House on the Rock

We got to share a meal last night with the Newells — a measly attempt at expressing our gratitude through Italian House lasagna — and it felt like a family reunion. The sweetest gathering of trauma-bonded souls with an eternal-lasting friendship. They’re a radiant picture of God’s perfect provision when it felt like we couldn’t take another step. In many ways, they #carried us.

This week marks one year since the most dreadful of all weeks: the stroke no one could identify, the seizures that should’ve killed on the spot, and the harrowing words spoken about our 50-year-old mom who had been walking miles only days before: “it’s time to send her home for hospice care.”

Our worlds seemed to crumble as reality sunk in: Hospice means she’s not bouncing back from this. Hospice means the end. Hospice means she’ll never walk those four miles here again.

“How am I supposed to care for my wife on hospice?!” Dad asked, his eyes wide. The person with the most medical expertise in our family was my eighteen-year-old sister, who was exactly two weeks into her job as a firefighter/EMT. And now the administration of meds, the adjustment of pillows, the feeding and sleeping and monitoring breathing was suddenly falling on us.

But over the doctor’s shoulder, a confident Jenn Newell gave a reassuring nod with Will by her side. They “happened” to be visiting the hospital that day— a divine orchestration by a God so gracious we can’t do anything but praise Him.

“I used to work in hospice care. We’ve got you. We’ll be there.”

And this couple – Will and Jenn – stepped into our world in a way that would forever cement them as part of our family:

They’re the people who were at my parents’ front door when the ambulance brought Mom home. They had her bed already made, her nightstand stocked with essentials we never knew we’d need.

The people who organized medicine bottles in simplistic systems — pill organizers set beside a cute floral calendar so we’d know what to give her and when.

The people who made sure all top-tier equipment was provided to maximize comfort in her care. If it wasn’t, we knew Jenn would be on it. One phone call and it was there.

The people who showed up early in the morning to tell stories by our mama’s side. Whispers from witty women whose second language was sarcasm. One can only guess what they shared with each other, but the laughter confirmed it was good.

The people who changed her sheets, shaved her legs, administered meds. Who made it so Dad wouldn’t give any shots — they showed up to do it instead.

Hospice care is truly about providing comfort until the end, and the Newells did this not only for our mom, but for every person who walked in. Their sacrificial service, confident coordination, and overflowing love was a balm to all of our weary souls in those final weeks of her life.

And to sit around a table with them while Jenn finally revealed SOME of the secrets that Mom whispered put a small healing patch on our still-hurting hearts.

So many people joined the ranks alongside them: family, friends, neighbors, and nurses who lifted our burdens moment by moment. We’d happily celebrate you over an Italian House lasagna too 😉

This week is a tough one. I can’t recall a darker night than September 26th of last year. But instead of letting our hearts slip into despair, we’re praising God for the people who said, “We’ve got you. We’ll be there.”