I love my mother’s hands.  My earliest recollections are of those hands, being used, for good.

Way, way back I would sit in church and run my fingers over her hands.  Kept me busy and made the drone of the preacher (sorry papa) go faster.  They were always so soft.  Still are.

We talk about them a lot.  We have taken pictures of those hands, often.  I was looking at them this morning.  She’s sleeping now.  Well, sleeping may be a bit optimistic.  Her eyes are closed.

A few minutes back she said something.  I wanted to help but couldn’t quite grasp it.  Again I moved close and we’ve been doing that these days.  Moving close.

“Brush my hair” and I picked up the little blue brush and did as she asked.

Her face rested and her breath slowed.

Touch

sweet gift to a broken body, soothing balm for a dying heart.   It’s a stormy sea here in room 6617.  The clouds have been gathering, the wind is howling and we are doing our utmost to stand firm.  Right now, this minute, it’s her and me.

We Pet cats and dogs, creatures of all sorts.

Just now I was petting my mama.  I brushed and then I stroked

her beautiful swollen pain filled hands, her hollow cheeks, her forehead and back to those

beautiful hands.  Instruments of good.  Her gift was like mine

Hospitality.  I’m struggling with “was” but we’re attempting honesty.   Was brought us here, to remembering the gift she shared so beautifully.  Was, taught us how to be what We were created to be.  Scattered all around, dotting the country and perhaps the World, are people who have received

from her.  She has nothing more to give except lovely brokenness.  It shatters us, to microscopic pieces and I have made a decision.

I will not shudder and shrivel through this horrific Leaving process.  My eyes are turned Heavenward, my arms are raised high and my devastated heart still beats.  I will sit here next to this mother of mine and watch life seep out of her.  I will hold her hand and stroke her brow.  She is on her way to the beginning of real life.  Forever life.

She is in the last turn, the most frightening one.  I heard a preacher say that we struggle with death because God did not create us to die.  He created us to live.  Sin made death and we will not escape it’s grasp.  We have no choice.  Death is opening the door of this lovely room and coming close, along with us.  We mourn with rejoicing.

“Where, O death, is your victory? Where, O death, is your sting?”

Death’s miserable grip will be short lived.   Nano will not have the terrible misfortune of coming back as…

No Way

She’s leaving for good.  She won’t be back, as anybody else or any other thing.  She’s almost done with this place and Jesus is ready.  His welcome will be well worth the pain and sorrow she feels today.

Mom, you have been a wonderful mom and a dear Nano and you are loved.  We haven’t always agreed and sometimes I have said things I shouldn’t, out of anger. It’s hard for me to let you go and I kind of can’t stand the thought that I won’t get to see these beautiful hands again until we meet in Glory.  Jan said to me the other day that the reason I must sit by your side, can’t leave you alone, is that you are the love of my life.  I think she might be right.   Not sure how long now, but until Jesus reaches down to take you home I’ll be right here, from time to time holding your hand.  Don’t be afraid.  It’s almost time to start the party.  Your mansion is ready and your place in the Heavenly Chorus is vacant.  Don’t worry about my tears.  You have other things to think about.  You need to set your heart on things above.