I walk the plank into the front wagon and weave my way through knee-high drifts while I try not to step on other feet or legs. D and I find our spot and lean back against the straw-padded side. We pile more straw over our legs and then lay a blanket over that. The green John Deere chugs down the path and through the field while we creak and sway behind. I’m wishing I’d brought the big-girl camera to capture shapes of weeds and tree branches in the twilight. We stop for a moment to change drivers and spy deer at the hem of the field. Stilled, they watch us and then bound into the woods when the tractor jerks forward. Stars begin to pierce the darkening canopy.
We’re on a hayride with our new Sunday School class.
It’s our third hayride ever. The first was shortly after our marriage 40-plus years ago when we joined D’s college roommate and a group of other “kids.” I remember we felt like chaperones, D says.
The next was when D pulled our little red trailer behind his dad’s old John Deere, the one we inherited and eventually gave to D’s nephew. That tractor burned up in an arson-set Kentucky barn fire along with 19 horses. Anyway, that night we carried our kids and nephews out through our back woods. At some point the hitch pin fell out. We didn’t realize it until we got back home and the trailer fell off when we piled out.
Tonight I gaze at the half moon above and remember that three years ago this month, I had just moved from the Augustine Center into Petoskey’s Hiland Cottage with my mother. We’d struggled with how to spend those last days–at home, in the local Tendercare, or this hospice house 30 miles away. Whether to fight to the end and maybe do more harm–or let go and leave everything in God’s hands. Mom had just been diagnosed with stage 4 brain cancer–a glioblastoma multiforme–and given only five weeks to live. We–and she–chose this place. My sister, dad, and I moved in as well and lived there throughout that November. They were hard and precious days.
I think about Brittany Maynard, the 29-year-old young woman with the same type tumor. She had scheduled this day to drink a lethal concoction and die, but decided to delay. I wonder if she knows Jesus.
My mom was not big on cold weather, but we’d bundle her up in her “hamburger” cape and Cat-In-The-Hat socks and wheel her outside where she’d sit and stare at the trees and the birds until our fingers turned blue. She’d marvel at the “sunspots” by day and the “moonspots” by night–like she was drinking in this world by the way the light refracted through the lenses of her glasses. I wondered what she thought about in the silent moments. It might have been fun to pad her well and take her on a hayride.
The colors this year have stunned me with their beauty. And I find myself thinking a lot these days about last things. Especially since I’m the matriarch of the family now.
What if I never see another red leaf?
What if this is the last tanned field of corn I crunch through?
What if this is my last sunrise?
What if I never again see a supermoon?
What if I never see another deer this side of heaven?
I breathe deep the scent of woods and straw and memories.
And I vow to not let a day–a moment–go by without drinking in its beauty.
To find forever in the now.
In the stillness,
Sandy
Chasing blue flowers with dear Laura.
This is such a tender place. I’m feeling these deep thoughts down in my marrow. I’m wishing I could reach through this screen and hug on you. Miss you, beautiful friend. Sending love.
Hugs about to commence… two weeks and a day… Love you.
This is such a precious post to read. Such tender words. Having recently moved my father-in-law to hospice (Alzheimer’s unit), we do come to realize the preciousness of life and time and drinking in the majesty of all our God has created. Thank you for this soothing your words provided today. Blessings!
Oh, so hard, Joanne. Praying for some sweet moments with your dad and sending much love.
This is so beautiful – bittersweet. “To find forever in the now.” Amen!!! Much love to you, sweet girl. xox
You walked with me through those days, dear friend. Much love to you. xox
This is so beautifully written, Sandra. I have a dear friend who would probably find your questions at the end of this piece, well, morbid. She lives very much in the here-and-now, never contemplating the hereafter. But to me, I think we HAVE to ask ourselves these questions every once in a while. Our lives are brief compared to eternity, and it’s good to focus in on how much we appreciate each day we are given and to take pleasure in all He provides for our enjoyment–like sunrises, sunsets, wild deer in the distance, sunspots, moonspots, the great adventure of a hayride, (I’ve ever only been on one), and yes, especially mothers.
Thank you, Sandra, for a lovely read this morning.
I can understand how your friend would find those questions morbid, Jillie. I don’t dwell too much on them, but I’m more aware lately of life’s brevity. Maybe it’s because I’m entering this month of memories. Sometimes I think back to my mom having her last three meals in her kitchen with my dad. When the ambulance came that night after she fell out of bed, she couldn’t know that was the last time she’d ever see her home, that that front door had permanently closed for her. I can drive myself crazy with those thoughts, so I don’t dwell there. 🙂
Finding forever in the now . . . I love that phrase, and all that it implies. Such a touchingly sad post, yet filled with wonder and appreciation for all of God’s creation. Beautiful photos, too, Sandy.
