Temporary Home

Catching the last few lines of a popular song by Carrie Underwood the other day brought me back to saying goodbye to my Grandpa in the hospital, many years ago.

While it was difficult to let him go, and I still miss him to this day, we'd watched him suffer from kidney failure and other complications for years.  He needed the peace that comes with leaving this earth.  At a certain point we even prayed it for him and gave him permission to leave, our family circling his bed in unison and love.

And I will never forget the serenity in the room when, after weeks of holding on but in a lifeless state, he raised his arm, smiled that unforgettable grin of his, and said, "Jesus."  There was no doubt Who was in the room with us -or where he was about to go.

I've had similar experiences with elderly loved ones.

I sat with my Grandmother the night before she passed.  Her children had been taking turns for weeks at the hospital and I offered to give them a break.  My goal wasn't just to let them have rest but to be there specifically to pray for her to have peace.  I knew the only way that would come for her, is if she left us.

Hers was the first I actively prayed for her passing.  Suffering from COPD, she struggled for every single breath.  And with each new shift, she was adamant the nurses rewrite in bold red letters "DNR" on her erase board.  When I left her that morning, I knew it would be the last time I hugged and kissed her goodbye.  My phone rang telling me of the news within minutes of making it home to bed.

And I had the priviledge to sit at mother-in-law's side, hours before she transitioned from this world.  Stage 4 cancer wrecked havoc on her small frame and I pained along with her as she tossed and moaned from her hospital bed.  Pulling out my Bible app, I began to read scripture aloud.  Instantly peace fell upon the room.  Again, where before there was only mutterings, the name of "Jesus" was clear upon her lips.  Her body was at ease and restful as her sons arrived to visit.

In all of those situations, though I grieved the loss of their presence in my life, I was at ease in knowing they'd moved to a better place.  To their Home.  And it is perhaps why I often don't feel sadness at funerals of those who have lived a long and good life.  I knew that for them, there was no more sickness, no more pain, only peace.

Though I knew the same for my son, the grieving process is so very different when losing a child.  A child's death is sudden, unexpected, even if they were ill.  In our case, it was a total shock.  And that made the timing even more difficult to let go and move forward.

He was so young....

There was so much life ahead for him...

Wonder what he would have become...

As a momma, you want your babies HOME with you, even long after they've grown.  A struggle I'm feeling in a new transition, as my baby is counting the days to be college bound.  His plans include being home less, which is a difficult adjustment for this mom.

It's an internal, magnetic pull to want family together in your home.

My favorite time of the day is the end, when we're all back and settled from our outside lives and gathered together under one roof.

Even back then, I desired this.  My last words to Austin were, "Be home...before midnight."
I just didn't expect he would arrive in his Heavenly home instead of ours.

With another birthday under my belt, I'm aware of a shifting.  I find myself studying older people, pondering on the life they've lived.  When visiting with people decades older, I'm now gauging their health against mine.  I know with each year, it is more important to have quality over quantity.  I feel a responsibility to be the best me I can be for as long as I'm here.

Yet I also realize a change in the pull to be home.  The older I get, the more I appreciate the gift that is each day but the more I'm focused on my someday permanent home.

It's not that I am ungrateful to be here but rather the opposite.  I realize how precious life is.  I'm filled with wonder at the beauty of another sunrise and the blessing it is to spend time with those you love.  I'm driven to fulfill my purpose for as long as God deems fit but drawn more often to things not of this world.  My soul is expectant for that day I will forever be Home.

In the waiting, my prayer is that I make the most of every moment and honor God in all I do.  Though this home is temporary, it is given to me with a heavenly expectation of purposeful service.

Day 10: Joy comes in the Morning

It's a somber day in our community, as we're collectively grieving the loss of another life cut short too soon.  A young mother, my age, taken by cancer.  And yesterday, multiple lives taken in a crash on a road we drive each and every day.

Death on the heels of a nation still reeling from unnecessary violence and innocent lives taken in the line of duty.

A weeping world in which we live.

In loss that doesn't make sense, it can seem difficult to know what to say or do.  Sometimes there aren't words to express or convey to cover the pain.

I've been on the stinging side of pain and know that sometimes words are the worst things someone can share.  When you've been forced to say goodbye too soon, some phrases bring the opposite of comfort.

"Everything happens for a reason"

or

"They're in a better place"

or 

"God needed another angel"

or

"God doesn't give us more than we can handle.

Because in great loss, you don't care what the reasons were.  And sometimes, often, life gives us more than we can handle.

