I had been planning to continue The Great Library Re-organization. In fact, I had probably spent an hour on it, as well as some time on Sunday's sermon, when the call came: Could I come down to the hospital?
And so instead I spent the afternoon there, where a Jewish-Christian extended family had already made all the decisions on behalf of the husband and father who'd had a serious accident earlier in the week.
I always leave with the same question. How is it that I am called, again and again, to sit with families in the final hours of their loved ones' lives, to ensure that prayers are said, to try to alleviate some of the fear, to affirm the decisions made, to offer assurance of resurrection? How is it that this happens, again and again, when I could do none of it for Josh?
It makes me a little crazy.
And very tired.