(We’ll see how long my wobbly head lasts down here. I’m just really tired of laying in bed, and I’ve got some thoughts mulling around and no patience to slowly transcribe them by hand.)
Marc and I had our inevitable “post-Dixie’s-sickness” fight. As soon as I see the light at the end of my sickness-laden tunnel, I end up seeing the mess that mommy being in bed for days at a time inevitably brings. Marc did such an incredible job looking after me and the kids and the house. I am so thankful that I have such a caring guy. But he is not me. His brain doesn’t work like mine. He doesn’t follow my “schedule”. He doesn’t see all the things I see. And that is okay. It’s just that when I’ve been sick and am not completely better, looking out at a messy house that I had reasonably under control last week does not make me overly happy. It makes me feel more tired than I already am.
But, thankfully, that argument only lasted a few minutes. A messy house doesn’t matter. It is all too easy for me to see the messy house and not look at all the care and love that has gone around this house this weekend. And that‘s what it’s all about. There aren’t many husbands who’d give up their plans for the weekend to look after their families, make meals, bathe the kids, bring their wives meals, and help her wash her dizzy head of hair. But Marc’s done all of that without complaining. And those simple acts of love are what life is all about.
I think that’s what I’m learning most this past little while. It’s not about your income, your vocation, your house, your gadgets, your interests, it’s about how you love. I’d say at least once a day I get exasperated with myself at what I have not gotten done. I sometimes look at the kids as a hindrance to my to-do list. When, in actuality, the kids are the only thing of real value on my to-do list. The way I love them and show them that they have value is what’s important.
And it’s easy for me to see life as meaningless. All of these things that we do and that occupy our minds, when we really think about them, we realize that our meaning and happiness does not lie in them. The meaning of life lies in our ability to give and receive love to and from God and to and from others. If this dizzy head of mine never stopped and I had to lay in bed for the rest of my life, my life would not lose meaning. I could still love and be loved. If I never have a job where I reach my intellectual and economic potential, that is okay. I wouldn’t find my happiness there, anyway.
I want to open up my life and be known by people for all of the good and bad things that make up Dixie. So you will know the stupid, funny, dark, and lovely sides of me and see in me a bit of yourself. And when we are able to look at each other and ourselves and not be afraid, we can truly care for each other. Because all of the things that would seemingly separate us — our class, our cars, our clothing, our circles of friends — they really don’t mean anything, anyway. And all of those things that we want to keep hidden because “people won’t love us”, well those are the things that, when surrendered, allow us to know that we are most certainly loved.
I want my life to be about loving. In all of the little and the big ways. One big melody of love that weaves its way from person to person until it becomes a beautiful, harmonious song of goodness and truth and grace.
(And now you know why I want this song sung at my funeral.)
(Or it could just be the medication talking.)