It is flannel sheet time!! I am so excited. I came in last night and crawled into bed, which is difficult with a 17 lb beagle who hogs the covers, and discovered the warm fuzziness of flannel.
Some folks look to snow for the sure sign of winter, I look to flannel sheets.
They are indeed a rite of this time of the year. I am not so crazy about cottton sheets unless it is about 900 degrees. I am cold natured and very often wear sweats in the summer. Cotton sheets were great when I was a kid and would kick them up in the air and let the “tent” they created fall down around me. Now? They can stay in the closet.
Once I settled in and got warm, I was almost immediately transported back to my bed at as a child. I had a single bed with a trundle. Granted the winters in Knoxville weren’t all that cold but they got cold enough. The heat was turned down and my nose was about all that was exposed (more on my reasons why I sleep with the covers over my head later). I can see the snow in my mind’s eye. And hear the quiet of it all. The mattress itself had long formed to my body. I realized that several years ago as I stayed the night. I knew where my arms went and where my leg had laid for oh about 10 years.
I also thought about summers at camp. Yes, we had flannel sheets (well I did!). It could get cold in the mountains of Western North Carolina in June. I can almost hear the frogs at the lake and the crickets wherever they live. And feel the dew in the early mornings as the wake up bell rang. I just wanted to sleep a little longer. But only because the heat of the day would bring laughter and lightening bugs.
This morning I did sleep a little longer. Snuggled in for a long winter’s nap.
Too bad tomorrow is church day. It is supposed to be 14 tonight.
Saturday, January 19, 2008
Saturday, January 12, 2008
He Wore Cheap Cologne
Life at 8:51 this evening is rather uneventful. I am (was) attempting to read an Ethics assignment for school all the while watching a basketball game that has become a blowout and listening intently for any sounds in the next room as Heidi sleeps off the effects of day 1 after chemo.
I got home late last night from work. An emergency at the hospital which involved a toddler, a car, and a distraught grandfather. It did not end well but I participated in a wonderful and graceful event that reminds me of God’s presence even in the midst of tragedy. I had the privilege to work the case with a wonderful pastor of a church in Middle Tennessee. I am certain if there had been any “real” theological discussion (like death isn’t real!) we would have landed at odds on every major issue. But instead we worked together with the staff in the PED managing logistics, incoming traffic (additional family), and unspeakable grief.
This death was his third of the day. Yes, the DAY. His eyes were wide when I arrived in the Critical Care room. I introduced myself and asked if I could be of assistance. One never knows when a family pastor is already present. I have been summarily dismissed and summarily ignored in some situation. It was 4: 45 and I was hungry so a dismissal would have passed without incident.
But he was shell shocked and asked me to tend to the grandparents in a nearby conference room. So my work began. Together, we shuttled family members back and forth to the child’s room all the while trying to be mindful of the other parents and children who are there for various injuries and illnesses that are not life threatening. It is difficult to hold the hand of a grandfather when there are pairs of eyes watching from a sliding glass door knowing exactly what has happened and sending silent prayers up for their own kids. I feel as sorry for them as I do for the family of the deceased. I have mentioned to others before that I walk the line between joy and pain in the width of a hallway. Guilt goes around, either by virtue of action or virtue of gratefulness. It matters not.
The hardest part by far is telling the family it is time to go. The business of death begins with medical examiner protocol (as was the case here) and decisions regarding funeral arrangements. Parents should never have to bury their children, particularly at two years old and particularly when their bodies are broken and blood spilled. You must return home to a place that will never be the same again. Ever. Sending them out into the emptiness of a cold evening with fogged heads and broken hearts.
Into the darkness of the night and the darkness of their own souls.
I got home late last night from work. An emergency at the hospital which involved a toddler, a car, and a distraught grandfather. It did not end well but I participated in a wonderful and graceful event that reminds me of God’s presence even in the midst of tragedy. I had the privilege to work the case with a wonderful pastor of a church in Middle Tennessee. I am certain if there had been any “real” theological discussion (like death isn’t real!) we would have landed at odds on every major issue. But instead we worked together with the staff in the PED managing logistics, incoming traffic (additional family), and unspeakable grief.
This death was his third of the day. Yes, the DAY. His eyes were wide when I arrived in the Critical Care room. I introduced myself and asked if I could be of assistance. One never knows when a family pastor is already present. I have been summarily dismissed and summarily ignored in some situation. It was 4: 45 and I was hungry so a dismissal would have passed without incident.
But he was shell shocked and asked me to tend to the grandparents in a nearby conference room. So my work began. Together, we shuttled family members back and forth to the child’s room all the while trying to be mindful of the other parents and children who are there for various injuries and illnesses that are not life threatening. It is difficult to hold the hand of a grandfather when there are pairs of eyes watching from a sliding glass door knowing exactly what has happened and sending silent prayers up for their own kids. I feel as sorry for them as I do for the family of the deceased. I have mentioned to others before that I walk the line between joy and pain in the width of a hallway. Guilt goes around, either by virtue of action or virtue of gratefulness. It matters not.
The hardest part by far is telling the family it is time to go. The business of death begins with medical examiner protocol (as was the case here) and decisions regarding funeral arrangements. Parents should never have to bury their children, particularly at two years old and particularly when their bodies are broken and blood spilled. You must return home to a place that will never be the same again. Ever. Sending them out into the emptiness of a cold evening with fogged heads and broken hearts.
Into the darkness of the night and the darkness of their own souls.
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