Playing the role of John's caregiver has brought out my basic survival instincts. He is no longer my protector, I am his. At times I'm overwhelmed with the feeling of being devoured like a wounded rabbit in the desert with the vultures flying overhead. A constant barrage of on-air predators; reverse mortgages, cash for your home, a nice, little, gated, retirement community.

While trying to reign in that feeling, I searched the Bible for references on natural selection, even after all this time it's still what compels the human species to behave like animals. We have the right to bear arms so we can shoot each other for no other reason than a desire to make the news. The story of the great flood, when mankind had no regard for life, is the ultimate tale of survival of the fittest. God saw this evil in the minds of men and knew they could not be changed. That's not exactly what I was looking for. The flood was God's vengeance on man, not man's on man.

I drove to the park with a cup of coffee for each of us and a Thermos full of refills. I parked in front of the golf course so John could watch for players or enjoy the water flowing in the creek. It was too windy for anyone to be out on the course, but the sun was shining and he seemed happy. I read aloud Genesis chapter six from the Bible app on my smart phone. I told him I was searching for an explanation for this feeling I have.

I said, "You understand what I mean don't you; the feeling of being defenseless?" He nodded. I looked at his face and could see he understood it very well.

I have an obligation to care for myself and for John. Our basic needs for food, clothing, and shelter must be met, and beyond that my duty is to help others in need. I'm proud of the fact that our kids don't have to worry about us. They've lost their dad, they don't need the added burden of his daily care. I don't want anyone to have the burden of caring for me. Who does? That's what drives me now, my desire to remain independent.

The word fittest should be defined as the ability to adapt to the environment in which we live. That's still not what I was looking for. Why are there so many elements, people or circumstances sitting alongside waiting and watching for an opportunity to sweep in and take what you have? I am referring, of course, to those things that we've obtained through diligence and hard work. A thief doesn't own the right to protect what was stolen. Where does the sense of entitlement that is so prevalent in our society come from? When a person becomes too old, or disabled, or mentally incapable of protecting what they have is it an automatic unlocking of the door for the next in line to enter? It seems to be historically so, and something most of us do without thought for the loser. Consciously observing this phenomenon is unsettling. If I opened my front door and walked away from my house, everything in it would be consumed by someone. My house would be consumed by someone. I'm the defender of my little pile of consumable waste.

Survival of the fittest and natural selection doesn't occur with God because God does not change. We change and grow closer to Him. That is a natural occurrence that makes us stronger and gives us eternal life, but it cannot be achieved by defeating another person. Lifting each other up and giving to those in need is what God commands us to do. Why are there so many people who don't do those things? The simple answer: sin.

Yesterday was a bad day, full of bad vibes from Donald Trump parading through out state declaring his grace. I let a new stylist color my hair an unnatural shade of copper. The shocking price I paid for the service made my household budget blurry with tears. She commented on my goodness in being devoted to John. She wondered about my faithfulness; the sexual kind. Where do those questions come from? Is it so hard for people to do the right thing? The hard part is trying to figure out how to live this post-stroke life. I think I know what I'm supposed to do next. I have a list, and it starts with selling my house. In order to sell my house I have to make it ready. It needs minor repairs such as paint and new carpet. It has some major problems that I have learned to live with. There are cracks in the foundation that I have been assured by the expert are cosmetic only. Can I really trust him? The final say will come from the potential new owner's inspector. Can I do everything it takes to get the house to the point of sale then handle the rejection? A rejection would mean I could stay put. That's what I really want to do, sort of. I still want that little cottage with the perfect yard and beds full of flowers where I can putter around and grow old. I have an innate sense of self-contentment. I will never read all the books I want to read, or finish the art I want to create, or grow all the flowers I crave to smell. If I move I will take all of my baggage with me, so why move? Our modest house cannot be replaced for the price we would get from the sale. We have achieved our success. Anything new will be less than we have; less room, less comfort, less security. Why move?

Back to the start, I have to get rid of my junk. I went upstairs to empty the bookcase Barret agreed to take. It's the matching half of the piece he took when he first moved out. I'm having a hard time getting him to take anything out of his old room. I don't care if he throws it away, I just want it gone. I guess he can't do it either. I had a stack of banker's boxes ready to fold and fill, and a black Sharpie to label them. My theory was to cull the most treasured books that would fit in the allotted space. I resisted the urge to pull the final copy of the Tulsa Tribune out of its bag or to open the Newsweek magazine with the Oklahoma City bombing on the cover. I put them both in a box to save for later, it's history after all. I made two trips downstairs with stacks of books I planned to throw away. The rest are boxed up and ready to move, or store. I'll decide that later when the garage is full.

The closet at the end of the hallway upstairs is where I keep most of the tubs full of Christmas decorations. In the ceiling of the closet is a tiny opening with access to the attic. That small portal has saved me from becoming a complete hoarder since I can't easily fit through it. The only thing in the attic is insulation. Whew! I finally found a reason to celebrate the lack of attic storage. I looked at the pile of things I'm hanging on to and realized they don't mean anything to other people. If I gave them away there might be some interest, but nothing I own will ever be featured on American Pickers. Why do I have such a hard time throwing the stuff away? Is it because I don't have to? Is it because I don't really want to? I picture my clean, organized, minimalist environment and search for another empty box. It's a start at least, one box at a time.

God has graced me with the time I need to prepare for where we are going next. He has graced me with the power to let go of my emotional ties and to trust Him to guide me. For the rest of my life I will know that I am doing the right thing in the big picture. I will make mistakes, but I will grow stronger and wiser because of them and will be content with where I'm at. I will be ready for what God has in store for me. Be wise and be ready.