My first time

I’m 32. Just turned 32 in November.

And I’ve never been in a house filled with death. I’m grateful for that but at this moment, right now, I am not feeling lucky.

See, my husband’s grandmother is dying.

She is the only grandmother I have ever known. She has been my psuedo-Granny Boo for 13 years.

She has seen me graduate college, get married, and have children; her great granddaughters.

She has supported us financially when my husband was unemployed, she has told me stories of “the farm”, where her husband grew up and sold Shell gas from the “store” right beside their house.

She was so proud of her husband and the family she married into.

And she adores my husband. He was her first grandchild. And they are bonded like none other I’ve ever witnessed.

But these are all just words because I can’t seem to get to the nitty gritty of how hard this is.

“This” being progression from living to dying to passing into eternal life.

I sit rocking unintentionally back and forth while my mother in law speaks . My mind takes in the smells, sounds of this once strong woman moaning in sheer pain because of the pressure on her brain, the sights of the once homey kitchen and dining room turned into a hospital like setting with syringes, a wheelchair, insurmountable bottles of prescriptions and half eaten breakfast from this morning.

This is so hard.

Tears well up and I refuse to go back and see her. I refuse to see death face to face. I’m scared she may wake up and I won’t have the words to convey how I feel, how much she means to me but also how I am utterly scared that she won’t be in my life, my husband’s life and my daughters’ lives.

Because I have never done this before.

So I go back to rocking and talking about morphine as if this is normal conversation. And I am sad struck as I realize that it isn’t.

And I rock some more and cry. I look at a picture of myself, her and my youngest daughter at her first birthday party. I have never seen this picture. And I want to say, she looked alive.

I get the courage to go inside her room, to kneel down and pray as I rest my hand on top of hers. And I pray that there would no longer be pain, that she would be free from suffering .

Because Jesus, this is hard. I haven’t seen anything like this before.

I pray for a great crowd of angels to be waiting for her and that He would allow her body to give way to death. To let go and give in to eternal life.

And by this point I am weeping, shaking, sobbing.

And there isn’t a word I want to hear. There isn’t a catch phrase that makes it better. But I don’t want to be better.

I want the hard and the ugly and the painful. Because this is real.

I want to be free to cry even if it means I’m not strong. I want to grieve and to open the gate for my tears to rush out of. The heartbreak is so much to bear and it can’t stay inside.

I utterly love this woman. And it isn’t until death meets her this evening that I can truly articulate that.

I love her so much that I want her death to be over. I want the resting place(that doesn’t feel much like rest) between this life and life eternal to end. I want the moaning, mortal body to awaken to life renewed in Jesus. I want her to leave this cozy home her husband built and cross the threshold of the one God has been preparing for her. The one she deserves and that He built with love filled hands specifically for her.

It’s my first time doing death and I’m already ready for it to be over.

So ready.

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