The Gift of Remembering

Yesterday was a regular day around here; Dr. appointment, kids playing, chores, and school work. I'm trying desperately to wrap my brain around computery things and discovering that most how-to's and tutorials assume a level of prior knowledge that I do not have, so I spent hours studying/working and have very little show for it.

At some point I logged on to the breastfeeding support group that I help run and found that one of our mamas had experienced the unimaginable, the loss of her 10 month old baby. That kept me preoccupied for much of the rest of the day. Not actually doing anything, but thinking about it extensively, considered ways to reach out, and yes, crying for this dear mama.

Josie often climbs into our "remembering spot" and looks through photo albums of Mom, but yesterday it just caught me in the gut. I'm getting to that grief stage where it is not constant, but when it occurs it is very forceful. And so, I sat with her, held my child, and remembered.

So between the frustration of hitting brick walls in my studying, having a grief day in our home, and the loss of this baby being on the forefront of my mind, it was a rather topsy-turvy day, emotionally speaking. Last night after a grocery run and picking up the kids from VBS, I sat down again to quickly check in on FB before bed. There was the little red flag notice that I had a message and it said a friend had sent a photo. I opened it and saw the beautiful photo I've shared here. 

Back story - after mom passed away, I was struggling with how to talk to the kids about the fact that her body was not going to be interred in a casket the way they may have seen in movies or shows. I spoke about this with a friend who I just think the world of. He has a way with words and a way of viewing things that I often haven't considered. He did help me out by talking through this and giving me some ideas. A few days later, he wrote to tell me that as they worked in their yard this spring, his family had planted a sunflower in honor of my mother. Yesterday it bloomed and he sent me this photo.

As I sat and cried, cried for this mama who is just crushed with grief, cried for myself and our family as we experience this very different kind of grief and trying to figure out our new normal, I also cried over this gift of love and friendship. This gift of their family remembering and honoring someone they've never met.

At the end of the day, we want to know that our loved one mattered, that their life meant something, that someone else in this world is holding space for them. We need to know that our loved one's life had meaning, and of course by extension, that our lives have meaning. Let me be clear, I believe in eternity and heaven, but for now, I'm a temporal being in a temporal world and the here and now is what really resonates with me.

We each need to know that we matter, that someone would miss us if we were gone. Struggling hearts often express, “no one would miss me if I weren't here, so what is there to live for?” And on some level we all wonder that. Will there even be a hole when I am gone?  We recognize that we are but a speck in the vast universe, but we have this immense need to know that our speck matters. That the speck of those whom we loved, matters.

One of the greatest gifts you can give to a person who is grieving is the gift of remembering their loved one-and letting them know that you do. So every February, I think of Ellen and remember her loss. Every July, I reach out to Belinda as she grieves her husband. Every time I see a giraffe, I think of Ruth's mom.

Tim has passed this gift to me. That sunflower is going to complete its bloom, the seeds will feed birds and some will drop (or be collected) and re-grow next year. And thus, in a yard, 3,000 miles away, my mother's memory is nurtured. Her speck is enlarged. My heart is healed.

Redemption: Reversal or Restoration?

Her face was pretty, and so young that I wondered at the age of the man beside her. A couple, new to the area, attending our church for the first time. When I introduced myself after the service, I saw that her face and her eyes did not match. Expressionless eyes, numb, windows to a soul that was absolutely shattered. She fumbled for a silver key chain frame that was attached to her purse. “This is my baby boy. He is gone.” The “older” man was her husband, his visage and bearing bore the ravages of the loss of his son and the burden of worrying for his wife.
As time went by I learned the story, and realized that both of them were still in their 20's. That she, a happy and hopeful girl, had been changed into a broken woman. A year and a half of uncertainty, a year and a half of mother-love and determination to sustain her medically fragile child, ended in crushing grief. That his demeanor was from the shell-shock he was trying to function through.
Grief, anxiety, depression, these loads rode heavy on this couple. Still reeling from their grief, came the pain of secondary infertility. Then pregnancy loss. Outwardly I hugged and comforted them; inside I screamed, “Lord, how much can someone bear? “

Fast forward and there are two other beautiful children now. He grows younger as the years go by, humor and wit in his eyes, a grin on his face, a spring in his step that befits a young man. And yet, a depth, a wisdom that comes only from having spent so very long in such a very dark place. She can laugh again; there is life again in her, adoration in her eyes as she holds her treasures close.

