I'm Not the Same

My goodness. Is it really one year almost to the day that Dad went into the hospital for a three week stay never to return home again? Has time passed that quickly as it has that sneaky way of doing?

When I think about all that has gone on in one year's time, I realize an important truth: I am not the same person I was then. I think I view every day occurrences in a much different light. Stuff that bothered me so badly either at work or during a normal home day, has lost its steely grip on me. I don't think it's important enough to harbor grudges long, or at all. I don't waste time obsessing over triviality. When you've lost loved ones, life is put into a new perspective and it's up to us to learn the important lesson.

Lesson one: I'm beginning to de-clutter my closets and find that is making me a calmer person. If I've not used it, looked at it, worn it, or cared about it in several years, I'm not about to begin to either. So another person may benefit from it, or if it's ratty enough, into the trash it goes. Oh, the feeling of purging junk, and I'm not just talking about closet stuff now. We all carry garbage inside of us. Voices from the past that accuse and belittle. What if like the closet, we choose to rid ourselves of things we no longer need, and probably never did. That hateful comment from a relative, or a snide remark from a co-worker. Or what if what we heard wasn't really intended for us all along, yet we wore the remark like a heavy, old coat that needed retired years ago.

Lesson two: People are more important than things or chores. We all have daily schedules that we need to keep. But sometimes we push ourselves on one of our off days because heaven forbid, the grass wasn't cut, or there is a layer of dust on our end table. If given the opportunity to tidy up, or play with my nieces, I'm choosing the girls every time. There is always another day for labor, but sometimes a priceless moment can be lost forever. I've found the inner child when I'm at a playground with my nieces. I've been Belle from Beauty and the Beast, and countless other make-believe people as I enter their world. I wouldn't trade that for anything.

And what is it with technology? Put the phone down. Take a moment to look at the person sitting in front of you, or beside you. Talk in the car when going on trips. Giggle in restaurants together and make conversation. That phone, I-pad, Tablet or game will always be there. Don't miss the time with a real person having real talk. Learn from them, and listen.

Lesson three: Love really is the answer. Why oh why did I hold onto anger? When I've given grace to another, and let go of longstanding drama, I find that I understand the heart of God. For isn't this what He does for us each and every day? If God chooses to love us unconditionally, then why do I place conditions on every relationship I have? I don't need to think about what my husband said two years ago during a ridiculous battle. I can let go of bitterness toward situations I have no control of, and really love with all my heart. I can forgive, forget, move on and love.

Lesson four: Faith is important. Though I've spent years in church, have read my Bible, consider myself a Christian, did I really understand what true faith was? Have I been able to let go and let God handle my life and the lives of loved ones? When dealing with illness and death, I had to relinquish total control to the Lord. In the quiet of my soul when I cried out to Him, the answer that came back was to have faith. But what if what we pray for, and have faith that moves mountains doesn't come to pass? What if we lose the loved one(s) and we are devastated beyond belief? Does that make God any less real? No. For I've felt more than ever, His Holy Spirit deep within me. I've touched the peace that passes understanding and came away calm and whole. Though I had no control when losing my parents over this last year, God's plan is not my plan. But He deepened my faith, showed me that He never left me, and gave me an outlook on life that couldn't be learned any other way.

It's true. Grief and difficult situations can build character. They don't have to sweep over us and leave us crippled with doubt and fear. They help us to see what is really important. When we look for the small moments of goodness through the pain, when we see those who touched our lives and showed us that we didn't have to walk the journey alone, we then can know we are not the same people we once were. We have been refined like precious gold, no longer tarnished by the chains that bound us.

Best Memory

When the priest asked what my best memory of my mother was recently at the blessing service for her at the funeral home, it  didn't take me long to recall one for it was recent.

What does one say to a lifetime of love and memories? How can a person choose their absolute best moment or moments with a beloved parent that they are saying goodbye to?

