And Then This Happened

On March 17th my hubby, Don called me at work to complain about some mild heartburn and a numb left arm. I told him to dial 911 and raced home, beating the ambulance and advanced life support team.

He looked a bit tired but fine, and we spoke while they hooked him up to all kinds of monitors and gadgets. Arriving at the hospital, his heart rate was 33 and they couldn't establish a blood pressure reading (I assume because his pulse was so slow?)

As the day progressed we were told he had not suffered a heart attack, and then hours later, we were told he had. Let the roller coaster ride begin. More turns and highs and lows would follow. As Don and I sat in the trauma room, he asked me to take a picture of the heart monitor because it was averaging around 40 beats per minute . . . he thought it would make him look like an elite athlete.

Grabbing my cell, I held it up just as his heart rate disappeared. The top right of the screen lit 32 and then went blank; the green line that had been slowly leaving a weaving trail went flat. In shock I just kept taking picture after picture while beeps and alarms sounded. Strangely, Don kept speaking and looked pale but fine.

I dropped my cell onto the bed and began to quote scripture, starting with ,'He heals the brokenhearted and binds up their wounds'. Don - not knowing what I was doing - joined in. Moments later the number reappeared and slowly rose. He was admitted and hooked up to a horrible machine that beeped and alarmed constantly.

The next day, they told me that they were taking my man for a quick, twenty minute angiogram. Two hours later I was still alone outside in the hall waiting. I sat, head hung down and asked the Lord, 'You are El Roi - you do see - right?' Moments later my cell rang. It was a friend telling me that something I had prayed about years ago and had been waiting for resolution was . . . resolved. In that moment. Not last year . . . not last month . . . not yesterday . . . but in that moment.

God sees.

A half hour later, they wheeled him out with a report that showed he needed open-heart surgery. Shock? You bet! Supernatural peace . . . buckets full! I was still in awe of God's intervention minutes before.

The next day I was scheduled to fly to LA to see Mia off before her three month mission trip. We were dumbfounded but the cardiologist assured me that Don was in good hands and that I should go.

So I did.

For forty-eight hours I was in a blissful, beach bubble with my kid, miles away from painful reality. However, come Sunday, having returned the rental car, the truth slammed me and I lost it. Babbling, snotty tears flowed.

Back home, two of the kids were able to fly in just before the surgery, and we captured a selfie. (I was going to post it, but decided to protect the innocent. It wasn't too pretty a shot of Don).

El Roi was holding us. We could feel it. Once in awhile I would crack and have a good cry when nobody was looking, (except for the couple of hundred people at the Burbank airport). But we were good.

His bypass surgery was postponed a few times as he was bumped by others with more urgent needs. I struggled with resentment, but then kept remembering my El Roi moment days before. His timing is always perfect.

The night before his surgery, I lay in bed alone with one of Don's shirts I pulled from the hamper tucked under my chin. I could smell his scent and it brought me comfort. I knew that I had to let go. That I had to open up my hands and release my husband into God's perfect will and purpose. Not for God's sake, but to grow my own faith and to give up my selfish fleshly desires for whatever He had planned. It took me a bit, I prayed a lament using Psalm 41:1-3, replacing Don's name where possible.

I wanted Don to walk with me for many more years to come . . . but I also trusted the very One who had showed up and encouraged me when I was alone outside the angiogram room a few days before.

As I write this, Don is in the cardiac intensive care unit recovering from a quadruple bypass. When he woke this morning and they removed his breathing tube, the nurses told me his first words were, 'Thank you. God bless . . . Jesus loves you!'

Moments later, I sat down next to him and he reached out and - forgetting that he could speak - spelled out 'Jesus loves you' into the palm of my hand with his finger. My man was experiencing the crazy love of His Father and wanted everyone in the room to join in.

There is nothing amazing about us or our journey - we acknowledge that many have walked much more challenging and tragic paths. But we are amazed at God's faithfulness and all that He has taught us these past twelve days. As Don said when the nurses left us alone for a moment, 'This is not about us, Lori . . . we're here for His purpose.'

Yes, my sweet man, Jesus does love me. And He sees. And He is faithful . . . He gave me you . . . and then He gave you back to me.

Vanished Into Thin . . . Mints

As I get older, I’m not as sharp as I used to be, but I’d like to believe I am a smart cookie nonetheless. Lately, however, my memory plays tricks on me and I spend a great deal of time looking for stuff. It’s not like I lose things, as that would mean they are . . . lost, but rather I just misplace things . . . temporarily.

Like my husband.

No, I’m not insinuating that he loses things. I lost him. For over twenty minutes. In one average-sized Safeway.

