Last night, within 10 minutes of my completing a post about my mother’s “transition”, I received the call from my dad. It was 10:26 PM.
That was all that needed to be said. The next thing I knew, I was slipping on some shoes that wouldn’t require the time to tie. I grabbed the first shirt and pair of jeans I could find, and I was out the door.
At 11:01 PM on March 20, 2009, I was pulling off the exit to their house. Just then, my phone rang again.
I prayed as I raced down I-80 and Highway 99 that she would hang on until I got there, but she was ready to go. The final stage of her transition didn’t last as agonizingly long as we were told it could. We’re told that those who cling to life, those who are afraid to die, hang on and suffer. Those who go quickly are at peace, knowing their job is done.
At different times, in different ways, we each released her. We each told her that her job was done.
For the past several weeks, I mentally had this particular post crafted already. In all honesty, I only had the ending of it ready. The first part was waiting to be written, and God wrote it last night. I just interpreted it in the first half of this post.
My planned closing to this post is about the short story Hospice gave us. I’ll share it with you, in my words. It’s about us standing on the seashore watching a ship disappearing into the horizon. We watch it seemingly get smaller and smaller as it drifts further and further away. Then finally, she’s gone from our sight. At that moment, we say “there she goes.”
However, on the other side of that horizon is her eternal home. Those who are there, ready to celebrate her arrival, shout, “HERE SHE COMES!”
Goodbye for now, Mom. I’ll always be your baby, and I’ll always be proud to be so!
Enter into your rest, good and faithful servant!