Many of you know that my husband has been hospitalized since December 1 with a vicious axonal variant of Guillain Barre Syndrome. Though much to build faith has come through this period of time, some things have been lost.
Tonight, for the first time in months, I held one of my grandbabies, little Even Tayne, in my arms and rocked her to sleep. I marveled at the fact that she went from seven months old, to nearly a year old, in a period of time that was lost to her and me, while I lived in an ICU, or stayed all day and into the nights at a long-term acute care hospital, or perched in a chair at a rehab hospital. All that time this little girl was not in my arms, she grew from the inchoate communications of a seven month old to the wise eyed and laughing sweetness many pounds heavier against the muscles of my chest and arms.
When I used to rock her older sister Scottlyn Eyre to sleep, I marveled at how such a strong and intelligent human being would yield so completely to me, relaxed and almost conspiratorial against me in the rhythms of the darkness, steam still rising from the hair on her just-bathed forehead, her breath that of graham crackers and apple juice and murmurs and sighs. I knew, every moment I knew as I rocked her, that I must treasure this time, that it would fly away with days and years.
As I write these words, I rescue those moments from loss. I snatch them back from the chasm of oblivion. I share with God the buying-back of what is gone forever; I partake with Him in the redemption of time itself.
If writing has no other purpose than this, if it has no other audience but the writer, it is one of the loveliest and most gracious gifts of God.