Gone Too Soon

This is dedicated to C.B., an amazing Mother who doesn't realize how much her life has become a witness.

C--God wrote this to you. I simply typed it.
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There's that little place in every parent that quietly whispers "Don't take my baby". This mantra starts the moment you realize that the fragile life you are holding is precious beyond words.

There's a selfish desire to stop that baby from moving from the crook of your arm to the tip of your fingers, holding on for dear life, as they take their first steps.

There's a longing to grab them and run back home when you watch them walk through the door of the preschool to embrace their alphabet and learn to write their name and begin that slow, progressive move toward becoming their own person.

There's a desire to have that one last summer never end, that summer before "big school" starts and they aren't by your side for the better portion of the calendar year.

There's a sadness that descends when you realize that puberty is hitting, that the change, in their life and yours, is permanent. The days of ready hugs and kisses are gone and the steady pull away has begun.

There's a recognition that the very things you were dreading and looking forward to, driving, graduation, college, aren't that far away. In fact, they come, one after another, on each others heels, faster than should be allowed.

But for some, there's a day with a diagnosis that changes all that. A day that brings news that starts a fight that seems to pit good against evil, cell against cell.

Instead of living for the next big milestone, you start to live for the day. And you pray that it is a pain-free one.

Instead of waiting for the next school year, you count the days until the next appointment. And pray for good news.

Instead of rejoicing that you can vacation together over holidays, you discover holidays in the every day things. Sometimes it is a vacation from nausea; sometimes a vacation from weakness. Some days aren't dotted with doctor's visits or needles or hair loss. And on those days, you feel like you've been flown to Hawaii and been treated like royalty. Your old reality has taken you away from it all, if even for just a few hours.

Instead of using the hundreds of favorite recipes for your family, you figure out the three that don't make your love sick. And you make them over and over, until you don't think you can look at those dishes ever again. The best days are those where you marvel at the joy on your loved one's face when she rediscovers that strawberries taste the way they used to.

At the end, all that matters is the love. You no longer care that it's Thursday or June or worry when vacation is scheduled or what sounds good to eat. You simply marvel in the love. Your thoughts drift toward those who've meant the most. And you are so, very glad they are there for you.

You respond with smiles, even when your muscles are simply too weak. Your vocal chords manage responses, though you can't keep track of what you said in your last sentence. You live moment by moment, through pain that is unimaginable, and cry into your pillow until you don't have any more tears.

Then you watch as your loved one lets you know that Christ is coming for her. And she breathes a breath that is heartbreaking and therapeutic and life-ending. And then it is over.

It's funny how life sometimes turns out that way. Just when you think you've got it all figured out, you are thrown a curve ball. And, without knowing it, you manage to affect all those who are watching you, by your grace, fortitude and positive attitude.

You become a beacon of light on a cloudy, windy, dark night. Through the turmoil, you end up squarely in God's arms, becoming like a little child being carried, being comforted and told, again and again "You'll make it through this." It's then you realize you've become the parent God made you to be: one who acknowledges that she was His after all.

And, somehow, you let her go. By the grace of God, you do it.

Even when she is gone too soon.