Last week, Stacy spent three days in the hospital for diagnostic testing and observation. July 17th also marked our fourth wedding anniversary. As I considered how we might honor such a meaningful day, I realized hospital food didn’t quite say “celebration.”
Then I recalled a moment from the early ’80s: my uncle’s wife was recovering from cancer surgery in a Boston hospital over Thanksgiving. Uncle John and my brother, Mark, drove down from Maine with a full Thanksgiving feast—pie included. That memory lit a spark.
So, I decided to bring dinner to Stacy. I carefully packed a cooler with our favorite lasagna from A Taste of Italy, tossed in a green salad, tucked in both Ranch and Honey Mustard dressings, cookies for dessert, real plates, flatware, cloth napkins, and placemats—every detail chosen with love.
We dined across from each other with a rolling bedside table between us. We talked and talked, and honestly, the hospital room could have faded into the background of a bustling restaurant—we only had eyes for each other. Our conversation flowed, time disappeared, and connection deepened.
Sure, we could’ve gone out for a lavish dinner after she had gotten out of the hospital, but celebrating in that quiet, heartfelt way marked the day more intensely. Sometimes, these unexpected settings become the most treasured memories.
Have there been times when you had to change plans? How have you made lemonade out of lemons?
Blessings,
Rev. Anne