My beloved snores peacefully beside me,
oblivious to the fact that he is keeping me awake.
I poke him gently in his side, encouraging him to roll over.
Ah.... blessed silence.
It is then that I hear it:
The bathroom faucet!
Twice I have asked him to fix it.
Twice he has said he will.
I get up,
put a washcloth under the drip,
put earplugs in my ears,
and postpone impatience until morning.
My beloved doesn't need to go in to work today.
My shift at the hospital begins at 7.
Certain he will relax while I work,
I chide him as I grab my keys and head for the door,
"Don't forget about the drip."
He assures me (now for a third time) that he won't.
We have a full floor of patients,
and it seems, one crisis after another.
The day feels like it will never end.
Twice, I look out a window into the hospital courtyard.
The sky is darkening.
There is a storm brewing.
A storm is brewing in me as well.
"Why can't my beloved remember?" does battle with
"Why am I stressing over such an inconsequential thing?"
I feel like I'm the faucet in my small complaint:
A storm breaks, outside and in.
Raindrops race down the window panes.
Inner tears cascade over my heart.
I check on all my patients,
hold their hands, smile, and reassure them,
enter information in their charts.
Then, giving myself permission for a few moments of self-pity,
I retreat to the empty, now dark break room.
Sitting next to the window,
I watch and listen as the storm outside wrings itself out.
Soon, there is nothing left but the final
I close my eyes,
and find myself strangely comforted by the quieting sound.
Has my own storm wrung itself out as well?
Perhaps it has,
as with each
I now hear a blessing.
A leaky faucet?
My husband does love me
way more than I deserve.
I am nourished in so many ways.
I am warm, dry and protected.
I have work,
I whisper a prayer of gratitude
to the Beloved One
as the last
fades to silence.
When my shift ends,
I grab my keys,
and drive home in the glow of the after-storm.
"Hi, honey," my beloved calls out as I come in the door.
"Worked inside today, out of the storm,
and got that faucet fixed.
Supper's in the crockpot.
Did venture out once however.
Got us one of those new-fangled coffee pots,
and some special brews."
I fold myself into his embrace.
Hugging me tight, he reaches behind me
and pushes the start button on the new machine.
I relax completely into the warmth of his caring.
The pungent smell of rich roast
(probably decaf at this time of day)
And then I hear it,
the coffee-maker's wonderful sound:
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