Like snippets of a movie, years worth of laughter, tears, joy and fears played before me. I remembered Mom standing by during my surgery for scoliosis as a teen, even though she'd been a nervous type but she remained steadfast and my rock of strength.

When divorce reared its ugly head in my early twenties, my mother was there to rescue me. When fat, ugly tears fell from my eyes and the lies kept surfacing that I wasn't good enough for him and never would be, Mom helped me feel worthy again.

Moments of giggling together like school girls, though she was my parent, surfaced and drew me in once again and I warmed from the glow. Times of celebration and holidays, the birth of my son, her first grandchild. So many wonderful memories.

But when asked the question by the priest, I almost immediately responded: "Being caregiver for my mother with her journey of dementia." Father Carr almost fell from his chair. "Really?" he asked.

Why are those the dearest memories my brother and I hold now? The answer is simple. We got to experience unconditional love given back to a woman who had once loved us the same way. This woman had given her all many times for us.

 When a parent has Alzheimer's or dementia -related issues, it is never easy. You wonder if you are the one losing your mind at first. For the questions begin--oh so many questions. Things are forgotten, appointments are missed, and everything seems upside down.

Then the anger sets in. And for all of us, it is a time of great guilt. When you find yourself snapping at your elderly parent and watch the hurt in their eyes, the words practically hanging in the air, you wish you could pull them back, place them into a locked box never to surface again. But they do. Just when you feel strong, confident and a little cocky, a challenge arises and you fail. You ask forgiveness and you fail again. The maddening cycle--the new normal. Why oh why couldn't they have kept their wits about them to the end?

But then you see them in the most innocent of ways: thinning hair, gummy, lost-tooth smiles. Skin stretched too tightly over prominent bones. You hear whispered words and the innocence of a child, and you realize in their mind, that is where they are. You see fears of showering, falling, even eating foods they once loved. It's all this and more, and you fall deeply in love with your aging parent more than you ever did before. They rely on you, they trust you, and you begin to know that you will never betray that trust.

You also see wise, knowing eyes and the laugh- lined wrinkles around them from years of laughter. You hold onto a hand that worked hard at putting food on the table. You lay your head against their frail chest and listen to the beating of their good heart--wondering just how long it will continue. . .

You look at them and see inner beauty shining. No longer a body with a soul, they are now becoming a soul with a body. True loveliness as God intended, no longer superficiality.

There are treats they love, brought to them and watching their eyes light up. Sometimes there are favorite places to drive to. There are songs to be shared--ones they once sang to you as a lullaby. It's all this and so much more. Mostly it's giving of yourself. Giving selflessly and totally, turning your emotions and your loved one totally over to God. Knowing He adores them and you, and that we are the apple of His eye. He has all of our best interest at the center of His heart. Even if He chooses to take them home, how can we question that glorious time?

Yes, this time can be our best moments, our best memories. With God it is truly possible. Forgiveness, mercy, grace. . . all ours for the taking.

Another Place

I received a phone call this morning. Your mother is being sent to the emergency room. She's throwing up blood, and it doesn't look good.

With legs that felt like iron weights, and hands that shook so bad, I had to hold them against myself, I walked into the emergency room not knowing what to expect. There I heard words from the doctor that didn't come completely as a shock. We recommend hospice care for your mother. She's so frail now, and perhaps it would be best for her just to be kept comfortable.

Every child of an aging parent asks themselves if they are doing the right thing. Are our decisions what our parents would want? Some of us are fortunate that our families have spoke freely about such things. Therefore when the time comes, we know immediately what must be done.

Others of us have spoken in deeper terms though. We've had the distinct honor to talk of things on a more spiritual level. We know that our loved ones are believers and even look forward to their next journey.

There is so much more than our eyes can see. So much more than we hear or feel. I am learning this now as my mom slips farther from us into sickness and Alzheimer's. It's not always about "crazy talk." I recently read a book that showed me that end of life and hospice produces some of the most beautiful messages from our suffering loved ones. It mentioned that we should pay close attention to what is being said as they transition from this world to the next.

