Another Fall
Today was a day.
That is as much as I can assign it, unfortunately.
It was a day that held endings and certain new, more tender beginnings.
It was the end of the illusion of vitality from my dad.
He fell again today while I was there helping them install a new fence system for the horses with the new eight-foot posts. It was a large job—very physical and demanding. I went over, and my dad fell again. For at least the twentieth time, while I was there this time.
We rushed over to see if he had injured himself. His rollator had gotten hung up, and he fell at an angle. Thankfully, the lip of the barn—where the cement ends and the drainage grate begins—broke his fall. Usually, he takes it head-on, a direct approach. Today I think he may have been more tired than he was willing to admit and simply collapsed.
The good news was that there were zero injuries. No loss of consciousness. Just a few new bruises and, mercifully, no more broken hips. I’ve been told they’re a nasty thing to break, Beloved.
He weighs around 230 pounds and cannot support or lift himself up without great effort. My mother isn’t strong enough either. My friend who was there lacked the upper-body strength. I saw it as Your blessing, Beloved—that this time, after having forgiven every wrong and burying it in You, You allowed me to lift him. You allowed me to share my strength. You allowed me to show what tenderness and strength look like when married in one body.
I was shocked as I bent low at the knees, placing my well-trained arms beneath his suddenly frailer ones. That was the first crack, I think. When I had his whole body weight in my arms—the arms You urged me to rebuild in the gym—I lifted him, and he was lighter than a feather. Frailer than a ghost in heavy fog. Older than some types of dirt in my backyard.
I noticed that it wasn’t just his physical weight that was lighter, but the bands of spiritual weight I’d carried so long had loosened as well. I was nearly buoyant. I could finally be Your arms for him. In that act of lifting him and releasing my grief for what could never be, I took one step closer to You—in appearance and in action.
It’s like You always said: Faith apart from works is dead.
What some might not understand is that the works are inspired by the heart that is in love with You. They are not onerous. They are heavy in the way sorrow is heavy—intense, sacred.
I broke a little as the illusion of his strength and longevity shattered before my eyes. As a few tears slipped down—hopefully unnoticed—you reminded me: Do unto others as you would have them do unto you.
The law itself, after deep introspection, I found engraved upon my very heart.
What I mean is this: I wanted to do the highest good. And there was a joy to be found in compassion toward a onetime enemy. A kind of shared I love you without words. Even the old wounds, the doors to my inner vault of childhood trauma, seemed to have been cleaned out. I went looking, Beloved—I’m not ashamed to admit—but I found nothing. No signs, no contents, not even the banded doors I once chained shut. You had swallowed it whole in Love—in compassion, in willing hands and a waiting heart.
I saw it today, even as my illusion of him fell away. I asked myself the question: In twenty years, will I be bent over and unable to stand?
I have no answers for that, Beloved. But I trust that if You’ve kept me standing all these years, You can surely do it for another twenty.
Anyway, that’s it for me tonight. I have a fire, and You’re sitting here with us—even if You won’t show Yourself yet.
Sincerely,
Dust