3am.

3am. can't sleep. turns on computer to write. (dangerous. 8am class and long day ahead. but what choice does one have? my mind will not quit to slumber.)


I need to marry someone rich so that I can give. give. give. give.


Give it all away. I want to give my parents the $5,000 they need so that my dad can get a hearing aid and listen to his children on the phone and his grandchildren cry. I want to pay the insurance on our house so that it is secure. I want to assure my parents with a large travel check that this summer will not be the last time we meet until heaven. All I want from my husband for the Christmas gifts of all my years to come is the promise of saving what we can to bring my parents out. Hope.



Money is the root of all evil. Money is the source of hope. Dichotomy. Irony.




If you've ever read realist literature, especially from the age of the Great Depression, than you are already familiar with the story of my father.

Driving home from a wrestling tournament on Saturday, the chronology of life and fate from his post-IBM-layoff period of life was recalled for me. One decision after another to turn right when the success would have come to the left. One week away from so many possibilities. One unsuccessful attempt at rebuilding after another.


The cursed plots always come to pass on the most beloved characters.

A series of bad luck has befallen on one of God's greatest men. Coming to a series of forks in the road, with the free will to choose either path (no direction granted from above), he kept choosing one side only to find the other would have brought us comfort.




The most hard working, worthy man is brought down by old age revealed in the grey appearing on top of his head and slower cognition not allowing him to keep up with the demands of a new and unfamiliar career.

Life is not fair. Who is more deserving? This man gives his all to every company he has ever had opportunity to serve under. Working all day in dark environments, past closing time, he finishes up his tasks at work only to come home and hack away at the computer all night typing in notes of what he has learned for today. Never a devotion greater displayed.




We learned our lesson eight years ago. Now, soon, can we find rest from our burdens and not greater heartache? What more can we do? Reminds me of the David Crowder song.
I am trying to trust that you love him more than I ever could. I am trying to trust that one day the hope we long await will reveal itself to us. I am trying to trust that day by day, slowly, you will strengthen his heart and encourage his spirit.




Send us our miracle.


I want to take it upon myself. I want to deal with this pain, not him. Not the man that stretched himself thin all my days to bless me. Not the one who would give his heart and soul for his children, his wife. Not the man whose one and only desire is to support his family and feel fulfilled in his masculine role. To feel important. To feel sufficient. To feel useful. To feel enough. Not this man.


If I could, I would write him a check for all that I have.

But this would only carry us a few months. Instead I must sit and wait. Like him. Try to speak words of grace and peace. Try.







How much more does your heart break for him?



Hold him, Lord.


(…I can't seem to end this post. My prayer won't end. It will never end until a miracle comes. And even then it won't end as we never cease to sing your praise. We sing your praise now, in sickness and in health, for richer for poorer.


We also sing in pain and despair. I need you to be here now.)


Rescue is coming.


Please, God, let it come.









Humble, unstoppable, tears fall.