I keep walking into my kitchen. Mindlessly opening the fridge, scanning the contents. I want something but I don’t know what. Nothing “sounds” good. I keep looking though…hoping my eyes will see the thing that “sounds” good.
Then I realize, I don’t want food.
I want my daughter.
I want the silence to go away.
I want my house to not feel so empty.
I want to squish my face to her cheeks one last time.
She isn’t here though. She left us today. She laid in her Grammies’ arms, holding my hand with her daddy’s hand on her head, and breathed her last breaths.
And I feel so numb. It’s so surreal. Tomorrow I will wake up and she won’t be there. There will be no medicine to get. No food to get ready. There will be no machines alarming. No pumps beeping, or suction machines going. I will simply wake up.
My mind can’t really grasp it. She fought so hard. She left his world just as tenaciously as she came into. Her body had been in kidney failure for these past three days, and when we woke up this morning we knew. Her breaths were so far apart, and her temperature was so low. Yet still she kept going. All day, we took turns holding her, talking to her. And at 5:30 pm with two breathes that sounded like bye-bye, she stopped breathing. We wept. We worshiped. And we breathed in the peace she brought everywhere she went for one last time.
As I write this I can see her, finally fully in heaven. Whispering with Jesus, like she was known to do. And they are sharing secrets, secrets of what is yet to come. Secrets of their love for us. They look at me, and the adoration I see is more than my heart can take. And I miss her already. And I know that I need to lean into this picture…I need to lean into the Lord and know that although she isn’t here, she is never far. Just as she interceded for me here on earth, she does it even more in heaven.