When my father was in the hospital last year, there were several odd things we heard from him. And now I'm noticing that very thing with my mother. She's been talking more to someone that my brother and I don't see. Though I strain to hear her words, it's in a whisper quiet voice that perhaps I'm not meant to hear. She reached up once as if grasping someone by the hand. She has petted animals that aren't there. Today she said she saw a Bible, but when we pressed a little to see if someone was holding or reading it, she said no.

When my husband's uncle was in hospice care at his nursing home a few years ago, I remembered something powerful about that. The chaplain that was there at his side, said the most beautiful thing. He mentioned that Hubert was between this world and the next. Upon hearing that, the room almost seemed to change for me. I felt a Holy Presence surrounding us, and it was as if Jim's uncle was becoming more spirit than flesh at that time.

Also at my father's bedside on his last day, and I haven't told many people this, I sensed the presence of four strong angels surrounding him. One was at the head of the bed, one at the foot, and one on either side. There were a few of our dear friends and family members with us, but I distinctly saw with my heart and soul that Dad was surrounded by holy warriors ready to bring him home.

I don't speak about my belief freely. But during a time such as this in my family's life, more than ever, I feel the need to share things that I feel God has shown us and hoping it may also comfort anyone else who is going through this.

My mother is becoming that lovely spirit now. And I know where she is going, for she visited there once before. She'd felt a love like no other during a cardiac arrest in her earlier years. A love that surrounded her and permeated her very being. She often said she did not fear death after that.

Though my heart is heavy, and it's almost like deja vu from last summer, I feel how I did with my father--ready to let go, to picture Mom free from her suffering; dancing with Dad, feeling God's warmth and love, and reuniting with so many loved ones who have been gone for such a long time. For my mom lost so many people in her life, and I know they are there, ready and waiting with opened arms to greet her.

God, help us to see with the eyes of faith, not our limited vision. Help us to know just how wide and deep Your love really is. Help us to be able to let go and give all to You. 

As The First Year Approaches

Wow, where has one year gone? For it was this very time last year that began defining what was going to happen very shortly. Who knew when Dad asked me for suspenders because his belt felt too tight and was hurting his stomach that he really had a gall bladder issue? An issue that would ultimately take him from us.

Dad was never one to complain. When asked how he was feeling, he always responded with that wonderful trademark smile, "Fine!" But last July seemed a little different. Dad was slower, crankier, complaining about things. Not the usual sweet, simple man he'd always been.Yes, he still placed Mom's needs first, and never let on how he must have been feeling. But my brother and I suspected something--and Dad, being the rock he'd always been, wouldn't say much about himself.

Last July something wonderful happened also. I had been praying for my parents for a very long time. You see, they'd never been wealthy; never crawled from under small mountains of debt. I asked the Lord if my father could see a great blessing before he died. Would God please show my Dad a miracle? And I'd heard a still, small voice somewhere inside telling me that a great blessing was coming--something that would bring my father great joy.

With anticipation, I dreamed that it would be a large windfall of money. Perhaps one of those silly scratch-off lottery tickets would be the "big one" for them finally. But no such thing happened. What did happen though was something that brought that awesome promise of joy to my dad. I'd contacted a great group of youth from Catholic Heartcamp and about eight wonderful kids and their mentor arrived in July and began to fix things on mom and dad's house that we hadn't been able to attend to. Little by little, windows were freshly painted, gangly bushes were cut, repairs were made and a whole new shower wall was installed. Dad kept remarking on their progress, thrilled with all that took place. I could see a happiness in him--a glow. Things he couldn't do any longer got done. He could take pride in his little old home once again.

Yet I still wondered, still questioned God. Is this it Lord? I thought you promised that Dad would see your glory in a major way.

