Wednesday, March 11, 2015

Some Stuff I've Learned

My mom passed away in one sudden moment. My dad's passing was a more gradual, lingering journey. It may sound odd, but I have the privilege of having experienced both ways to lose a parent. Fortunately, my dad's lingering was really short compared to some--only a month. Through their deaths, I have experienced a few new things.

1.  There is a beauty in fragility. Pain brought out the sweetest trust in Jesus in my mom. She wrote this on a tablet by her chair, "Please Lord heal me. But if that is not Your will, then please Lord grant me the strength to accept it. Amen." With my dad, not eating caused him to lose a lot of weight. He was never a large man to begin with, and he'd already started to thin way down when he was still at home. His malnourished body and loss of teeth caused his cheeks to shrink. His vulnerability was exactly like that of an infant. Unable to speak or to even make minor body adjustments as he lay there, everything had to be done for him. That helplessness evokes compassion and the desire to comfort--both beautiful Christlike traits.

2.  There is no uniform way to grieve. The news of my mom's condition as my dad informed me by phone landed on numb ears. Even after I hung up and said the words out loud to Kev, I felt nothing. Can tragedy have an anesthetic effect? We all left her room when attendants came to disconnect the respirator. Afterward, I asked Dad if he wanted to keep waiting in that room or go back to Mom's room. I'll never forget the depth of despair on his face when he answered, "It doesn't matter. Nothing does anymore." I walked in and saw her still body and Wayneen's tears. I ran to her side and kept repeating, "My mom! Oh, my mom!" as I ran my hands over her arms and face, tears raining down. We were all crying silently as we left the hospital en masse. Grief would ambush me after that. I never knew when it would overpower me like a flash flood--no warning, no mercy. I still don't know how I completed her obituary or arranged for her memorial service. A picture, a note, a memory, or a fragrance could pull the trigger. It was the hijacking of grief. It was the hammer of loss. It was my way to mourn.

Grief over the loss of my dad came like a tsunami--crushing, devastating, and pounding. My cries were primal, and I was unable to do anything but cling to the kind, comforting soul holding me as I grasped for something solid to land on. My body tensed with the force of a seizure, and all I could do was ride it out and hope for dry ground soon. I spent the month after my dad's death exhausted, nauseous, and asleep. It was the sleep of sorrow. It was the fog of grief. It was how I mourned the last four years of investing in my dad's well-being and living with no regrets. It was my way to grieve.

3.  God's Presence is never nearer to me than when I am helpless. There was never one moment during these two experiences that I did not feel His Presence, save those blinding, deafening minutes I just described. Even then though, I never felt alone. I know I was cocooned by Love, enveloped in Tenderness, and cared for by Mercy, safe in the Rock.


4.  God's timing is flawless. I was able to ride into town with Kev or one of the kids the first week Dad was at Regency. It worked out that well. We had such a mild winter with fog instead of snow, so the roads were always good, not the norm for our January. Friends visited or wrote something encouraging just when I needed it. A song would play on the radio with lyrics written specifically for me. Kev received some really uplifting remarks from students who wanted him to come back. That was a 2-for-1 blessing for us both. Brett and Lydia were living with us at the time of my dad's stroke and decline. They took care of everything and everyone when we couldn't. Lydia had breakfast and dinner for us nearly everyday. They made three offers on three different homes, and they all fell through. That was the limit they set before deciding to rent, but Kev encouraged them to keep looking. As my fog began to lift and I began to feel human again, the fourth house became their new home. Lydia had been praying that I would be functional by the time they left, and indeed I was.

5.  There is a chance to encounter Jesus in every moment. When Dad started going downhill, I asked Him to "please help me eat and drink at this table He set before me, just as He has helped me with every other table in my life. There is food and drink and His heart to take up in this, no matter what my eyes and ears tell me." I saw Him caring for my dad in the hands of the nurses and aides. I heard Him in the warm words people offered. I felt Him in the many reassurances of love from friends and family. I smelled Him in our fresh country air, in the dryer vent with its clean clothes, in the sweetness of the hugs from my friends who all bear His fragrance. I even tasted Him--in the scores of meals Lydia made with such love, the ginger ale from Tina, and the coffees, gifts, treats, and sandwiches from loving souls. I wish I was always aware of encountering Him, but I forget. Thankfully, He never does, and the opportunities are always there.

6.  When people offer their help, they really mean it. We're so used to either going without or cramming it into our schedules, so most of the offers of help go unused. I decided to start saying Yes. The first things I asked for were lip balm and mints. (Thank you, Cheryl!) The second thing I hinted at was another necklace with beads and doodads. (Thank you again, Cheryl!) The next thing was ginger ale. (Thank you for both those times, Tina!) The next thing was offered to me so I didn't have to ask, but I did have to accept, and it was my first Jimmy John's sammie. (Thank you, Betty!) The next thing was also offered--a Ya-Ya visit at Regency complete with British fascinators (although I forgot mine... Thank you, Glenice!). They indeed fascinated wherever they went! Rosie visited my father twice, and both times I missed her. She read to him and left me the sweetest note. I couldn't have asked for a more thoughtful gift. Lydia and Barb both brought me coffee.

These weren't humongous things, but I wanted to start somewhere, and I will treasure every remembrance of them. (What I actually need is help cleaning my house! A month of sleep and five dogs have left it in desperate shape.) We truly do want to help someone going through difficulty, but most of the time we don't know what to do. Experiencing the other side of the fence opened my eyes to the opportunity that asking or saying Yes gives to people. We both win.

I'll learn more stuff as time goes on, but I wanted to list these while they're still fresh on my mind. I'm grateful for the insights and the garden of truth they are in this potential time of drought. How kind He is. Always.

1 comment:

The Timm fam said...

So beautiful....I will hold onto this so I will have it handy when that time comes for me, for us as a family. Thank you for your gift! :)