The shredded remains

I walked into the laundry room this morning with a Walmart bag of Jesse’s sweat drenched, vomit covered clothing to give them a thorough washing. I remember seeing a ragged edge on his shirt when I scooped it from the hospital floor last night and shoved it into the crinkly plastic. As I pulled the contents out to place them in the washer, I found the tattered remains of a favorite shirt, ripped down the center, shredded from the rapid pace of life-saving measures.

It’s washing now, and I’ll find a way to use it, to set it on display as another Ebenezer-a stone of help-in our lives, when it’s washed clean of the filthiest moments of last night.

Our God, He knows the full number of our days. He sustains and carries. Grants peace in what should be total chaotic emotion. Makes beautiful the most putrescent, wretched of moments. Brings joy when you’re catching your husband’s vomit in your hands in a brightly lit, windowed room of an emergency room in the middle of the night.

Restorer. Redeemer. Of every moment. In every moment. Every brokenness. Every illness. In every encounter with death. He is Life Giver, raising up the dead and dying from the depths of despair. Breathing in hope of what is to come.

*Jesse is awake now. Weak. Exhausted. A bit confused. Still heavily medicated. Will you pray for the Lord to whisper peace and life into his fragmented existence? He remembers nothing, and has awakened to another new reality that is difficult to bear. Thank you all for reaching out, for taking our names to God, for bearing this weight with us. Thank you. It is never a big enough sentiment.*

-Thursday, May 9, 2019