Life’s been pretty rough lately. You know those times when a ton of stuff just all happens at once? It might not all be bad, but it’s just too overwhelming. Well, that’s me right now. And if it weren’t for my “village,” I don’t know how I’d survive this.
I had the work trip all figured out. George took a few days off work, and then my friend Terry said she’d hang out with them the other days. Fantastic!
And then we lost Gareth. So suddenly. It left everyone in the neighborhood reeling. We’re all grieving and making arrangements (we’re more family than friends in this neighborhood) and doing what we can. I know I’m going to miss the memorial service, so I volunteered to make a slideshow. At least I can do that on the airplane and in my downtime. That’s what we do when we all come together. We do what we can.
And then George woke up with pink eye. He went to the doctor, but there’s not much to be done. It’s not getting better, and I leave for my trip in a couple of days. He’s terrified of passing it on to the boys. What are we going to do? I reach out to my friends, and they immediately come to our aid. Someone will watch the boys if George goes back to the doctor.
This is just one week. But my village has come together so many times. When I found out I was having triplets, they threw us a grand shower, with so much love. When the boys were born, we had babysitters and helping hands whenever I asked. The boys in their massive stroller, or later, their wagon train, became a familiar site to everyone we passed.
When another child in the neighborhood had to have surgery, we came together with fundraisers and offers of help and food and whatever could be done.
No matter that some of my friends don’t have kids. My kids are their kids. They are free to love them, to gently discipline them, to spoil them. We walk together, we celebrate together, we grieve together.
I’m just so grateful for my village.