A Few Feet Away | Previous Challenge Entry

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TITLE: A Few Feet Away | Previous Challenge Entry
By Shann Hall-LochmannVanBennekom
02/01/22
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While watching my son’s latest sermon on Facebook, I tried to distract myself from the pain that tormented my body by attempting to count the birds flitting around my feeder. Those suckers move fast, yet still they are easier to count than my blessings. Shaking my head, a tear plopped down my cheek. The past week had stressed me out big time. Not only was I coping with chronic pain, but all three kids and their families had COVID, and a friend’s mom had passed. I felt powerless.

As the church service wound down, I heard the last hymn, Count Your Blessings. Laughing sardonically, I asked God, “You tryin’ to tell me sumpin’?”

He answered with a line from the song: “Count your blessings. Name them one by one. And it will surprise you what the Lord has done.”

“Okay, God, surprise me.” I still felt a wee bit salty. After all, how could COVID, chronic pain, and death be blessings? Just then, my son came back on the screen, and I heard my granddaughter squeal. Hmm, if not for this pandemic, the church never would’ve done virtual services. Being able to hear his sermons while staying safe in my bed blessed me immensely. I’d become part of a community that was 1,000 miles away, but via the internet, only a few feet separated us.

And hearing my granddaughter squeal was a huge blessing. I’d felt bitter that I only had seen her twice since her birth seven months ago. Yet, I was able to FaceTime her several times. Just this week, I watched her crawl, pull herself up to a standing position, and wave bye-bye. My heart melted at the mere memory.

Of course, I couldn’t forget my other two granddaughters, who had been quarantined for the past week. Even though I was unable to help my sick daughter, her illness blessed me in other ways. I spent ninety minutes one day talking to my three-year-old granddaughter. We played games; I helped her make Mommy a card, and she “read” several books to me that had me laughing at her versions of the stories. I had felt guilty that I couldn’t help my daughter while she was sick, but technology allowed her to rest while I assisted from a distance.

Getting up to go to the bathroom, I stepped in dog poo. In my bare feet! How could that be a blessing? I looked down and saw my sister’s blind, deaf, old dog and smiled. It delighted me to be able to help my sister while she was out of town, to know she wasn’t worrying about her pet. Plus, Blondie and I have a lot in common. We’re both old, half-blind, losing our hearing, stiff, and slow. We both snore like crazy, suffer from anxiety, but I hoped my gas didn’t smell as bad as hers. The comparison made me laugh while I scrubbed poo off my foot and the hall carpet.

After checking in with my friend, who was grieving the loss of her mom, she reminded me it was a blessing that her mom didn’t suffer for too long. I stopped and prayed for her and her family. It didn’t feel like much, but then I remembered a sermon where the minister stated, “Praying isn’t the least we can do, but the most.” Hmm, maybe I was helping a little bit.

Later, my husband came into the bedroom to check on me after I’d cried out in pain. There’s no doubt God blessed me with the best family. I hate that they see me suffer, but a memory from twenty years earlier popped into my head. My then seven-year-old daughter had said, “Mommy, I’m so glad you’re sick.”

I just raised my eyebrows. “Huh?”

Hugging me, she explained. “If you weren’t sick, you’d be at work all the time like my friends’ moms and I’d never see you.”

The ringing phone jolted me back to the present. That same daughter was calling in tears. “Mom, I feel awful. Make it better.” I couldn’t do much, but I managed to distract her, and she seemed a bit chipper when we hung up. I’m beyond grateful to have strong relationships with all three independent, responsible, and caring adult children. Not all parents can claim that, and I cherish them.

My eyes drifted back to the birds fighting for the best spot on the feeder. Maybe it was easier to count my blessings than the birds.

AUTHOR’S NOTE: This is dedicated to a sweet, special lady who touched my life more than she ever knew. With love and respect to Carol Wiley, (1952-2022).
Song: Count Your Blessings, written by Johnson Oatman, Jr. and E.O. Excel, 1897
Nonfiction

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