Still, there are days when the waves of anxiety come. I may get a text or a call. I tell her I love her and to hold her breath, to come up for air on the other side, this wave will pass.
There is no “fix” for this. No miracle that will turn her back to that young woman who assumed that life and family was neatly laid out, full of dreams, confident in the future. That girl died when her child did.
But I have been privileged to see over the past 7 years this broken woman turn into something else, something deeper, richer. A woman who can see pain, whose heart can break with others. I have seen her grief go full circle, and where I have held her in her brokenness, she has, in turn, held me in mine. She has a capacity for compassion that can only be born of being crushed.
She has not been “delivered” from the grief, from the emotional trauma; but has allowed (and is still learning to allow) that trauma to be the very place from which her redemption comes.

-----

“God, I've given you this over and over.”
“God, why haven't you delivered me yet?”
“God what am I missing? Am I supposed to be learning something?”
“God, did I do something wrong? This still isn't fixed.”

What if the answer isn't ever going to be what we want or wish for, or even what we have been taught to expect?

What if the miracle is not rescue, but it is redemption?

We so enjoy a good rescue story. We thrill to a testimony where God changed a person and then returned all that was lost. We term that situation, “success.” We seek that, strive for it, and when it doesn't happen, wonder why God did not move. But striving for this version of healing tends to make us focus backwards, trying to get back to where we were, who we were, instead of forward to where we are going.

My friend lives with anxiety and depression. She suffered a significant loss that changed her.
A false understanding of redemption could lead us to believe that without a “full” reversal - no more anxiety or depression- that this woman is not a success story, that she has not been restored.

We are shaped, sometimes irreversibly , by what happens to us, but that does not make us unusable. Redemption is not reversal, but it is restoration.
You might say, “but my pain was self-inflicted, my damage is from sin, from bad choices.” To that I say that the redemption is there for you too. Scarred, misshapen, it does not matter. Forgiveness and restoration does not always reverse consequences or negate the law of reaping what is sown. Reaping and sowing is a universal principle, both natural and spiritual, but redemption is far more powerful. Redemption is the idea that all of this can be used for good.

There are amazing stories and testimonies that can happen, and sometimes do. They should be honored, but they should not be elevated as the expectation. Because not every baby is healed, not every straying spouse comes home, not every bankrupt family finds a check in the mailbox, not every addict is instantly delivered. We rejoice in those stories, absolutely. But I suggest that the healing of a shattered mother is also a miracle; that the divorcee who remains faithful to God though their world has been rocked is also cause for praising the Lord; that the family who continues on, day after day, in the midst of financial crisis is also worthy of noting; that the addict who gets up, and gets up, and gets up, is reason for celebration.

God may, sometimes, write our story as a reversal, but he always, always writes it as restoration and redemption. Let us live and prosper where we are, instead of feeling like we have not yet arrived. Embrace the redemption that God has for you, focus not on the scars that remain, but the healing that they represent.

Grace Upon Grace

Josie got to choose a reward for sleeping in her own bed.  She chose fairy wings, wand, and tiara set from the $1Tree, one for Joy and one for herself.

I took her to pick the items out and she was so excited. She had told Joy that she was getting her a surprise but not what it was.  When we got home, she proudly presented Joy her fairy gear and they played for quite a while.
 That evening, Josie wanted to play again, but Joy was doing something else.  Josie was angry about this and then when Joy also did some other minor offense (sitting where she had been sitting for the previous 20+ minutes...) Josie yelled and shouted, and finally, hit her. Hard. With the plastic fairy wand.  Screams and cries abounded from both parties.   I comforted the wounded and confronted the attacker.  The immediate consequence of course was that the wand went to time out and Josie went to time in.

