She’s slipping away.
The doctor asks, “Where have you been living?”
He asks again.
Rephrased, “Where do you live?”
I wonder, too. Where does she live? In what world? When I step into it, I feel disoriented, too.
Earlier, Mrs. O sits on Mama’s bed and fingers the comforter. “It’s solid blue underneath.”
“But it’s mine,” she replies.
“It’s so pretty.”
“Yes, and it’s mine.”
We all get up to leave, but first, Mrs. O stops at Mama’s pictures. She fingers a frame with our family inside, but claims it as her own, “This is a picture of my family… [then takes a closer look] …but it isn’t.”
Doctor: “Are you mostly happy or sad?”
Doctor: “Happy or sad? Which one?”
Then, “I’m still grieving. My husband passed away, and I’m sad. I’ll never get over it.”
She has returned, if only briefly. I recognize this woman. I want her to stay close.
She doesn’t. She lingers momentarily in our world. But drifts back to her own too soon.
Where is God in this?
Can He live inside confusion?
Does He reign in the midst of disease?
I must answer a resounding, “Yes!”
There is nowhere my mom goes without His presence. Not even the shadowy dark corners of Alzheimer’s. He is there. And she is safe.
She’s home free already. No matter what happens now.
She heard His voice early in life. She followed.
I praise God for that.
He heard her voice then. He hears her voice now.
I praise God for that, too.
I say, “Amen.”
She may be slipping through my fingers,
but she can’t be snatched out of His hand.
And I whisper, “So be it.”
* * *
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