My Anchor in the Storm

The hospice workers are pretty amazing. Such compassionate, gifted people. Today Mama had her hair shampooed and nails filed, by a hospice aid. And then a massage therapist came and somehow gently massaged Mama, as she reclined in her chair, for at least half an hour. And Mama never hollered once!

The hospice nurse visited as well and had some suggestions for us for her care. I’m so thankful for the support.

And yet I come home, after Mama is tucked in bed for a nap with Dad, and I feel exhausted. And I just want to curl up and cry.

It’s hard to see Mama struggling so much to get up. And to know she is bending over and struggling so to walk. It’s heartbreaking to see her stare blankly. I just want to do something to make her all better. I want my Mom back. I want to see her smile again. I want to hear her laugh.

I want her to look at me and know me again.

My eyes are misty. I feel weak. My heart literally aches.

As I fed Mama lunch today she reached out and gently patted my arm and played with my sleeve. And it was a sweet comfort. A loving touch.

And before Dad laid down in bed to nap with Mom, I took his place for a few minutes. And Mama snuggled against me and patted my back.

These are the tender mercies I savor.

I have brothers that do what they can to help. I am blessed with a husband who is so understanding and supportive and helpful. I have a daughter and son that are incredible caregivers to their grandma. And we have other great care givers that faithfully help us and now we also have the resources and support of hospice.

And these are the pillars I count on for help in holding Mama up.

And most importantly we have Jesus, the savior of our souls. And because of His death and resurrection, because He took the punishment for our sins, and because Mama believed in Him, I know she will be better than okay. She will be in paradise when God calls her Home. And we will be together again someday.

And then I will have my mom back. And I will see her smile again. And I will know she knows me. And I will hear her laugh once more.

And this is the certain hope I have, the anchor to my soul, in this turbulent storm.















A Song of Mama Love

I sit next to Mama on the love seat and start to sing our Bushel and a Peck song. “I Love you…”  I sing and then I pause for Mama to sing her part.

But instead of the next line, “A bushel and a peck”, Mama sings, “I know that you do…” making up her own melody.

I smile and try again with the same results.

We sit and talk as Mama pats my arm. Actually it’s more of a flutter tapping. As if she is counting thirty two beats to a measure. But so gently, and her hands are so soft. Sometimes she strokes my arm. Sometimes she slides her hand under my sleeve and flutter taps for a while there.

And I relish every little touch.

She holds my hand, and I remember the security I felt holding her hand when I was young. And I think about all the meals her hands have prepared. And all the dresses her hands have sewn and all the comforting they have given to babies and all the words they have typed at work.

And now those hands are pale and the skin is so delicate and wrinkly and semi-transparent. Some joints bulge with arthritis. And the hands no longer sew or type or cook.

But Mama’s hands still comfort her daughter. And her gentle flutters tap out a song of Mama love.