Do you ever have those days when you have so much to be thankful for and yet you feel a tiny edge of melancholy or anxiety to those very things? I’m having one of those days. Here are a couple of reasons why.
I am so proud of my kids – all three of them. In less than two months the youngest will turn 18, making me the mother of three adults. 18 is an exciting time for my two younger ones as they both are embarking on brand new adventures.
And yet. . . I am very fond of another 18 year old who left home today. She had been given six months to find a place to go now that she has graduated from high school and is officially an adult. I guess those milestones were the cutoff for parenting responsibilities in that family. I am very concerned about her choice of places to go and my heart is breaking. I know that 18 year olds are “officially” adults, but that sure doesn’t mean they are ready to face the world on their own yet.
Sometimes in hospice work, you have the opportunity to work with a family for a longer period of time than you would normally expect. I began working with one family a little over two years ago when both of the parents came under our care. Our whole team fell in love with them and they have become like family. I can walk into their home any time, whether the visit has been scheduled in advance or not. They ask about my children by name. They remind me so much of my grandparents who died in the mid-1990s. I love it when I actually have the time and the opportunity to build real relationships like these. In this line of ministry, you are rarely afforded that kind of time.
And yet. . . it breaks my heart every time. They celebrated 70 years of marriage a couple of months ago. Their love for each other was so visible and so true, even (or maybe especially) after so many years. Then last month, the husband died. On my first visit to the wife following his death, I just sat on the couch beside her and held her hand for awhile. There was nothing that could be said to fix that kind of hurt. On the following visit, I was amazed at how well she seemed to be doing – talking, smiling, telling stories, asking me to bring pictures of my great-great-aunt, Aunt Pearl, who happened to have been her teacher in school. Then last week when I saw her, all I could get out of her was one smile. That was it. The rest of the time she kept her eyes closed. She is now in the hospice house. When I first saw her today, I wasn’t sure she recognized me. It wasn’t until I’d been by her bed a few minutes and she grabbed my hand and said, “I love you!” that I knew she did. It took a lot of effort for her to talk to me today. At one point, I started to excuse myself because she seemed very tired. When her eyes grew anxious, I asked if she wanted me to stay awhile longer. “Please.” I pulled up a chair by her bed, held her hand, and watched an episode of Reba with her. It wasn’t her usual programming. They always watched Gunsmoke, Bonanza, Perry Mason, and The Waltons at home. She seemed satisfied with Reba today. When the episode went off, I asked her if she was ready to nap. She said yes. I told her I would be back to see her soon. She thanked me for “always being so sweet” to her. I know that what she wants more than anything is to close her eyes and join her husband. She isn’t afraid. She isn’t depressed. She is just that ready. It is heartbreakingly beautiful.
Life is so complex and so full of messy emotions. Sometimes I wish, as the sundial in the photo says, to count only the sunny hours. Of course, that is impossible. There are days that are overcast. Storms roll through. Night falls without fail. If I counted only the sunny hours, I sure would be missing out on a lot of time! Any time I find myself wishing I could just tune out the sad feelings, I remember something that my former hairdresser once told me. (She may have been a hairdresser, but she was actually a wonderful counselor. Today, she is a minister.) She said that love is like a two-edged sword. The more deeply you are able and willing to love, the more deeply you will feel the pain of loss and grief. You cannot have one without the other. I know I don’t want to miss out on the love, so I guess I will have to accept and weather the accompanying pain.
It’s just that there are some days when it’s much harder to do than others.
