Today, you stood at the door in your white night gown, hand raised in as much of a wave as you could muster, “Goodbye Girls.” You said matter-of-factly. After the door closed, I felt my body heave with pain.

“See ya later!” I shouted through the door. The unspoken words, “in this world or the next” played in my mind. I was on this journey of goodbye with my sister, Shileen. I would not have been here if it had not been for her. She bought me a plane ticket, picked me up at the airport, and paid for the hotel. I am indebted.

The last time I had seen Mom, she was doing well, even though the doctor let us know she only had a couple of months left to live. We had a great time! We went to a Japanese restaurant where the grill master made a smiley face and lit it on fire while saying, “Don’t worry, be happy!” One of Mom’s favorite things to say. I saw that God was smiling at her. He loves her so much you know. I’m not sure she is certain of this revelation, but she knows that she loves Him. I want to make it my goal to keep reminding her of His love for her. I’m truly hoping He will use me for this amazing task in the coming days.

Right now I’m on a flight heading home. My desire is to get off the plane and catch another right back to Mom’s side. I want to walk this final difficult transition with her. I want to rub her back, lie next to her on her bed, rub lotion on her swollen legs, sing with her the songs she loves to hear, and whisper loudly that HE loves her! I’m anxious to see what God does. The reality of life doesn’t make it seem possible, but God is one of those who lives beyond the reality of life. He moves beyond our vision. He prepares a way when our eyes cannot see.

Incredible ministry happened for my sister and me this weekend. It began on the journey from the airport to the hotel, which was a little more than two hours. We talked. We shared. We cried. I saw the time as transitional – we were entering a journey together that was one each of us would experience in our own way, yet we walked it hand-in-hand.

We talked of not wanting to go to Mom’s funeral. Not because we were in denial, but because we both will grieve in a different way. We talked of how we expected our grieving process to be. I will grieve silently. I will want my family – my children and loved ones nearby, but not in my face. I see a funeral as people getting in your face asking the dreaded question, “How are you doing?” And I’ll have to make up some BS answer about doing well, and being strong. And I’ll be robotic and people will question if I’m doing it right, because I should be _______. I hate that about funerals. The funeral will be Mom’s friends and her family of whom I don’t have any kind of relationship. In essence I felt that I would be in the midst of one of my most difficult times, sharing it with people I don’t know, (and some I don’t even like) while the people I love are miles and miles away. These people would not be able to offer me comfort. And I just didn’t want to go. It was interesting that both of us felt similarly. I loved how we talked openly about this.
In the sharing, we were connected, and loved, and not judged. It was an interesting place for us to be together.

Mom’s health has declined dramatically. We walked into the VFW where she had gone to play bingo. I didn’t recognize her sitting in a wheelchair right in front of me. I was looking for my vibrant Mom with arms raised, waving at us, shouting, “HEY GIRLS!” But that was not what I found. My heart cried. I kissed her cheek – her incredibly soft cheek. It was cold to my lips. She said, “Mmmm, you smell good.” She always says that to me. I started thinking about that, you know how your newborn baby smells so sweet to you, I think she just knows my scent and it brings her pleasure. I’m glad it does.

It was apparent when we took her for dinner that she was getting closer to being absent from us. I was grateful for this time. I asked God to give me imprints on my heart that I would be able to forever retrieve. I wanted Mom to get up and walk. But she just sat there. She can walk some, but by this time of night, she was exhausted. I don’t want to talk so much of the frailties of the final days, because those are not the imprints I want to remain.

The next day as we’re sitting at the table, it felt as if I was just watching Mom. I would just stare at her, tears threatened to spill as I couldn’t help but think this might be the last trip to visit her. My sister and I always hated that she smoked. And here she was nearly catatonic, wanting to smoke. Suddenly she said, “I want to do something!” We asked what she wanted to do and gave her a few suggestions. She seemed to fall asleep. Then she said, “I want to go fishing!” Within 30 minutes we had gotten her out to the car and found a lake. She gave us directions to the lake. We kind of went in a big circle, but that was part of the fun of this trip. Just go where Mom says to go. We eventually found a perfect spot. We got her into the wheelchair, and settled her into a shady spot beneath a tree with ducks sitting within ten feet. There was a fountain at the lake, and a beautiful gentle breeze. We let Mom just take it in. I saw some beautiful wild flowers. Please don’t tell the authorities, but I picked one. I carried it to Mom and tied it to the wheelchair. After awhile I saw that a few of the petals had fallen to the ground. Mom said, “I was doing the ‘he loves me, he loves me not’ thing.” She fell asleep after pulling just a few petals from the flower. I bent down and whispered in her ear — He loves you.

