Waiting and Letting Go

In Mark 10:15 Jesus says, "I tell you the truth, anyone who doesn’t receive the Kingdom of God like a child will never enter it.” - NLT

Do you understand what that means? It doesn't mean you must be a child to gain access to heaven; it means you must have faith and trust like a child...or an old person.

For over a year, my mother-in-law's health has declined to the point of needing more care than could be received at home. In recent days the decline has reached a critical point, and her departure from this life seems eminent. For fifteen years, since the death of her sweet husband, Mom Beckie has wanted to go to heaven. She has prayed for it every night. She will be 96 years old at midnight, if the Lord allows. 

Don't think for a moment that for the last fifteen years she has been a sad, depressed woman waiting to die. Her quick wit, sassiness, and witness for the Lord has been just as strong through her infirmities as it was in days of youth and good health. When asked last week if we wanted a Hospice chaplain to visit, my husband told them, "Sure, if he doesn't mind being preached to." She is tired and ready to go home. She has trusted God long enough, experienced His love long enough that the gravitational pull toward heaven is stronger than anything earth has to offer...including all of us, her family and friends. As I think of the wonders she will experience in just a short while, I am quite jealous. She will meet her Savior face to face, receive a new body and won't need the old earthly one any longer.

A few days ago as family stood around her bed, we asked her "what is your favorite song?" I expected her to say Amazing Grace, Just As I Am, or It is Well with My Soul. But no, in a voice barely above a whisper she said, "Jesus Loves Me." So, we sang Jesus Loves Me through tears. Yesterday when a dear friend visited, she wanted her to sing Away in a Manger. These are the songs of her childhood, still treasured and remembered. In child-like faith and anticipation of what is to come she waits...and we wait, but must let her go. No goodbyes; just I love yous and we will see you again soon.

Charlotte Laney 

Copyright 2017

Squeaky Hinges and Damp Clay

Psalm 139:14 says, "I praise you, for I am fearfully and wonderfully made. Wonderful are your works; my soul knows it very well."  Our bodies and minds are indeed wonderfully made. Memories enrich our lives daily.  

Muscle memory kicks in whenever we bend to tie a shoe, button a shirt, wipe a counter, or pour a cup of coffee. Whenever I forget one of the myriad passwords our technological world has forced upon us...I just close my eyes, place my fingers on the keyboard and they usually know where to go. Long-term memories are stored deeply within our brain and are often released like freeing a caged bird. Memories can be pleasurable or sad, comforting or frightening. 

For me, sweet childhood memories of my grandfather are triggered by the feel of stiff denim, the smoothness of a felt hat, the sound of a squeaky hinge, or the pungent smell of damp clay.

My dad's dad died when I was only three, so the  only grandfather I remember was my Grandpa G. He usually wore denim overalls and a felt hat. He was a man's man, but soft-spoken; I don't ever recall hearing him raise his voice in anger. I was surprised to learn he was 5 feet 11 inches since to me he seemed so much taller. Grandpa kept a bag of pecan sandies out of reach on top of their little refrigerator and would sometimes share with me. Grandma wasn't quite as free in sharing, especially her beloved Pepsis. Grandpa had a work shed behind their house on School Street in North Belmont. I doubt it ever had a coat of paint. There were tools and all kinds of mysterious items of interest to a curious little girl. It was off limits unless we were with him, and I would follow him anywhere. I remember the weathered wood, the squeaky hinge when he opened the door. But the clearest memory is the smell of musty, damp clay. 

Time passed and Grandpa's health began to fail. His frequent falls made it necessary for them to move from the little house on School Street to live with my aunt and uncle. In one day my grandparents watched while everything of assumed value was divided, and decades of memories were thrown in a pile and burned. It was one of the saddest days ever. 

As I said, some memories are pleasurable...and some are sad. I treasure them both. That day reminds me to hold possessions loosely. In the end, what remains are memories we create, the lives we touch, and the relationships we nurture. All the rest just ends up in a box or a pile of trash.

Charlotte Laney 
Copyright 2017