We cannot question God's gifts, His goodness, mercy and blessings. He chooses what He will. It is not for me to decide that the promise I was given in my heart did not come to pass. On the contrary, our Father may not answer us in the way we'd expected, but we gain so much more by His lessons. Who was I to question the method, the outcome? Dad, in his simple way was delighted.One million dollars couldn't have made him happier.

I will never forget that group of young people and how my father couldn't stop talking about them.

It is almost one year since my father entered the hospital, never to return home. I feel that pit in my stomach once again--the familiar feeling from last year because anniversaries do that to us. They bring the thoughts, feelings and emotions back in a major way. I knew that "firsts" this year would be rough. First Thanksgiving without Dad, first Christmas, etc. But this first year anniversary as it approaches hurts my heart once again. Tears threaten, and there's a lump in my throat that I try hard to choke back.

I miss you so much Dad. I want to make you proud. I'm trying to take care of Mom best I can. Forgive me for anything I may have done that you wouldn't have approved of. Pray for me, Dad. I love you....

Kar

Moving On

Do you know what I'm really missing most about my father right now? It's our inside jokes and all the sayings we had. It's the make believe language he made up, and the nonsense phrases he always said. It's the lines from comforting, favorite movies watched over and over. It's seeing him conduct an unseen orchestra as his beloved waltz or classical thunder music played. It's picking pine cones from under trees on walks together. It's that sweet smile, soft voice, always happy man that put everyone else before him. It's the slow, steady walk through his front and back yard admiring flowers he planted and cutting lilac and pussy willow branches. It's all these things and so much more.

Do you know what I'm missing about my mother? A listening ear, advice given better than any therapist. Laughter and silliness, secrets shared. And once again, movies, movies, movies. The comforting ones that meant something to me and her. In later years, the stories we heard over and over as dementia began robbing her of recent memories,yet playing old time ones again and again. I miss them now yet I know them all and I know them well. And I, too, will be able to tell them long after she is gone.

Soon, my brother and I will be faced with one of the hardest tasks of our lives. We will have to sift through years and years of the life of our parents. With Mom now in a care facility, the precious home we all shared together will be broken apart and items distributed to those who may want them: wooden crafts our father made; airplanes, boats and houses. Well-worn recipe cards with the smattering of batter splashed upon them, from some of Mom's best loved favorites.

I'll walk through the rooms which meant so much to me. The living room where I envision the countless Christmases. Huge, fat trees decorated with fragile, precious ornaments from when our parents first married. Mountains of presents so carefully chosen for each of us. A favorite chair, an old, worn couch. Then into the small dining room where a table filled with baked Italian goodies and laden with other fine delicacies sits empty now.

The heart of our little ranch home--the kitchen always feels the warmest. For out of this room came a fresh home cooked meal each and every night. Out of this room came gooey pecan loaves, tasty pineapple upside down cakes and homemade pizza that would put one of the best restaurant pizzerias to shame. The table where we all sat, and the conversation and laughter that echoes in the stillness now.

I walk down the hallway toward our bedrooms and see the one converted into Dad's little craft room. The walls are adorned with thousand piece puzzles so carefully glued together as artwork. Tins of small bric-a-brac and tiny pieces of wood just waiting for the crafter's hands to pick up once again.

There are albums filled with the pictures of our lives. There are cards and letters so well-preserved in drawers and it feels as if Mom saved all of them throughout the years. How can one weed through so much and not feel emotional? For I know my heart will be breaking even as I begin the task at hand.

This house, this home saved our lives. For it wasn't where I grew up. We moved there when I was eleven. It was after the roughest time that my parents had gone through. Dad had made the decision to leave the only place we'd ever known, realizing it was best for us to make a change and start fresh.

