Just to set the record straight, I love to play sports, all kinds. I was the defensive end (quarterback killer) in high school. I can hang with the boys that play basketball. I heat up my salsa with about any kind of sauce I can find (always in search for a better tasting hot sauce so send help if you know of any), enjoy throwing anything meat onto the BBQ, and can down a 2 liter faster than most, though I haven't tried since I was a teenager. I like long hikes, enjoy backpacking with Dad (when are we going next, Pops?), and savor simple manly things, like motorcycles (I loved those days, Jason), F22's (shout out, Rob), and anything remotely electronic.
So last night, if you recall the last post, I had Porter in our room while Tiffany was sent downstairs. One oversight from last nights post; it sounded like I was a ruthless wife something or other. Who would force his wife to go sleep on the couch while she was still recovering from surgery? You must know that for most of a good week, that is where she opted to sleep. According to Tiff, the couch was perfect mix of softness where it needed to be, firmness where it needed to be, and she was able to lay back at the correct angle, something many of us without abdominal surgery will probably never understand. That said, it's not as though I was banishing her to some miserable outer waste dump. She slept comfortably, and notably, better than I. - Just wanted to set the record straight on this.
OK, back to the story at hand. Porter was in our room, and as is often the case, forced himself onto the bed. How that happens it is beyond me, but there he was and there he stayed. His breathing was weak, and airy. Wispy at times, which caused him to stir all night long. He would wake up long enough to sit up, cough, groan, sometimes cry, and fall back down to the pillow. For the most part of two hours this had happened over and over again, taking any sleep that I was hoping for away from me. In many ways, it started to wear on me. Patience grew thin. And somehow he knew how to handle the situation.
Somewhere between 2 and 3 am, he called out to me, saying, 'Daddy, Hold my hand."
The part above about all the manly stuff I have done, held nothing to the emotions that hit me at that early hour. Any ill feeling I had, was gone. I held out my hand to where his was already outstretched and grabbed on to those little pudgy fingers. And then he fell into a silent, deep breathing sleep.
I have since pondered on that moment. I like to think that life experiences are a metaphor to the grander scheme of things. Trouble comes in our life. Sometimes we seek for it, sometimes it finds us, but either way, we get it. It is in those troubling hours, after we seek to comfort ourselves with deceit or trickery, that we find solace does not come. Only then do we call out, "Daddy, Hold my hand". And then He does. He carries us and comforts us, insomuch that we can then get the rest we need. Our troubles don't normally go away. Sometimes that is not what He is there to do. Often, it is just a comfort to know that he is there, and that is all we need, and that is all He gives us.
Porter is still sick. His breathing is still croupy (see blog post Me - 1, Tiffany - 0, for more info on this), and has since given the sickness to me. But he was comforted by the touch of his fathers hand. The same comfort that Tiffany and I have received as we sought the comfort we need...
"Father, hold our hands as we journey through this next trial."
And may we all have a restful night.