Renate's Reflections

Someone recently asked me if I hate Tuesdays. I answered, “Yes.” Doug died on a Tuesday and they will be hard for me for the foreseeable future. As I thought more about that conversation I came to realize that Sundays are even harder. I would like to go to bed on Saturday and not wake up until Monday. I would like to skip Sunday. We were together on Sundays more often than any other day of the week and when we returned to the US it was difficult for me to go and sit in a church service and not participate in some way. However, my ministry role had transitioned from that of pastor’s wife to full-time caregiver and I could not slack. I had to be content with sitting in a service when I could and allow others to minister. Since Doug’s Home going, Sundays have become even more difficult. Songs of worship often bring on tears; especially the ones that address the resurrection. When someone prays, I find myself reaching for Doug’s hand. When the pastor makes an interesting point, I want

When our nephew passed away suddenly in 1999 I remember his mother describing how the grief would come in waves. I grieved for James then and it did come in waves, sometimes when I least expected it. But, losing my husband, my life partner, my counselor, the man with whom I spent more than half my life, the man I loved more than any other brings an emotion much more profound than grief. As I wander through my days in a haze I am reminded of a time I was caught in a rip current while swimming in Lake Erie as a teen. I wasn’t far from shore and I don’t remember all the details, I just remember being pulled under every time I tried to surface. I eventually did surface and swam to shore to my friends. No one knew what I’d been through. Since that experience I’ve learned that freeing oneself from a rip current requires a tremendous amount of energy and strength. Poor swimmers are especially vulnerable to drowning in these circumstances. Others say not all currents will come back aroun

     This week in Doug’s rehabilitation has shown steady improvement, but it has not been without discouragements and little setbacks. I’ve watched him struggle with his emotions as he desperately tries to recall a word that used to be on the tip of his tongue. I’ve watched him grunt as he uses every ounce of strength to lift is leg off the mat. I’ve watched him teeter as he reaches for an object on one side of the table and moves it to the other. And, I’ve watched him as he takes unsteady steps while supported by his therapist. He has managed to improve despite a blood transfusion, clots, fatigue, pain, anxiety, insomnia, lack of appetite and depression.      As I watched I struggled with my own emotions, fatigue and discouragement. My prayers have been desperate pleas for his recovery. I lie down at night wondering if he’ll get any sleep. I wake up in the morning knowing I’ll have to prod and coddle to get him ready for the day. By the end of the day we’re both exhausted and abo