One of the last things Mom ever did was accuse me of stealing her chocolate cake. She barely ate her lunch the first day she was in hospice but raised hell when they came to clear it and tried to take away her chocolate cake.
At least that’s what the nurse told me.
Mom was barely responsive by the time I returned a few hours later. Somewhere in that time, her cake got moved and when she came back to, I was sitting closest to where it had been.
At first, I was offended. How could she think I would steal a hospice patient’s cake? It turned out to be on the windowsill tucked behind a curtain to block it from the sun.
I quickly appreciated that, in her darkest moment with major body parts already shutting down, Mom was hopeful enough to anticipate the joy of biting into a piece of chocolate cake.
Even in our darkest moments, there is joy. Sometimes it’s just hard to see.
–
My daughter spent her first week living in a neonatal intensive care unit. On four consecutive days, we were told she’d be released only to have the decision reversed at the last second.
It was an emotional roller coaster that left us numb, confused, and very, very scared.
But there were also beautiful moments, like the first time she truly bonded with my wife, Jenny after all of the tubes and wires had been removed.
The moment our daughter finally cuddled into the crook of Jenny’s arm, with her head resting on Jenny’s chest, the sun burst out from behind the clouds pouring warmth and light in from the window transforming the cold and sterile hospital room into a peaceful sanctuary. To hear Jenny tell it always fills my heart with joy.
There is beauty all around us, even when we’re scared. There can be no comfort without fear.
–
This past Thursday, Jenny was heading out the door for work while I was struggling to put a St. Patrick’s Day outfit on Senita, our now thirteen-month-old daughter.
We were running late for her playgroup class. It wasn’t a St. Patrick’s Day party, but I anticipated that the world might shut down for coronavirus soon and I wanted Senita to have a chance to wear it.
She looked so cute with her “Lucky Little Lady” onesie, four-leaf-clover leggings, golden bow and bright green tutu that even though we both were running late, we paused a moment to take some pictures outside.
Even when we’re struggling to just get out the door, our lives are being lived and memories are being made.
As we were putting the camera away, I saw a cardinal watching us from across the yard and said, “oh, Mom’s here,” which isn’t the sort of thing I ever think or say.
But Mom delighted in seeing cardinals every spring. So much so that I mentioned it in her eulogy. Seeing that cardinal made the moment extra special.
–
By Friday, the world had changed. With schools shut down and businesses simultaneously closing, every family in town suddenly needed food for breakfast lunch and dinner all to be served at home.
I took Senita to the store and the shelves were bare. There wasn’t panic, but the air was heavy with anxiety and concern.
My plan was to get in and out as quick as possible, grab only the essentials and get home. But by the time we got through the mostly-sold-out pasta aisle, Senita was absorbing the mood like a sponge.
So we walked past the backup at the dwindling pallet of bottled water and through the ghost aisle where toilet paper once stood to her favorite spot between the flowers and balloons, which both turned out to be essential items added to our cart.
Rather than letting Senita continue absorbing the angst and fear around us, we played peek-a-boo with a clover-leafed balloon. Her laughter shattered the pall of silence and brought the only smiles I saw inside the store that day.
–
Something beautiful happened today.
Something beautiful happens every day – even in our darkest moments, when we’re consumed by fear, struggling just to start the day, or rushing frantically through the chores we’d rather not have to face.
There are flashes of beauty and sparks of joy constantly around us. I actively seek them out and hope that you do too.
I promise you they’re there.
Sometimes, they’re just hard to see like a piece of chocolate cake tucked behind a curtain on a hospice patient’s windowsill.
If you enjoy my humor writing, please subscribe below.
If you want to syndicate this column, you may contact me here to discuss the details.
You may notice that I’ve disabled commenting on this post. I’d love to hear your thoughts by email at [email protected].
Check out The Uncommon Discourse Podcast, where acclaimed storyteller Chris Gaffney reads and discusses ten of his most popular humor columns.
Each episode is under ten minutes long and features Chris reading a favorite article along with a brief description of why the article means so much to him.
Find Season 01 on iTunes, Stitcher, TuneIn.com, or stream/download episodes here: https://uncommondiscourse.com/podcast.