Woven through the brokenness and unexpected nature of each personal struggle in 2020, I still see, every time, the grace threads, God’s fingerprints. Often my biggest disappointments became my greatest blessings.
Early Christmas morning I crept with squinted eyes into the kitchen, groping around for migraine medicine. I still savored the exquisite flavors of last night’s crab legs with drawn butter, and the flourless chocolate cake, but my head was paying the price.
I sat in the foggy darkness, coffee in hand, agreeing with myself that my morning headache was worth it. I expected and planned for this headache.
What I didn’t expect was a phone call at 6:00 a.m. on Christmas morning.
“It’s your Mom. She’s conscious, but not speaking. She’s on her way to the hospital.”
The weirdest thing I’m going to say is this: It felt right on schedule.
If you’re following me (let’s pretend I really have “followers” and not just amazing friends cheering me on), you know that laced between quarantine, job loss, bank fraud, Covid-19, civil unrest, wildfires, political angst and a little old worldwide pandemic, Jim and I both lost our fathers in 2020.
Like my Dad, Mom has dementia. In fact, her dementia began years before Dad’s, but took a slow and even slide, rather than the wild and unpredictable plummet of my Dad’s decline. I found the differences in their decline fascinating, and wrote about it in Three Hours of Summer, where I explored the therapeutic nature of physical presence for those with dementia, and the Gordian knot of this need for family and familiar vs. protecting our elderly during a pandemic.
Dad’s care facility understood that need and advocated for me to take him out on careful, socially distanced walks, and at last the coveted permission was granted.
About 45 minutes after I found out I had COVID-19.
Plot twist.
How many times in 2020 have I wept over my own crushed plans? They look so shiny and perfect to me, and it’s such an easy, greased slide into self-pity. How could God not rubber stamp my excellent plot lines?
By the time I could prove I was COVID-free, my father was in the hospital, the one where I sit now with my Mom. And although I got to spend that last, precious week with Dad in the hospital, we never walked together in the sun again.
But those walks?
Once Dad was gone, they became my Mom’s. A divine legacy, a collaboration between Dad and God himself. Both of them adore my Mom, and would do anything for her.
So, wheezing, I pushed her wheelchair up neighborhood hills, and then hung on for dear life as we rolled back down. We drank tea and nibbled scones in the car overlooking the wildlife refuge, the one with Dad-memories all over it (see One Fine Day). We had impromptu, God-ordained reunions with old neighbors in the cul de sac; we sipped pumpkin shakes as we drove through the country on a crisp and colorful fall days; we laughed as we looked through old photo albums in the car right in the parking lot.
The time with my Mom, several days a week, was a delightful gift to both of us in the absence of my father. But I confess to some tension each time I head toward the retirement village, because I can’t predict what Mom’s needs are and create my own perfect, sure-to-please plan.
I don’t particularly like not knowing the plot.
But I’m learning to pray as I draw near: “Lord, let me be enough for whatever is waiting there for me!” It’s my way of handing over my five little loaves and two measly fish.
Spoiler: He multiplies them.
Again and again, God is enough. I have watched him do this same amazing thing over the last five years--the ones laced with the agony of watching my parents change, fail, need, move, resist, and grow restless on this earth.
And woven through the brokenness and unexpected nature of each personal struggle in 2020, I still see, every time, the grace threads, God’s fingerprints. Often my biggest disappointments became my greatest blessings.
When I look back, there is always evidence that he went before, followed after, and carried us every step in between.
He is always well-timed. Or as Dad used to say, “God is seldom early, but he is never late.”
So when the phone rang on this particular Christmas day, the timing felt right. God had already cleared my calendar--no guests or plans on Christmas Day for the first time in… well, ever. I already had the COVID antibody. I had prayed about time with Mom on Christmas. And three family members were booked to arrive in three days.
When the plot twists, God is fully in control and up to something good.
How does a 93-year-old survive a stroke? Is Mom is going home to heaven for Christmas? I thought she might, but instead she lingers, she rallies, she grins at me, her speech slowly returning. At the time of this post, she is back in her Memory Care facility, doing surprisingly well.
Maybe the plot is about my siblings having family time with her in the hospital? No; they arrive and unexpectedly find they have COVID-19. A weirdly fitting plot twist for the end of this surprising year. Tonight we dined awkwardly at two different ends of our 12-foot table, giggling through masks, and offering advice and empathy.
I’m telling a story that is still unfinished here on earth, but already written in heaven. I can’t tell you the “why” or the “what” quite yet. But right here in the muddled middle, here’s what I know:
I am not in control.
God writes better plot lines than I.
He can always be trusted.
His timing is perfect.
In the wild ride of 2020, he has tipped his cards and shown me his character, his trustworthiness, and his loving kindness. Can I trust him? Can I relax and let him write the story?
I’m inching forward in faith, learning that joy isn't tied to my own plans, but to the peace that comes when you trust the Author.
All the way my Savior leads me, What have I to ask beside? Can I doubt His tender mercy, Who through life has been my Guide? Heav'nly peace, divinest comfort, Here by faith in Him to dwell! For I know, whate'er befall me, Jesus doeth all things well.[1]
[1] All the Way My Savior Leads Me, Fanny Crosby, 1875
Love you sis. God is defiantly the author. Sitting on the rock is the best place to be. He knows what we meed.I lost my businrss in 2020. Hanging on.one day at a time. Damion is a great Friend amd partner thru it all. What a blessing. God is Good
Kathy, thank you for writing about your mom--and dad, and everything else you have written so beautifully about. I'm praying for you mom and all of your family. I'm so excited that you have this great blog post going.