I can still see the first time my parents showed the new house to me. It sat in a quiet, wooded neighborhood, not the cement jungle I'd grown up in. There was a large back yard and another smaller one. There was a finished basement, screened back porch. There was a sense of belonging of "coming home" so to speak. Yes, this is where our little family belonged. And it would be in this house that my brother was born fourteen years after me. Our miracle.

It won't be easy to toss things away. For you see, there's still a package of cookies, the last ones Dad bought for himself sitting on a shelf like an item from a shrine. There's notes written to Mom reminding her to take her pills and how to work the television remote.

I know I need to cancel our cable, internet and phone. Yet I hang on as long as I can, for once the phone is disconnected, the number that had been ours--mine since childhood will be forever gone. It may sound crazy, but these are the thoughts that plague me. I know God will grant my brother and I the strength we need when it is time. For there is nothing that will take away what is in our hearts. Nothing will take away the parts of Mom and Dad that live inside both of us. We are products of them both. And that is something that will never be lost.

Rainbows Will Return

Where to begin? A year ago, six months or perhaps only three weeks ago. This has been a life-changing, earth shattering time for our family. It was about this time last year that I noticed my father acting differently. Usually cheerful, our rock and our strength, Dad began to complain more than ever about how he was feeling, how difficult it was with Mom's worsening dementia, every bill he got in the mail, etc. Dad always had such joy talking with me about Spring and flowers and seed planting and birds. Simple morning conversations that I could live on for the rest of the day. That ended around this time in 2016. Little did we know we would lose Dad later that summer. That he was winding down, and the time had come for his well-deserved rest with Jesus.

Now our little family is going through this with Mom. Words cannot describe the feeling in my chest--of my heart splintering into tiny fragments, each one burnished with a memory good and bad alike. Only three short weeks ago we were able to take her out to eat, go for drives to her favorite stone bridge and listen to the creek. Three short weeks ago we saw a high school play and Mom sang along to the Disney tunes she knew and loved so well.

Yesterday we moved our mother into a care facility. I saw a woman before me that I barely recognized, completely devoid of emotion. Gone is the laugh that was so cute. Gone now are the stories told over and over, stories we all knew better than her, but listened patiently as they were told once more.

Her eyes hold a tiny spark of light when she sees either me, my brother or son. But I'd give anything to rejuvenate life back to her; of memories that would fill her with emotions once again.

She was wheeled into her new room and as she looked around at perhaps a few familiar items, my brother handed Mom a beautiful dolly he got her a few Christmases ago. One story our mother always told us was about a doll she received one year from a family friend. She would describe the beloved doll in great detail, and my brother tried to replicate one by searching many sites and finding one that Mom claimed looked exactly like the one she'd had.

Mom sat in her wheelchair stroking her dolly, covering her with the blanket that lay around her own shoulders. My eyes filled with tears and it was difficult to remain stoic. I stayed with her until much later in the day, watching old movies, trying to get her to eat in the dining room with new friends, seeing if talking about cooking and baking would bring her around just a little.

I left last night with the feeling of a tight band around the upper part of my stomach. The band of fear and uncertainty, for it was with me last August when my father was in the hospital. It is a hated companion this familiar tight knot of tension and worry.

I cannot find my laughter right now. I am not enjoying much. My work days are filled with stress and I don't like who I've become. I snap in anger over situations that I used to handle a little better. I'm not reading for pleasure, doing much writing, except these cathartic blogs. Most of my thoughts are of Mom and wondering how her day is going when we cannot be there with her every minute.

I've read about others who have gone through this before me. I see their smiling faces, their grandkids or trips they've gone on. I see that life does return and there will be rainbows and sunshine again. This is a season in my family's journey. The tale of two parents both so very loved and a life so very missed. My brother and I will hold on to what we have of our mother until her own story ends. And then we will make new memories and remember with fondness the old ones so lovingly tucked away in our hearts.

