Last night was perhaps the hardest night so far in the journey God is guiding us through. By 2am I could still not find the sleep I so desperately needed. I'm not really sure how long I laid in bed waiting, just waiting. My mind wouldn't let me sleep because I knew the sooner I slept the sooner the possibility of that early morning phone call would come. The phone call I had been dreading so much. I woke several times & sat straight up in the bed, sure I had heard the creak of gma's bed. I know I heard her call my name once. But I didn't. How could I? I was in my bed and she was a football field away.
The morning finally came & Brian just held me tightly as I cried, still unsure of how the morning would unfold. My heart sank when my phone buzzed at me. I rolled over & read the words "She's still asleep" at 9am.
I've thought over the past few months how truly fragile life is. We treat it oh so flippantly. Each night our fear takes over as we each dread leaving, knowing that smile, that prayer whispered in our ear could be the last.
With babies we celebrate every first that they have. The first smile. The first roll. The first step. In my strange family, even the first poo-poo in the potty has been celebrated with a call to daddy & Mawmaw.
Yet even with my babies, there has been the sting of each last. The last time they need help bathing. The last time they sleep with their favorite night-night. The last time I heard my little boys voices as puberty hit.
It's been two weeks since gma had a shower. I rushed through my errands that morning & got back to her house at 945 but it was still too late. She & momma had already done it as the plans for the day had changed. Even that night momma said something to me about wondering if that would be the last and the hurt her heart felt at the realization. It was indeed the last.
But even as we find ourselves in a season of lasts, there is laughter. The snarky grey headed woman in that bed finds it funny when we jump at her every move. She lays there with her eyes closed most of the time now, with a smile on her face, repeating the words, "Thank you Jesus. Thank you Jesus." Then she says, "More ice..." and squishes her mouth at you so all you can do is laugh with tears streaming down your face.
Her thoughts get crossed between the time they leave her brain and reach her mouth but she ALWAYS goes back to her default - Thank you Jesus. Thank you Jesus. Thank you Jesus. Soon, there will be a last time I hear those sweet words with that voice. Soon her voice, to my ears, will be silent.
I would be lying if I told you there wasn't a sense of dread to that statement. As hard as it is to see her like this, to know we've each prayed for a relief to her suffering, it is equally hard to know that when the relief comes, she will be gone to us.
BUT that's not the only sense I have right now either. There is also a sense of anticipation of the complete peace & joy that will come. Maybe not immediately. Maybe not even for days or weeks to come. But it is coming & I know it. That is how God is sustaining me for now.
So as I take each long stride on the short walk from her house to mine, wondering if this time will be the last, I will remember her words to me last night, "I'm not done with the race yet. I will run and keep fighting." I will keep in mind that the last time my ears hear her say, "Thank you Jesus" will be immediately before He hears them in person for the first time and gives her her crown of glory to top that beautiful grey hair. And that is what we will celebrate.
That is her legacy.
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