Dear Shepherdesses:
Greetings from the golden West! It really is golden as the aspen, ginkgo, and birch trees make the atmosphere glow with color.
Mrs. Harold Calkins invited me to be her guest at a meeting of the women workers of the Southern California Conference. It was a rewarding experience to meet new shepherdesses and greet many I had known. Mrs. Calkins plans interesting luncheons and programs for the ladies in her conference periodically.
A guest speaker used dolls to depict the stages of "dress re form" in America from the very early 1800's through the various eras since. Her plea to us, as Adventist leaders, was "Do not wear that which will kill your influence." "Walk carefully and circumspectly before the Lord." "Make your dress conform to God's Word."
Meetings of this type are really worth while. They are a tie that binds hearts and aims of those who work by His side and by his side, together.
At the Annual Council in Loma Linda we were blessed by the earnest sermons, reports, testimonies, music, and fellowship. The meetings planned by V. H. Koenig, of the university, for the women made our trip unforgettable.
As a farewell benediction to our meetings I read the words written by Ruth Calkins. By request I am sharing these lines with you.
With love,
Kay
I BARELY reached the telephone on the kitchen wall, grabbed the receiver and collapsed on the floor. "O God," I prayed aloud. "Please help me." What had happened? The day's beginning gave no warning of impending dis aster. . . .
A finger of sunlight crept through our bedroom window and gently touched my eyelids. "Take my life today, Father," I prayed as I rolled over, anxiously clinging to those last few moments of tranquillity. One of our two small self-set alarms would soon go off to destroy my peaceful serenity. And he did! Shortly I heard the brushing of padded pajamas on the hall carpet and a rumpled blond head popped up beside me. "Mommy, I'm hungry." The three familiar words boomed in my ear.
"O.K., son," I smiled even though he had foiled my brave at tempt to delay the day's entrance with a little more sleep. 1 would soon hear similar words from his sister and daddy so I dressed reluctantly, tugged a brush through my hair, and headed for the kitchen.
Now that I was in a vertical position, I thoughtfully inspected the house. With care I plotted the day's events—feed the family, make the beds, throw in the wash, run to the store, pick up Larry's suit at the cleaners—the list went on.
Soon the tummies were no longer rumbling and Larry had exited amid many hugs and kisses. With my help the washing ma chine began its monotonous droning, and I mounted the stairs to tackle the remainder of my "unliberated" female chores. At the top of the steps I staggered weakly. For a moment I used the wall for support. "Sure am tired!" I muttered to no one. Wearily I nudged myself to get moving be cause necessity demanded that I continue my noble struggle through the morning.
But even washing dishes was fast becoming a huge and formidable task, the challenge of which I wasn't certain I was able to face. I felt bewildered as to why I should suddenly be so exhausted. However, it didn't take a tremendous amount of time for me to decide it would be an excellent idea for me to lie down for a while. Without further persuasion from myself, I sank to the couch. It felt fantastic and I stayed there longer than I knew I should. But as any young mother knows, the couch isn't exactly the most practical place to spend the day. "I gave You this day, Lord, that You really only loaned to me," I prayed. "Now help me to live it for You. Give me energy and strength. But if something is really wrong help me to know beyond the shadow of a doubt. . . ."
With premeditated effort I dragged myself up and started for that mountain of dishes. Immediately my head was spinning. Terror clutched me. My mind raced wildly. "Sick . . . have to call Larry . . . the kids . . . got to get help ..." I grabbed the telephone and knew I could do no more. Helplessly I crumpled to the floor. "Thank You, Cod, for being here. Help me!" I cried.
Trembling with fear and weakness, I knew only that I had to get help. Mentally I ran down the list of our neighbors. None of them were home. Then it dawned on me that the telephone, with the dial in the receiver, was still in my hand. Frantically I probed my muddled mind to recall the usually familiar number of Larry's office. My quivering fingers finally pushed the buttons. . . .
Larry was on his way. All I could do was calm myself with that reassuring fact. By now Tonnie, five, and Todd, three, were close be side me asking the unanswerable, "What's wrong, Mommy?"
I gave them weak, rather shaky, instructions. "Todd, climb on a chair and put the telephone back for Mommy, O.K.?" Too exhausted to say more for a while, I lay there shaking and shivering uncontrollably, my hands clammy, my heart pounding. Then I felt the warmth of something over me and little hands "tucking me in." Tonnie had climbed on a chair, stretched till she reached her sleeping bag at the top of her closet and dragged it to me.
Futilely; I attempted to imagine what could be wrong. I knew people sometimes fainted from hypoglycemia and diabetes. I figured it was worth a try. The orange juice from breakfast was still on the kitchen counter. As I asked the youngers to get it for me, I was alarmed by the distant sound of my own voice. If only Larry were here!
But without wings it would take him at least twenty minutes. Mean while, still unable to get up, I wondered what the children would do if I went completely unconscious. I could almost visualize their panic as thoughts darted through my mind.
Death, as well as life, was not unknown to them. When their grandpa passed away, they sobbed, "Mommy . . . Grandpa . . . wouldn't . . . talk to us." Now if I couldn't answer them, would they think the same thing had happened to me?
