My heart is so fiercely being tugged in two different directions. I look at old photos of her and grieve time I didn't use to spend with her. I want things to change, I want her healthy and walking through life with me. I want to know what it's like to be best friends with my Mom, like so many friends I see get to experience. I want to hear her voice again. I want to check my voicemail and hear her rambling message about a sale at TJ Maxx. I want to feel her arms around me, knowing I am safe there. I want to hear her laugh, see her gorgeous smile that was so bright it reached her eyes. I can't breathe at the thought of living life without her here, and everything within me fights the idea of letting her go.
But then I look over at Mom as she lies in her Hospice bed. I listen for her breathing, which has now become shallow. I look at her face, so beautiful and so much my Mom. I think of her inability to wake and talk with us. She is alive, she is with us, but her life that has been a testament of strength and grace is beginning to wane. We see it happening, right in front of us. And with all of that, all of me also looks to the complete, perfect healing that God is preparing for her and I want nothing more than for her to be free.
Existing within the two worlds is tough business. One moment, my sister and I are laughing, singing, joyful and joking. We are reminiscing and sharing the sweetest memories from the gift of being daughters of Kathy Gibson Burdette. We feel special in the truest essence of the word knowing that we were her greatest gifts, her miracles that she wondered if she'd ever experience. We live in this protective bubble of knowing we have been cherished every single moment of our lives in the purest form of love that exists on this Earth.
But in other moments, we weep. Our bodies shake from the sobs that escape from a deep, deep wound in our souls. A place where we feel like we can't breathe. A place that feels like our hearts will never be put back together from this heartbreak. A place that doesn't feel real. Like a nightmare from which we cannot wake.
I don't know what the future holds. I don't know the moment that will be her last, the moment that God planned long before Mama was being formed in her mother's womb. I don't know how we will find a new normal. I don't know how to say goodbye.
There are so many things I can't know.
But I do know these things to be true: Where we are right now is sacred. Where we sit is holy ground. The time we have is precious. Each breath she takes, each moment she has opened her eyes for us, and the slightest hint of a smile we've seen are gifts. Such irreplaceable, beautiful gifts. These are gifts that we will put in a special box, up on a shelf in our memory, to be taken down and opened with care when our hearts need it the most. Our broken hearts will be held by our Savior, and we will continue to live in His fullness of love. He is a good Father who gives good gifts in the form of precious time. This time will be what we hold dear until the moment comes that we see her again.
For now, I'll sit back and let each moment come. I'll be emptied with each cry, and filled again with each laugh. And when the time for goodbye comes, this is what we'll say:
See you soon.
On the day when I see
All that You have for me
When I see You face to face
There surrounded by Your grace
All my fears swept away
In the light of Your embrace
Where Your love is all I need
And forever I am free
Where the streets are made of gold
In Your presence healed and whole
Let the songs of Heaven rise to You alone
No weeping
No hurt or pain
No suffering
You hold me now, hold me now
No darkness
No sick or lame
No hiding
You hold me now
Thank you Jesus, for the work You are doing. We praise You.
