With a gentle ding from the bell above the door and a soft thud of footsteps coming down the stairs, another shopper had entered the basement consignment store to browse the latest inventory. As the woman began sliding hangers from right to left, the warm and familiar voice of the shop manager greeted her, “Hi, Megan! What are you looking for today?”
Looking down at the caller ID, I briefly held my breath before answering my phone. It was the doctor following up on our communications about Dad’s symptoms over the last few days.
“Annie, I’m really concerned about your dad’s low oxygen levels and his worsening, deep cough. At his age, there’s a real danger with pneumonia — something you want to get on top of quickly. And his heart failure is a delicate complication. My strong recommendation is that you take him in to the emergency room.”
My dad was uncharacteristically quiet, and it worried me. He sat on a bench in his room staring down at his legs with a wearied, almost defeated expression on his face. We’d been dealing with large, open wounds from weeping edema (signs of his progressing congestive heart failure) that extended from both his ankles to his knees, and the healing process was painfully slow.
The calming scent of cedar filled the room as I slowly lifted the heavy lid of the wooden chest. It had likely been more than ten years since I last looked inside. I drew out the familiar pink and white baby blanket resting on top and held it close, imagining how my dear mum had wrapped me up countless times in its pillowy folds and nestled me in her arms.
I’ll never forget the day my debt was cleared. The heavy, soul-disquieting weight I’d been carrying for several years was lifted in a moment — an expression of the mercy of God, the love of the body of Christ, and the profound beauty of grace.
I had reached a breaking point. I felt spent, desperate even. Both my body and soul were at a point of exhaustion. How much longer, Lord?, I cried within.