"Tonnie and Todd," I had to try to explain, "Mommy's sick. If something happens that I can't talk to you it doesn't mean I died. I just might be unconscious."
"What does that mean, Mommy?" they responded.
"That I'm sort of asleep and can't wake up for a while. But Daddy's coming and he'll take care of us."
The minutes crept stealthily by as I feebly kept trying to reassure the children—or myself—I wasn't sure which. Seemingly forever later, Larry dashed through the front door. "What happened?" he asked breathlessly.
"I don't know," I numbly re plied. "I just collapsed." Not a second was left unused as he called the doctor for me, a friend for the children, and picked me up and carried me to the car.
At the hospital he waited till I was settled and gently kissed me good-by with a worried look. There I was encased between two white sheets. Alone. Anyway, I felt alone even while unfamiliar nurses hovered around me.
I soon discovered that there's nothing quite as bleak as the stark white walls of a hospital room, nothing quite as lonely as being surrounded by bustling, busy people and knowing no one, nothing quite as frightening as the unknown, nothing quite as long as a night filled with fear or pain. I clung thankfully to my confidence in a loving God. His strength was all I had; mine was gone.
The first two days in the hospital dragged; the nights were endlessly spent praying. Over and over I said, "Thank You, Jesus, even for this—not because You want it, but because You're working all things for my good." Occasionally, I heard familiar footsteps down the hall, followed by Larry's grin and a big hug. But I noticed that he left too quickly and said so little.
The tests for diabetes, hypoglycemia, mononucleosis, and low thyroid all returned negative. My blood count was excellent. Every thing was fine but me. Frustrated, I almost wished for a diagnosis of any kind. Knowing something would be better than this unbearable uncertainty.
Now the doctors talked of brain scan and brain wave tests. A brain tumor? When I emotionally dis patched this word to my husband, he rushed to me. His eyes showed his obvious alarm, but still, it was only a fleeting visit.
My sister flew 400 miles just to help brace my sagging spirits. Her husband insisted that she come even though he too was ill. Larry's mother traveled through three States to take over my continuing responsibilities at home. Every night my mother telephoned long distance to check on my current condition. Other long-distance calls came from friends and family. I wondered how they all knew. Casual acquaintances dropped by and became close friends. Flowers and cards seemed attracted to my room. Friends slipped in and I felt their tears wet against my cheeks. Little voices asked on the telephone, "Are you better, Mommy?"
In their own way they all gave what I needed most—understanding, compassion, and love. I just felt overwhelmed. My eyes grew full; my heart enlarged to encompass it all.
But even with all this, I was still troubled. Why didn't Larry stay beside me? Why did he come and then leave so soon without either of us saying much? Others voiced their concern; why didn't he? Nine years of marriage—our under standing of each other was much beyond the superficial—I thought. He rarely expressed his heart feelings in mere words; that I knew. But at a time like this? ... I tried to push the mounting questions into some unused corner of my mind.
The next morning I felt so utterly weak that to wiggle my littlest finger was a studied effort. Dying wasn't exactly on my agenda, but I felt about as close to it as I cared to be. Desperately my sister called Larry, "Shirley's worse. Come right away." In shortened minutes he was beside me. He was haggard. I wanted to say, "If something hap pens . . . take good care of the kids . . . thank you for all the happy years . . . Jesus will soon take us home . . ." But I couldn't, just couldn't. "I love you," we whispered almost together. The tears in his eyes brought tears to mine and he turned away. Suddenly I understood—understood and felt something I had never really allowed myself to doubt.
Finally the brain test returned— normal. That was a bit reassuring. But we still only knew what wasn't wrong, not what was! Fortunately it doesn't always take a diagnosis for a patient to improve, and I began to feel better.
After more long days of wondering, two doctors authoritatively invaded my room. A verdict? I waited . . . "We think you prob ably collapsed from nervous exhaustion and may have borderline epilepsy." I noticed the "think," "probably," and "may have" and didn't feel it was a tremendously positive diagnosis, but I was better! My medication and I could go home. (Later, more extensive blood-sugar tests were taken, and the doctors found that I did actually have a carbohydrate metabolism defect.)
Twelve days had skipped by since I last heard little pajamaed feet creep into our room—twelve long, terrifying days. I had gained something, though, through it all —a deeper insight into the beauty and uncertainty of life, the power of friendship, the abiding depth of love, and the strength of my God.
That night after the youngest members of our family were finally fed, bathed, storied, pottied, watered, and snuggled, Larry and I just sat talking. We talked now of all the things we had felt before, but hadn't voiced. I told him what I couldn't say that terrible morning in the hospital—told him what I now knew to be true, that the length of a hospital visit is not a valid test of love, that I knew he wanted to be with me, but it hurt too much, that I was glad he was himself, glad to be a part of such special love—his own kind of love, uniquely his, uniquely mine.
His arms strengthened around me. "You know what, honey?" he said softly, "You understand me awfully well!"
We sat for a moment in silence. But deep inside, my heart pounded out some familiar words, "In everything, give thanks. ..."