In an effort to get away from me, Josie pleaded “potty” and I let her go.  I stood outside and listened to her wail and rail against me, life, and the universe in general.  When she was finished and came out,  I opened my arms, thinking that perhaps she was ready to hug and talk. Instead she had a “look” and rushed past me to hide.
I went into the bathroom and saw that she had unrolled and put into the toilet, an entire roll of TP.   I went to her and told her that she was allowed to be angry, but not allowed to hit and not allowed to be destructive.  I asked her who she thought was going to clean that out?  “Not me” she said.  Wrong answer.   I told her it would indeed be her.  That she was going to put on gloves and get it out.
“I don't have gloves”, she protested...my reply,   “Guess what?  I do!”

So she followed me as I went to the guest room closet and got the plastic gloves.  I pulled out two for her and then pulled out two more.  “You are going to help me?”  her voice was both surprised and hopeful.   “Of course I'm going to help you. I love you. You are my kid.”

We went back into the bathroom, I put the giant glove on her tiny hand and had her pull out a token amount of the toilet paper.  I of course finished the job and we got the toilet to where it could safely flush.

As we washed up and went out, she was much quieter, but not completely over it all.  You could almost see the anger stir back up in her.  “Well, I'm NOT going to say sorry!”

“I don't want you to say 'sorry', why would I want you to lie?”

Then she started to cry-an angry cry.  “If I say I'm sorry, then I'll be lying and then I'll be in MORE trouble!  My wand is going to be in time out forever!!    And anyway (crying in earnest now) I'm HUNGRY!”

Oops, my bad... I realized that with the way the evening had gone, everyone off in different directions, she had not had a good dinner.  I stood up and told her that I would help her get some food, found some leftovers and quickly heated them up.  When she sat down to eat, I sat with her.
She again protested that she still wasn't sorry, almost trying to convince herself at this point.
I told her she would be sorry later, that when we hurt people we love, we are always sorry later.
She again began to list all the ways that Joy had offended her: she wouldn't play, she sat where Josie wanted to be, and now it was Joy's fault that she had lost her fairy wand.

I listened and simply told her again that we don't hurt people.  We use words, we can say, “I'm upset that you don't want to play with me!”   She assured me, “ Oh, I did. I yelled at her and told her I was MAD... and she still didn't play!”  (hmm... you think?)
Again, she went through her entire list of reasons why she had hit her sister and I simply kept saying, “We don't hit people.  We don't hurt people.”

“Well I'm not sorry!!”  half-hearted crying between bites.

“You will be later, and then you can tell her you are sorry and you love her.”

“But I HATE saying sorry!”

Ahh... now to the heart of the matter.

Oh yes my dear, don't we all?   So much easier to convince ourselves that the other person deserved it and we were not wrong.

Then the negotiations.   “I won't say sorry...I will just see if she wants to be friends again.”

I reminded her that when she feels hurt, she is pretty insistent on an apology...We have all been recipients of her demand to, ”Say you're sorry!!”

“What if she doesn't forgive me?”

“Joy loves you SO much, she does everything for you, she will forgive you.”

“But what if she doesn't?”

“She will.  Remember when you forgave me?”  I reminded her of a recent time when I had apologized to her for something.  “She really, really, loves you.  We want to forgive people we love.  I bet she is waiting right now to forgive you.   Why don't you go say, 'I'm sorry, I should not have hit you. Will you be friends?  Do you want to share some cake?”

Tears again... but different tears.  “Oh, I can't think about eating cake with her after what I did!”

One more assurance that she would be forgiven and the cake gladly shared.

“Will you  come with me?”

“I didn't help you hit her, I'm not going to apologize for you.”

“Just walk up there with me. You will stay outside the door.”

So of course I did.
I walked upstairs with her and in she went.  She did shut the door so I do not know what she said.
A moment later the door burst open, “She forgives me!”
Door shut again.
Open again with an excited, “She wants to be friends again!!”
Door shut.
Open again, “and she want to have cake with me, and she let me hug her!”
Eyes still wet with tears but shining  brightly with the joy of being forgiven and accepted by her loved one.

