In transit

Last Sunday found me, as it often does, sitting at my oversized desk with piles of stationary roundabout and pen in hand, scribbling on paper and cardstock; spilling thoughts and news, opening heart and making love known.

I love to write letters (you'd think blogging would fill my writing void enough) and have taken to not only writing letters to friends and family, but taking special care to send weekly lovegrams to those widowed and/or sick.

Lately, there are many.

These are the people who need love notes the most, and get them the least. A dying person, a lonely person, a person in pain~ I like to think that well wishes written and mailed, with an occasional drawing of love from children tucked within, might make a day brighten even for just a moment. Even a brief moment of pain subsided is worth any time at all I can give to that cause.

And so, Sunday was filled with pen to paper, sharing of our plans and news to divert attention from the bad and the hopeless, written promises of "Always praying" and declarations of love. Love is not a thing to keep secret.

Evening came and crisp, white pile sat tidy on the corner of the desk, awaiting Monday's mail. I went to bed, happy in the thought that I took the time to send love, and dreaming of the joy on the pained faces when they saw a note in the mail. For THEM. One of those licked and stamped envelopes held the name Oma van der Jagt.

But yesterday, just two days after Mailman took them away, news came. Terrible news. There was an accident. A fall. A day of lying on the floor, helpless, unable to get help, unable to stand the pain. A day of confused husband not knowing the phone numbers of his children or of the on-call nurses...Alzheimer's stealing his only means of getting help and old age stealing his ability to help lift her to safety~ but love, love enduring enough to push pillows round his Beloved to make her comfortable.

No one expected her to live through the night. Every hour that her frail heart pounds within her is one that was not expected. Every moment, every phone call...we wait.

Choking sadness overwhelms me. Matt isn't here to wrap me in his arms and comfort my heaving body. When my head hurts from pain, I have to find comfort in clutched, heartless pillows. He can't stroke my head, he can't soothe me with quiet words.

The sadness I feel doesn't come from death. I am not afraid for Oma to die. Many times I prayed that the Lord would ease her suffering, bring her home to Him and wrap His arms around her. That she be let go of the burdens of this life, that she be COMFORTED. I remember those prayers. They have just barely left my lips, so recent have they been uttered.

No, the deep sadness that I feel is heart-wrenching pain of knowing that her last hours on earth may have been spent utterly helpless and in pain, without means of getting help. I see her frail pajama-clad body suffering on the cold, hard floor... It grieves me to think of what she had to endure these last two days.

And it pains me that somewhere, a crisp white envelope addressed to Oma van der Jagt may arrive too late.