Blessings!
Thank you, Martha. Here’s a link to Emily’s poem…
http://www.poetryfoundation.org/poem/182912
Pretty much the most beautiful thing I’ve read. Ever. ‘Finding forever in the nows.’ I’m with you on the beauty lately, Sandra, I’ve been relishing it more and more…..
You are such a gift.
You are a gift to me, Jody. And above in my reply to Martha… is a link to Emily’s poem. You might like it. 🙂
Sandy, this is so exquisite, and it brought me to tears…..especially your response to Jillie. Suddenly my mind flashed to the last time I saw my father, standing on his own two feet, walking, if laboredly, out our side door into our garage, ready to get into Mike’s van so he could drive him and Mother home. Neither Daddy nor I could have known it would be the last time he was ever to visit us in our home. I recall the garage door rising, and Daddy standing there framed in that rectangular opening with the moon casting its shadow aglow on him, seeing how stoop-shouldered and frail he was, and thinking it was death’s shadow that was framing him. I photographed that moment in my mind, and yet was too frightened to linger over that thought for long. Very shortly after, he broke his neck in a fall. He wasn’t paralyzed, but it was the beginning of the end, and the beginning of a horrible five-months’ odyssey of suffering. And yet, just as you experienced such precious moments with your darling mother, so I did w/ Daddy. Sadly, his great pain and suffering permeated the good, the memorable–even donimated it–but just being with him, praying for and with him, singing with him in that hospital room, were moments I don’t think either of us would have relinquished.
I was also just talking about my beloved Jewish friend tonight to my husband, saying how much I missed him…..thinking too about Ms. Maynard, because my friend, LD, also died from gioblastoma….just like your dear mom, just like Ms. Maynard has. But like you and your mother, LD clung to God, life, and his family. He savored every possible moment he could on this earth, wrote poetry every day about his journey, and left the timing of his entrance into heaven in God’s hands. Yes, he was a poet, just like you, who knew that eternity really does begin right here, right now for those who love God, who know Jesus, and he knew that now is to be treasured for the utter gift that it is.
I so love what you have written, and thank you deeply for it. I hope I’m making sense. I’m very sleepy……and emotional.
Love
Lynn
So your words, as they so often do, Lynn, moved me to tears. And brought to mind the last time I saw my MIL as we pulled out of the drive of their new home built on Big Creek. She stood in front of the rusted, flower-filled kettle that hung from the old farm bell post. She was waving. I waved goodbye through the back windshield. There were no cell phones in those days, and it was a 2-day drive back to Georgia. The wall phone was ringing when we walked in the house, and my SIL told us Mom was in ICU. We hopped on a plane and flew back to Michigan. (I may have written that story here somewhere.) Anyway, she hadn’t been feeling well during our visit. They finally called an ambulance, and she was admitted with hemorrhagic pancreatitis. I still remember how the nurses lifted her gown to show me the discoloration of her skin and how the staff gathered us around the table to tell us the odds and how the family looked to me for the final nod to remove life support. I’ve had to let guilt go over that–because I didn’t recognize how sick she was. She was tired, but never let on how sick she really was. If she’d gotten earlier care…
But then there’s God. And He’s sovereign. And I love you.
So beautifully written. “I vow to not let a day–a moment–go by without drinking in its beauty” speaks deeply to me. We must cherish the time we have on this beautiful earth. Thanks for the lovely reminder! (we are in the Compassion bloggers group together, and I found you online.) 🙂
Thanks so much, Nicki. It’s good to meet with you here, too. Keep drinking. 🙂
I am wondering witb you Sandra through tears with memories of yesterday and hope for the future. You touched me in some deep spots today. Love to you.
Hugs to you, Kelly. And I’m praying for you and #Ferguson.
Woah, Sandra, my knees buckled reading this and learning your mom passed away from the same tumor as Brittany! This piece is so incredibly beautiful and moving and precious…you are so brave and your mama was, too. The bravest. I’m going to pay extra attention to the leaves today. xoxoxoxoxoxo
And your poem touched me deep, Amy. May we both walk with eyes wide open. xoxo
To find forever in the now. Yes. This. The beckoning of my heart these days.
Oh my. Tears sliding down my cheeks as I recall how my MIL went into the hospital, then on to a nursing home because my FIL just couldn’t be her caretaker anymore.
I’ve thought along these lines so many times..how we just never know if what we see or do is our last time. Truly, truly we need to see each moment as a gift. <3