I headed back downstairs and she came with me to get the cake ready.  “Joy will be here in a minute”,  she told me.

Joy joined a minute later and they sat close together, shared their cake, and then began to play.

Joy spied her fairy gear on the couch and said, “let's play fairies!”
“Ok!” exclaimed Josie... and then her face and voice fell. “but I can't, ...I don't have a wand.”

And then, grace upon grace. ”That's ok, you can use mine.  You will be queen fairy and I'm a baby fairy that hasn't earned her wand yet.”

*
This whole exchange took well over 30 minutes. Some would say that Josie should have been spanked or punished harshly and be done with it.   Some would say that she should have been hit with the same stick she hit with. I disagree of course, but am not going to argue that point right now.

I did hit her... hit her with grace, with mercy.  The changes that occurred in her spirit when she realized that I was going to help her fix the mess she made in her rebellion...these were the beginning of repentance.  She absolutely knows that wasting toilet paper is not ok. She absolutely knows that clogging the toilet is Bad.  She did this on purpose. 

But well beyond my grace of a parent seeing a teachable moment and grabbing it, was the grace of the sister she had struck: open arms with love, with forgiveness, with, “here, take my wand.”

There will be future offenses, many of them.  Josie has all the self-control of a typical four year old, which is to say, very little. But the lessons learned tonight are invaluable, foundational. Grace has a way of softening hearts that mere punishment can never even approach. She had it reinforced that mommy is here to help her when she makes poor decisions, and more than that, she experienced the utter peace and relief of being forgiven, being loved, and of being welcomed back into relationship.





Parenting notes:
-Comfort the child who was hurt first.
-Put the object in time out as a consequence and to get it out of  the situation. This is not about an object, it is about attitude.
-Validate/ help her name and recognize her feelings; “you were angry because Joy didn't want to play.”  Josie had chosen as part of her own reward to give a gift to Joy, and then Joy didn't want  to play.  Doesn't matter that she had played with her for a long time earlier in the day and it was 10 hours later, Josie felt rejected.
-Don't force an apology, no use making a kid lie about it.
-When she was ready, I helped her by modeling an apology she could use.
-This did not come into play on this occasion, but I also don't force forgiveness or words of forgiveness.
-She had to “own” her mess in the toilet and correct it, but was not punished separately for it. Of course we talked about it, “You were angry with me, so you chose to do something that you know upsets me.”
She did apologize for that later.  Even more importantly,  several days after the incident, she came up t me and said, “You love me even when I do bad things.  You get mad, but you are still happy that I'm your little girl.”   She had obviously been chewing on that for a while.
-I realized that part of this was my fault, she was legitimately hangry and it was late at night. She was kind of set up for failure/over-reaction.
- I did not give her wand back just because she had reached true repentance. Consequence is consequence, the wand remained in time out until the next day, just as I had originally said.
- I did not prevent Joy from sharing  her own wand and require that Josie remain wand-less  The wand was Joy's to give and the lesson there... oh I would never want to stifle that lesson! 

Review of "Plantation Jesus"

Well written and engaging, timely and relevant, this book is a must-read for anyone who sees the racial problems we face currently. It is even more of a must-read for those who still question what problems, if any, still exist.
Beginning with a definition of “Plantation Jesus”, an idol we have created in our own (white) image, the authors skillfully cover the historical aspects of religiously acceptable racism. The focus on improper exegesis that allows us to arrive here is clear to a layperson who may not have considered such things before, and without leaving the main points, plants a seed that inspires exploration into what other areas of our lives we may be modeling on faulty understanding of scripture.
The section on supremacy and privilege is a powerful expose' of what this has looked like throughout our US history, and what it looks like today. The reader is made clearly aware that not all racism is overt or labeled. The subject is handled masterfully, without making individual accusation, but at the same time, pulling no punches concerning systemic and ingrained attitudes that led (and lead) to oppression.
An open-hearted reader may experience a major paradigm shift during the discussion of using the word “Christian” as an adjective rather than a noun. What is a “christian” home, family, bookstore, or nation? What happens when the value of “faith and family” leads to idolatry? This is a thoughtful and careful dissection of the idolatry of nationalism. The book continues with an eye-opening look at the economics of modern day slavery in the form of collegiate sports (!) and mass incarceration.
Far from leaving us staggering from this impressive exploration of racism within the the US Christian Church, the authors begin to explore real options, real solutions. Not a symbolic diversity for diversity's sake, but an introduction to True Jesus, and how we can learn to walk with him. Practical ideas and resources for what this may look like both individually and corporately; ways to begin purposefully practicing this within your own local faith community.
This book is not only a revelation of the problems, leading to individual epiphany; but a proclamation of solution, leading to the possibility of real progress.

