April 15, Jesus Calling, Sarah Young
"Trust Me, and don't be afraid. Many things feel out of control. Your routines are not running smoothly. You tend to feel more secure when your life is predictable. Let Me Lead you to the rock that is higher than you and your circumstances. Take refuge in the shelter of My wings, where you are absolutely secure…"
My phone lays quietly, often in some remote spot I left it in. No need to hover anymore for her call. Mom's call. It would come at 10, then 3, and then 9 pm when I was readying for bed. I startle now, when the phone rings. My heart leaps for a brief instant, and then I pause, realizing I no longer have any idea who it might be.
Its so quiet. How do you fill the silence? And that space. That "Mary Ann," shaped space in my life that refuses to fill right now, with anything else.
I numbly stumble my way into Dr. Panwalkar's exam room on Tuesday. When he asks how I am, I blankly answer, "Okay, I'm okay."
He pauses, searching my face for clues. "Why just okay?"
The tears rimming my eyes, threaten to slip, as my voice hushes and I barely squeak out a reply "My mom died a week ago."
We sit in silence a moment or two.
Dr. P's face registers compassion, and understanding. As usual, his understatement speaks volumes to me.
But I already feel it, hovering in the space between us.
And really? I'm still in that haze of grief and loss and what just happened to us?
Suddenly, I see we've moved on as I shift my focus again.
But when we go over the PET scan? And he shows the 3 tumors that have grown?
"Oh well," I think. Because I can't multiply sadness any longer. I just can't add more + more + more.
The news barely registers.
At the end of our conversation, I remind Dr. Panwalkar its been 4 years. He smiles, in acknowledgement.
Then says, "You are a trooper," while shaking his head.
And I tell him, I am lucky, and beyond grateful, and have a deep desire to keep going on.
He walks me to infusion and as he reaches over to side hug me- I reach my arm back around his side and hug him right back.
Even though I have no earthly idea how I am going to do this.
This much I know is true.
I deeply desire moving forward.
Today, I am going to have my brain MRI with sedation. I am bringing you all with, to pray over.
I'll be back with results soon.
I also long to come back and share about my mom's funeral.
Her dollar story.
The word "come," and my Uncle Ernie.
And the gem of a quote my mother wrote on a small square of paper she carried with her.
It lightens my heart to come here and share. This is one way, I know, will help me find my way back from the grief filled haze that obscures my days right now.