Friday, March 13, 2015

are we there yet?



It fills my prayer life, initially brave, then begging, now pleading desperately. It sounds like a whiny child needing to stretch her legs and possibly dying for a good potty break. It consumes the little vehicle God and my family and I are traveling. We hit mile markers, make progress, cover thousands of proverbial miles, only to need to move further. 

Are we there yet, God? 

The move of him from home to care facility, doesn't that put us close enough? You count the tears, hundreds of them dripping and dropping, leaving clear trails down my cheeks. You know the heaviness of my heart, long for me to hand it over, but first I ask. 

Are we there yet, God? 

Losing him, the man with the dry humor, the leader of all the things, the father bold in his love and provision. Is that not close enough? You hear my shattering heart, collect the pieces with patience and care, leaving a warmth behind despite the coldness of my soul. You know the ways in which I am desperate, long for me to welcome you in, but first I ask. 

Are we there yet, God? 

He's so thin, so frail, so messy. I sit on the couch trying to wake him, two other residents slumber in sloppy heaps of flesh next to him and I spare us all the tears. Are we not close enough now? You see the brokenness; I know you are faithful to bring beauty to this. You know redemption, you did it once, you'll do it again and again and again. You promise it to me. But first, I ask. 

Are we there yet, God? 

Dementia is the "are we there yet?" disease. Some days I pity myself and this hand of cards we've been dealt. But then I remember, life is filled with times of disease -even just figuratively- where we raise our hands and want to know when THERE will come over the horizon.

Are we there yet, God? 

We're driving through a desert, dying for some coolness and the mirage of a watering hole just continues to evade us. I find a map of my own making and I wander off, I think hard, I worry plenty, I grow itchy in the stillness. I wander -mostly in thought, but sometimes in faith and in physicality. I wander aimlessly, without searching for something new, but, instead, seeking something old, comfortable, some remnant of life as it was before. 

Are we there yet, God? 

I'm ready to be there, to know he's done suffering, to be relieved of the freshness of grief with each coming visit. I'm ready to settle down, be still and warm, find comfort rather than hunger deeply, but then there is Him. Patient always, care-filled constantly, true despite my qualms and questions. 

9 comments:

  1. I am awful about commenting, but frequent your blog often to catch up.
    Your words always soothe, and move me.

    Thank you for sharing your life so close - and personally. It's such a brave (and rare) thing to find on the internet. When you and yours come to mind - or pop up in my feed - I pray that you're surrounded in his peace, and that you continue to turn all of it around for good. For the love of everything - please keep writing. There's redemption in your words.

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  2. I've read through both yours and your mother's blogs and I'm honestly humbled by the love you both have for your father. I have nothing to compare that "are we there yet?" feeling to, but it is incredible to watch you handle it with such grace. Praying for you this very day.

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  3. Katie @ A Beautiful Little AdvMarch 13, 2015 at 6:36 AM

    You continue to be so brave and so bravely share your heart. Be strong. Your love is doing amazing things even if you can't feel it/see it. I believe that.

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  4. Beyond beautiful Amber... as always. You have a way with words. Don't ever forget that friend.


    -Kate
    www.theflorkens.com

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  5. I'm so sorry you and your family have to go through this. This post was just beautifully written. Echoing what Anna said.

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  6. This gave me CHILLS. I think the feelings you describe can be applied to so many situations, Amber. The way you have with word amazes me every time.

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  7. Oh my. Your strength is such a power to behold. Your way with words is exquisite and rare. The way you seep into my heart, it is breathtaking.

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  8. Oh my sweet dear friend. No words Of mine will do anything. But know that I am praying for you. Praying closeness and comfort.

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  9. Prayers for you my friend! *hugs*

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