Buy it here

Expectations

I was asked a few days ago, “who are you, what are you about, what is your voice?” In the moment, I stumbled to find an answer. Upon continued thought, I have some more ideas. 
I’m a wife, I’m a mother, I’m a friend, I’m a teacher. 
I’m a woman who has been through things. Pain, hurt, loss, joy, hope, love; these all play a part in who I’ve become. 
I’m a believer, but my faith no longer fits neatly on a coffee cup.
The more I’ve been shaken and broken, the more my faith has been stretched and tested, the deeper it has gone. As my confidence in religion has waned, my assurance in God has strengthened.

What is my voice? When speaking out for justice or standing for those who don’t have a voice, I can be a bit strident. And I'm not sure that I apologize for that.
At the same time when someone needs compassion or understanding, when someone is hurting or in need, I'm the girl who shows up with a casserole and says, “Well this is pretty bad, isn’t it? But, I'm here now. And we’re going to do this together.”
I'm not going to promise you that things are gonna get better, I’m not going to give you pithy sayings, I'm not going to promise you an easy formula- because they don’t work.
I'm going to tell you to adjust your expectations, but always, always, expect that God will be there.
Because at the end of the day, that is who I am, and that is my voice, my message. Life is happy and hurtful, messy and magnificent. You can expect both pain and joy, and above all, you can expect God.

The Beginning. Originally posted June 20, 2011

1 a.m.

3 twin beds.

5 people packed into the 8x10 room.

4 months of living like this, separated from my husband and my own home.

Instead of falling asleep to the sweet sounds of my children’s deep breathing, I’m trying to ignore the scrabbling in the wall and straining my ears to hear a clang from the kitchen letting me know I’ve trapped my quarry.

I’m tired, so exhausted that it is painful.

I keep crying out, “I just can’t do this anymore, I just can’t DO anymore!”  but I know it does no good. Not being able to go on is not a luxury I have right now; my body hurts, my mind hurts, my heart hurts, but there is nothing to do but just keep doing. 

The worst part is that there is no end in sight.  You can do a lot of hard things if you know that it is for a limited time. It’s when there is no termination date that it eats away at you.

I’d like to toss and turn but there is no room in the crowded bed.

The scratching sound by my head grows louder; I bang the wall a few times, softly enough to not wake the children, but hard enough to give the creatures on the other side of that 1/8 wallboard a message to move along.

I want to scream; I’d love the opportunity for a good cry, but I haven’t had a moment alone in days. In weeks.

I should pray.

But suddenly it all boils over and in my head I’m shouting,

 “Pray? PRAY?  Why? You know what I need, you know what I’m going through, I’ve been praying for months, why do I need to tell you again?” 

The exhaustion, the weariness, the pain, the loneliness, the frustration, the anxiety, the waves and waves of simply not knowing what to do; I’m overwhelmed and there isn’t a pretty little prayer left in my spirit.

I haven’t uttered a sound, but I’m spent.  I lay there, so tired that I’m honestly not sure if I’m awake or asleep.

And I hear it. I hear God speaking to me. “Though he slay me, yet will I trust him.”

What?

 Listen, if this were a story in a Sunday School paper, the voice would be speaking words of comfort and I would have a plan open up before me, a trail blazed, and the crooked paths made straight. But instead I get, “though he slay me yet I will trust him.”

Really?

REALLY?

