loved, and irrationally, she held the wild hope that the man there on the bed was not her husband at all but someone elseâs husband. That herown husband would come walking through the door any minute now. He would calm her fears and stroke her hair and hold her and comfort her. Because thatâs what David did. He ministered to others. He helped others. But what happened to the sheep if the shepherd was cast down? It made no sense, and the bewilderment returned. She tried to pray again, opening her mouth but making no sound, gaping like a landed fish gasping for oxygen. Her need was too deep for speech, and she thought of the groanings of the spirit that were too deep for words.
His hair was the same, she told herself, and she focused on his hair. His beard was the same, as well, but if she looked at his beard, then she must look at his face, and she couldnât bear to look at his face. Even his hand, when she held it, caused her pain, for it, too, was grossly swollen and unfamiliar. But it didnât matter, for she couldnât touch him at all just now. They were working on him and had sent her out again. They allowed her near only once an hour for a few minutes. The rest of the time she waited here in the hall or out in the waiting room. She had pulled a chair near the glass window, and no one had stopped her, so here she sat. She looked once more toward David, then down at her hands again.
It amazed her that everything could change so suddenly, that life was so fragile when it had seemed so fixed. Just yesterday evening she had been making soup and worrying about their daughter. It seemed so trivial now, but then she had been browning meat and slicing onions, watching the knife slice cleanly through the outer papery layers and peeling them away swiftly and wondering why everything couldnât be as simple as cooking. Follow the directions and things would turn out as you expected. A cup of this, a pinch of that, cook at the prescribed temperature, and the end product was assured. She had been comforted in the rituals of measuring and chopping and stirring. In knowing that there were some realms in which actions had predictable results. If meat was put in a pan over high heat it would turn brown. If you added baking soda to a bowl of batter, it would rise. She hadeven enjoyed washing her dirty dishes, squirting in the soap and rubbing it around with the bubbly cloth, then seeing pots and bowls emerge from the steaming hot water clean and squeaking. Why couldnât life be as straightforward as that? she had wondered. More particularly, why couldnât raising children work the way it was supposed to? Why couldnât you do the right things and say the right things and have them turn out right, like a pot of soup or a loaf of bread?
She had sighed as she worked, the dayâs energy already spent in her never-ending mission to turn her daughter into something other than a wildcat.
Eden was not the child she had imagined.
She had imagined a little girl who would wear pink. Who would adore coloring and making scrapbook pages adorned with tinsel and glitter, who would want to play dolls and dress-up. Well, the dress-up part had come true, she thought wryly, thinking of Edenâs disguises. Once she had decided that the mean girls at school were plotting against her friend, and she had dressed up like a bag lady and lurked in the park, listening to their conversations and writing everything down in that spiral notebook she carried everywhere. Then there was the night disguiseâa set of dark clothes and dark face paint she had put on so that she and the girl next door could spy on the neighborâs older brother. And of course it had all begun with the cowgirl outfit she had worn at age five. It was still a treasured possession.
Sarah had imagined cozy talks with her daughter, the two of them sitting on a ruffled canopy bed, slowly turning the pages of a fairy story, watching Little Women
His hair was the same, she told herself, and she focused on his hair. His beard was the same, as well, but if she looked at his beard, then she must look at his face, and she couldnât bear to look at his face. Even his hand, when she held it, caused her pain, for it, too, was grossly swollen and unfamiliar. But it didnât matter, for she couldnât touch him at all just now. They were working on him and had sent her out again. They allowed her near only once an hour for a few minutes. The rest of the time she waited here in the hall or out in the waiting room. She had pulled a chair near the glass window, and no one had stopped her, so here she sat. She looked once more toward David, then down at her hands again.
It amazed her that everything could change so suddenly, that life was so fragile when it had seemed so fixed. Just yesterday evening she had been making soup and worrying about their daughter. It seemed so trivial now, but then she had been browning meat and slicing onions, watching the knife slice cleanly through the outer papery layers and peeling them away swiftly and wondering why everything couldnât be as simple as cooking. Follow the directions and things would turn out as you expected. A cup of this, a pinch of that, cook at the prescribed temperature, and the end product was assured. She had been comforted in the rituals of measuring and chopping and stirring. In knowing that there were some realms in which actions had predictable results. If meat was put in a pan over high heat it would turn brown. If you added baking soda to a bowl of batter, it would rise. She hadeven enjoyed washing her dirty dishes, squirting in the soap and rubbing it around with the bubbly cloth, then seeing pots and bowls emerge from the steaming hot water clean and squeaking. Why couldnât life be as straightforward as that? she had wondered. More particularly, why couldnât raising children work the way it was supposed to? Why couldnât you do the right things and say the right things and have them turn out right, like a pot of soup or a loaf of bread?
She had sighed as she worked, the dayâs energy already spent in her never-ending mission to turn her daughter into something other than a wildcat.
Eden was not the child she had imagined.
She had imagined a little girl who would wear pink. Who would adore coloring and making scrapbook pages adorned with tinsel and glitter, who would want to play dolls and dress-up. Well, the dress-up part had come true, she thought wryly, thinking of Edenâs disguises. Once she had decided that the mean girls at school were plotting against her friend, and she had dressed up like a bag lady and lurked in the park, listening to their conversations and writing everything down in that spiral notebook she carried everywhere. Then there was the night disguiseâa set of dark clothes and dark face paint she had put on so that she and the girl next door could spy on the neighborâs older brother. And of course it had all begun with the cowgirl outfit she had worn at age five. It was still a treasured possession.
Sarah had imagined cozy talks with her daughter, the two of them sitting on a ruffled canopy bed, slowly turning the pages of a fairy story, watching Little Women
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