Tonight is a rough night at the campsite. The family to my left that has been here about the same amount of time that I have is gathering for their good-byes tonight--it's just a matter of time now.
Another family has assembled and are saying their tearful good-byes just down the way.
We all avert our eyes as they pass, not out of disinterest, but out of a sense of respect. I guess it's our way of pulling over as the procession passes.
It's an experience that I've never had before, living in and amongst so much loss. My newly discovered cousin's husband was moved to the hospice floor yesterday; I went down to check on her this morning and there was no one on the computer than matched her husband's name and age today--I said a little prayer for her before I left the floor.
Witnessing this overwhelming loss time after time since I've been here--I think there have been five--makes me all the more determined that once Tom, Kurt, and I return to the mundane, our daily outlook will be more vivid, more loving and accepting, more open to the possibilities that we are indeed all one big family of God. We hug one another, we share stories, we respectfully lower our glances.
My heart aches for all these good people; my heart, at the same time, soars with infinite joy that on the other side of the door to my right there's a kid who I love with all my being that is, day after day, the exception to this environment. I shield him from all this--he doesn't know it exists. He doesn't need to. He has a job to do to get well and to continue to live his life beautifully. He's the one bright spot in this campsite...and we all here pray that bright spot just keeps on getting brighter.
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