An Unusual Sunday by the Coosa

I’d love to call it a typical Sunday, but from the moment my eyes snapped open at 2:00 AM, I knew this day was different. Restless, I prayed until 3:00 AM, the quiet hours drawing me closer to God. That early waking nudged me toward a decision: I’d go to Mass, something I don’t always manage. So began an unusual day, one that unfolded with purpose and unexpected lessons.

My morning routine kicked off precisely at 6:30 AM. I moved through the familiar rhythm—bathroom at 6:33, making the bed by 6:39, unlocking the French doors of my master bedroom to let in the cool air off the Coosa River. Our home, affectionately dubbed “the Bridge,” sits nestled against the river’s edge in the Appalachian foothills, a sanctuary of peace. By 6:49, I jotted down my to-do list, unlocked the screen porch to the solarium, and popped my daily vitamins—baby aspirin, B12, D3, magnesium, and zinc—between 6:53 and 6:57. The dryer hummed at 7:00, and I slipped on my iWatch, dressed, and started the washer by 7:20. A quick brush of my hair at 7:30, and I was out the door by 7:34, headed for St. James Catholic Church.

I’m not fond of the local parish here in North Alabama—it’s not quite my cup of tea. But Mass isn’t about my preferences; it’s about worshiping Jesus Christ, my Savior, and receiving the Eucharist. That morning, I felt a quiet pull to be there, and I arrived at 7:49, ready to offer my heart. The Eucharist grounded me, a moment of grace that carried me through the day’s surprises.

Back at the Bridge by mid-morning, I settled in for a favorite ritual: watching Martijn Doolaard’s YouTube channel, episode #160—Rain Storm, Easter Lunch, and Picking Up Work Again Slowly. At 10:59 AM, I sank into the cozy familiarity of his storytelling, the river murmuring outside. Sundays at the Bridge feel sacred in their own way, a blend of faith and the simple joys of home.

Then, at 1:25 PM, my phone shattered the calm. It was Mom—Jerrie—her voice trembling with panic. She’d heard from Caroline Burton that something had happened to her mother while brushing her hair in the bathroom. Mom, a nurse who’d spent seven decades tending to Etowah County, was frantic—she couldn’t get there herself, her eyesight stolen by macular degeneration, her ability to drive long gone. I remembered how, as a young girl, she’d cared for injured sharecroppers on her father’s land, racing to shacks in cotton or soybean fields with her stethoscope, tending to coughing patients through cracks in walls. Later, farmers lined up in her kitchen while black-eyed peas simmered, seeking care for hurt fingers or weary spirits, all for free. “Don’t worry,” I told her. “I’ll be there in a few minutes.”

My lunch was simmering, the house wide open with doors unlocked, so I scrambled to shut it down—stove off, lights out, doors secured. By 1:33, I was on the road to Mom’s. But when I pulled into her driveway, I saw her friend Joan had beaten me there, already whisking her away. Mom’s never one to rely on a single plan; she always has a backup. Joan waved me to follow them to the Burtons’, asking if I’d bring Mom home later. I nodded and trailed behind.

Minutes later, we arrived at the Burtons’ driveway, where Southside Fire Department paramedics, an ambulance, and police vehicles crowded the scene. I parked carefully to avoid blocking any emergency vehicles, my heart sinking at the sight. Mom stepped out of Joan’s car, and I rushed to her side. She’d forgotten her cane, and the ground was treacherous with protruding roots and branches she couldn’t see. I steadied her, guiding her toward the house. “This is where Harold Burton fell,” she said, her voice catching. “It caused a brain bleed.”

“OK, Mom,” I said gently. “Let’s focus on these steps so we don’t have an accident.” I helped her down one set of steps, then up another to the porch and into the house. Inside, she was visibly shaken—a rare, heart-wrenching vulnerability in a woman who’d once patched up farmers in her kitchen while supper cooked. She wanted to climb the steep stairs to where the paramedics were, but I gently dissuaded her. The stairs were too risky, and we couldn’t hinder the emergency workers.

As we stood in the foyer, voices echoed from upstairs. I called out to Caroline, Mrs. Burton’s daughter, who came down to explain. She’d been brushing her mother’s hair when her mother’s eyes rolled back, her body slumping—possibly a seizure, though no one was sure. Caroline asked Mom which hospital to choose: Riverview or Gadsden Regional. Mom said Riverview, but I leaned in quietly. “Take her to UAB,” I urged. “If it’s a stroke, they can reverse it there.” I had no proof, just a gut feeling, but UAB’s expertise felt right.

When Caroline returned upstairs, Mom’s voice broke. “You don’t understand,” she said. “I’ve always been the one to take care of everybody in this community. Now I can’t because I have no wheels.” Her words pierced me. This was the woman who’d turned her home into a healing place, charging nothing, a nurse who’d served for decades. Now, macular degeneration had dimmed her vision, and her truck sat idle.

I took her hand. “Mom, you’ve cared for this community your whole life. Now it’s their turn to care for you. Your role’s changing, but you’re still a blessing.” It was a powerful moment, echoing Psalm 46:1—“God is our refuge and strength, an ever-present help in trouble.” Her strength had always reflected that truth, and now, in her frailty, God moved through others—through me, through Joan, through the paramedics upstairs.

We waited until Caroline confirmed Mrs. Burton would be taken to UAB. I guided Mom back to my car, helping her navigate the uneven ground, and drove her home. The Coosa River sparkled in the afternoon light as I pulled back into the Bridge, my heart full of gratitude for the day’s lessons. What began as an unusual Sunday—early prayers, Mass, and an unexpected crisis—ended with a reminder: God weaves purpose into every moment, through our strengths and our struggles, binding us to one another like the fields Mom once tended.

Mom’s 90th Birthday party