Unstuck

I was sitting with a man ... visiting ... when his wife called.  I thought it was especially sweet, one of the sweetest things I've ever seen, that he stopped everything to take the call and address her concerns.  She was stuck in traffic. Driving home, I thought, home to make things nice for him.  She could have figured out a different route, but she called her pilot/navigator.  I liked that she knew she could call on him.  I liked that he had probably made it so.  I liked the tenderness of the exchange.  I liked it for both of them.  

I'm sitting in the back seat of the family road van right now, the girls are up front driving to camp.  We've made this trip so many times that I doubt I will be consulted about anything, but the events of the morning have converged to remind me of that tiny peek into different lives ... the sweetness of the picture of it smiles me.
I was thinking about how we move through life.  We, my little crew, had a rough start today.  Nerves are a bit on edge.  Four is on her way to a summer away job.  Big step for her, though she boots up acting like it's no big deal.  It's a big deal to me ... the mom mode kicks into overdrive ... will she be safe? ... will she need me?  ... do "they" understand how precious she is? ... .  There is some faulty place in my psyche that believes I can keep her safe.  I know ...  it's messed up.  I know this stuff is in God's hands and mostly I believe that's exactly as it should be, but some rouge part of my heart reminds me that bad things have happened to my people when my eyes aren't on them.  The tether between her heart and mine stretches to accommodate her  separate journey. I feel it pulling at some fears, irrational fears, they twirl loose and hinder my view, suddenly my soul feels stuck ... stuck in traffic.
I am intentionally in the back seat.  I want her to drive herself to what she has chosen as what comes next for her.  I want her sister beside her, fully engaged as travel buddy ... dispensing sour patch kids, monitoring speed bumps (aka, state troopers), reading the CD cover ... accompanying.  Part of this is that they are teaching me that they are ... able.  It's me ... sitting here quietly,  in the backseat, as we rocket along, who feels swamped by ... the journey.  I feel stuck in the traffic of my fears ... and concerns. My arm rests on a laundry basket full of beautifully folded linens.  She does know how to do that ... little trickster.  I smile and close my eyes ... pushing at those fly away strands of panic.  And I thought of the story of a person found dead with their head resting in a chair beside their bed.  Visitors had been told "No,you may not sit there, that is the Lord's chair ... he sits with me now that I am no longer able to walk.  Like you, I cannot see Him, but I will.  I will see Him soon." There is room right here in the backseat for the Lord.  I  feel the tension dissipate a bit. And then, with my eyes still closed I try to stretch towards His presence and I remembered that man who set everything aside when his wife called ... stuck in traffic, but not for long.  I remember the image of help, guidance, through these snags, the traffic jams we come up on during the life journey.  I am on my way home.  I don't have to do this all by myself.

So ... Lane change.
The photo below ... Four with a buddy. Buddy spent time in the hospital recently, he was air-lifted over after a long board accident. Big scary deal ... then he woke up and took the breathing tubes out all by himself. And like a couple weeks later they let him go home.
Fear ... Irrational, or up close and personal real, either way, didn't have a say in that matter.

 (Here's a version of that story:

"A man's daughter had asked the parish priest to come and pray with her father. When the priest arrived, he found the man lying in bed with his head propped up on two pillows. An empty chair sat beside his bed. The priest assumed that the old fellow had been informed of his visit.

'I guess you were expecting me,' he said.
'No, who are you?' said the father.

The priest told him his name and then remarked, 'I see the empty chair; I figured you knew I was going to show up.'

'Oh yeah, the chair,' said the bedridden man. "Would you mind closing the door?'
Puzzled, the priest shut the door.

'I have never told anyone this, not even my daughter,' said the man. 'But all of my life I have never known how to pray. At church I used to hear the pastor talk about prayer, but it went right over my head. I abandoned any attempt at prayer, until one day about four years ago my best friend said to me, `Johnny, prayer is just a simple matter of having a conversation with Jesus. Here is what I suggest.' Sit down in a chair; place an empty chair in front of you, and in faith see Jesus on the chair. It's not spooky because he promised; `I'll be with you always.' Then just speak to him in the same way you're doing with me right now.'

So I tried it and I've liked it so much that I do it a couple of hours every day. I'm careful though. If my daughter saw me talking to an empty chair, she'd either have a nervous breakdown or send me off to the funny farm.

The priest was deeply moved by the story and encouraged the old man to continue on the journey. Then he prayed with him, anointed him with oil, and returned to the church. Two nights later the daughter called to tell the priest that her daddy had died that afternoon.
'Did he die in peace?' he asked.

'Yes, when I left the house about two o'clock, he called me over to his bedside, told me he loved me and kissed me on the cheek. When I got back from the store an hour later, I found him dead.  But there was something strange about his death. Apparently, just before Daddy died, he leaned over and rested his head in the chair beside the bed.

The priest wiped a tear from his eye and said, 'I wish we could all go like that."