Her words have been stolen from her. A once brilliant mind now struggles to maintain this train of thought.
But this she says, struggling to say so much more: “Life is…oh! Life is crazy.”
She finishes, and the look on her face is of one who has uttered a great revelation.
She has been telling me about her life. All the goals and aspirations, all the joys and tribulations, all the tiny minutiae of her days before a tumor started pushing on places in her brain unreachable by human hand or modern technology. The risks are too great.
I am standing, hovering near the door, my clipboard clutched to my chest. My work is done.
But she wants to talk.
There is still much to do.
But she wants to talk.
There is wisdom here. Do we mine these places anymore? Or do we raze this land? Tiny pearls are poured into my hands.
“A mother must be there for her children.”
“You have to keep a sense of humor about the whole thing.”
“The little things, that’s what life is about. Going to Sunday school and holding that baby’s hand.”
The next words may be empty, circulocuitous, irrational or irrelevant.
But here and there…is wisdom.
Evidence of a life well-lived and loved. Self-sacrifice and faithfulness.
I sit down on the bed, and I put my clipboard down.
I sit here now, thinking about our conversation. And how her face lit up when I put my arm around her. Her eyes changed, or was it something behind them? She felt valued. And believe me, my friend, she was.
Isn’t that what we all want? To be valued by others? To touch a life? Make a difference?
And I begin to think of what mark I am leaving on this world.
Perhaps it is small and written in crayon, but I must leave this mark nonetheless.
We leave this afternoon for Shepherdstown, WV, so my Teddy can participate in the state math field day competition. A six hour drive up to the eastern panhandle of the state. It all seems rather much. But as I ponder these words my friend said to me: “A mother must be there for her children,” I know that it is about so much more than a math competition.
There is something waiting for us on the other side of this adventure. And I plan on finding out what it is. God speaks to me in these little things. In “going to Sunday school and holding that baby’s hand”. He speaks to me about six hour drives through the mountains. Crossing over into new territory.
I find I am looking forward to it. Looking forward to being trapped in a metal box on wheels with two obnoxious children and a testy husband for six hours.
Isn’t God good?
Pray for our safe travel, Dear Ones. I’ll tell you all about it when we return.