The Corner

I hate that corner of the room. 

The steps and decisions that led to that statement are varied, but they are real and deeply felt.  It’s odd that different senses are involved too.  So I hate that certain area because of the sights, sounds and smells associated with it.  And the thoughts.  And that action.  I still remember the first time I entered that corner knowing about this disdain that was stirring in me.  I didn’t want to go in that corner!  But I knew I had to.

Dad started hospice care at home on a Monday in early April.  Within a few days, we had more literature about end-of-life realities than I thought possible.  Or helpful.  So much information was actually too much information.  Probably didn’t help that I really didn’t want to learn, let alone use, this material.  Especially the content about those four medications.  Now I like a nice and tidy spreadsheet.  And an easy grid could be created to assist in decision making as to when and how to administer those drugs.  Or not to do so.  Hopefully not.

When we reviewed those instructions, it was noted that these four pharmaceutical gems had a range of potency and severity.  In fact, we were told to store them in a safe place.  Not a dry place or a cool place, but a safe one.  I guess there’s a market for such elixirs.  And with a parade of people coming and going providing services and other visitors, well, you can’t be too careful.  So I made the decision to ‘hide’ the box of medications in that corner.  Behind the big television and in an unlabeled container.  And when I put it there, I did so muttering a prayer about never entering that corner for a good long while, if ever.

Weeks went by.  Could even count the time in months.  That room was the center of much activity.  Every activity actually.  Eat.  Sleep. Visit. Chat. Watch. Review.  Consider.  Discuss. Decide. Bathe.  And all else that you can imagine.  But that certain area was never entered or approached.  Though things were changing, and not for the better in most cases, the call from the corner never came.  Adjustments in care were made for sure.  Stop doing this and change the way we did that.  But no triggers that would send us off to the in-home pharmacy.

It was just after lunch on June 22.  Dammit, it was a Sunday.  June 22.  I kinda’ hate that day too.  Something was eerily different.  I sat on the couch facing the hospital bed that filled the living room.  I saw, heard and even caught a whiff of things that told me that a certain action may be needed.  As I observed this deterioration, I knew that…NO!  Not that corner!  Not those instructions! Not this drastic step!  If we went down that path, I knew the clock would begin on the EOL timing.  Once you start on those meds…

There have been a few times in my life when I felt really tired.  Like my legs couldn’t move tired.  Heavy legs.  Not sure I can even walk tired.  A super intense soccer practice.  A super long day of yardwork.  A super high blood sugar.  But that first trip to the corner behind the TV was easily the hardest six or seven steps I’ve ever taken.  NO, not that corner!  I had to steady myself multiple times just to make my way there.  Sick to my stomach.  Is there ANY other way?  Is this REALLY what we need to do? I hate that corner of the room.

I know that Dad was helped by the level 1 (my term) med that we started at 1:38 PM.  And the level 2 med that followed later that evening.  That spreadsheet was accurate.  When ABC happens and DEF characteristics show themselves, apply solution 123.  I get it. I just didn’t like that my daily log started looking like ‘4:15-tomato soup, 8:30-ice cream, 9:15-lorazepam’ and ’11:00-haloperidol, 1:45-soup and pop, 8:45-ice cream, 9:15-lorazepam’.  Yeah, liquids and softs only.  He couldn’t chew.  And the meds could just dissolve for the most part.  God how I hated going to that corner.

Though using the contents of that corner were now part of the common daily routine, I still kept them tucked away back there.  In the corner.  I’d like to say that it got easier to visit that area to retrieve the next dose, but it wasn’t.  Always with a fair amount of reluctance and with weighty, tired legs and a lump in my throat.  We last visited that area about 6:00 AM eleven days later.  Dad would have no need for the meds in a few hours.  

Around 10:40 or so, he moved to a new room with a new corner.  THAT room is filled with the presence not of a bed, but a throne.  The throne of the Great Healer.  And in the corner of that room?  Nothing hidden or unlabeled.  Dad is one of the ‘fellow citizens…of the household of God…Christ Jesus himself being the cornerstone” (Ephesians 2:19-20).  The sights, sounds and smells in that corner are beautiful beyond description.  No hesitation.  No reluctance.  No heavy legs. No morphine.  No regretful daily logs.  No muttered prayers. 

Oh, how I love that corner of that room!

What Christmas Means to Me - 2025 version

Christmas is a time for crying.  As I walk through Yuletide-ness this particular year, that reality hits a little differently since dad’s passing on July 2.  The flag waving of early July was numbing.  First birthday without him in October.  First Thanksgiving with that empty seat.  We actually ate at a different table this year so we wouldn’t have that stark reality front and center.  Seasonal red and green decorations still missing as the purple and yellow permanent flowers we chose for the funeral adorn the mantle (Skol Vikings!).  So…a bit of crying this Christmas.

But that’s usually the case for me.  Has been for me for a while now.  Crying.  Crying out.  I know for many, this time of year means quaint snowy hillsides and a quiet swaddled infant, but I think desperation and chaos are more apt.  Silent night not so much.  The incarnation is a celebration of unexpectedly and powerfully answered prayer.  A final, fulfilling response to a yearning too deep for words.  