Sometimes strength feels like brokenness

Yesterday was a mixed feeling type of day while visiting my mother at her house. I felt wonderful that it went so well; that Mom and I bonded in the kitchen with a little cooking project. She peeled potatoes while I fixed pork tenderloin. She laughed so much, and shared some sweet stories. And yet at other times, she broke apart while talking about my dad.

I walked through the rooms of the house I had lived in from the early nineteen seventies. My old bedroom became my brother's room, and then later our father's little workshop. Many of Dad's projects are in that room--boat models, thousand piece puzzles he'd glued together and hung as pictures on the walls. A huge dollhouse, completed, sits on a built-in dresser--the tiny furniture askew in the many rooms--now forgotten. And everywhere--Dad. . . His little notebooks filled with writing; organizing the many bills he paid and doctor visits he kept in order. A few of his favorite DVD's still lay scattered about the room, as we haven't had the heart to move them just yet.

 My parent's room still had dad's shirts folded over and old blanket rack. I picked one up and became lost in the scent of my father, and memories which threatened to start me sobbing uncontrollably. I looked at the furniture in the room, an old bedroom set my parents had since I was a little girl. Many nights I used to wander into the room, frightened from a bad dream to make sure my parents were there. And Dad would wake to take me back to bed.

Mom began nodding off after our beautiful dinner yesterday. And the innocence of her dementia hit me hard. Once the strongest woman I'd known, she now talks like a little girl at times--memories of the past more clear than those that just happened. I thought about her life and the time she had with my father. They'd been married over sixty years. They'd shared a love like no other I'd seen, for they remained with one another through good times and bad. Moments of plenty and moments of lack. Sickness and health. Yes, they'd taken their wedding vows quite seriously. And my heart broke into tiny shards watching Mom sleep, and knowing she'd awaken alone once again without the love of her life there beside her.

We talked yesterday of death, replaying the moments Dad had been in the hospital and the events which led to his passing. When my mother seemed to spiral downward, when depression threatened at its ugliest, I reminded her that she knew better than anyone. The near death experience she'd gone through in the early seventies were proof of the Love we will know and the Place we are headed. Dad is waiting for her there, and she will spend eternity with him. In her cute childlike way, she said, "Oh, I'd forgotten about that."

We are broken right now--my family. And in our time of grief, there have been moments that we showed a strength I didn't think we'd possess.

 I chatted with a friend this morning who'd lost her beloved husband some months back. We spoke of our loved ones and how much we miss them. We reminisced about better times and happy memories. And she said something to me that really made me think. She said, "Sometimes strength feels like brokenness." It didn't take me long to realize just how true that is.

Well Done Good and Faithful Servant

Last week we said goodbye to my father. Even typing the words seem a bit surreal to me. Did it really happen? Yet I know it did, for the hollow ache in my heart tells me so.

I had prayed for miracles through the years and God answered those prayers in amazing ways. My father lived to the age of 85, when by all standards he should have been gone a while ago. He beat odds. He survived quadruple bypass heart surgery, a fall down bleacher stairs at a high school stadium. He made it through several bouts of congestive heart failure, kidney issues and several hospital stays. But on Sunday, September Fourth at 1:58 p.m. that strong heart stopped beating.

I drove to Sewickley hospital that morning knowing Dad was back on the ventilator once again. He'd signed DNR before, but continued to give the "ok" when asked if he wanted to try one more time. I think he was doing it for my family. Always thinking of others, especially my mom, this man would have given his last breath for another.

I knew what my mission was that morning. I'd spent three weeks watching Dad go downhill, then upward. Making it through what seemed to be routine gallbladder surgery that you or I could easily bounce back from, Dad fought a good fight. Yet I knew he was tired, weary, worn out. I saw it in his eyes, those bright eyes so full of life were now telling me another story. "I'm ready," they seemed to say. "Let me go home."