After the lake we went to meet with Pastor Jim. Mom has come to know him through Hospice. She wanted to ask him a serious question – would he do the service for her? My insides heaved again. We talked of funeral arrangements, music at the service, burial, ashes, and all those things that probably are easier to talk about when the pain of death is not sitting in your lap. Mom had always wanted to go on a cruise, but didn’t make it. Shileen and I have decided there will be a time when it is right for us, that we will take a cruise together, a memorial journey, and scatter Mom’s ashes in the ocean. Just the thought is a comfort to us. I think it’s good to think beyond today – when the pain is difficult – to be able to see a place in the distance when we will fondly remember.
After the visit with the pastor, Shileen and I had both come to the same conclusion on our own, then shared it with each other. We would attend the funeral as long as it was possible for us. I felt a bit triumphant. I can’t explain it. It was just how I felt.

It’s funny how there are things that we seem to resist, and in the end, they are the things that seem to bless us tremendously. Our Aunt Charlotte wanted us to listen to a couple of CD’s of music. Neither of us wanted to listen to it. It seems that satan could leave us alone for awhile. But he doesn’t and we still have to push past him not wanting us to experience blessings. I finally relented to take the CD’s. The only reason was to make Charlotte happy. That was the only reason. I had no intention of listening to them. I was surprised that one of the CD’s was Amy Grant – Hymns for The Journey. I had not heard it before, but Shileen and I both had a connection to Amy Grant, and to each other through her music. It was music by Amy Grant that began our journey together from being at war sisters, to sharing a bond when we became Christians. Shileen put the CD into the player as we drove back to the hotel. “My Jesus I love thee —-” And so began the flood of tears. We listened to the whole CD, sobbing softly as we communed with the One whom we love and who loves us. His spirit filled our car. Next came (roll eyes) the country gospel CD’s. Shileen pops it in and a familiar song fills the car, and fills us with joy. Instantly we began singing, “Put your hand in the hand of the man who stilled (not stealed) the water…etc.” We were both transported to a time when life seemed easy and carefree. Mom would put this song on the record player and we would dance and sing around the house as we dusted, vacuumed, or picked up all the stuff. In that short 40 minute car ride, I was drained – then filled. Tear stained eyes, and a huge grin on my face. Interesting the way God works in our lives.

In the morning we were to meet with the hospice nurse at 9:00 am. We found Mom sitting at her table, cigarette in hand of course. We talked about little things. The nurse didn’t come. I was hoping to catch an earlier flight home after the visit with the nurse. It’s an interesting dynamic wanting to be in two places at the same time. An hour passed and the nurse had not arrived. Mom said, “Let’s do something.” It didn’t seem that Mom would be able to “do” anything, but Shileen suggested we play a game called Zilch. We always played games growing up. Mom loved to play games. This was a natural way to end our visit with her. We saw her perk up as we played. Shileen had observed to me that everything with Mom is in slow motion. We slowed our lives at that moment to match with Mom’s time. We entered into her world. We saw our mom, and it was a blessing. Later we marveled at how if the nurse had been on time, we would have missed that blessing.

As the visit progressed, it was so evident that Mom was losing a lot of what made her “Mom” to us. She was always overly dramatic and would do these goofy little things. Instead, she mostly sat with her eyes closing. She would try to keep them open, but would then give in, and let them close, only to open them again a minute or so later. She looked at us differently. I missed the smile. I missed the sparkle that she always had in her eyes. I asked God to please let me see it. I love love love that he answers even our simplest little prayers. Wally (who is her husband) had been sitting down to lunch. I noticed he had a little cup of ice cream. When he got up to use the bathroom I asked Mom if she would like his ice cream. She gently nodded. I handed it over to her. She took a bite and with everything she could muster, she said, “mmmm…that tastes good.” Wally came back from the bathroom. He looked at Mom. She got a giant grin and a mischievous glint in her eye as she pretended to hide and guard the ice cream. She took another bite and then gave it back to him. He ate about half of it, then gave it back to her. It was a beautiful exchange for me to witness. My first thought was that Wally should not have taken it away and I was a little angry with him for doing it. But then when he gave it back, I saw a glimpse of the love they share.

It was so hard to leave – but there was a plane to catch. Shileen and I both knew that this was goodbye. Mom sensed it too. She got to her feet and walked us to the door. I know that was a huge struggle for her.

In the car – we cried together. With a deep sigh, we began the next phase. The Hospice nurse had given us a booklet on caring for the dying. I read it out loud as Shileen drove. It helped us to know what to expect. As I read, I felt a strong sense that I was supposed to return to offer comfort in her last days. Mom and I have always had a bond that transcends understanding. We “feel” each other. So, now I’m praying that I will be able to walk that journey toward death with her – hand in hand. (anyone have any frequent flier miles they aren’t using?)