I am always astounded when a renewed sense of the “Realm of Grace.” is gifted to me by the Holy. My dear mentor Dr. Hud McWilliams puts it this way, “Grace erodes all of our human ability to be gods. Grace removes ALL of our ability to PRETEND we are in control.”
I clearly see This Realm of Grace cannot be diminished, Grace cannot be penetrated by darkness, Grace cannot be stopped by disease nor death, and best of all it cannot be bought or earned! The birthing place of Grace is Mercy. The person of Grace is Jesus our Lord who died and gave us his grace because our Heavenly Father is merciful. This refreshing and renewing gift from Grace is that Grace annihilated Shame! And I bear it no more!
She is a petite and elegant woman. She is dying. After receiving palliative care for a year and a few days, she is now receiving continuous care until she passes away. In the area of Hospice nursing, continuous care abbreviated to CC marks the twenty- four hour care beginning. I have been on twelve hour shifts with her for three days. The first visit I noticed that she continuously positioned her right hand in a fist with her thumb slightly curvedat the top of the fist. I would straighten the hand out flat thinking this would be more comfortable but within five minutes that hand would return to the position of holding onto a rope. I began to observe that even in her brief waking moments she would do this action with both hands. Eventually during very quiet and brief conversations we talked of her younger life and all the glorious days that love in life have brought her. A loving husband, healthy children, grandchildren and even great grandchildren. She told me that her husband is the best human being she has ever known. She was the first female professor of a big University in Texas and she said her husband supported her all the way! On the last day she was weaker and her voice diminished so we didn’t talk much. I had been straightening her hands off and on for days and within a minute or to she would peacefully dose off and put her hands right back in this unique position. Finally, I asked her about it and she said, “sometimes I become a little afraid of dying and when that fear hits I am reminded of a braided cord. A cord made up of three separate fibers that are entwined as if they were one large rope. Unbreakable bonds, least that is what they say. One day the pain and fear overwhelmed me and I whispered to God and asked for comfort. Then as I prayed my hands seemed to involuntarily fold like a fist holding a rope and it was so comfortable and calming. As I lay there praying the Spirit of God greeted me so gently and told me he loved me and soon he would be taking me home. He told me to hold onto to this rope of The Trinity and not let go. He said that he won’t leave me and to just trust him and hold on to the rope and even as I grow weaker and you straighten my hands they return to the rope and I hold on so hard that I feel no pain nor fear at all. Within the hour this beautiful, faith filled woman died but without a doubt I know Whom she was holding to and that He would never break his promise.
“It is God who establishes us with you in Christ, and has anointed us, and who has also put his seal on us and given us his Spirit in our hearts as a guarantee. 2Corinthians 1:21,22
He said I felt like a sledgehammer in his chest He said my steel magnolia eyes are the place he found rest He said he never met a girl life me before or since He said life without me made no sense And the music played and the song was sung.
A remote beach calls me with a symphony of crystal sea sound. Swimming free under a Copper Moon shining atop the waves Fears are banished into the midnight phosphorus of indigo blue My heart is so full and I know that I am homeward bound.
I surrender my soul to the wonders of The Holy One I weep for joy as the tentacles of humanity gently slip away The Copper Moon escorts me through the peace I have found Holy baptism fuels me yet again and I know that I am homeward bound.
I “feel” in color. These color harbour themselves in my heart like a traveling carnival. Today as I lay down to rest I am aware of a sadness wrapped around me like a blanket. The color I feel is called “Evening in Paris” blue. It is a Catalina blue tinged with muted dark lavender. What a beautiful color sadness can be. I see cafes quiet with an evening crowd. I see and feel a comfortable sense of lighting coming from the old gas street lamps that flickers burnt orange in the blue of this night. This sadness is comforting in a strange way. It is pondering missed people, remembering a special day that can never be again. It is a story to tell of both the good and the.bad of life. The “Evening in Paris Blue” lay like a blanket upon the earth. Everywhere you look it is blue and it is okay to be sad sometimes. it is a primary emotion. In its soberest of actions sadness cannot be explained very well but here in Evening Paris blue there is no explanation needed. it is just a feeling. It will pass but I will see Evening in Paris blue again.
Evening has fallen and I find myself sitting in a place of yearning, like being home sick. I am completely at peace. All is safe and warm yet I have a longing. I want to savor this life I have been given.