As we headed to the checkout, I realized that I needed to use the washroom before venturing home. I reminded my dear husband of certain sale prices that he needed to watch for as they rang up the groceries. Being a man who holds three degrees, I knew he could handle the job.

Exiting the washroom a few minutes later, I walked back and forth across the front of the store checking each till. Now, I must confess that in a vain attempt to deny my age, I had left my glasses in the car. It’s not like I’m blind, I only require them for distance . . . like when I am driving, watching movies—or clearly, finding my man in a grocery store.

Finally spotting him in the far end of the produce section, I muttered to myself, wondering what he was adding to the basket. Squinting, I motioned to him as I slowly approached. A woman was chatting him up and they were looking far too friendly for my liking. A few feet away, he finally came into focus. This was not my husband. Blushing and aware of my flirtatious wave and motions given only seconds before, I ducked behind the closest display.

That’s when I caught a glimpse of him; I saw his back just as he turned the far end of the cereal aisle. My shoes slid across the polished floor as I skid towards him, being sure to not lose sight of my target. He was motoring and clearly looking for me as he did not stop; the Mario Andretti of the grocery store. For a moment, I eyed a can of black beans and thought about winging it in his direction. 

Huffing and puffing, I finally got up behind him. Thank God the stranger turned around just as I was about to grab his shoulder. To occupy my awkward hovering hand, I contemplated grabbing a bag of Depends on display right next to him, but instead pretended to wave to someone a few feet away. 

A kind and clearly flattered silver-haired-fox waved back. 

Sauntering back to the checkout aisles, I looked up and down the store one last time, straining my eyes and nervously grinning in sheer desperation. Who would have thought that dozens of grey-haired men spent their Sunday afternoons walking around Safeway stores in dark jackets? Whatever happened to a nice game of golf . . . or lawn darts?

I was done. I had smiled at so many strange men, I wasn’t sure if I was about to be picked up or adopted. 

What was the rule when lost? Was it wise to stay put so you can be found? Or is it more prudent to keep moving and actively search? But wait! Was I lost? Or was he?

Looking at the customer service desk, the thought occurred to me that public humiliation may be necessary. I could have them put out an announcement of a lost boy. As funny as that would be, it was a long walk back to the house; especially since we shop in the United States and live in Canada. Traveling across the border also renders our cell phones inoperable.

When in doubt, go to a logical place to be found.

Shrugging my shoulders I departed the store. Some miniature cookie thugs accosted me and strong-armed me into buying a box of Thin Mints. I told them that if a grey-haired gentleman came out and was looking a bit confused; to please send him to the coffee house next door.

I had cookies. I had caffeine. Now it didn't matter to me how long it took for us to find each other. I may not have three degrees like my husband, but I manage, even when we're 180 degrees off course.

Photo Faux Pas

Seriously. I mean, seriously. 

For the love of my vanity, can people please stop taking the worst possible photos of me?

Seeing myself tagged in yet another horrendously unflattering Facebook album this past week I was horrified; this was not how I really looked! It would appear that every photo of me from the past year has been taken with a wide-angle lens. My snap-happy friends were taking shots with their crummy cell phone cameras, adding extra pounds to my girth. Not appreciated.

I decided it was time to either change my settings so I couldn’t be tagged, close my Facebook account altogether . . . or . . . weigh myself.

Dang.

Ok, so truth be told, I had gained twenty pounds over the last two years. Perhaps due to my health challenges, or maybe due to honeymoon happiness, I had packed on some excess weight. Whatever the reason or cause, the unwanted poundage was coming off.

Not one to deny myself food, I decided exercise was the way to go. Now, I work with law enforcement officers and could have joined their gym for free . . . yeah right. Like I want to shake and jiggle next to a bunch of firm-bodied people who get paid to stay in shape.

No thanks.

I packed up my gear and headed to the gym across the street from my office, slapped down my Visa and hit the first treadmill I saw. Thirty-five minutes later, I had worked up a good sweat amongst total strangers. Not having to make eye contact with coworkers during the painfully slow journey back to health, more than worth the forty bucks a month fee.

As I headed out the door-- somewhat pleased with my first workout--I was startled to hear someone call out my name. What happened to my anonymity? 

“Mrs. Dixon!” a young perky administrator was waving at me from behind the front desk.

Wiping the sweat from my face, I pulled out my messy ponytail as I made my way towards the counter.

“Sorry to bother you,” she continued, “But it was so busy, and you left so quickly, we forgot to give you your membership card.”

I smiled. Membership has its privilege. In my case, privacy.

“But first, I need you to stand right here; we need to take your picture.”

Seriously?