I arrived at the hospital around 8 a.m. And I found Dad to be unresponsive, yet breathing with all the bells and whistles attached to him. Mustering my courage and faith, I began to speak softly to him. I told him it was time to go home. He'd done all he could for us. He deserved his Heavenly reward now. I mentioned to Dad that he had two other children waiting with open arms for him. That my brother and I had been blessed to know him all this time, but now the babies my mother had lost were ready to meet him; ready to love him.

I thanked him for everything he'd been to me, and all he'd taught me. I promised that Mom would be taken care of. I laid my head upon his chest as tears poured from my eyes.

Later in the day, when my mother and other family friends arrived, and it was time to make the decision to let Dad go, I could not stay in the room. I walked to the chapel in the hospital, but it was too dark in there for me. I knew outside the sun was shining brightly. How my father loved the outdoors! So I went out into the bright day, walking around the well-tended grounds of the hospital, looking at flowers, watching butterflies and birds all around me; something my father and I would have enjoyed together.

I found a wooden bench at the front of the hospital, and sat down, raising my face to the brilliant sun. Cardinals chirped cheerfully across the street, though I could not see them, but I knew the sound intimately. Moments passed, prayers continued. When inside my innermost being I heard my father's voice clearly: "The nightmare is over."

Now I must pause and explain. One of my Dad's favorite phrases had always been, "What a nightmare," as he described things that upset him, bills that arrived, hospital visits that were unplanned, and how poorly he'd been feeling lately. But he'd always said it with a sort-of giggle to his voice--a way of making light of difficult situations.

Perhaps a minute or two after I'd heard the voice, I received a text from a family friend asking me to tell her when I was back in the waiting area. I texted back: Why, is he gone?

My father had passed peacefully in that same moment I heard his voice. Always the jokester, I imagine Dad needed to tell me he was free, in that silly way, and  goofy sentence he would have known I'd understand. I will never forget that moment. I will treasure God's love and light shining on me as the sun warmed me and the words from my father, now young, now free of pain and grief, tears and suffering echoed in my heart.

I know that somewhere else, my father was also hearing the words: Well Done, Good and Faithful Servant.

 

On Saying Goodbye

The phone call came around three o'clock this afternoon; Hospice care at the nursing home where Uncle Hubert has resided for several years. "He's failing," they said. "Let family members know who may want to come and say goodbye to him."

I left work with a pit in my stomach, fear rolling in my gut. I can't do this. I've never had to visit a dying person before, let alone someone I've been extremely close to. I phoned a dear friend, someone who'd gone through tough times in his life, someone who'd had to go through this very thing a few years ago. His words will remain with me forever. For he said that God specifically chose me to be an ambassador of the family. God has my back, and will give me the courage and peace I need to walk through that door. My friend promised to pray for me and I sped toward the nursing home with my own prayers under my breath.

When I walked through the front doors and was greeted by the receptionist who I'd known for the longest time, I instantly burst into tears. She was particularly close to Uncle Hubert, and she hugged me and let me cry. And when I walked the long walk in the hallways to his room for what might be the last time, I kept thinking to myself, "I cannot do this." One step. "I'll probably crumble." Second step. One foot in front of the other, I made it to the room and was instantly greeted by the kindest hospice people, one of whom was a chaplain. They explained Uncle Hubert's condition to me, and as I saw him in what seemed a peaceful sleeping state, the tears spilled once again. His breathing was soft, his eyes tightly closed, but as I touched his arm and whispered how much he meant to me and how much I love him, he seemed to relax even more.

Other loved ones arrived and we all celebrated his life. His very good life. A feeling of peace washed over me as I've never experienced especially in such a stressful situation. I know it was the prayers of several people, and also the knowledge of where Uncle Hubert is headed. For his bent, old body will soon be made straight. His aches and pains, soon gone. He will run and laugh, never to cry again or know fear or sadness.

It is this thought dear friends, which sustains us. The thought of where we are headed, not where we have been. Let God's peace carry you through the difficult moments of life, even watching beloved loved ones as they breathe their last.