No, Lawrence Henry, you have not become a “bore.” Your pieces are the ones that stay with me. While political and policy debates are important, conservatives know there is a deeper level, where you have been privileged (cursed? chosen?) to travel.
When the hands on the prom clock sweep toward midnight and the DJ calls last dance the wallflower plucks up his courage and asks his dream girl to dance. She likely says no, but if yes then the next three-and-a-half minutes of pop song are moments of eternal splendor. He may never be more in the moment than that life-or-death time. The taciturn middle-aged farmer coaxed into remembrance of that moment will wax tersely rhapsodic as he steals a fervent glance at the house by the field where that lady now lives, like a man gripped by the Spirit and speaking in tongues words that are not his own.
I think the dearness of life you’ve been forced to experience has you speaking in tongues to us. Praise to the great Author for giving you words.
I’m acquainted with the cause of your travail: last year my mother died after decades of kidney disease, but not before her transplant gave her another 15 years, including a decade to love grandchildren.
She suffered the cruelty of a chronic disease that lasts for years, like long lonely dark nights of digging, never knowing if morning would find a grave or a fresh flower bed.
She didn’t give her grandchildren glorious pearls of wisdom from one bravely facing down death over and over again. Instead she quietly gave them the gift of being completely in their moments. Unprompted, they remember her unforgettably as the one person who “really listened” to them; and because of that they know what it is like to be unconditionally loved.
While their Dad fussed like Martha over better sippy cups and car seats, Grandma listened to the grandkids like Mary at the feet of the Rabbi, and they received a portion that would never be taken away from them.
My mother held on and postponed trading in her painfully frail body for a body of glorious light, until she’d given what she could to those grandkids. At the last moment I whispered into her semi-conscious ear: “It’s okay Mom. You’ve given everything. You can go on.”
It is a little bit like that love when a writer stands before the thousands in his readers’ amphitheater wearing a ridiculous hospital gown, worse than naked, saying “Here are my wounds. Here are my travails. Not sure what It All means, but here are some things on my heart and some things I’ve observed. Not sure what the clock reads. I’m hoping I come through this. But what moments I have — they are yours.”