Heather,
It is hard to believe that you are
gone. Those six months since we found out about your cancer where so full,
lovely, and quick. I long to talk to you again so I thought I would write you a
letter, maybe you can take a break from riding your moped in heaven to read
this novel, I have a lot to say. Please don’t be mad that I stole your blog
audience; don’t worry, my letter to you will be a distance second to your
incredible posts. As you can imagine, my mind is churning over the future and
what that might look like without you. Your memories will always be crystal
clear to me. The rawest question I have dealt with lately is, “What do I tell
Levi and Ivey about you years down the road, when the memories begin to fade?”
How do I capture you in a few stories? How do I represent a life as rich as
yours?
It’s remarkable how a person’s life
can climax at the end. It’s amazing that someone’s life can shine the brightest
during pain. I guess suffering has a way of stripping away the non-essentials.
When pondering this question, the things that stand out the most happened in
your last few months, not because they are the freshest memories, but because
they were the most beautiful. I think of you talking to the radiologist when we
were in the hospital for what seemed like the hundredth time to get your fluid
drained. You told me that he opened up to you during the procedure and told you
he once knew the God you loved, but had become lost. You told me that maybe
your fluid was building up so often so that you would have more chances to talk
to him. I think about how you were in the middle of excruciating pain, but your
prayer was for more time on earth so that you could have lunch again with a
friend of yours who wants to know more about the peace you possess. I think
about how you were bound and determined to get enough rest to make it to Ivey’s
birthday party, but you stayed up all night talking to your father about Jesus
as he wrestled with why this was happening to you. I think about when a friend
came to serve you while we were staying in the hospital, I heard crying,
assuming it was you, only to look up and seeing you with your hand on your
friend’s head praying that the Lord would guide her through her troubles. I
think about you choosing memories over chemo, and comforting me when I was
frightened about that. I think about you calling ALL to fast and pray, not only
for your healing, but because you wanted everyone to have greater communion
with the Father. I will tell them about a packed celebration service that
included people from all walks of life, from all corners of the earth.
I will tell them these stories; I
will tell them about when you shined the brightest. I will tell them about the
stories planted on my heart from our life together.
I will tell them about the many nights in
Africa when the power would come back on at 3:00 AM and you would jump out of
bed to do some laundry so all 7 of us could have clean clothes. I will tell
them about the giant cockroach that crawled up your arm in the process. I will
tell them about Morlai, the boy next door who had nothing, and how you cared
for him as if he was your own. How you bandaged him when he was injured, and
while we couldn’t take him in, you made dang sure that he was cared for well by
others. I will tell them about how you were abundantly gracious, how you were
quick to say “I’m sorry” even when I was still throwing a tantrum. I will tell
them how you gave me opportunities time and time again to step up and lead our
family well. I will tell them about how captivating you were the instant anyone
met you. I will remind them of the incredible birthday parties you threw in
Africa because it was important to you for each kid to have a special day, just
for themselves. I will remind them of the safari’s in our compound, how you
turned our living room into Candy Land complete with costumes and a life sized
board game, I’ll show them pictures of the remote control car track you set up,
and the tea party. You made life fun for us, during a hard time. I will tell
them about the boy in your class there, who was so hardened by the street.
Instead of running away, you took on the challenge. I will tell how he would
not open up to anyone and you thought you had lost the battle. I will tell them
about the rare smile I saw beaming from his face when he finally passed the
grade and ran up to you first to show you his results. That boy has a family
now, and I know you opened him up to be loved by others.
You worried so much about not being here for Levi and Ivey. While you are not physically here, believe me Heather,
you are here. When Levi sees the world in colors and not numbers, he will see
you. When Ivey loves those in her class that are hard to love, she will see
you. When Levi does things “his way” and I get so frustrated, I will have to
smile, because we will both see you. When Ivey has kids of her own and loves
them well, she will see you. When they both are called to do amazingly hard
things for Christ, they will say YES, because of you. As they walk through trials
of their own, they will handle the suffering with grace and strength because of
you.
When they ask me why you had to get
sick, I will be able to tell them that we live in a broken world, but that is
not the end of the story. I will be able to tell them that in the midst of
trouble, He is there, when suffering is at its highest, so is Love. I will be
able to tell them that in the trenches of your trials, hearts were changed,
chains were broken and people became free, you became free. When they ask me,
“why didn’t He heal her?” I will be able to say, “He did, and many others along
the way.”
I will tell them of a life well
lived, a life full of gusto. When they want to know you again, I will tell them
these stories. While the stories will only scratch the surface of who you were,
I thank you Heather, for giving me the opportunity to point them towards Christ
and say, “See, there is your mother.”
I love you and I will always miss
you. The Lord will guide us and we will see you soon. Enjoy the next adventure….
