We’re back at Hospice House after breaking out for two weeks. And love keeps pouring in the front doors. Chai teas and Americano coffees. Dark chocolate and sweet breads.
And these groovy socks with the manufacturer’s tag: “Life’s too short to wear matching socks.”
And then this text from a friend: “Please let me know if you need any errands or driving done today. I am a rockstar snow driver,” says the girl from Alaska. Our Snow Fairy.
I texted back. If we pay for lunch, could you pick it up, deliver it and eat with us? She did us one better. She brought homemade chicken and root veggies roasted with rosemary and thyme. Three kinds of salad.
She asked about dessert. We said not needed. She brought pudding. “It’s not dessert,” she says. “It’s pudding.”
Oh, OK … now I see the difference.
Hubby hasn’t opened his eyes since last evening, and although he’s not yet in a coma, he is transitioning in that direction. I move back and forth between couch and bed. Holding his hand. Kissing him on the forehead. Telling him that I’ll be OK, that he can go home and be with Jesus whenever he wants.
And then—as it takes an interminably long time for him to take his next breath—I find myself saying, Oh, but not just yet.
Selfish me.
The gift of mismatched socks reminds me that life’s too short for a lot of things. Too short to live it fearfully. To not take risks now and then. It’s too short to waste energy holding grudges; too short to not be counting blessings; too short to pursue things that don’t really matter.
I plan to wear these socks—long after they sprout holes—as a colorful reminder that life is too short to waste. And especially too short to be wearing matching socks.
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