I remember shortly after Austin passed I came across the scripture from Psalm 30:5 and how it angered me.  At the time, joy seemed impossible.  Forbidden even.  In the depths of my pain I couldn't imagine how joy would ever be in my world again.  Joy in the morning, when all I felt was darkness...

The first time I laughed after, almost by accident, as it escaped out of my mouth before I could stop it.  I paused, quickly drew a breath back in, unsure what would happen next.  But I don't recall the second time laughter came.  Or the next.  Slowly, joy just began to seep back into our lives.

This morning we went to the place where Joy is always flowing, our church.

Six years ago, God stirred within me the desire to seek joy.  He sent me on a journey to not just find it, but share that joy with others.  And in doing so, he's given me purpose through the pain.  He's taught me that weeping does endure but eventually joy returns.

Joy comes in the morning, even if it is on the other side of eternity.

After church we returned home to huddle close, hibernate and hug those we love most.  Though we'd had tentative plans and even invitations to leave, staying home just felt necessary today.  We shared a big family meal and lingered a few hours at the table playing cards.  By games end, we were laughing so hard we're not even sure who won.  But it didn't matter.

For a moment, all was right in this world.  We were happy, healthy and together.  For this momma, that always brings me joy.

Prayers of peace that passes understanding for all those hurting tonight.  And in the days to come.

Living in the Moment

One of the choices for the name of this blog was today's title.  Losing Austin so suddenly, so unexpectedly, and what seemed "before his time" was a shocking reality of how short life really is.  None of us ever know what could be our last day, our last moments with the ones we love.  My drive, and what inspired this blog, was to live each day to the fullest, to live in the moment, and to find the joy in every day. 

The weekend was filled with reminders of this reality.  Friday we awoke to the news of two men trapped by a landslide at our local mine.  There was a pause in the air wherever we went, as the county held their collective breaths awaiting word.  Shortly after noon, what we feared was true, as we learned both men lost their lives.  While I know all miners know they face danger each day, I doubt either man imagined that it would be their last day when they said goodbye to their families Friday morning.  My prayers have been those affected, as well as to the rescue crew who responded.

Saturday, we attended a local event, "Judgement House" at a nearby church.  It was a live, walk-through drama showing the consequences from choices we make.  I was hesitant in going, as I'm protective of my family and never want to put them in an uncomfortable position where feelings and reminders of losing Austin may be too difficult.  When we walked into the car wreck scene, I was not prepared.  It was shocking, and although we didn't lose Austin in that way, seeing traumatic death reenacted was difficult.  The next scene, at the graveside, was not any easier.  In fact, there was a point I nearly walked away.  I prayed that Noah wouldn't be hurt by seeing someone crying over their sister's grave.  The only comfort of the night was the final stop, Heaven. 

Seeing a glimpse of where my precious boy lives now was worth the difficult parts of the play.  There was such joy and warmth in that room.  I cannot explain the peace and love that was felt, especially when being hugged by Jesus.  One of Austin's and our favorite songs, "I can only imagine" played in the background and how true that is.  While we don't know exactly how Heaven will be, I can only imagine the beauty and peace that he is surrounded by.  The pain I experience in this life is worth the end reward.  Just knowing that someday we'll be reconnected get me through the hardest days, and I can only imagine how wide his arms will be open, ready to hug me and show me around. 

And then Sunday, our family day, was shadowed with the sad news of my step-grandfather.  He went from thinking he had food poisoning on Friday to being unresponsive in ICU.  News last evening sent everyone leaving in a rush, as we discovered he had suffered two strokes, with another blockage that is not operable.  The prognosis is about the worst it can be with a stroke and we're left to pray for either full healing or peace.  When I think of Dallas, I see his sweet, smiling face.  I hear his happy voice, calling me "Sis" as he reaches for a hug.  I see him working on the farm, always active and busy.  My wish for him, and our family, is that his suffering is not lengthy and that he can be remembered in that way.

Not quite the happy, festive weekend that I'd envisioned, but throughout there were joyful moments.  The common thread was family, which always brings me happiness.  From seeing my big guy enjoying his last fall festival and reminiscing through the years, to an impromptu theatre treat and popcorn for dinner when hayride plans were spoiled, to snuggles and spooky movies, steamy bowls of hot soup, and sharing sweets with my favorite littles, we made the most of the moments. 

The weekend made us refocus, reminded us of what's most important in this life, and what to hope for in the end.  Prayers were longer and more thoughtful, and reflections of gratitude more thankful, but perhaps we all need that now and again. 

Today is life - the only life you are sure of. Make the most of today.  - Dale Carnegie