At the risk of repeating myself

Abby is standing in the open door.  Stopping to turn around and say good-bye to me for the day.  Her hair is combed and pinned up, scarf tied neatly around her neck, book bag slung over her shoulder.  I know she is nearing 11, but today she looks older.  Wiser.  More put together than I ever remember being.

I'm very aware that she is now the same age I was when my mother got sick. 

My Dad, Jamie, Matt and I spent almost every weekend in Halifax.  Staying with my Aunt Glady, sleeping on pull-out sofas, reading Bobbsey Twins books, taking trips to the Candy Bowl, eating pizza, and the long car rides back and forth to the city.  I also remember the long walk through the lobby of the VG, the ride up in the elevator and the quick run/walk to her room.  There was always a fuss made over Matt, he was such a sweet little boy at six.

I have a vivid memory of lying in bed with her after I had given her a pillow I had made with my cousin Suzette.  My father still has that sad little thing.  Beautiful hideous.  Sewn with wrong sides together.  Dark embroidered stitching in my own 10 year old scrawling hand -Mom, I love you on bright orange polyester, round-ish in shape.  She was so proud of that.  She pinned it beside her on the bed so it wouldn't fall off.  Showing it to everyone who visited.

With motherhood has come new insights into these memories.  Now that I have a 10 year old girl and a 6 year old boy.  I can't help but feel such empathy for my sweet Mom in those last months, weeks, and days.  What was it like for her to look at our little faces, knowing that she may not see our next birthdays?  Did her heart lay heavy in her chest when she said good-bye to us every Sunday afternoon, arms aching to hold us, to do normal everyday activities that had been robbed from her?  Did she lay in bed at night and pray for the Lord to remove this from her?  To heal her quickly and restore her body to health?  What it must have been like to be separated from her husband, her lover, the one she vowed to spend forever with.

I know I would look at this so much differently if I didn't know the One who was and is holding me.  He who literally holds up my body.  His grace is sufficient for me.  Which sounds like a platitude spouted out when nothing else fits, but the Truth of it goes into the very depth of who I was and who I am becoming. 

I am also very certain my mother knew this Truth.  That in the darkness of the night it was He she called out to for strength.  He whispered His love to her.  Sang peace into her heart.  He showed kindness through the hands, arms and voices of His people when she needed a tangible nearness.  And it was He who held her close when she wasn't able to take another breath.

Wondrous, blessed Comfort.  He is closer than a breath, guiding me, holding me, loving me.  Teaching me how to be His hands, arms and voice for my own dear ones.