This morning, Mom and I drove out to LaVerkin to help Grandma with some housework ahead of Grandpa's arrival back home on Friday. He had open heart surgery last week, and has beat everyone's expectations of how fast he could heal and come home.
When I think of Grandpa's sternum being sawed open so surgeons could fix life-threatening problems in his heart, I am scared all over again. I can't believe how lucky we are to have him still a part of our lives. Grandma, too, has had some serious health problems this year, and every time I see them I know deep down that my days with them are numbered. So that makes every visit meaningful.
We were only able to spend two hours helping, but many hands make light work. Lawson mowed. Eliza vacuumed and did cobwebs. Naomi did mirrors and windows. Mom and I did bathrooms, dusting, the kitchen floor, and beds. While we worked, Mom told me a story which she titled "The Miracle of the Week," involving a lost Social Security card belonging to my prospective missionary brother. It was found after five days of praying and worrying, blowing around the doctors' office parking lot. I was struck less by the story than I was with my mom's attitude about it. She has so many miracles that she needs to rate them, or number them, or have a miracle of the week. This is how my conversations with her often go. She always has evidence of God's love for her right on hand.
Going to LaVerkin is always food for my soul. Grandma has never said so to me, but I am sure I've always been her favorite grandchild. She, Grandpa, and Uncle Harley always treat me like visiting royalty when I come out, and I never leave without armloads of fresh produce, hand-me-down household stuff, and whatever else they sense I need.
So many miracles in my life. And since Grandpa's life-sparing operation was technically last week's mercy, this week I'm going to just say, my family is my miracle. That they love me as much as they seem to. That we have this life together.
When I think of Grandpa's sternum being sawed open so surgeons could fix life-threatening problems in his heart, I am scared all over again. I can't believe how lucky we are to have him still a part of our lives. Grandma, too, has had some serious health problems this year, and every time I see them I know deep down that my days with them are numbered. So that makes every visit meaningful.
We were only able to spend two hours helping, but many hands make light work. Lawson mowed. Eliza vacuumed and did cobwebs. Naomi did mirrors and windows. Mom and I did bathrooms, dusting, the kitchen floor, and beds. While we worked, Mom told me a story which she titled "The Miracle of the Week," involving a lost Social Security card belonging to my prospective missionary brother. It was found after five days of praying and worrying, blowing around the doctors' office parking lot. I was struck less by the story than I was with my mom's attitude about it. She has so many miracles that she needs to rate them, or number them, or have a miracle of the week. This is how my conversations with her often go. She always has evidence of God's love for her right on hand.
Going to LaVerkin is always food for my soul. Grandma has never said so to me, but I am sure I've always been her favorite grandchild. She, Grandpa, and Uncle Harley always treat me like visiting royalty when I come out, and I never leave without armloads of fresh produce, hand-me-down household stuff, and whatever else they sense I need.
So many miracles in my life. And since Grandpa's life-sparing operation was technically last week's mercy, this week I'm going to just say, my family is my miracle. That they love me as much as they seem to. That we have this life together.
