love is watching...

One of my grandmother's favourite stories to tell me was of a stormy night in September.
It was the earliest I'd been for anything -
two weeks too early -
and she found herself
in the wee hours of the morning
in a gown,
in a delivery room
the day I entered the world.

Today I sat beside her bed
holding her hand in mine,
singing the words to an old hymn
as I received the parting privilege
of watching her exit that world.

 I was reminded of a lyric to a song
"...love is watching someone die..." 

I cannot even begin to tell you
how difficult it is
to sit beside someone you love
and watch them struggle with every breath.
To observe their mortality
knowing you are unable
to reverse the cycle or ease the journey.

And yet love sits.
Watching.
Waiting.
Amidst the suffering.
Inconvenienced.
Uncomfortable.
Comforting
while quietly grieving.
Because love
is not afraid of death.

I hold dear
the gift of the last nine days
fresh with memories...
reading short stories,
scripture,
singing,
praying,
dutch cheese,
cactus fields,
cologne,
armchair naps,
that last game of scrabble...

It will be a while
before her warmth
fades from the memory of my fingers,
and her laboured breath
falls silent in my thoughts...

but what I will hold forever
is that final moment
where I felt God compel me
to sing over my Beppe
that it was well with her soul.
To watch her,
in the final phrase of the song,
turn her eyes heavenward
and be face to face with eternity.
To see her earthly body
finally find peace
in a slow exhale...
it's battle over.
The race, won.

And, Lord, haste the day 
when my faith shall be sight, 
the clouds be rolled back as a scroll; 
the trump shall resound, 
and the Lord shall descend, 
even so, it is well with my soul.

the art of waiting

I have spent the last week,

hour after hour,

through long days

and sleepless nights

listening to fleeting breaths. 

Watching the woman who first saw me enter the world,

exit it.

Her chest rises and falls in laboured effort;

humanity battling eternity

to its bitter end.

And as I sit,

holding the hand

that first held me,

I watch the strength

dissolve from her being.

The warmth of life

fade from her limbs.

Her earthly body

prepare for her heavenly one.

There is a wealth of years

collected in this fragile frame.

Her intensely blue eyes

that have witnessed

days of war,

immigration,

prosperity,

hardship,

love,

sickness, 

death -

gaze out at the world

with weary finality.

Her silent lips

that have told many a story.

Her heart,

slowing its pace in expectation,

that has held many a story back.

I have witnessed

that death is no respecter of persons.

It doesn't play to our schedules

or conveniences.

It is not easy.

It is not pretty.

It keeps it's own time.

I have realized

we are trained for expediency in our life.

We're uncomfortable

with the struggling.

The waiting.

The dying. 

I have learned

the challenge of shutting out the busyness of life

to be still

for hours…

days…

weeks…

and wait in the presence of death.

I won't pretend to understand the suffering,

but one thing I do know:

the journey has given us time

to share,

to grieve,

to walk through this season

together.

It is not always about the easiest pathway…

it is about the things you learn along the way,

and the gift of time spent with loved ones.

God is perfect in timing.

Even if it's not our own.

And so I pray…

For the patience to wait.

For the strength to persevere.

For peace that passes understanding.

For mercy in death.

For the promise of all things new.