Sacred Time

I've been looking through old pictures and found several of Mom in recent years. 

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.

Saying Goodbye

You would think that saying goodbye wouldn't be hard when you know what follows goodbye is healing, perfection, love, warmth.

But there is this deal we as humans are created with that is both a blessing and a curse - emotion.

I sat with my Mama yesterday for the last time before we leave the States. We sat outside in the gorgeous 78 degree SC late summer weather. We watched tiny birds hop around on the ground, bright green lizards scurry. There was a gentle, cool breeze kissing our skin. I soaked it up, letting the presence of God hold me there as He has so many times before.

It was so peaceful, before I knew it Mom had fallen asleep. I reached for my phone and opened my Bible app, forgetting that I had last looked up a verse in Ecclesiastes instead of picking up where I last read in Exodus. When I hit the "Read" tab of Ecclesiastes 3, I stared in silence at the section header: "A Time for Everything."

Chapter 3, verses 1-11a read, "There is a time for everything, and a season for every activity under the heavens:  a time to be born and a time to die, a time to plant and a time to uproot,  a time to kill and a time to heal, a time to tear down and a time to build,  a time to weep and a time to laugh, a time to mourn and a time to dance,  a time to scatter stones and a time to gather them, a time to embrace and a time to refrain from embracing,  a time to search and a time to give up, a time to keep and a time to throw away,  a time to tear and a time to mend, a time to be silent and a time to speak,  a time to love and a time to hate, a time for war and a time for peace.  What do workers gain from their toil? I have seen the burden God has laid on the human race. He has made everything beautiful in its time."

He has made everything beautiful in its time.

I sat there, watching the rise and fall of my Mom's chest as she breathed, and simultaneously realized how much of a gift I was experiencing to watch her breathe, to sit with her alive on this Earth, yet found myself wondering how long He would tell her nostrils to pull in air, her lungs to expand and deflate with oxygen. How long?

I put my phone down, and reached for her hand. I held it there for a while as she slept, alternating between sobbing, silently begging her to forgive me for leaving. And praising. Praising God for being able to say goodbye.

I picked my phone back up and glanced at the time - 11:36. I had exactly 14 minutes left with her.

I waited a few more minutes, and did my best to soak her in. I studied her face, her beautiful face that still found ways to smile at me in the midst of her most debilitating of days. I looked at her arms, and imagined myself there, held by her too many times over the years to count. I willed my brain to take a snapshot, to take in every single detail and never forget.

I soon woke her gently,  and said, "Mama? I have something to tell you." Her head rose and she looked me right in the eyes.

Through tears while holding her hand, I said, "We're leaving for Germany tomorrow."

She nodded.

"And it's going to be a while before I see you again. I'm going to miss you so much, Mama."

With that, she looked away, staring at something in the distance.

I continued, "I want you to know how much I love you. I love you so much. I'm so proud of you."

"I'm so thankful God gave me you as my Mama. I hope I can be the kind of mother you have been."

"You have been such a good Mama."

I wiped my eyes and looked into hers, unsure if she heard anything I said. I quickly realized it didn't matter - I got to say goodbye, I got to share my heart with her.

I asked her then if she was ready to eat lunch, and she said she was. As we were making our way back to the dining room, I heard her softly say something. I asked her to repeat herself, but over the background noise I still missed it. I stopped the wheelchair and walked around in front of her, bent over, and asked, "I'm sorry Mama, I still didn't hear you. What did you say?"

As clear as day, she spoke words that will forever be burned on my heart:

"I will miss you."

I lost it. I embraced her and sobbed harder than I have in years. She held me there, and as I wept, she pat my back and said, "Don't cry. Don't cry."

We stayed there for what felt like forever and a split second.

There would never be enough time. There will never be enough of my Mama's love.

When I had calmed enough to speak, I gently touched her cheek, and told her that I wasn't sure what the next month's would hold for her, but if I couldn't make it back to say goodbye, that I would see her again. She nodded and smiled, and in that expression I saw her. I saw my Mama, and all the grace and peace her eyes have spoken for years. Not dementia. Not a brain tumor. I saw her, and I know she understood.

In some ways, I wish I could freeze that moment. I wish I could stay there, wonderfully aware of time and how limited it is. I wish I could stay in that awareness that is a balance of an ocean of grief yet the deepest of peace.

In other ways, I wish I could go back in time. I wish I could stay in her arms as a little girl, feeling safe and looking at her like she was superhuman. I wish I could go back to my teenage years, and see her for the incredibly strong, loving, supportive mother she's always been. I wish I could go to my earliest adult years and yell at myself to go see her, to accept her offers of dinners. To go shopping with her, talk with her. To open my eyes and see her, really see her heart and the great love she has for me.

But none of that is possible. There is only now. As much of her as we've been given, it would never be enough.

So I step forward. I'm not sure how my feet work, but I try to walk. I'm not sure how to breathe, but I take a breath. I'm terrified of the future, but I trust Him.

I'm not sure how to say goodbye, so I say "See you later."

I'm unsure of everything. I'm standing at the edge of a cliff, trusting that when I jump it is not into oblivion but my Father's arms who hold me. The same arms who hold my Mama's precious life.

