Quite a Day

It was only seven in the morning and already it had been quite a day. I sat on a stairway tread to await my ride to the airport, my heart beating a staccato, bum-bump, bum-bump, bum-bump. Rubbing my face, Anna Nalick’s voice singing the chorus, breathe, just breathe from her old song, “Breathe 2 am,” ran through my head. I took her advice and willed my heart rate to slow. Not the most appropriate song mixed in with prayers for my mother-in-law, husband and his siblings as she lay 2,400-miles away on her deathbed. But like I said, it had been quite a day.

It started when I got up at three—the second sleepless night in a row—as I continually replayed the scenarios Chris had shared with me each day about Mom’s quick decline. I had no reason to be sad, really, because this is what she’d been praying for—to go home to Jesus and Dad, who’d passed more than two years before. But I also knew from experience how hard it was on those left behind. I was so grateful for the comfort my godly husband brought to her in these last days. He’d left for a scheduled visit ten days before, not sure what would transpire. Rather than come home as planned, we decided he should stay until she passed, and I would fly out to California to help with whatever needed done in the aftermath.

I’d spent the previous couple of days preparing the house for only God knew how long an absence. There was a ton of weed eating to get done—record rainfall over the last month left our yard looking pretty wild. Our neighbor, Terry, had graciously offered to mow the four acres, but I wanted to get done what I could. Then there were plants to water and preparations to be made. We had a wonderful masonry contractor bricking a hideous 185-foot retaining wall, and I needed to have everything lined up for him, as well. Oh, and there was the business of writing that I squeezed in where possible.

So, getting up at three in the morning wasn’t such a bad idea after all. Friends had generously offered to drive me to the airport, so if I wasn’t rested, it didn’t matter. I spent an hour with the Lord then decided a thirty-minute walk on my treadmill would be a great pick-me-up. Twelve hours of travel from the time I left the house to when I’d arrive in Sacramento wouldn’t give me much activity. I filled up my water bottle, used the bathroom, and turned on the water to wash my hands. Only there was no water. None. How could it be when I just used it?

Panic zinged through my body. What now? If it wasn’t for our contractor who needed water to mix mortar, it wouldn’t make much difference. We were the only job he was working on, so it would leave him stranded. How could I get it fixed in only two hours when I didn’t have a clue what I was doing? I glanced at the clock. Three am California time, but what else could I do? I called Chris’s cell, and got his very groggy greeting.

I could bore you with the details of my trudge down the 300-foot driveway to the water meter and what a waste of precious time it was. Or, how Chris had me empty the closet under the stairs to climb beneath the house to check the water pump—another waste of time. Finally, he told me to call the water district. I couldn’t imagine anyone being available at 5:30 in the morning, but I was wrong. An on-call worker phoned me back within minutes and told me there was a high-pressure leak a few blocks away, and they were working on it. That gave me tremendous relief. It wasn’t an issue we needed to have someone look at. Chris called his friend, Donnie, the plumber who had installed the water pump, and he said it would need to be reset before we’d have water at the house. He’d take care of it in my absence. And he did.

As I took what my mother-in-law called a chorus-girl bath with sanitary wipes and finished packing, I praised God. We were so blessed to have people in our lives who wanted to help whenever they could. Southern hospitality is a thing, let me tell you. Terry, who spent hours mowing our yard and refused to take payment; his sweet wife, Kathi who offered to water our plants; friends, Kenny and Jackie who insisted they give me a ride to the airport…Then there are church family who called to offer help if we needed it, and prayers always.

I arrived at the Denver airport and lugged a heavier-by-the-minute Gracie to the gate for my connecting flight before calling Chris. When he answered the phone with, “Mom just passed away,” I was flummoxed. Even knowing she’d lived longer than predicted, it took a moment for me to breathe. Just like that, she was gone.

Mom would have gotten quite a kick out of my morning adventures. She would have said, “Never a dull moment, that’s for sure,” with a smile and a wink. Never have I known a stronger individual—all eighty pounds of five-foot-nothing. A sweet Irish angel. She will be missed tremendously, but I have no doubt she’s making heaven just a little livelier with her impish humor.

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