Every once in a while a moment will cling to me longer than others and it catches my breath because I want to stay there for a while before it becomes a memory. In those moments I might smell fresh cut grass or feel thunder shake the earth or laugh until my stomach muscles ache or taste the sweetness from the honeysuckle vine. Like an old reel to reel movie I see all of them. All of the memories. All of the generations of my family and I want to go home. What joy to know the God who loves us in a place where there’s no death or time. It is wonderful.
Today God orchestrated some happenings that I needed. It was an affirming whisper from him…
Such an intimate and sweet “I love you” from my Lord. I say intimate because He and I are the only ones who know. I say sweet because I am his daughter and he understands me.
Snapshot of my dreams, 4… “painting broken pictures with wounded hands.”
It was not eight o’ clock in the morning. It was not two days before Christmas, and my phone did not just ring and awaken me from a fitful dream.
If I do not allow these things to exist then all is well. You are alive, therefore, my world is on its axis and breathing continues…
I did not hear my husband’s footsteps coming down the hall. I did not hear the groan of that spot on the wooden floor that is worn and squeak under his weight. I did not feel someone sit on the end of our bed. He waited…
He could not be sitting there waiting because if he were it means you are dead. It would mean he is going to tell me so. It would mean that a light went out in my heart and all has gone dark…
This tiny act of turning my face toward my waiting husband confirms that he is there and he is going to tell me you didn’t make it. He will remind me they said your heart was too diseased which made repair difficult at best.
If I close my eyes and try with all my might to make things not happen, to never have this wretched day exist I would do it. Yet as the minutes tick relentlessly on I finally turn my head and open my eyes and it has to be said…you are dead. I step into a quicksand. I am dazed, cloudy in my head. I must face immortality with Faith. I had to face that the one who loved me the most in all this world was gone. Now I am painting broken pictures with wounded hands.
I am five years old and it is Christmas. We live in Memphis and it has snowed on Christmas Eve. The snow in the dawn’s twilight looks powder blue blanketing our yard. I have my nose to the window because Santa is coming! You are as excited as I and my brothers. The next morning we were up at the crack of dawn and there in the snow were the biggest boot prints I had ever seen. You said Santa walked around our yard because we don’t have a chimney so he came through our back door. I marveled at this possibility. It was pure magic at Christmas with you. It is quite appropriate that you died in the season you enjoyed the most.
Now I am forty- five and there is no snow, there are no boot prints in my yard. There is no joyous Christmas music. Just the silent weight of grief. I speak to friends but I am on autopilot. I have never lost someone I loved so much. It isn’t a feeling of sadness because I know your Faith in Christ is real. It isn’t a feeling at all. It is an altered state, a new dimension.
The funeral is blurred. I do all the daughter type things for my Mom. I have stayed with her these last two nights as she stares into space or weeps. It is December twenty sixth and I marvel at the amount of people who are here even though it is Christmas and they could be somewhere else having fun. People offer condolences, love, and prayer. They are kind. I do my best to be attentive to their kindness but I fail. I can’t think straight. I cannot imagine a world where you aren’t. There is no one else who will knock on my door every school morning and awaken me with a silly song or stand at my door and do a pretty good impersonation of Elvis, or call me by a nickname you gave me. There will never be another church service where I sit and listen to you teach the Word of God. There will never be another Daddy who came when I got hurt and picked me up and took me home. Never another strong arm as yours will be held up in front of me like a gate as protection when I am standing beside you in the front seat as you drive…(no seatbelts in those days) but the thought never crossed my mind that it wasn’t safe because you were there. I will never have another super hero who catches me when I jump in the deep end of the pool and don’t swim well yet. There is no one left on this earth that will understand the anger I sometimes had with Mom as a teen or the despair I felt when I got sick. I remember you wept when you saw my swollen joints and that I could barely walk. I saw your frustration at not being able to fix it. I always felt you were on my side. I always knew nothing I did could stop your love for me and I was right. Nor mind for you.
The day after the funeral came and went. Then the next day and the next and the next. I am robotic much of the time. The grief beats down my body with a crushing weight. I keep remembering our last conversation, it blesses me still. You said, ” Jesus was always “Center” for you. That following him (Jesus) is the most important issue for a dying world. You said, ” don’t follow politics or religion! Just follow Jesus.” Then you called me the apple of your eye. These words of endearment comfort me and little did I know they would be a greater comfort in the twenty-two years that have come to pass. So much left unsaid in snapshots, don’t you think Dad?
Jill Autrey Dorman 