Time moves on

I am the parent now. Yes, I've been "a" parent for nearly 27 years, but I am "the" parent now. I don't have a parent myself. It causes small shockwaves to go through me to actually consider that. I am now the "aging" parent, or I will be soon. My children now have to think about the future, as I continue to age. Looking at my mother's care in her final weeks, I honestly saw the circle that life often becomes. From helpless infant, to helpless aged one. The two seasons are nearly the same. I want to skip that last part if possible. Are you listening, God? I do not want my daughter spoon-feeding me mush, no matter how little she minds this and how much bonding there is in this gentle service. I do not want to be confined to a bed, surrounded by weird sounds and rolling carts and other peoples' television sets blaring against deaf ears. I do not want the same last years as my mother endured. I have a theory about aging. I see few people slip into deranged thinking, who lived their lives positively and focused on the goodness of God. I realize there are exceptions to this theory of mine, but for the most part it seems that negative people lose their minds more often, and earlier, than positive people. Dear Helen, dying of cancer, offered encouragement to ME shortly before she stepped into Heaven. David's grandma, preparing to make dinner, has a feast with the Savior that night instead. These were positive people. Daddy got to clean up for his walk up the golden stairs; God allowed him to shave first, then took his hand and let that electric shaver drop uselessly to the floor. Daddy was always focused on the blessings of God. He kept his mind sharp right to the end. But my poor mom. Always worried, always fearful. Fearing change, fearing anyone she did not know, fearing disaster around every corner. She was terrified during her last few months, and cried out like a frightened infant over and over. Yet she was peaceful when we would sing along with her music videos, or when I read to her from her tattered old Bible. She would drift off to sleep as I talked softly to her about childhood memories, and as I stroked the troubled face. Gradually the worry would wash away, and she would become like a trusting child. During her last weeks, she seemed to literally soak the images of her children in. She would spend long moments focused intently on Carol's face, or my face, or Paul's face. No movement, no sound, no struggle. Just wide-eyed focus, as if she could absorb the image for the journey she must have known was rapidly coming up. "It is well with my soul." Although her mind and heart were often troubled, she knew that it was well with her soul. She knew God's plan of salvation, and she rested in the knowledge that one day she would see Him, and be reunited with Dad again. I am thankful that God decided to take her home. I also think she had a little input in the timing. I think she chose to give up her hold on this life as soon as she felt all was well. We sang enthusiastically at the service held in her honor. "Soon and very soon, we are going to see the King". She loved that song. "No more crying there, we are going to see the King..." But there is more crying here. It's part of life. A part like laughter, that just makes life richer. I am thankful for the peace of God that can't be understood by mortal man, that wraps itself around our hearts and keeps us from despair. I am thankful that I know each of my children have their names written in the Book of Life. My mom got to cross heaven's door step and greet her Savior, and know that her children would follow one day. My children will follow, too. And those grandchildren and great grandchildren at her service who were not sure of their eternal destiny, certainly heard the message of salvation from our dear Pastor Phillip. So time moves on. I have no Mom now. I have no Dad. I am now the parent, I am where the blood line stops for my children and grandchildren. I pray that I can carry on the legacy laid down by my father for these little people coming up in the world. And that I will always honor the memory of my mother by being the best baker the kids have ever known! I want my obituary, as Mom's, to read "She always baked, especially when it rained; the house smelled SO good." But I also want it to read, unlike Mom's, "She encouraged and believed in us, and loved us with every breath she took."

Sick

It's inconvenient to be sick. But it can be restful, too. So today is the day I listen and just stay still, wrapped in a blanket, heating pad on my belly, reading and dozing. You'll notice today's letters are green. That's for how I feel. I'm sure I'll be better tomorrow.