It is 2025, however, I am stuck in 2024 as my 90 year old mom is in a skilled nursing unit in excruciating pain.
There are those few hours when her pain meds kick in and give her sweet pain relief.
2024 hasn’t ended for me. The call to meet the ambulance at the hospital on one of the last few days of the year, is still one big blur. It is the longest day of my life thus far. Every moment since that moment: the longest day in the history of me. A long day has turned into a long month. It is still December, isn’t it? My Christmas tree is still up, unwrapped gifts are still on corner shelves.
- When will you end? Will there be a minute, when I breathe again.
- I am not looking forward to you.
If you bring pain relief and resolve all the unresolved issues of this terribly long year: I will acknowledge you.
I am so weary of 2024.
2025? Is it possible that you will enable me to fathom you; to enter into the march and cadence of your journey home?
Tomorrow. Perhaps.
2025. You announced yourself so rudely. The 5:30 a.m. phone call which came NOT on December 52, 2024, but on January 21st, 2025.
It was that call which startled me into reality. The reality I had seen coming. The reality that my heart would not accept, and my mind could not grasp. December 29th of 2024 was just a glimpse into the reality I knew was quickly approaching; the fate of my beloved mother.
What happened to New Year’s Day? Did I miss someone’s birthday? I worked on MLK Day which IS definitely in January; January, the first month of 2025.
How did 2025 slide into my life mostly undetected?
I was holding my breath for a really long time.
I was there. I was at work. I spent time congratulating myself for writing the date correctly. I never had to scratch out 2024. I KNEW it was 2025.
How? Why?
What was going on, here?
It was me. I was unable to accept the inevitable. I wanted to be sitting at my mother’s bedside, every minute of every last day, watching her breath; talking to her; singing the Doxology to her, or having my granddaughter sing the ABCs to her.
I know my mom heard. I saw her strain to hear Ellie’s sweet voice.
On the day she died, 1/21/25, the grief that I was holding back was unharnessed. The hope, the dread, the separation was a reality.
I am ready for you now 2025.
It is possible for me to fathom you.
I will enter into the march and cadence of my mom’s journey home.
She is there. I am here.
I look forward to seeing her again and hearing her beautiful side of the story. She can tell me what really happened on the day she left me.
The Kingdom of God opened and the LORD Himself welcomed her home.
