum, another week.” I’m afraid this is one of the latter kind of Mondays. Not
sure why but I have this niggling feeling that something is wrong.
There is illness in my family
and friends, and that could well be it. From Covid to surgery to hospice, it
seems too many around me have health problems. Granted, most are my age or
close to it, but I don’t think it’s all age. I’m fond of saying there’s a spot
on the moon, but I am not really superstitious enough to believe that. It’s
just that 2023, for which I had such high hopes, seems to have gotten off to a
bad start.
We did have a green Christmas.
There’s an old saying that a green Christmas means a full churchyard. My dad, a
physician and hospital administrator, always changed it to a full hospital. He
was obsessed with the hospital census to the point he once, sitting in the yard,
asked me to go in and call the hospital to inquire about the census. I refused,
realizing full well what a laugh the switchboard would get if I, then maybe
twelve, asked that question. But these days I think about Dad and his full hospital
often.
Strangely enough, a memorial
service was the highlight of my day. I attended using the church’s Live Stream,
but I felt very much the presence in the sanctuary. I suppose I’m not the only
one who’s church experience varies—much of the time I am intellectually engaged
by the sermon. But frequently nostalgia overcomes me as I hear the words of
prayer and the hymns of my childhood. Today, my experience went beyond that.
We were celebrating the life
of a woman I feel privileged to have called friend, though in recent years we
were down to occasional emails as health issues limited both of us. Still, I
look back with happy memories on our connections—we met not in church but a the
home of two men, a couple, who lived down the street from me. Ray was a cook
extraordinaire and gave dinner parties; Susan taught high school English with
Jim. And so I met her and her husband over dinner. Then in later years, we
served together on the board of the Friends of the TCU Library. And, of course,
we crossed paths on Sundays at church and talked often about how we must do
lunch. We didn’t actually get that done a lot but I do remember one time when I
was to pick her up for lunch and got the wrong house. She said she stood in
front of her house, looked down the block, and thought, “Hmmm. Judy’s going to
take my neighbor to lunch.”
There were other sporadic
visits—she and John came to my front porch for supper once or twice, and once
when they couldn’t make my annual big Christmas party, they sent her mother who
was one of my absolute favorite women, a church connection again, and her sister.
I wished today I had asked one of the presiding ministers to give Ellen, the sister,
a hug from me.
But I digress. What I really
want to say is that today’s service went beyond nostalgia and intellect to
become an emotional experience for me. Hearing the words of consolation, of
assurance about God’s presence, of gratitude (the Scripture was from the
Psalms), I felt my faith strengthened. I had a sense, in this season of
illness, that all will be well. Yes, I was sad—as I watched the sanctuary empty,
I found myself saying, “Goodbye, Susan” with a finality that brought tears. But
the overall sense I had was one of comfort.
Of course, then I turned on
the news tonight, which is never encouraging, and an email got me smack dab
again in a professional brouhaha in which, yes, I do have a dog in the fight.
So the world is as it will be, but I feel a bit better able to deal with it.
So Tuesday is a new day. And I
intend to treat it as the start of a new week. I have editor’s comments on my
manuscript to deal with which is always fun for me, and I will spend much of the
morning making German salads for Mary’s birthday dinner. She feels her German
heritage strongly, more strongly than I do, but we both love the food. It will
be a good day. May yours be good too—and your week.