God, what is going on?  We are trying our best, we are following biblical principles, we are asking for prayer, we are accepting counsel from godly people!  You are not moving!  You are not telling us what to do! 

I’ve always been told that when seeking God’s will in a situation you start by doing what you know to be his will. We are doing that and still nothing. The way that seems to make sense isn’t working out, and we are open to anything else, obvious or not, but the heavens are brass.

And in my heart I hear the reply.

“So all of your prayer, all of your ‘following biblical principles’, all of your doing the right thing, this is all to force my hand?”

No! of course not!  But isn’t that the way it works?  If we honor you, you’ll take care of us?

 “So I’m a vending machine.  You put in enough prayers and obedience and I spit out the answer you like?”

No, Lord, that’s not fair!  You see my heart and you know I’m doing what I’m doing out of love and obedience.  But everyone keeps telling us to just hold on and God will come through with an answer, everyone keeps assuring us that you have a plan and that in the right time, it will all work out. That is what I’m waiting for.  And God, you know, you see that I’m so tired. I’m done. I’m spent. I’m just… I just CAN’T!

Again I hear, but more gently this time, “Jody, are you more deserving than others?  Are you living more ‘biblically’ than my children in persecuted countries?  Surely if I owed anyone some answers, some favor, it would be those who have served me with their very blood?

I do have a plan for you, for your family, for this whole situation, and that plan is for good and not for evil.  But it is good that only I see.  My thoughts are far higher than your thoughts. My ways are above your ways.”

I’m sobbing now.

“What if my plan is not to ‘deliver’ you from this situation but to simply let you walk through it? No matter how long that walk is?  Do you still trust me?  Is that good enough for you? Will you still walk in obedience and follow the principles I’ve set for you if there is no promise of an earthly payout?”

My soul is being shredded, if this is a dream, let me wake up; if I’m awake, please God, let me fall asleep and get some rest.

“Though he slay me, yet will I trust in Him.”

Taken in context of the verses before and after it, Job 13:15 is even more powerful.  It is a man saying, “I’ve done what I know is right, I stand clear in my conscience before God, and I have decided that if he finishes me off, I still trust Him, and when I stand before him, I’m going to say, ‘I did what I knew to do.’”

I reached a breaking point that night.

 I will continue to do what is right to the best of my knowledge. I will continue to follow God’s known will that he has shown us in the scripture. I will continue to seek an answer and to be ready to change course when and if God shows us a new course to take.  Meanwhile, I just have to trust him.

 This is NOT the answer I want!

I want my wonderfully romanticized version to come true.  The version where we dutifully hang on, and then relish in the lovely provisions that God lays before us, and finally, look back and say with satisfaction, “whew that was a tough season, I’m so glad it’s over.”

It’s a choice.

 If none of what we hope for happens, am I still willing to trust him?  Not simply continue in the same actions, but actually with my heart, trust in him?

That is something that I have to decide to do daily. It means that I can’t continue to put life on hold while I wait for God to perform the miracle of my choosing, I have to keep plugging away.

I wish I could say that since this happened a few weeks ago, I’ve had a great transformation and found a new strength. 

Unfortunately, not really. (I know, so totally not a Sunday School story!)

 I’m still worried.

I’m still waiting.

 I’m still tired.

 I still hurt.

I still don’t know what the next step is supposed to be.

 I’m still terrified at making choices that will affect my family for years to come and wondering what will happen if we make the wrong one. It’s been months already. It might go on for years. I sincerely can’t look that far ahead or it becomes crushing.

I will say that in one sense the frustration is gone-for now.  I’m no longer angry because God is being so slow in dispensing my reward. I have had my faith adjusted and while a bit chagrined that I fell into the trap of false hope, I am glad that God is long-suffering and willing to correct. I will also say that I would rather be walking in hard truth than in false understanding. 

And yes, I did trap my critter. 

Rain

Spending the afternoon in the pool with the kids.. it feels like stolen time.

My instinct is to hurry, to keep an ear tuned, to need to go check. But my time is strangely free now. Open.
I can stay outside all day.
I feel... relieved? Guilty? Confused? Nostalgic?
I feel frustrated that I never had this much time to spend with her. The very acts of caring stole the most precious bits away-time to just be.

