It's all Stephen King's fault. And maybe then, it's not. Who knows. Maybe it's the screen writer's fault. But Stephen King started it when he wrote Under the Dome. Now it's a television show that makes me cry.
Stephen King is NOT Nicholas Sparks. I don't cry in Nicholas Sparks movies. I cry in Stephen King flicks. Weird, huh?
WELL COME ON! Who allows a show to graphically portray a mother bidding her teenage daughter farewell on her death bed? It's heart wrenching. Gut breaking. Or is it the other way around? Either or, my husband thought I was nuts as I cried during this semi-supernatural thriller. The mother held her daughter's hand, whispered "I love you" that final time, then slipped away as her daughter laid over her mother's form.
But really, this is a sore spot for me. Or maybe an ache-spot. Ever since I had my baby girl three years ago and was given all of 2 minutes to touch her fingers before they carted her off in an ambulance to the NICU in a hospital 60 minutes away, I've been highly sensitive to the idea of bidding my daughter a final farewell.
Let's face it ... death stings. When Paul cries in I Corinthians, "oh, death, where is your sting?" I'm yelling back, "it's here! it's here!'. Ok, so I know Paul's point was the eternal sting of death was over as we face the glorious hope of Heaven with Jesus, but still...even Jesus identified with us in our grief as He wept over Lazarus' dead body.
I remember them as they wheeled the cart around the corner and my Kokomo Jo was gone. I didn't know if she would live another day. The doctor sat on my beside and held my hand. She was born at Christmas, so my doctor whispered, "ponder these moments in your heart, as Mary did".
His point? Trust that the Lord has a plan we cannot fathom or understand. I cannot fathom seeing my daughter's vivid blue eyes, earnest and needing for her mommy, fade as I pass into Jesus' arms. She needs me. She needs her mommy. God. How could I ever bid her farewell?
Yet one thing is certain ... and I learned it that night when she slipped from my grasp... my daughter is not my own. She never was. She is a gift. Our time together is a gift. The responsibility of being her mommy is a wonderful, precious gift. I will not have too short of time, nor will I have too long of time. I will have the perfect time. And we will both be entrusted into the care of our Father. Never separated in heart or spirit ... but perhaps one day just by the distance of time.
So I don't live in fear, or dread, but I do find myself relishing the preciousness that is holding her tonight and giggling over pretend spiders that lift couches off of floors, or having a hot chocolate party in her bedroom, or eating chips in bed with the lights out.
Relish your time. It is a gift. Shoo away the crabby and cranky ... Stephen King may show the finality of death, but he also captured the beauty of relationships forged in love and devotion...and that, never goes away and continues into eternity.