Curt took the boys to see The Hobbit today. That left me at home with the dogs for about 3 and a half hours. I've decided that's too long for me to be alone. Even with the dogs.
I'd been doing so well this Christmas, you know? So joy-filled and full of grace and all Pollyanna positive. The spirit of Christmas and all that.
And then left to my own quiet as the evening sun poured through the living room window, my fragile peace shattered and I was alone with Mom again. Back in her ICU room in another time zone where I had begged God for a miracle.
She died anyway.
Oh yes, I am thankful that if Mom can't be here with me, she's there with Him. But still.
But still.
I just miss her. And left to my own, that hole in my heart that I'd plugged with God-sent strength leaked a little and dried-up tears slid down my cheeks.
These days are inevitable, I suppose. There were times when I thought I was grieving all wrong with my sunshiny self spouting thankfulness and God praise. For some time I couldn't cry. Was this really what it felt like to lose your mom?
No, only a part of it.
Today I felt human-weak again. Perhaps tomorrow I'll pull from God's strength. But for today, I'm just oddly content to cover myself with his blanket of comfort.
It didn't take me long to figure out that I was an orphan. I had just buried Mom in Powell Valley and returned to Roanoke with my own family. We brought back the Death Box that Dad had told Curt about years ago, and we found Mom's will squeezed between the files. In it, I was the only one left, short of Curt and the boys.
I, little Orphan Wendi.
I could have stopped, I suppose. Just stopped living and cried forever. I wanted to. But life has a way of carrying you along. I was still a wife. I was still a mom. I was still a teacher. I was still alive. No, stopping wasn't an option. And it wasn't anything I seriously entertained.
Because deep down, I didn't feel the hopelessness that comes with despair. Instead, I felt a surge of joy. Not at Mom's death, but at her home-going. I knew that she was in a place I could not even imagine. She was with Jesus.
As Mom slipped from this life in the Vanderbilt cardiac ICU, I grieved even as I gave her my blessing to go. At that time, I didn't see her leaving me so much as I saw her going home, going to Him. Her Savior was waiting. And with Him were her dad and mom, and my sister and father, and every other loved one who also loved God's son. It was powerful. And it was comforting.
And it has been sustaining.
I can't begin to tell you how it works, just that it does. This faith in God, in his Son, and in his plan has carried me since I first said yes to Jesus back at the First Baptist Church in Norton. It was easy to believe at first. Untested, I could know all the answers in my head and not really worry about my heart.
But when my sister died suddenly in 2008, I found my faith tested. What if Michelle was gone, really gone, forever? There could be nothing as dark as thinking she was apart from anything good for all eternity. And even if God and faith weren't in the mix, there was certainly no hope in knowing that a life lived out on earth was suddenly gone. Where's the purpose, the calling, in that?
That's when God sent Betty Jean to remind me that Michelle was with Jesus. She was safe forever because she had once professed her faith in him, back at that same church where we grew up all pig-tailed and blue-eyed and dolled-up. In the years since, Michelle had not lived a perfect life. She had made some mistakes and not lived up to perfection. But she didn't have to. And we don't either. Jesus is perfect enough to save her and the rest of us.
And so Shell's with Mom now. Mom, who also was not perfect. Dad, again, not perfect. And one day, me, my husband, and my own sons. We are definitely not perfect. But Jesus is. And He has done the work to save us all. If we just believe.
Choosing to believe in this greatest of all gifts brings hope to this orphan's Christmas. I pray you find it, too.
