Yesterday, I held my neighbor, shaking and sobbing, two hours after her beloved Tom breathed his last breath.  His story is too familiar: cancer, treatment, remission, cancer return, gone.  They were prepared for him to go in the fall, but not now. 

This morning as my husband sat up in bed, I pulled him back.  Just a little while longer.  I dread the day that we say our final good-byes, this man whom I have loved for 34 years.   My neighbor's loss seems a vicarious dress rehearsal, a needed reminder of what is ahead. 

How do I live in the shadow of death? 

Trusting.  My hope and confidence are in the Lord.  I don't want to be fearful, skittish, anxious, neurotic.  No man knows his time.  All I know is that when deep waters come, the strength will be provided. 

Savoring.  Each day, each conversation, each moment is a gift. 

Expressing.  The older we get, the more we affirm our love for one another.  In the middle of random moments he will say, Love you, babe.   I Love You is a good way to send a child out the door, end a phone conversation, say good night.  Even better is the conversation starter: You know what I love about you?

Confessing  Both confessing our sins and confessing our faith.  Why wait?

Forgiving  Leave no room for pettiness.  Funny thing, we see it in others but are blind to it in ourselves.  Put the best possible construction on actions or attitudes you don't understand. 

Enjoying   There is truth, beauty and goodness surrounding us.  This is my Father's world.  

Obeying   For me, it always comes to trust and obey.  There is no other way.

From the Writer's Almanac:

It's the birthday of novelist Anthony Trollope, born in London (1815). Many of his novels originated from daydreams that he had as a child. He worked for the post office, and became a postal surveyor. And every morning before breakfast, he sat down to write 1,000 words, publishing about three books every two years. He wrote realistic novels about the daily life of ordinary people, including The Warden (1855), Barchester Towers(1857), and Framley Parsonage (1861).

And, because she asked, some random Trollope quotes (gathered in 45 seconds from Barchester Towers) for Dana

Eight other blog posts about Trollope.  I. love. Trollope.

You wake up to the alarm, hit the snooze button and drift back into lala-land.

As you rise to the surface of consciousness your heart twitters: today is "High Holy Day"!  It is the first day of the annual Book Fair at the local university, the only opportunity for thrift books in your region. You close your eyes and smile, picturing the long tables covered with books.  You review the best snatches from previous years, and rejoice at the precious ones. 

Your son lets you borrow his car because yours is getting repaired.  You assure your husband that this year you will be reasonable.  Selective.  Discriminating.  You stop before you say Self-Controlled.

You go to work at the pharmacy where you are training for a new job because your life is in transition from home school mom to working woman.  But they know the significance of this day and you have leave to go to lunch at 10:45.

You arrive at the gymnasium where the sale opens, at a $5 premium, for the first hour.  To your dismay, you see Pastor Steele smack at the front of the line.  Pastor Steele has a doctorate, loves history, is a Calvinist--any good book you'd hope to snag will be grabbed by him first.  You also believe in providence, and wonder which books are predestined to go home with you.  You recall with relief the conversation where he insisted he didn't read fiction.   

All chitchat ceases when the door opens.  Your $5 bill is ready, your Office Depot paper box is in hand and you scope, zoom, do a little skip-trot-jog step while trying to maintain an outward picture of dispassionate serenity.  You promise yourself you won't stalk Pastor Steele trying to see what his box holds. 

The first table is passed up by all ten of the book sharks.  An opportunity! You plant yourself, tilt your head to read titles, throwing "worthy" books in your box as quickly as you can.  There's always time to weed later, but if you don't get it in your box, one of those sharks will snap it up.  You sneak a sidewards glance at the bookstore owner who is starting to fill his second box.  That's okay: he has a family to feed. 

You start the second combing, letting your fingers flutter over the spines.  You are rewarded with a few titles which previously escaped you.

For twenty minutes you work quickly and intently.  Then you straighten, rub your back, take a breath and start working the room methodically. Satisfied with your catch, you pony up to the checkout table and pay your bill.

You return to work, mentally writing a blog entry whenever the internet hesitates.  You authorized a $9,055.00 payment to a vendor whose invoice is $90.55.  After canceling your overpayment, you go home to take an inventory and let your friends, folks fascinated by the banal detritus of your life, see the results.

You take a deep breath and smile. You stop gloating and start looking for a place to shelve the books.

This week has been characterized by good news.  Isaiah was moved to Boise, ID (a six hour ambulance ride) to an acute care facility that specializes in head traumas.  While he is still in a coma, at times he has been responsive, giving a thumbs up when asked if he understood. 

We continue to wait and pray...wait and pray. 

From Elisabeth Elliot's email today:
 

In the last year our church has had many difficulties and many displays of God's mercy.  In July, at a cabin in Imnaha, two-year old Andrew fell unseen into a raging river, bobbed past bystanders and was plucked out of the river at the last possible moment blue and barely breathing by Isaiah's older brother and thus saved from drowning.  Witnesses say Brian almost ran on the water to get to little Andrew.   A month later Matt, a younger dad, went over the edge with his truck and miraculously no one was hurt beyond minor leg injuries.

People ask how Isaiah's mom and dad are holding up.  Our pastor says "They aren't.  They are being held."  Can I quote these dear ones who are stretched beyond what they thought possible?

Thank you for your prayers.  This is one situation where Facebook has been a huge blessing in disseminating information to a large group of people.  One friend started to list states where people were praying for Isaiah.  The comments added countries, spots all over the globe, where people have prayed for our brother.  The outpouring of love (and you are part of that) is overwhelming.

Update of others in the wreck:  Jeff, the driver, died at the scene.  His wife and kids need prayer.  The other five boys are all discharged from the hospital in various states of healing.  We are praying for continued emotional and physical healing.  It is a mercy, an amazing mercy, that anyone survived falling 350 feet. 

Today....today!  One of my piano students completed and nailed this piece, Graceful Ghost by William Bolcom.  She conquered it!  Playing the piece is like wading through nails, it has that many accidentals. For those of you that don't play the piano that means lots of sharps and flats and naturals.  Generally speaking, white notes are easier to read (in the music) than black notes.  Look at the video and notice where his fingers are the majority of the time.

My student has worked on this piece for nigh upon a year.  Isn't it the difficult, seemingly impossible tasks which, when completed, provide the most satisfaction?  Graceful Ghost caused tears some weeks, but great smiles today.  Bravo Shelby!  I'm so proud of you!

I don't know Richard Dowling, but he plays the piece very well.  I especially like the rubato [the freedom a pianist takes with the tempo for expression]. 

So sit back and enjoy!