Dear patient readers,

This story has a little age on it....but its message is truly timeless.  Need it today.

Paraclete

            Floyd is the Latin scholar in our family; he has to be since he’s the only one who ever studied Latin at all.  It is a dead language after all.  But now that I think about it, paraclete is probably a Greek word and that’s all Greek to him just like it is to me.  So much for our linguistically-challenged family.

            I chose the name of this chapter for a reason, and just like it wasn’t for language study, it’s also not about a pair-a-cleats for my favorite softball player.  In fact, those cleats are a good example of the exact opposite of what I mean.

            Tonight I arrived at home a few minutes after Floyd’s arrival; this fact alone will forever remain a mystery because I left the office first and he thinks I drive too fast.  Whatever the reasons, he beat me home. 

            I found him in his office (affectionately named “The Abyss” for its unique filing and storage systems.  That, by the way, is wife-code for “disaster area!”) He quietly told me he had quite a bit of pain in his side and back.  Floyd has some mostly-dormant medical problems that we don’t think about too much except when something like this happens.  So, seeing his face, hearing his voice, and considering all factors set off my alarms. 

            One of those alarms was for his comfort, well-being and longevity. (It’s another long story, but he knows he’s not allowed to go to heaven until we’ve celebrated our twenty-fifth wedding anniversary and, at this writing that’s fourteen-plus years ahead.)  I should just go ahead and tell you that I’m not a very good nurse.  I’m too crisp, quick, noisy, and I tend to become much too cool, calm and distant.  These bad tendencies are worse when Floyd feels bad because I’m just plan scared something really bad is wrong and I might lose him.  I have this strong opinion that heaven just needs to wait a while before he shows up at the pearly gates!

            Tonight, God gently guided my heart when I took a deep breath and shot up a quickie prayer for help.  His guidance was found in that non-Latin, non-athletic Greek word, “paraclete.”

            Most of what I know is that this Greek word in the Bible’s New Testament is often used to refer to God, the Holy Spirit who was sent to us folks who remain on this earth after Jesus went back to heaven.  He was sent as a helper, and as a “paraclete”…one called alongside to help us.  I’ve certainly needed His help a few zillion times in my life, some of which I even recognized as needing His help! 

            Tonight He whispered His name into my thoughts: Paraclete.  I took a breath to think about that and realized it was the antidote to my poverty-stricken bedside skills.  I’m a bit of a literalist: if you tell me to walk about fifteen steps to a goal, I will walk fifteen steps and stop regardless of whether I reached the goal.  I’m going to follow the instructions to the letter.  Well, that’s most of the time anyway.

            This tendency served me well tonight because when my kind Helper whispered “Paraclete, I heard “called alongside” and I simply sat down beside my wonderful husband.  I stayed there talking to him about nothing and everything until his pain eased.  I gave him lots of unsolicited advice on his Freecell game.  I talked about my mom, who was in a medical crisis of her own at the time.  He talked about things at work and about the West Wing episodes we missed recently.  The main thing I did was simply to stay…alongside…until he had some relief.

            Just this once, I know I did the right thing, the best thing for him and didn’t run over his discomfort with my pair-a-cleats of cool activity and efficiency.  Maybe I understand just a little more about the gentle helpfulness of God, the Holy Spirit, who is my very own helper, called alongside.