My home is my refuge.
Before I leave for the hospital, I have a quiet breakfast on the top deck. I sit in the sun and read scriptures. Time permitting, I go to the garden and weed. If I'm feeling ambitious (which I have yet to feel), I will lace up my hiking boots and head out the back gate, saluting a deer or two, as I make my way up the mountain.
Returning from the hospital, I leave the uncertainty of beeps, of pain meds, and of a suffering husband. I travel away from the busy streets and turn onto a quiet street that is so familiar, it is always welcoming. The house is dark, peaceful and only for a few more days will it not be lonely. In the days before Tony comes home from the hospital, it will seem big and empty.
But for now it is refuge.
I pour a mug of milk into a saucepan and warm it up. A teaspoon of honey melts as I stir to keep the milk from scalding. I climb the stairs, grab a book, slide into bed. I answer texts; maybe I will make a phone call.
On the first night home, I sat at my computer and watched a frivolous, funny movie: Nine to Five. It was the perfect antidote to the heaviness of an accident and the possibility of loss.
And as I sit here basking in refuge, I think of those without it. For we all know, no matter our circumstances, those moments of insecurity, of thunder, of desperation. It is in that knowing only, that refuge can be so dear.
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