Coming Home

Mom and I came home today.

It feels like forever and a day has passed since we left but it was only ten days ago.  Soon after we pulled out of my little brother's driveway in Delaware, Charlotte buried herself under her soft pink blanket and drifted off to sleep while Mom and I put on a Fashioned by Faith podcast. 

Like mother like daughter.

I had been meaning to listen to my friend, Lisa, speak during her weekly podcast for a while now but just never found the time.  So I was excited to have a road trip to play the podcast through the car speakers since I finally remembered to upload the podcasts to my phone.  At random, I put on one of Lisa's talks that happened to be about Natural Family Planning (NFP).  Mom and I shrugged as we began to listen to the talk even though the topic doesn't really apply to us anymore.  Mom remembered my inspiring friend from my Young Adult Days in Lititz, Lancaster, and Harrisburg and wanted to listen to her wisdom as much as I.  It felt like Lisa was in the car with us as we listened to her voice over the car speakers.  Well, that is when folks weren't calling us or the GPS wasn't interrupting us.  It was very stop and go at times with pausing Lisa in mid-sentence to take a call or to more closely listen to the GPS directing us on where to go.

So, that's what makes this next part of the story about coming home so bittersweet.  As we got closer and closer to home, I noticed a church sign that said, "Be still and know that I am God".  This was my pregnancy verse with Charlotte and after listening to nearly two hours' worth of Natural Family Planning information, thinking back to being pregnant with Charlotte and the anticipation of possibly being pregnant in the year leading up to the wedding prior to her joining our family was on my mind.  So, at first, when I saw that sign I thought, "Ok, ok, I'll still try to be still and sit in that knowledge, God" because at first, the verse used to bring me sadness in thinking how it represented the joyful excitement of expecting and not knowing if the baby was a boy or girl and how many more times would I get to experience this feeling at one time but then served as a cruel reminder that it would not happen again.  These days, though, it makes me think of how I should not busy myself to keep the grief at bay and to sit in the confidence that God knows what he's doing with my family and my life.  However, I was mistaken...I think today's sign reminder was for something else.  I pointed the sign out to my Mom for we were both thinking ahead about going home to an empty house that would not have Dad there for the first time.  A few minutes after bypassing that sign, we found ourselves sitting at a red light right outside the hospital Dad had stayed in for nine days prior to his coming home for the last time.  I forced myself to look at the hospital and to try to think of Dad being in that building so close to the end of his earthly time here with us.  It was strange to look at a building I had never been in and to think that he spent so much of his last days there...away from us.  Lisa's voice broke through my reverie (the podcast was still on) when she cited Song of Songs (Ch. 4) about love and a garden.  She made the analogy of usually having access to the garden but sometimes we don't have access to it.  Hearing this analogy made me think of how any other time, folks can enter hospitals but nowadays they can't due to the virus which reminded me of those long agonizing nine days we were all separated from him.  Additionally, I couldn't help but think of how Mom and Dad have always been there for us.  They've always been accessible.  Now my Mom and brothers, and others who loved Dad, and I are unable to physically access him anymore.  Like the garden in the scripture, we don't have access to him anymore when we used to...but I also like to think of it this way.  He is in the ultimate of gardens in Paradise!  We don't have access to Heaven but I pray Dad does and that we'll all be reunited someday!  I was so thankful to hear that piece of scripture via Lisa at that exact moment we were driving by the hospital.  All the pausing and playing throughout the day's road trip lead to that very moment of her speaking those words about having access and not having access at the very spot where we were denied access when Dad was in the hospital prior to his death.

The light turned green, we took a deep breath, and we pressed forward up the mountain as we continued homeward.  Be still and know.....be still and know.......it's going to be okay.


Mom drawing in a gasp interrupted this little mantra going through my head on autopilot a few minutes later.  Immediately, I knew why she reacted the way she did.  An ambulance from the next town over had just passed us out on the highway...which happened to be the same ambulance company on the exact same route that Dad had taken from the hospital to our house that last drive up the mountain for him.  Be still and know....be still and know....even when missing someone so tremendously....be still and know God is in control and knows what He's doing....down to every little detail like speaking through Lisa on a podcast that aired in January or having the ambulance ride side by side with us as we rode up 61.  It felt like the ambulance appearing at that moment was symbolic of Dad riding with us as we approached the home he and Mom built for the first time without him.

Later, when reflecting on these things in prayer, I wanted to learn more about St. Luke as this is what the name of the hospital is.  He is known as St. Luke the Evangelist and is the patron saint of artists, physicians (that makes sense on the hospital end, then!), bachelors, surgeons (ah!), students, and butchers (yikes!).  I also learned that the name Luke means:  light giving.  Isn't that so reassuring?  Something we heard from a family friend who is a doctor during the last days was to leave the light on for Dad during the night especially during the agitation.  I was surprised to learn that even though Dad's eyes were closed, and he seemed unresponsive to us, that it is suggested to leave the light on to bring comfort to the dying.  As we all took turns holding vigil, we all left the small bedside lamp on for him giving him light.  Then, in thinking about these last few days with Dad, staring at where his bed had been and up at the now turned off lamp, the thought crossed my mind that I hadn't taken the time to see from his vantage point what the view must have been like.

Charlotte often played on the pink rug in the living room.  I remember sitting on the floor with her and positioning myself so that I could see the both of them at the same time:  Dad smiling from the bedroom out at her while she busily played with the Little People or built roads and navigated the toy cars on the roads.  He even tried to wave a few times at her from inside his room when he was too weak to get out of the bed.  However, what I love about this view is that he could see all eight of his grandchildren up on the mantle.  They brought HIM so much light and joy!  How neat that when he looked out he could see their smiling faces!  Now, when I look at this view, I see the fireplace reminding me of the need to give off light and Dad's shadow box of his Air Force medals and flag that is beneath his grandchildren...even in death, he is lifting them up and not far from them.  I hope they always remember Grandpa/Pappy/Papa.

Dad leaves behind a huge void and it's easy to get sucked up in the blackness but he wouldn't want us wandering around in the dark.  St. Luke reminds us to be pinpricks of light.  As my brothers and I gather around Mom yet again during these days of being reunited at home, I like to think of the little bobbing lights getting stronger and stronger as we flicker in unity. 

The biggest flame is missing but God is sustaining us and allowing our small flames to still give off heat and light.  Just like for the companions on the journey and on the road to Emmaus - - it's different.  It's not the same - - but we're still burning with love.