But I trust in you, Lord;
    I say, “You are my God.”
 My times are in your hands…
Let your face shine on your servant;
    save me in your unfailing love.

Psalm 31

So Saturday turned out to be a mix of events, both here in Pennsylvania and at home in Wake Forest. Rebekah has been busy on the consulting front while I was able to get a little writing done, relax in our comfortable suite, and even sample a local brewery for a light lunch.

The undercurrent, however, beneath the surface of everything for me, has been my dad’s deteriorating condition over the past couple of days.

Dad’s caregiving team called Friday evening to let me know that he is showing definite beginning signs of transitioning. If you are not familiar with the lingo, “transitioning” means, essentially, to enter the first stage of the end of life. It comes from the Latin word transire, which translates “to pass, or go across” – referring to the process, not the end result.

As you can imagine, I have been on the phone a lot. Saturday evening a hospice worker came out to evaluate dad and admit him into their program.

His situation is fluid, but was not necessarily critical as of Saturday evening. My prayer is that my dad will have a restful, peaceful weekend, and that I will be home in time to be with my mum if and when the transition becomes more clearly defined.

Hipster Catnip!

On the pain front (see “What my pain teaches me about the world…”), my doctor temporarily knocked out my shoulder pain with a course of steroids, and next I have an appointment with the orthopedic doctor to explore the other stuff. So the situation is being managed well and, hopefully, soon there will be a plan.

But I have to share my Saturday lunchtime experience. Rebekah had a long lunch meeting, and it turns out the hotel restaurant was closed, so I found a really good brewery – La Cabra – a couple of miles away where I enjoyed a local brew along with a light plate of tapas.

I sat at the bar, and asked the bartender to serve what she believed to be their best beer. She pulled me a long pint, and it was excellent – a strong, flavorful IPA, a little hazy.

Here’s what’s funny. I looked up at the board listing their brews and they all had names. Mine, it turns out, was called “Hipster Catnip.” Rebekah said it was the clearest case of profiling she has ever heard of!

The day drew to a close with dinner at the local preacher’s home and then chocolate cake and coffee at the hotel restaurant.

My dad, the hospice nurse told me, went into the night stable, and relaxed, and resting comfortably.

“You are my God,” I repeated quietly before heading to bed myself, “and our times are in your hands…” – DEREK