Nine months ago I was writing about HOPE. I was writing about recognizing beauty everywhere. I was inspired to write about heaven and a soul who awakens on a beautiful beach and dives into a cool refreshing lake of water to discover the floor is covered by small glass bottles; the bottles of tears stored up there by God from a hurting soul below. Writing about Hope felt, well, hopeful.
At the end of January, I went on a retreat with a community of ladies I've become close to over the past ten years. Our cozy cottage sat just off the icy shores of Lake Ontario. On frigid walks we admired a beautiful lighthouse. She was the perfect symbol of resilience; standing tall while covered in ice and surrounded by frozen waves.
All weekend we laughed, discussed, ate comfort foods, prayed for each other, and savored the time away from the demands of busy households. I rode home with my sister and we marveled at the flock of floating swans in the frigid lake with their necks tucked back into their feathers. The year was starting out more hopeful already in comparison to the past six months of lockdowns, cancelations, rules, and anger. Life would soon be getting back to some sort of normalcy. That was January. A few days later my mom was admitted to the hospital with multiple infections, fighting for her life.
Twenty-five days later I was standing next to my mom in the ICU. I was saying good-bye for the last time while wearing a hospital gown, a mask, gloves, and a face shield. This wasn't how my mom would've have wanted her last moments on this earth to go. She would've wanted to talk to me, hug all her grandchildren once more, have us all together and surrounding her one last time.
