My Place By His Side

If you've been reading here long, you know I prayed for many years to get married, and while I was busy praying {read: begging}, I was also busy preparing. Reading books and going to seminars and doing all I could to ready myself to be a wife.

I remember being utterly convinced, prior to marriage, that when I got married, I would somehow instinctively feel very different. That when a ring slid onto my finger, something else would slide in my soul that would instantly mature me into a wife.

That did not happen.

I felt loved and chosen and insanely happy to be married, but I also felt very much like the girl I had been the day before that and the day before that. It surprised me.

The other thing that surprised me was how difficult it was {within my own heart} to find my place in Ryan's family. Now before you raise an eyebrow, let me quickly say that they are a wonderful bunch and welcomed me in as their own even before I was their own. I was by no means excluded.

But they had always been. Around that huge family table {his family is seriously the numeric size of My Big Fat Greek Wedding, though they are neither fat, nor Greek}, everyone had long existed. They had established memories and traditions and they just knew things about each other. I wasn't sure how to slide into my chair and make my place.

I've learned it slowly throughout these 44.5 months. I've learned what dishes each person always brings to the potlucks and I've made a couple keepers of my own. I've learned every name, which truly did take a while, and I've learned which people love to talk and which ones are more reserved. {Most of them love talking.} I've learned their fierce loyalty to each other and have been the thankful recipient of it on more than one occasion.

I've grown and settled somewhat.

And then came this week.

As I mentioned quickly in Monday's post, Ryan's grandpa was taken to the hospital on Sunday, and they determined he had some significant bleeding on his brain. He was transferred to a larger hospital and after church, we drove to Indianapolis to sit with the slowly congregating family in the emergency room to await further instruction.

Ryan's grandpa is a treasure. I wish you could know him. I met him when I was just a little kid, because my parents would often visit the church he attended. He always remembered my name and spoke to me directly, not just over my head to my parents. And he always patted my cheek when I left, smiled, and said, "The Lord bless you."

I only ever knew one of my own grandfathers {the other one died before I was born} and the one I knew died when I was in 8th grade, so when I married Ryan and inherited a kind, God-loving grandfather who had been asking the Lord to bless me almost as long as I'd been alive, I was thrilled.

{I wrote about my first birthday card from him here; that still makes me cry! And it's when I found permission to call him Grandpa.}

Back when I had the great gallbladder eviction of 2015, Grandpa showed up at the hospital to sit with Ryan and my parents while they operated on me.

 I have never forgotten that.

Ryan loves his grandpa and aspires to be just like him, which is just fine with me. There could be no finer role model. I try to get a picture of the two of them every chance I get because I know there aren't nearly enough photos of me with my own grandpa. And I take my memory-maker role pretty seriously. Grandpa doesn't thrive on photo opps like I do, but he stands and smiles for me anyway, and I'm always grateful.

So there we were on Sunday, all of us gathered in that waiting room, headed back two at a time to see Grandpa {except me because I don't do emergencies well and I wanted someone who could handle it with a stronger stomach to have my turn}, and I found myself once again unsure of my place. How could I support Ryan like he needed and still stay at the edge and not intrude on all the established family places at the table?

Being a wife is lifelong learning, I've concluded.

So I did what I could. I documented the day. It's what we do in our little corner of Shafferland. We don't just document the moments that are glamorous and fun. We document the moments that define. And I knew we were somehow being defined by this trip to support Grandpa. So we took an emergency room selfie, trying to look braver than we felt.

I documented the moment when a coat came in contact with a Coke and we became "that family" hauling paper towels from bathrooms, calling for housekeeping, and receiving "the look" from other waiting room participants.

I documented the moment we got kicked out of the ER waiting room for being the Big Fat Greek Wedding family - banished to the trauma room.

{That photo also documents my thoughts on the matter in case you were unclear. If you're still unclear, come back for the podcast next week.}

They decided not to operate on him that day. They waited one more, so Monday, Ryan and I packed luggage {okay, I packed luggage. I've never traveled lightly} and traveled back to Indianapolis to cram ourselves in a tiny hospital room with a representation of the family to wait with and pray for Grandpa. {When a hospital worker came in to have papers signed, she said, "Other patients need visitors too, if you want to spread out!" HA!!!!!}

Ryan was nervous and I knew it. I was nervous. The patriarch was in the hands of God and a neurosurgeon we didn't know. {I shouldn't confess this but I will: I told Ryan that I wondered if we could ask for Derek Shepherd. And I wondered if this neurosurgeon started every operation by saying "It's a beautiful day to save lives." I would have felt much more comfortable if he did, I thought. And then I had to remind myself to separate my TV and real lives again.}

They came to get him for surgery, and we all hugged and kissed him one last time. He kissed my cheek, called me by name, and said "The Lord bless you," because that's what he does. Even before brain surgery.

We ate lunch and settled into various corners of the surgical waiting room and Ryan napped on my shoulder while I read a book of prayers.

The surgeon finished his work and met with the family, and I found my place at the table by watching all the bags and purses while they heard the outcome.

We were thankful it went well, and while the road ahead is long and uncertain, we had the chance to go to his room {even I summoned the bravery to go this time} and see him. He didn't say my name this time, but his eyes kept finding my face and I knew he knew me. {And just in case he wasn't sure, I kissed Ryan's cheek so he would know I belonged to his grandson.}

Because regardless of anything else, that is my place. I may still be learning where to fit in and what to do, but I do know my place is always by his side.

{I think Grandpa would find that verse most appropriate in this circumstance.}