And That Was Enough
For the ones who show up without being asked
Friends, last week had one of those days. A Lego store detour, a bathroom emergency, and my father-in-law’s first dialysis session — all before 3pm. And right in the middle of it all, my husband Erjon showed up. Yesterday was Father’s Day. This one is for him — and for everyone who quietly shows up. 🤍
This morning I took my boys to the library. Yay! We hit the nearby playground first — swings, fresh air, a little running — and then came inside to pick up some book holds. Surely, with all of this wholesome morning activity behind them, my boys would be peacefully exercised and ready for a long afternoon at home. I had a plan: get them happily settled with Nena before I left with Gjyshi for his very first dialysis session that afternoon. This would work.
And then I made a strategic mistake.
“Mom, can we just stop at Bricks n’ Minifigs for FIVE minutes? Please? Just to check it out?”
It was already noon, but I was in a guilt-ridden mood. I knew I needed to leave the house with Gjyshi in barely an hour — but against all better judgment, I said yes. What was I thinking? Sure enough, a half hour later, with the clock dangerously close to 12:30, I practically dragged all three out of the store. And those minutes in the car heading back home, I could feel that clock ticking louder and louder.
We got home with barely twenty minutes to spare. Knowing how long it takes my littles to eat lunch and then clean up... I could already see the growing impossibility of leaving on time.
I stood at the kitchen counter and stared at the three empty plates. PB&J, here we come! Breezing through the kitchen with a practiced hand, I pulled out every ingredient I needed. Then I felt myself slow down into a calming rhythm. Side one, side two. Side one, side two. Side one, side two. Peanut butter, scoop of grape jelly, slap together for Michael’s pb&j. Then peanut butter 1, peanut butter 2 — slap the two sides together for William’s pb sandwich. Then mayo — one, two, three, four salami for little Jamie.
Now, all was right in the world as I plated the food and moved it over to the table. I grabbed an extra pb&j for myself and sat down next to Michael, across from Jamie and William.
I had exactly ten minutes.
I held my breath for one second as I watched Jamie and William take their first bites and actually stop talking. And then, just as I joined in the eating, they started giggling and swiping at each other. I filled my mouth, waved frantically across the table for them to stop, and kept chewing — because it was a pretty good PB&J and I was going to enjoy this beautiful, economical sandwich if it killed me — and the clock kept ticking.
Finished, I got up to clean their dishes and everyone scattered from the table. Meanwhile, down the hall, Vera was getting Enver ready — patient as ever, his blanket folded, his shoulder bag by the door. As I was finishing the last of the dishes, from somewhere near the back bathroom I heard it — a squeal, and then a sharp “HEY!” — and I knew.
I did a quick scramble down the hallway. William was yelling “EWE!”, glaring at Jamie near the toilet. Jamie stood frozen, wide-eyed. The story came out fast: William had stood too close, Jamie had been standing and peeing, and — totally by accident (I think) — gotten him. All over the floor.
Five minutes.
I did not yell. Well — does shouting count? It was yelling with a purpose. I grabbed William by the waist as Jamie zipped past. “YOU — stay!!!” Quickly kneeling, I tapped my shoulder: “SHOULDER” — our code word — and while William held on to my shoulder, I peeled off his pants for the laundry. Bathtub on and William in it with my command, “Wash your legs!” Lysol sprayed and wiped on the floor. A few minutes later I walked out, a sweaty mess, grabbed my shoulder bag and snack bag, and huffed my way back to the foyer.
And there we stood — Enver looking at me with his eyebrows raised, head tilted, not quite sure what had just happened in the back of the house. I sighed. Took a slow breath. Then turned toward the house and shouted — perfunctory but necessary, necessary for my soul: “Bye guys! Love you! I love you guys!!!” And gave them an extra second to respond. Which they did. Just enough to fill my heart’s cup back up.
I patted Enver’s arm. “Ok. Gatti? Ready?”
And we left. I took one last look back at the house — the boys on their tablets, Nena in the kitchen, everything as settled as I could make it. It would have to be enough.
In the car, I took a breath. We exchanged a few small scraps of conversation — trees, weather, easy things — but underneath it all, quietly, I was running through the unknowns. What would the dialysis room look like? Would Enver be frightened? The real weight was the translation — Erjon was the only one who could easily communicate with his father in these medical settings. I had a quiet prayer on my lips, a snack bag on the back seat, and a folder full of paperwork I only half understood. It would have to be enough.
Thankfully, Erjon was already there when we pulled in, his work van in the parking lot. He had come straight from a job site — already a full day’s work behind him, having started early — still in his work jeans and boots. He didn’t mention any of it. He just walked across the parking lot toward us, held the door for his dad and me, and led us to the waiting room. And somewhere in that short walk, I felt something in me go quiet. All the morning chaos, the clock, the bathroom floor — it fell away. He was here. We were going to be okay.
The three of us met with the social worker first — paperwork, questions, logistics. Then we moved into the dialysis room, where Erjon and I were asked questions, filled out paperwork, and signed documents that covered every possible what-if situation. Meanwhile, Enver was weighed and tested and measured and slowly, carefully hooked up to the dialysis machine.
And then the room quieted, the machine began its work, and Enver settled back in his chair — beginning his first session. Two hours today, to go gently with his body as it adjusted for the first time. Future visits would run three to four hours.
Erjon and I collected all the paperwork and took one final look at Enver in his chair — leaning back, closing his eyes as the machine began its quiet work.
Erjon and I slipped out to my minivan in the parking lot and sat for a few quiet minutes — going over the next steps in Enver's dialysis process and the upcoming heart tests.
And then, before we went our separate ways, we stopped. Still in the car.
Erjon reached over and took both of my hands. With the pause in his breath, I knew. We leaned our foreheads together, let the quietness settle in, and then we started praying — Lord, help us... God, we are so tired... Thank you for what we have... Please help Enver... Please comfort Vera... Please guide us... In the name of the Father, and the Son, and the Holy Spirit. Amen. A sigh. A hug. A kiss.
And then he went back inside to sit with his father, and I drove home to make dinner for my boys.
I don’t remember much about the rest of the day. I know I got back. I know that Erjon arrived later with Enver. I know that my boys had been fine with Vera. Everything was ok. She had already prepared pasta for dinner and we all enjoyed a warm meal. Afterwards, I quickly collapsed onto the sofa and didn’t get up for a while.
And then Vera came and sat beside me. She didn’t say much. She patted my back — once, twice, the way you do with someone who is very tired and doesn’t need words.
“Faleminderit,” she said. “Shumë faleminderit.”
Thank you. Thank you so much.
I looked at her. I shook my head a little.
“S’ka problem,” I said. “Po, shumë e lodhur. Faleminderit për gjithçka.”
No problem. Yes, very tired. Thank you for everything.
She nodded. She kept patting my back.
This is what ordinary faithfulness looks like. A door held open. Pasta on the stove. A hand on your back.
And that was enough.
Sharon Manaj writes about faith and family at Rooted at Home.