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Every time I sank into the bed’s thick and supporting mattress, I was thankful. I was drifting in giant arms, holding me. It wasn’t something I articulated at the time; it was just a sense. But I needed to pay attention to the sense, and to the rush of gratitude. Such moments—seconds really—changed the grinding reality. The seconds, through the days, created habit. So that allowing gratitude to sneak in, for simple things—which in fact seemed not so simple, hence the gratitude—was what made so much bearable.
Too, that less-told story returned to me, from the book of John: Martha going out into the town to find Jesus after her brother Lazarus has died. She was so purposeful. Tenacious. Martha’s belief made her feet move. Something in her made her dream and not accept. I’d never seen her actions in this way before. And what did it mean, that Mary chose not to go out, but to stay home and grieve?
Nothing mattered, except the connecting of feet and hands, and the moment. If it didn’t heal him, it was healing me. For the moment. The moment was enough.