He makes everything beautiful in its time.

Thank You, Jesus, for the work You are doing. We praise You.

Burning House

I had a dream about a burning house
You were stuck inside
I couldn't get you out
I laid beside you and I pulled you close
And the two of us went up in smoke

Love isn't all that it seems
I did you wrong
I'll stay here with you
'Til this dream is gone

I've been sleepwalkin'
I've been wandering all night
Tryin' to take what's lost and broke
And make it right
I've been sleepwalkin'
Too close to the fire
'Cuz it's the only place that I can hold you tight

In this burning house

-Burning House by Cam

I listen to the melody, dark but beautiful, that matches my mood. It resonates in my heavy heart. I'm stuck in a nightmare that I can't break out of. But in my nightmare, I'm not in a burning house. I'm in a small doctor's office, listening to a surgeon tell us that my Mama has a brain tumor.

She has a brain tumor, and it's incurable.

It's growing into her skull.

It's tripled in size in the past 17 months.

We can be aggressive and perform surgery to remove it, but it would likely grow back.

With her current limited functionality, surgery would likely do more harm than good.

It's about quality of life versus quantity of years.

It all plays in my head on repeat. Like a broken cd, the facts play over and over. Like a cruel game of darts, the facts are hurled at me and there is nothing I can do to stop them.

I'm angry. I'm so angry. I prayed for healing, God. I asked you to heal her. I believed you would. Hasn't she been through enough? You've called my family to leave the country, and we obeyed. We obeyed! Is this what obedience looks like?

I'm heavy with grief. So heavy. I don't want to imagine a life without my Mama. I don't want to think about a world where I have more babies and my Mama isn't here to see them born and grow. I can't consider a place where my sister gets married and Mama can't give her away. I don't want to think about all the things she'll miss, and all the times we will yearn for her presence.

It's too much. It's too much and not enough, all at once.

But when it's too much: God.

I can feel embittered with Him, not understanding His plan, but still know He's here. Because, He is. He just is.

A few weeks ago, my Mom had an MRI which lead to her follow-up appointment yesterday. The MRI showed progression of something, which we thought to be the dementia. When I received that news, I hadn't considered an alternative to God healing her - here - on Earth. It really didn't cross my mind that her tumor would grow back. I don't know why, but it didn't.

After I received that news, I dug into His word. In Exodus 6:2-8, I read this:

"God also said to Moses, "I am the Lord. I appeared to Abraham, to Isaac and to Jacob as God Almighty, but my name is the Lord. I did not make myself known to them. I also established my covenant with them to give them the land of Canaan, where they lived as aliens. Moreover, I have heard the groaning of the Israelites, whom the Egyptians are enslaving, and I have remembered my covenant. Therefore, say to the Israelites: "I am the Lord, and I will bring you out from under the yoke of the Egyptians. I will free you from being slaves to them, and I will redeem you with an outstretched arm and with mighty acts of judgment. I will take you as my own people, and I will be your God. Then you will know that I am the Lord your God, who brought you out from under the yoke of the Egyptians. And I will bring you to the land I swore with uplifted hand to give to Abraham, to Isaac and to Jacob. I will give it to you as a possession. I am the Lord."

In other words, God established Himself in my grief-stricken brain first. Then, He reminded me of all that He has done already, all the ways He has been faithful. He reminded me of the promise He's given; to heal my Mom. Then, He said He will be freeing from slavery. This tumor, limited mobility, and the dying body all equal enslavement. He is going to free my Mom from the enslavement that has held her in chains for far too long. At the end of the passage, He reminded me that He will fulfill His promise.

In all the ways this world enslaves us, God's love exists to free us. In the ways that I feel bitter and angry that God may not allow Mom to stay with us longer, He reminds me that He has a better plan: complete healing. The kind of healing that gives her a perfect body, where she won't be limited by memory or physical disfunction. The kind of healing that grants her access to the physical presence and glory of Jesus. The kind of healing that means she will be praising Him alongside her mom, our Mema, and her grandmother, our Nanny Tucker. The kind of healing that means she will get to meet our babies. She will lay eyes on their faces and know who they are. The kind of healing that will have her celebrating with all the Heavenly host when souls on Earth cross from death to life.

His plan is clearly better than mine. His plan means I say goodbye to her on Earth, but it means I see her again in the blink of an eye. It means she will be free.

So I can't stay bitter at the thought of losing her, because that would be making it about me. I can't stay angry, because I realize that He is giving her the best gift. I know better that obedience doesn't always mean a perfect outcome, but that in the imperfection lies God's perfect love. It's enough. He's more than enough.

We've all heard the phrase "too little, too late" before. In our case, it is "so much, and just in time." When we were prepared to say goodbye last year, God granted us another year with her, where she was not only able to see the birth of her first grandchild, but hold her. She got to watch her grow. She was able to revel in the gift of Camden's life. We got to spend the most special of time, to say things we've been wanting to say. We've been able to see His healing in our own hearts the past months.

It's so much. So much of God's goodness.

So as our family steps forward, unsure of what the future holds and how much time she has, we can be sure that God is holding her life and will soon free her from the chains of this life.

And we can celebrate those things.

Thank you Jesus, for the work you are doing. We praise You!