I was so eager to come home. I had not been home in weeks. Due to my career in the military, then some much-needed leave, then military TDY (temporary duty assignment) that took me away, then back to post for one day. Finally I texted CJ, “I’ll see you Saturday morning. So ready to be home.” We were both excited. It was going to be a great Saturday and Sunday.

As I drove three hours to our home, excited during my drive that I would see her and our son, I did not hear from her via text or a call. Strange, I thought, to myself. Unusual.

Finally, when I was about an hour or so from the house, she called. When she spoke, I received the unexpected. She was sick. Terribly sick. She had been vomiting sine 5:00 a.m. this morning. She was completely dehydrated and the vomiting was not stopping.

Suddenly my ambitions for a refreshing Saturday and Sunday were vanquished and I turned into husband-doctor. What could I do? Crackers? Toast? Ginger ale. Friends reached out. Try this, try that. I made a run to the Publix several miles south and picked up some things we were told might help: the nasty pink Pepto Bismol, ginger ale, crackers, thick peach and pear syrup, and on and on.

She’s still sick. Curled up like a toddler, hands between her thighs, face in a gray pillow case, with glasses of medicines on the bedside table, glasses of half-drunk ginger ale and canned syrup, and ghastly pink Pepto on the table beside my side of the bed with novels by Jonathan Franzen and Leo Tolstoy on it.

I called the music director at church. “She can’t make it,” I said. “Vomiting non-stop.” He was kind as ever, and thanked me for the call and said he hoped she felt better soon.

I went outside and watched the deer that came, and I played with my dogs, and watched my bird feeder for feathered patrons. The expected creatures all showed:

A book from my favorite lecturerer during my seminary years in Louisville had come in the mail. I reminisced about Dr. Nettles’ powerful voice in Norton Hall, where he’d remove his loafers and lecture on church history on Tuesday and Thursday mornings at 8:00 a.m., and then lead us men in singing “A Mighty Fortress,” as we studied Luther and the Protestant Reformers.

I later completed a book I was reading, another volume by Natalie Goldberg. I respect her dedication to the craft of writing.

I looked down at the rug beneath my feet. My old gray shepherd mix, Brewster, is snoring at my feet, and Lady, our Cavalier King Charles, is snoring beside him, and Jo-Jo, our cat, is curled up like an S in the rocking chair.

My beloved CJ is asleep now, and I hope improving, and I am trying to rest in the unexpected become the reality.