Teapot's Mama, Angels, and a Wonderful, Terrible Night

It's almost mother's day. I see the ads for businesses claiming they have the perfect gift for every mom. Roses, and aprons, and cards, and bowling balls, and gift certificates for oil changes and manicures are sure to please the lady who gave you life, wiped your nose, and taxied you about through snow, hail, wind, and rain. 

My mama succumbed to breast cancer in January of 1999 just a few days before her 65th birthday. The day of her funeral was warm and bright and I was happy that she was laid to rest in the shadow of the mountains where she was born. But I cried. My sweet mother was gone and I could no longer seek her counsel and love. She was out of pain, so my tears weren't for her, but for my own loss.

I look back on the time of her illness and can see the hand of the Lord at work many times. Today, I want to share some of what He did for our family in the days just prior to taking my mom home.

Mom's cancer had spread to her bones, liver, and lungs. Her three years of chemo prolonged her life, but she constantly suffered from intense pain, nausea, and difficulty breathing. Her sweet spirit drew the admiration and love from the nurses and doctor that cared for her. So, it came as a blow to them when she finally decided that she wanted no more treatment. We all knew this was a death sentence. The doctor said she had maybe six weeks to six months without any more treatment. My dad left her and me in the hospital to go home and prepare the house for the hospital bed and equipment needed to keep her comfortable under the care of Hospice personnel. She made this decision on a Friday, and her hospice care was to start on Monday.

That weekend, I spent Friday night and Saturday with her in the hospital. We talked about people we knew and family. She told me who she wanted to sing at her funeral, and chose the songs. I did her nails. And she made me promise to buy her a new outfit for her burial. I think she may have said something about haunting me if I didn't get something new, and to make sure her neck was covered with an attractive bow or scarf. We laughed and cried.That was just like her, and I promised.

I left her on Sunday morning to go home and rest. She asked me to stay, but I told her I had to get a little rest in order to help on Monday. She agreed, and I left her with a kiss and hug. Early Monday morning, I returned. The pastor's wife had spent Sunday night with her. When my dad and I walked into the room, the pastor's wife told us that it had not been a good night, and that mom wanted to see us right away. We both went to her, kissed her, and hugged her. She looked at each of us with her big, brown eyes and told us she loved us, and that she had been waiting for us to get back. Then she leaned back, closed her eyes, and went into a coma.

We sat with her through that day and into the night, singing her favorite songs, and talking about the things the Lord has shown us, and how faithful God had been. Tears sometimes flowed down her cheeks, but she didn't wake up. So we sat, and sang, and listened to the soft sound of the machine that helped her breath in the little air that she could. In the early hours of Tuesday morning, I felt a comforting presence behind my chair. I turned to look at the pastor's wife and thank her, but she was across the room. I felt it a few more times, and was about to mention it, when my husband asked why I kept brushing past him. My dad also turned around to look behind him and then back at me puzzled. Mom's breathing became more shallow. I leaned over and told her it was okay to go and that I would miss her, but we would all, see her again. Her face relaxed into a smile, and she drew her last breath. I knew then that the comforting presence must have been God's angels sent to take this sweet saint of a lady home to Heaven.

I still miss her today, everyday. I hear her voice come out of my mouth, and I see her expressions on the face of my children. I remember what she taught me, and how she prayed. I cry and the tears are for my own loss. I thrill to think what her big, brown eyes must see, even at this moment. And I praise the Lord that He allowed me to feel the presence of those angels on the most wonderful, and terrible night of my life.

I lost my mama, and Mama gained Heaven. If you don't have assurance that you will join us in Heaven, let me know. I'll be glad to share how you can know. If you are sure, look me up when we get there, and I'll introduce you to my mom. She's waiting for us and I bet her big, brown eyes are smiling.

Looking for His coming,
Teapotjan

The Teapot SCREAMS

Since today is "Throwback Thursday" I thought I'd share an experience from the early 80's and take a break from the serious and sad, and go with light and fluffy.

I grew up an only child. I had eye problems that to this day cause issues with my depth perception. My parents were very loving, and protective and spent a lot of time and money to help correct some issues with my eyes resulting in three operations when I was six and seven. I stumbled on stairs (still do) and curbs (still do) and missed the other side on jumps (ditto) because I couldn't (and can't) judge the distance correctly.

