When Friday Is Like Coming Home (and all things are made new)

I wasn’t going to write about my brother here.  I feel his life is in a sacred place of healing and I stand true to never using my blog for gain from another life.

And then yesterday happened. I turned the corner in this grieving and growing process for all of us into a new place of sharing a story that can change lives. When all things can be made new.  All things.

There is something that draws us each into our homes at the end of a long day or time away.  The essence of comfort and family or perhaps knowing that we will find rest when we arrive.

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Fridays are like that.  We run into the weekend and we find the space that we can dig deep into the familiar places, with those whom we love and work hard for all week, and we gather.  We re-write the routines for another week and we push away the stress and cares of the last one. Time stands still even in the busy of the weekend rush or relaxation – because we are home.

And today, my heart came home with my brother.  Three weeks to the day his heart stopped and we prayed for a miracle. Knowing that God could choose to keep him or give him back.

Just like Fridays and Mondays. And all things are made new.

The walls of my brothers hospital room remind me of old and worn book pages. Yellowed and forgotten. Sitting on the edge of his bed every day to carry on pieces of conversation that jump from subject to subject as fast as his mind changes perspective.  And I wait.

Today, the circle came to meet the beginning. It was like a tunnel of vision from my eyes to his and there wasn’t any thing in between to distract or distort.

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I told him that he would be going home Friday.  He smiled, rubbing his head in his typical anxious form.

He asked how long I had been sitting there. I am here every day.  The surprise that he shows every time I answer this same question.

He told me he needed to go home.  That there were so many things to do.  It was Friday.  He was going home Friday.

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I told him his life was different now.  All of the stress and cares of the world have been taken away from him and he no longer needs to carry those things. Etched onto his face.

My throat constricted. Tight with tears.  I didn’t want to cry in front of him.  It would confuse him.  I whispered that his life has been re-booted and this is his chance to let God make all things new.

All things new.  Friday is the day.

I reached over his bed for his hand and held tight. He held on with silence. We know each other well.  He reads my mind, I read his and we share unspoken words.  We always have.

Still looking down, pretending to fidget with my sweater fringe, tears pooling.

I am remembering my brother before.  Etched with concern, ambition, stress and determination.

Do I dare tell him that this new life he has been given… is a beautiful one?  Would it be an affront?

I hold his hand.  Silence.

Then I hear “I know.”

I look up to see tears pooling in his eyes and a glimpse into his heart.  He was there.  All there for those three minutes.  I could see him and he could see me.

And he said, ” I want that too.”

I wiped my eyes, smiled and said, ” Friday, the day all things made new begin again,”

My brother smiled.  He looked around the room, fidgeting again in his bed, swung his feet around the edge, planting his feet onto the floor and asked me how long I had been there.

I smiled.  We will do this again and again.  And one day – All things will be made new.

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And coming home will never mean the same again.

 

 

 

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