“I don’t know if I can come back from this,”
I thought to myself as I left my mom’s bedroom, where she lay dying. My eyes were stinging at the corners as I held back tears.
I was twenty-three years old when I helped to take care of my mom as she rapidly succumbed to stage-four lung cancer. I did not expect to step into this role for at least another few decades. How does someone come back from this? I wondered often.
I watched as the bright light of her life tapered down to a single candle. I felt like someone cupping their hands around a flame, trying to keep the warmth around for a little bit longer.
To keep the light going long enough to say goodbye.
The time for praying for a miracle had ended. All that remained was to pray for endurance, and to thank God that her suffering had an ending date. That complete and utter healing was going to happen in his arms, and not mine.
I had to let go of that precious flame, and give it into the hands of the light of the world.
