A Life
Light flashes
streaks
disappears
before one breath is taken
As does life
in the eyes of our creator.
So many moments
experiences
loves
hates
touching lives
lives touching
all jammed
into
one breath
then it's gone
leaving nothing
to show
a soul ever lived.

Behind the Obvious

My friend who had a brain tumor removed several weeks earlier sat across the table from me in our favorite restaurant. My excitement gushed out in inquiries about her recovery.
As nonsense poured out of her mouth, my eyes filled and my mouth dropped open in spite of my efforts to keep it closed. My throat swelled. This couldn’t be happening. Removing that tumour was supposed to restore her brain function.
Within hours, my friend was ambulanced to the closest intensive care hospital, and I was left behind to pace my home, trying to convince myself that all things do work together for the benefit of those who love the Lord. No way could I see how this fearful situation could benefit anyone.
A phone call came from my friend's grandson. Her head was filled with infection. She was already in surgery to clean it out. This procedure would restore her brain function.
I thanked him and hung up, hoping he was right, yet afraid to believe it would.
In due time, my friend returned to our local hospital. When I entered her room, she lay still on the bed, pale faced, with an angry candy cane-shaped incision on her temple.
Her eyes fluttered open and a smile lit her face. She reached for my hand. "I'm so glad to see you."
After returning her greeting I sat on a chair in the corner. "Why did this have to happen?" I mused to myself as much as her.
My friend leaned back into the pillows. "There's things we'll never understand as long as we are on earth, but this whole experience, as bad as it was, had a bright light."
I raised my eyebrow, inviting her to continue.
"As I lay on whatever I lay on in the intensive care unit, I heard a young man sobbing on the other side of the curtain that separated us. I did what all grandmothers do. I tried to console him. Accepting my friendship, he told me about the accident he'd been in, how his life was about to change, how scared he was.
As he admitted his fears to me, I realized I'd battled with the same thoughts, but I knew Jesus was nearby and I talked about my heartbreak with him. I shared this with the young man and his sobs stopped. He left the unit earlier than me, but before he left, he stopped by my bed and thanked me for my concern, and for reminding him that Jesus is our strength when our own is gone.
My friend stared out the window a bit, then turned back to me. "I'm not saying I went through this second surgery just to share God's love with that young man, but it certainly made the whole ordeal worthwhile."

Tenacity

As I looked out my window this morning a sinking feeling swept through me. By the end of April I should be looking for the first dandelion poking through green grass. Not seeing a blizzard.

Scratching and banging against my house caught my attention, and I ran to the back door.

There, some lined up on the fence, and others clinging to a lilac skeleton, were a dozen tiny robins shivering in the wind. As if responding to a command they all took flight, landing on the barren Virginia Creeper branches clinging to my house. Instantly the dried purple berries disappeared and once more the robins hoovered together as if sharing warmth.

Their determination to survive regardless of overwhelming odds moved me to consider my own attitude and my head lowered in shame. Changed plans, procrastination, discouragement, were all reasons I can give, but to my little friends out my window, these are nothing but sounds they do not understand.

Three months ago, fortune favoured me. I was married to a wonderful, adventure loving husband. Our grown children were only a phone call away. Our greatest joy was taking our grandchildren exploring, then watching the wonderment cross their faces as they experienced new sights. In two years, he would retire. We planned to buy a camper, load up our dog and cat, and head into the sunrise, stopping when something caught our attention. Where we ended up, or when we returned, it didn’t matter. We would be together, laughing, exploring the continent hand in hand.
Then we heard that word no one wants to hear. Cancer. Twenty-one days later, I buried my husband.
Darkness came. Oppressing, fearful, darkness. Filled every nook of my being. Life whirled past me, just out of reach. I heard people talking, but the meaning of their words evaded me. I fought to connect with the person I used to be, but she remained a stranger. Her tenacity for life mocking me as I struggled to get out of bed each day. Questions bombarded my thoughts. Why did it happen? Why him and not me? An urgency to believe he’s with God arrived. Desperation to understand challenged my faith. Restlessness had me pacing, wringing my hands, clenching my fists. My life was no longer life.
When I thought I'd never laugh again, a pin prick appeared in the darkness . I inched toward it, terrified. Yet something prodded me on. As I neared the tiny hole, the oppression lifted a bit. The air changed. Became warm, inviting, and not at all fearful. My heart quickened. Perhaps life does go on beyond death.
Before I could change my mind, I dressed in my exercise clothes I hadn’t worn for weeks and headed to the gym. Every muscle in my body screamed as I conquered the machines one by one, but when I ended the session, tightness that gripped my head loosened. As I stepped outside, I paused at the brightness of the sun, felt the crisp winter breeze caressing my cheeks, and smelled the aroma of fresh doughnuts coming from the bakery across the street. Indefinable joy swept through me. I was still alive.
At home I turned on my computer and began to write. At first, only a few words made it to the screen, but slowly, ever so slowly, my thoughts rose above the grief and a story wormed its way into my heart. Tears flowed down my cheeks as the scenes linked together, but this time, they brought hope, a promise that maybe someday I would find myself again.