All that to say this: When it comes to adventurous endeavors involving physical activity, I am a complete chicken. I don't need a big adrenaline rush from jumping off cliffs, parasailing, or roller coasters. I have plenty stored up right here in my near-sighted, imaginative brain.

But after I married a thrill junkie, and taught hyper high school kids for a year or so, I decided that I needed to conquer my inner-chicken and ride a roller coaster. Looking back, I'm sure it was all because of some stupid sense of pride, with the key word there being "stupid."

One lovely spring day my husband and I took off for Six Flags Over Georgia for a break from teaching and paramedic-ing. We went to shows, and rode the the water rides, and then came the question that changed the day: "Wife" he said, "Do you still want to conquer your first roller coaster ride?" "No." I answered. Then "Yes." Then "No," etc. for about an hour. Then finally, "Yes. Yes! Okay. Let's go."

We approached the park's famous roller coaster "The Great American Scream Machine." I should have known from the name that this was a bad idea, but now my stupid pride pushed me forward. As I stood in line, I watched children barely tall enough to ride this wooden monster jump into the frail looking cars hooked together with chains made of what must surely be paper clips. They hopped in smiling, took off, and returned with bigger smiles and shouts of "Again! Again!" I could do this. I'm no kid. I'm a GREAT AMERICAN and this is my MACHINE.

Finally, we came to the front of the line, and my husband in some fit of mistaken sense of help asked for the front car. "It will be easier" he said.  I smiled, (Not really) and climbed in and let the faceless executioner nice ride worker secure us "for our safety." And we began the click, click, click of our slow ascent to the top of the universe.

And I screamed. Then I screamed again, "We are all FOOLS!" Not even at the top, I began to cry. I mean really cry as in the big, huge drops that always melted my mom's heart. We reached the peak of the pinnacle of the top of all things known to man, and as we paused at the top I surveyed the world for the last time, and then we dropped. I get a little short of breath just reliving this, so bear with me. . . . Okay. We sped through loops and ups and downs while the tears that flowed from my eyes flowed back into my well-moused 80's style hair. And this GREAT AMERICAN helped this wooden monster earn its name and I SCREAMED, and I cried, and my hair blew, and I plotted my husband's death, and then it was over. 

Our car pulled into the station, and I sat there stunned. The nice ride worker mentioned that I should get out of the car because others were waiting. I looked at him, but didn't really see him. My husband led me out. "Take a step with your right foot, now your left. Oh, and you should breathe." I finally found my way to a curb clear of traffic, and I plopped down, and continued plotting the death of my husband, along with the death of that nice ride worker, all those little enthusiastic kids, and the inventor of the roller coaster. I could tell my husband felt badly for me, but he kept looking at me and stifling a chuckle. That chuckle did not bode well for the dismantling of my death plot for him. 

After around thirty minutes, the world came back to a semi-normal level and I went to the restroom to wash the dried tears from my face. I walked in and looked in the mirror. As I mentioned, my hair was moussed and that I had cried huge tears of terror. Those tears had flowed back into the hair at my temples, melded with the mousse, and dried. While the rest of my hair had a nice, wind blown look of death, that hair stuck straight out from the side of my head like the bristles of a broom. I began laughing. It was a hoarse, scratchy laugh due to the vigorous screaming. But it was a hearty laugh because I looked so ridiculous and because I was happy to be alive. 

This roller coaster created hair style was not a good look, and I am grateful that this all occurred before the advent of phone cameras. Not that I'm really all that vain, but because my husband would have taken the picture and make it my profile picture, and then I would have been widowed and in jail in my twenties.

I'm sure there's spiritual application in there somewhere. God's grace protecting all those innocents from certain death by allowing me to laugh at my hair. Perhaps the experience showed me that I could try some things that made me uncomfortable without actually dying. Or maybe, I just needed to mark this off my bucket list early before I had kids, so that I could allow them to ride without fear due to my great example of the past -because I certainly wasn't going to join any one on any future roller coaster rides. Or maybe, God allowed me to do this so I could make you laugh. Hope it worked. 

Love and screams,
Teapotjan