... or at least I think that is what this year must be.
For the past few nights the loud singing of the evening locusts has been making me feel unsettled. It just dawned on me why.
Seven years ago was the summer of 2000. That was the summer when Andy's illness really took hold, when I thought I was going to lose him. He rallied and lived another 18 months, but it really was the beginning of the end. That was the summer he was in the hospital just barely clinging to life. I was working my then brand new school nurse job, and learning to be a virtual single parent to my kindergartener and fourth grader.
I put the kids down to sleep in one bedroom so I could read bedtime stories to both at the same time. Then I sat by their bedsides until they drifted off. There in the dusky shadows I had a few moments to reflect on my upside-down world. My mind raced as I tried to figure out how things had become so crazy. Why couldn't the doctors figure out what was wrong? How could I spend time with my dying husband, work full time, take care of my children and home, and still manage to get enough rest? I bargained with God and cried out to Him, but all I heard in reply was the shrill song of the locusts.
On some of those nights I caught myself planning a funeral, writing an obituary in my mind. The locusts continued their song where my thoughts left off. Then I mentally beat myself for not having enough faith... for giving up.
Actually, I never did truly give up until Andy drew his last breath. But in those shadows I was trying to come to terms with reality, taking steps toward an acceptance that did not mean agreement at all...
The locusts are louder than any year since 2000, so I guess this really is the year of the
seven year locust.And, once again I find myself sitting in the shadows and reflecting.
