I'm not down anymore - thanks for your prayers. The God Who takes care of widows and orphans will take care of me, since I'm both!
I'm not watching the Conventions this year. I'd planned to, but it's something else that I just don't want to do without you.
I remember the Democratic National Convention eight years ago. We were in Greenville. We had moved Daddy into his apartment, and spent a month getting my parents' house gone through, cleaned up, and everything ready for the estate sale. There was one night that you were tired and went to bed, while I stayed up to see the speech by this new kid from Illinois named Obama. I told you the next morning that I believed I had seen our first black president. If he lived long enough - there were death threats even then.
And four years ago I watched the whole Convention while you were at Antiochian Village for the St. Stephens Course. There's not enough cell reception there to talk on the phone, unless you sit on the bench by the pond and brave the ire of that big gander. But texts got through, so I sent you copious texting about the convention, great detail about this huge, historically-significant thing that was happening. Bill Clinton spoke, Ted Kennedy was there. And I watched a white woman cede her delegates to a black man - amazing to people as old as I am, especially those of us who grew up in the Deep South. I never thought I'd live to see anything like it.
I wish I still had the texts, but those phones passed away long ago. I was journaling through all of it so I have everything except your comments. And there weren't many of those - I remember that you were busy from 6:30 AM to 10:30 PM. That wasn't long after you'd had myocarditis and you were running on Prednisone. You probably had no business being there at all. And after you came back was when you started working at Panera.
It all seems so long ago, doesn't it? I know you never felt the same after the myocarditis. Your survival was a miracle - with all the radiation scarring, you certainly weren't a transplant candidate. And most people either die of it, get a transplant, or die waiting for one. You survived, but it took it's toll. I'm so sorry you had to go through all of that. But it makes me happy to know you feel great now. There will be no more suffering, no more fatigue, respiratory infections, ankle edema, angina, surgeries, chemotherapy, anemia, or even hair loss. It must be the most amazing thing for you! Please do know that, as terribly as I miss you, I'm really so happy for you that all of this is over. The only thing I'd have different is that I wanted so bad to go with you. We've made all these years of our spiritual journey together, and it doesn't seem right to be separated for this last, most important, bit.
Not to belabor the obvious, but God does know best and I do realize that. My wishes have no particular relevance in the universe, and I'm glad of that. If they did, I would certainly have spoiled some vast, eternal plan by now!
Love you, miss you, delighted for you,