We usually have soup and sandwiches for dinner on Fridays and we almost always watch a Netflix movie. This evening I spread thick, crunchy peanut butter over a few slices of four-day-old Italian bread and I snitch the last two slices of Swiss cheese from the fridge - washing it all down with a cup of tea. I willingly share a few finger tip smudges of peanut butter with the wee hound. Her begging is too adorable to resist. I have a Netflix movie that I'll pop into the DVD player a little later or maybe tomorrow. If it's one I determine Jim will like - we will get it again, another time. Or maybe I'll just save it for later.
Tonight, alone, I am missing my Jim who has flown away to be at his father's bedside. He is there with his brothers to bid him farewell, to let him know - we believe he will somehow know Jim is there - how much he loves him, how much we all love him.
He breathes fast, his Dad, and his breaths are shallow there in the hospice ward far away from here. Eyes don't open. Does he know his sons stand vigil loving, reminiscing, sorrowing? I know my Jim prays softly through the remembering and the caring of all things practical. He talks to the parish priest to make arrangements. He phones me to remind me about bills that need paying and the people to call. Always my rock, I saw it in his eyes before he left and sense it in his words - the heartbreak, the pain of saying good-bye, of letting him go.
My heart swells in love and grief, too, and in praise and gratitude for his welcoming me all those years ago; for his gifts of compassion, of a very corny and endearing sense of humor, and of profound love for his family. I am thankful, too, for his wise advice over the years regarding the health and well-being of our children. He practiced medicine, the old school way. He knew that time spent with patients was well worth more than a dollar earned. As a young mom, I called upon him more often than I called my own family pediatrician. His warm and gentle manner, his seriousness about the field of medicine and his genuine interest in every one of his patients, have been instrumental in sparking my own Erin's desire to pursue a medical profession. When my kids misbehaved or fell into mischief, he winked his eye and chuckled, "Be grateful they're normal!" And how they adored (still) their Grandpa Fred - always playful - causing giggles and squeals to fill my whole house (I miss it!), always loving them, always, always loving them.
And now, far from that hospital room and wishing I could be there, I pray hard, and am so very grateful for my father-in-law's presence in my life. I am so very grateful, too, for eternity.
Please, please pray with me.
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Shortly after publishing this post, I received a phone call from Jim letting me know that Fred had passed away.
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