This year found me spending some quality time with words in the book of Psalms.  These poems and songs cross the spectrum of emotions and longings.  That was more than appropriate for me and 2025.  The psalms have previously been, and still are, a bit mysterious to me.  Because the content is so gut-level and raw in many passages, it’s difficult for me to embrace.  Kind of just want to hide from the realness of it and of life.  Then, you do some living.  And you see some dying.  You do some living and see some dying and suddenly the bluntness of the Psalms makes a little more sense.  As I get older, some of those harsh and abrupt expressions find a home.  They catch my ear…and my soul.  And like a sky canvassed by an angel choir, I was amazingly confronted with a great truth.  A theme had developed in my journey through Psalms as a key characteristic of God was heralded.  The volume of this proclamation hit its apex in mid-August.

An odd little thing happened to me a few times about then.  And it suddenly got a bit more concerning.  It only took place in one room and only at one particular time of day.  As I would be getting ready for bed, I would experience episodes of vertigo.  Never had it before in any form. But for a few days, it was like clockwork.  Spinning room for five to ten seconds and after I laid down, it was fine.  Until it wasn’t.  One night, the spinning wouldn’t stop.  Lay down, spinning.  Close my eyes, spinning.  Deep breaths, spinning.  Every movement I made, or didn’t make, led to more spinning.  Like David dodging spears aimed directly at him or Asaph bemoaning the circumstances that surround him, I just… reacted.  Reacted with something impulsive.  Something hasty and impassioned.    

That particular morning, I had found myself in Psalm 34.  And that morning’s reading became that day’s meditation and then became my evening’s urgently repeated cry to counteract my intense vertigo onset.  Verse 17 tells us that “when the righteous cry for help, the Lord hears…”.  And that right there is a truth that calms spinning rooms and soothes wayward hearts.

The Lord hears.

The Lord hears.

Praise God!  The Lord hears.

That August evening, THIS poor man cried out, and the Lord heard ME and saved ME out of MY trouble (verse 6).  It’s not just that after chanting that truth out loud over and over again, the vertigo vanished.  It was more than that.  The trouble of spinning was gone, but so too was the trouble of anxiety and worry about it.  The concern of wondering if walking through that circumstance in particular, and life in general, would be a solo venture was removed.  The struggle of trudging through another day without sensing in a tangible way the steadfast love of God that fills the pages of the Psalms was no more.  My room stopped spinning and my heart was being pursued.  A cry answered.

After that, the vertigo never returned.  Only had it those few times over the course of a week or so.  But that truth stuck with me.  And if you allow yourself to dwell on that truth a bit, like a Psalmist, you uncover more gems.  If the Lord hears, then we can conclude that He understands. (He doesn’t just HEAR, He LISTENS!)  And if He understands, then His character demands that He will act.  God is an initiator.  He is all about looking, hearing, remembering, relenting, and causing (see Psalm 106:44-46).  He will act in such a way that His glory and our good is known and experienced. Yes, even in one of THOSE situations.  Even in THAT circumstance. 

Think back on the last few weeks or months or years.  What made your room or your world spin?  Painful as it may be, name it.  Note it.  Remember it.  Place yourself again in that atmosphere or that place or that time.  And then cry out.  Cry for help.  Just cry.  The Lord hears.

The Lord hears.

The Lord hears.

Praise God!  The Lord hears.

The interesting, and confusing and frustrating, thing is that what happens next doesn’t always look like success.  King David cried out, but his son still died.  The people of God cried out, but were still taken captive.  Justice cries out, but the enemy still shows evidence of progress.  But that is where the beauty of the Christmas season shines forth.  What we celebrate with Christ’s birth is not just what happened NEXT.  It is more than just the NEXT step in the ongoing story of life.  It is the FINAL one.  With the birth of Jesus, the full answer to humanity’s cry is given.  And along with his life, death, resurrection, ascension, and coming return, there is a completeness to our story with Christ.  A final answer to our many cries.  The subsequent carnage of our spinning lives meets its end.

Every year about this time, a phrase jumps out from a Christmas carol or other seasonal song that lingers with me.  Cuts to the heart of the gospel truth of Christmas.  In years past, that has included things like “be near me Lord Jesus, I ask Thee to stay”, “He comes to make His blessings flow far as the curse is found”, “O come O King of nations, bind in one the hearts of all mankind”, “long lay the world in sin and error pining ‘til He appeared and the soul felt it’s worth”, “give me a star” (might need to look that one up…it’s one from the Winans), “passover us” (maybe that one too, it’s from Andrew Peterson), and so many more.  And as you can see, that theme of our crying out, and God graciously answering, frequently makes an appearance as I worship through the season.  Like I said, Christmas to me means crying out.  

This year’s song that keeps rolling the gospel truth of the season around in my mind isn’t really a Christmas song.  It’s a Psalm song.  Verse 1 of Psalm 116 says “I love the Lord, because he has heard my voice…”.  This year, my crying has fueled my love for my Lord.  I pray and trust that your soul too can find rest in knowing that the Lord hears.

The Lord hears.

The Lord hears.

Praise God!  The Lord hears!