Lifting the head of my bed to a semi-sitting position, I got comfortable in the hospital room and settled down to stare out the huge windows. Pikes Peak loomed before me with the front range spread out paying homage to its regal pose.

I hadn’t requested a view or even a private room, but I got both and considered myself blessed by Father. He was trying to make this as easy as possible. So I sat in humble gratefulness and drank in the after-sunset panorama. The hustle and bustle had gone from the room, and the lights were turned off. I glanced at the TV and sneered. No way could it compete with what stood before me at the windows.

Being in a hospital was a strange turn, an unexpected volley from left field. But I had only a calm peace within me. Even when they said there was a mass in my abdomen, I simply stared at them deadpan. No arrows pierced my heart. No panic sunk its talons into me. But on the imagination screen of my mind, a cardboard cutout of a blob popped up and stood teetering back and forth. “That’s all it is,” Father whispered in my ear.

A new journey

OK, I got it now. This is a new journey whose purpose I didn’t know yet. That’s how new journeys begin. Their purpose isn’t posted on a signboard at the start. Not normally, anyway.

It becomes clearer as I walk forward into the fog. Take one step. Then another. And with each step comes a little pebble of revelation. Trust is my key. Trust that Father knows and he has only my good in mind.

I’ve been down enough of these foggy journey’s to know that trusting Father helps it progress more quickly. The object is to learn the lesson, grab the revelation, perform the duty, and respond as rapidly as it is enlightened in my mind. That’s the way it works.

So, I said, “I surrender, Father. Let’s do this.” Then I relaxed and basked in the splendor at my window.

Dr. Peters declared without a flinch that this was easy, peasy. I would be brand new and back to normal within 3-4 months. He’d done this lots of times. All I needed was a little perseverance and patience.

No problem. I’d already surrendered to the journey.

Life in a hospital

As the next 10 days clicked by, I was pampered by the nurses and flattered by their comments. “You are our favorite patient.” They genuinely seemed to need the reprieve my presence was giving them.

Then one night I witnessed why. A patient across the hall suddenly began screaming at her nurse, demanding that she apologize for not treating her respectfully. I was puzzled. These nurses were exemplary. I couldn’t imagine that she’d been disrespected. But still, she railed for a good 10 minutes. And my heart went out to whichever nurse was the recipient. So, I asked Father to comfort both patient and nurse with peace.

Okay, I was pleased to be a blessing if I could be one but easing the load of a nurse or two didn’t seem to warrant the weightiness of this journey. It was just a pleasant sidebar although an important one.

On the fifth day, I received my first surgery and three days later was sent home. There would be more surgery at the end of the process.

Ironically, a month later my gallbladder went south and I was in the hospital again for surgery. This one would be a quick in and out overnight for observation.

Ironically, this room faced the back of the hospital and the east wing. Both were brick walls. No view.

I laughed and said, “Well, Father this is certainly not the view I had last time.” and he replied, “You’re only here to sleep tonight. You don’t need it.” And I nodded in agreement and went to sleep.

Surgery

Just before the first surgery, I experienced a sudden overwhelming sadness that my Hunny wasn’t here to hold my hand. I hadn’t done anything difficult without his hand on mine in such a long time. And it was supremely lonely. So, upon hearing this emotional response, my kids stepped up. What an amazing blessing they are!

But they weren’t there for the gallbladder surgery. It happened too quickly. So, I was wheeled down that long corridor of loneliness. Except, halfway there, I heard Father and saw a small vision. He was sitting on a chair beside me in his white robes. “I’m right here. I’ve got you. I’ve got this.” And every muscle in my body went limp as I relaxed in his sweetness.

Continued

My saga isn’t nearly over yet but as is typical of Father’s journeys there have been numerous unexpected blessings along the way. I have an inkling of bigger purposes I may share in later posts.

In the meantime, other than healing from surgeries, I have no pain, just less energy. But it’s okay. I’m learning to rest and let others take on some of my responsibilities. That’s weird territory for my independent mind. I wonder if I’ll get used to this and know when to put on the brakes and take back the reins. lol

One step forward each day. We’re never alone.

Faith