“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.
No, I never “recovered” from that moment. I lit tea lights in mason jars all along the path of the dark valley of the soul to illuminate the steps ahead of me.
To be an example for someone else of how to “be ok with not being ok,”
Even if that other person was only myself.
That’s enough for me then, and it’s enough for me now, six years later.
I grasped a firm hold on hope’s enduring light instead of the tenuous pull I had before. This little light of mine, I’m going to let it shine, I would sing under my breath. A sweet lullaby building to a rallying cry for my own soul.
Instead of focusing on “Will I recover?” “Will I come back?” I found these questions no longer served me.
Instead, I started to ask myself:
“Who is this new person I’m becoming?”
“What questions do I have for God?”
Like Jesus, in the Garden of Gethsemane, facing down death and the most vile curse, he too knew: there was no going back from this moment.
Is there any other way?
Is there anyone else?
We must all, at some point in our lives, have that heart-to-heart in the dark hours of the night with God. Where we pour out our deep sorrow and grief. Where our doubts are not weapons wielded, but olive branches surrendered to God’s hand.
When dawn stretches out before us and darkness clutches us back. We can bury our heads beneath the covers or we can get up. Turn on the coffeemaker. Place a slice of sourdough bread in the toaster. Take the dog out. Greet the peachy cold sunrise and say,
“Gosh, she would’ve loved this,”
Letting the little embers of grief within our fingers drift up and light up the sky for others to see.
That was beautiful, Katrina. Thanks for sharing <3
Beautifully said, Katrina!
Beautifully said, Katrina. Thank you 💝