Newness

I sit in the dark hospital room. The light from the muted TV is enough to read from Sarah Young's Jesus Calling.  "As you follow me I lead you along paths of newness: ways you have never imagined. Don't worry about what is on the road up ahead. I want you to find your security in knowing me, the one who set you free."


Paths of newness.


Yes, it's new here holding a left arm that reaches uncontrollably and shakes when you squeeze it tight. His energy making ripples up the muscles of my right arm. He's still fitful although a little less than yesterday.

He's lost in the fog of the past, unaware of the room he's in or the fact that it is his 30 year old granddaughter sitting next to him at 4:30 in the morning.

But he's always loved someone to talk to. So we talk and my arm shakes from holding his. I try to remind him of where he is. I wonder if it will make any difference? The rule follower in me does it anyway.

That's a trait I received from my Granny, who taught me if we're going to do something, whatever it is, we should do it just right. "Just perfect!"

My Papa is not as much the rule follower. His eye's always twinkled when he'd bite into that fried chicken he knew he wasn't supposed to have. The same twinkle was there when he'd nudge me in my bed on Christmas morning. He has a hard time waiting to open his presents so he'd always sneak in, wake me first, and make me wake the others.  His face still smiles when he feeds his great granddaughters too much popcorn from the Christmas tin. He has a laugh and a happiness that draws you in. Even if he mumbles sometimes and the story is way too long.

He has a fight too. One that most likely began as a kid surviving the Great Depression and only grew stronger on a PT boat in the South Pacific during WWII. The fight remains this morning. He tries to use my nearness as leverage to pull up and escape from this bed. Escape from this body that is limiting him. Escape from this life that has been full and 90 years long. Wanting to go home and with a robustness the stroke has not killed, he says, "Go Gator Go!"

We have little idea of what the next few days will look like. Oh how I want to tell him to keep fighting to keep on trying. I know that's not for me to decide. God's ways are higher than my ways. So I sit here as he finally sleeps, silently cheering Him on toward whatever is next on this new path. 


The Seminole fan in me can't believe I'm actually going to say this but, "Go Gator Go!"


Blessed to love and be loved by this cattle rancher, gardener, American hero, Florida Gator, and my forever Papa.