A moment of quiet

Reuben had his tonsils out last week. It went well. I was nervous for him, as you are when your child is going under general anaesthetic and having surgery. And I was nervous for me. I have not managed well when visiting the hospital in the last couple of years, the associations are too strong and the memories are too bad. Having to wait for a beloved to come out of surgery wasn't something I wanted to have to do again. But I did well. I noticed a pretty shaky hand every time I reached for my chai, but I kept the memories at bay.


It was a remarkable feeling when it was all over. There was such a strong feeling of peace, almost of celebration. There was nothing to worry about. It was over. Done. For good. This felt strange. And then I remembered reading something written by a young mum and widow a couple of years ago. After her husband died she revelled in looking after her son when he had coughs and colds. Because she could nurse him back to health. She could make the difference and he would be OK. In recent years I have experienced surgery and traumatic events knowing that they were only stops on a journey leading to somewhere else. It was good to feel different this time.

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A young man I know of, not far from here, died last week. His small child and unborn baby have lost more than they could possibly know, and his wife has, I can guess, been launched down a chute of dark grief and searing pain that I hope she will find her way out of one day. My breathing nearly stops as I think about where she is now and where she is heading over the coming months/years.

If the people you love the most are healthy and well, or are going to be healthy and well, do take a quiet moment to think about that. To really know what that means. Consider words like thankfulness, gratitude, blessing, and soak yourself in them for a while.