I'll leave it to Kathryn to give you the exciting updates on our near-finished marathon bathroom remodel.
I, on the other hand, will provide you with some exceptionally illuminating statistics:
17 - the number of months we've been in our work-in-progress house.
17 - the number of months it's taken me to figure out that caulking is my absolute least favorite thing ever when it comes to working on a house.
17 - the number of times last night, while caulking, that I considered packing our bags and moving us to a state park or Alaska or something so we could just live in a tent.
17 - the number of minutes it took me to scrub and scrape the dried caulk off my fingers after getting less than half the remaining caulking done in the bathroom.
Last, but not least:
17 - seventeen more than the number of people who are likely to want to return to my blog anytime soon after reading this post.
Wednesday, January 27, 2010
Sunday, January 17, 2010
Hospitals and horse races
Nearly a week ago today, I almost lost my Dad. He frantically woke my mother up just after midnight Monday morning, barely able to breathe, much less get out the words for Mom to take him to the hospital.
6 days later, he's still in ICU, but has finally recovered to the point that they no longer keep him sedated (he threw a couple of nurses out the window for all the poking and prodding, I think), and they're steadily weaning him off the ventilator, which he was totally dependent on for breathing just days ago.
Our God is powerful and loving, and he has heard our cries.
Dad has self-published a couple of books now, and is working on a third. His published stuff has been about spirituality, and the third book he's working on is about the glory of God. He's been approaching the book from the perspective that he has a lot to learn before he feels like he can complete it and do it justice.
On a related note, one that my Dad will undoubtedly be thrilled that I've shared, I may have seen Dad truly weep for the first time in my life (and consequently the second, third, and so on). Some people would have probably kept better track of such a thing - all I can say is I don't remember any particularly weepy emotional outbursts (or even out-trickles) from my Dad. He said this, just after Kathryn and I (and baby) walked into the hospital ICU room Friday, and just before the waterworks began, "You are a beautiful sight. I forgot you were coming. You three are a beautiful sight." As you might suspect, Kathryn was also crying within seconds. While I only got misty, don't worry about me - if you're around me enough, you'll know that I cry fairly often during worship and Toy Story movies. I think, in addition to the humbling circumstances of being in the hospital (and ICU on top of that), the overwhelming display of love of so many family and friends really touched him. (We really packed out that room and the waiting room all week.) Dad, I think you've learned something about the glory of God. I think we all have.
We've also enjoyed some of your unfiltered, slightly drug-induced moments. I'll leave you all for now with something my Dad doesn't remember saying to my Aunt Lorna (his sister).
"I'm challenging you to a horse race. You and me. I bet you five dollars I can win."
We love you Dad. We trust the Lord for your recovery and restoration. And we all look forward to seeing you on that horse.
6 days later, he's still in ICU, but has finally recovered to the point that they no longer keep him sedated (he threw a couple of nurses out the window for all the poking and prodding, I think), and they're steadily weaning him off the ventilator, which he was totally dependent on for breathing just days ago.
Our God is powerful and loving, and he has heard our cries.
Dad has self-published a couple of books now, and is working on a third. His published stuff has been about spirituality, and the third book he's working on is about the glory of God. He's been approaching the book from the perspective that he has a lot to learn before he feels like he can complete it and do it justice.
On a related note, one that my Dad will undoubtedly be thrilled that I've shared, I may have seen Dad truly weep for the first time in my life (and consequently the second, third, and so on). Some people would have probably kept better track of such a thing - all I can say is I don't remember any particularly weepy emotional outbursts (or even out-trickles) from my Dad. He said this, just after Kathryn and I (and baby) walked into the hospital ICU room Friday, and just before the waterworks began, "You are a beautiful sight. I forgot you were coming. You three are a beautiful sight." As you might suspect, Kathryn was also crying within seconds. While I only got misty, don't worry about me - if you're around me enough, you'll know that I cry fairly often during worship and Toy Story movies. I think, in addition to the humbling circumstances of being in the hospital (and ICU on top of that), the overwhelming display of love of so many family and friends really touched him. (We really packed out that room and the waiting room all week.) Dad, I think you've learned something about the glory of God. I think we all have.
We've also enjoyed some of your unfiltered, slightly drug-induced moments. I'll leave you all for now with something my Dad doesn't remember saying to my Aunt Lorna (his sister).
"I'm challenging you to a horse race. You and me. I bet you five dollars I can win."
We love you Dad. We trust the Lord for your recovery and restoration. And we all look forward to seeing you on that horse.
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