Low on the Go!

The most beautiful support appointment, thus far.

"Lydia! Come on in. Come over on this side. It's better for her if you sit on this side."

"Dear, I need you to put my specs on please."
"And I need some ventolin."
"And can you raise my bed please?"
"Sip of water."

This was how today's support appointment began. I hadn't seen my former violin teacher and his wife for a good seven years. They had a new dog. I didn't pull out my binder. His wife would have had to sit up, and she was having trouble breathing today. It is her birthday. We sat. Even if I had wanted to pull out the binder, they didn't give me a chance. Question after question. She kept telling me how excited she was that I was doing this.

My violin teacher went to the kitchen to write out the cheques. While he did that, she laid in her bed, covered with blankets. We chatted. We talked about the latest paintings that she had done. By mouth. We talked about the huge need there is in Montreal. We talked about her conversion to Christianity, some 27 years ago. We talked about how she desperately wants to share the gospel with her home care nurse. She asked me how to do this. We talked about how good God is. And she praised Him for miraculous things in her life. We talked how she is so grateful that He spared her life. That He has preserved her.

I couldn't help think about how beautiful her words were. How the way she lives her life is so telling of the effects of the gospel, that without even saying a word, she is more eloquent in its delivery than I will ever be.

My violin teacher's wife is a quadriplegic. Over 20 years ago, a bus skidded on black ice and she was thrown from the bus window. It took them three-quarters of an hour to chip her out of her ice. She has lived much of her life only able to move her head.

Her husband, my former violin teacher, has spent all these years, faithfully taking care of her. He puts on her glasses, dyes her hair, turns her over so that she does not get bedsores. The way he lives his life is so telling of the effects of the gospel, that without even saying a word, he is more eloquent in its delivery than I will ever be.

As he returns from the kitchen, she and I are agreeing that God is good. And I can't help but feel that she knows, so much more that I, how good He really is. Despite everything that has gone on in her life, she STILL believes.

"Dear, can you give me a dose of Salbutamol? I'm having trouble breathing today."

It is the end of our meeting. He adjusts the mask. "Straps over my ears please, dear."

I say goodbye.

I walk to the door with my violin teacher. He gives me a hug.

As I leave, I can't help but feel that they both love the Lord in a way that I never have. It takes something beautiful and great to faithfully, day in and day out, take care of a wife who cannot move anything but her head. And it takes something beautiful and great to faithfully declare that the Lord is good and to be content when life doesn't give us what we expect.

As I got into my car, I realized that I want to know God the way that they do. I want the hope that the Gospel brings to be radiated from my whole being, so that without even saying a word, the eloquence of the Gospel will ALREADY be permeating from my pores.

I haven't wanted to be in Edmonton. I haven't been content with the situation He has placed me in. But something like today reminds me that when the day is over, He is all that matters. And when we understand this, despite being quadriplegic, or something more trivial, like being stuck in a place where I didn't want to be in the first place, we are able to say, "It is well with my soul."