"The song is ended, but the melody lingers on." -Irving Berlin
The one thing that has remained constant over my tenure here on earth, is my relationship with my grandmother.
Seasons change.
Climates change.
Time changes.
BUT our hearts NEVER skipped a beat. We never lost connection. Our records never scratched. Her vocals planted a "lifetime right" of poetic muse in the depths of my soul so strong that I can't help but hear the melody continually play on.
As I cling to her bedside watching for any sign of consciousness, her unresponsive eyelids has my spirit a little "unsettled." Every breath sounds like a struggle. I look for hope for an extended stay, but I see her frail, physical body wrapped in a spiritual cocoon of protection. She's above us now.
I know (without a shadow of doubt) that she has faithfully served with all she had.
I know that she has executed her race wholeheartedly with grace.
I know that she is patiently anticipating her crown.
I hear the nearby trumpets sounding the alarm to "call her home."
My peace is overwhelmed by the melancholy of indecision. Did our family fulfill the mission of her legacy of servanthood? Did we "advocate" for her well-being? Did we faithfully return to her (the fullness of life) that she breathed into our lungs?
There is no IV bag present.
There is no feeding tube.
There is no trace of preventative care measures.
I pray that she is NOT suffering.
I pray that she is resting well.
I pray mostly that we have not given up too soon.
Edgar Allan Poe said, "The boundaries which divide life from death are at best showy and vague. Who shall say where the one ends, and where the other begins?"
Once upon a time— I wanted to believe something was real so desperately that I silenced the Spirit within me just to keep the illusion alive. I saw every red flag— not as warnings, but as tests of how much I was willing to endure to feel chosen. I asked no questions because truth was already whispering, and I feared what obedience would cost me. So I made a covenant with denial— calling lies “grace,” and confusion “patience,” because the truth felt too vast, too holy, too disruptive to the future I had built in my mind. I clung to potential like it was promise, and mistook absence for peace. Yet the weight of it— this thing I called love— crushed my spirit daily. Still, desperation dressed itself as loyalty and convinced me to stay. And it didn’t get better. It decayed. Quietly at first… then unmistakably. Each time God unveiled truth, I chose the comfort of shadows over the calling of light. I pleaded. I prayed. I begged— not for revelation, but for permission to remain where I w...
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