Now it is raining, a crazy sudden summer rain, drops the size of nickles.
The kids laugh uproariously; and because there is no lightning, I let us stay out in it.

The rain is somehow wetter than the pool. Huge drops making bubbles and patterns on the surface. Water streaming down my head, my face, having to squinch my eyes against it.

I hear my child say, as naturally as breathing, “Dear Jesus, please give Mom-mom a message. Tell her I can swim without my floaties now.”

It's raining harder now, and salty.

Redemption

“If God is so powerful, why doesn't he ….?” I would  guess that each of us has either heard this, said this, or felt this, at some point in our life. The context is usually some sad or terrible circumstance that left the one asking feeling broken and hurt.

I would like to share a story of redemption. I do not pretend that my one story universally proves a point--although I do believe that God's redemptive power is indeed universally possible. When he doesn't remove the circumstance, he can redeem the pain.

My mother died. She lived with us for 7 years. Health up and down, but mostly down and declining. Usually the decline was slow, but she would occasionally have a big drop and then that would become the new normal until the next drop. The last six months she was quite ill, the last four months, on hospice.

5 weeks to the day after mom left, the mother of my dear friend and neighbor went to heaven as well. I was honored to be a part of those final days and hours.
________________________

I have a disturbing fluency in skills no one wants to know.
Rolling, turning, changing, adjusting pillows, crushing pills, filling syringes.
Taking minutes to dispense just a few drops, carefully, so as not to choke the throat of one who can no longer swallow.
Swabbing the dry mouth, relieving the cracked lips.
Setting the mood of the room, flowers, music, light levels, even scents.
Tone of voice, gentle touch, stroking the hair. Enough to let you know I'm here, but not enough to disturb or overwhelm.

The relationship with death. It is our enemy, but it is inevitable.
Can I come to a truce?
I cannot control the fact that it comes, but I can comfort how it takes you.
I will not let you feel fear, or pain, or loneliness, although, we all know that the last step you must indeed take alone.
At least alone from my perspective. I pray not from yours.
Loved ones, angels, God himself? Surely someone is there to take your hand in the moment I must let go. Anything else would be too cruel.

But now what? When life has revolved around care for so long, what does one do with these accumulated proficiencies, this unwanted expertise?

I have my family, they need me, but a different part of me. This part, with its particular set of skills, feels useless now, vestigial.

But then comes a call, “I need help, I cannot.”
It is ok dear friend, because I can.
I step up and say, “wait, I know this one!”
I will hold her, touch her, love her like my own. Stroke her brow, whisper endearments.
With practiced ease, I perform the tasks so you are free to hold her hand.

And in this way, I find redemption.
My pain becomes a blessing.
My grief is assuaged.

I have a lifetime's worth of skill, but only one mother to spend it on.
God in his wisdom, in his grace, mercifully gave me another.

time

At the end, time moves backwards.
 Years turn to months, then months to weeks. At some point we begin to measure by days, then hours... minutes, moments, breaths, and that final measure of time, heartbeats.

An entire life distilled down to the last heart beats.
At this point, words are useless; there is only touch, feelings, yearnings, groanings.

Did I say enough?
Did I do enough?
Did they know?


As if it knows it is about to be cast off, time bends in the space around this soul readying for departure, normal bounds do not apply. In those days, time stretches out, each hour lasts forever.
Nothing makes a minute last longer than counting breaths.
 20,
12,
7,
5.
Each minute an eon, yet not long enough.

In the space between one heartbeat and the next, the light goes out. The next heartbeat doesn't come. The bird has flown, thrown off the surly bonds of time and space, now a part of eternity.


For those left behind the warp continues, for a short while at least. Hours and entire days, lost. But then, as if to make up for being slowed, time speeds up, unimaginably! What do you mean it has been 3 weeks? 6 weeks? 2 months? Where has the time gone? How dare the rest of the world keep moving... hurtling, along?

I held my breath as hers slipped away. And I'm still gasping.