A letter to my kids when my care is in the hands of another.

I've been spending a little more time envisioning my future.

The future that is beyond combing stringy blond locks before bedtime.
The future that is beyond the tired-red-eyed days filled with homework, sports, and coaching my not-so-littles how to navigate love, loss, and life.
The future that is beyond white gowns and rocking grand baby's.

The future that holds grey hairs, tender hands, and fragile skin.
The future that holds a vastness of uncertainty, excitement and anticipation.
The future of what I hope is filled with endless grace, wisdom, and selflessness.

So here I am writing to you, my kids...





I have had a few experiences wandering the halls of white walls and wheel chairs as an adult and I've seen many things.
I've seen age creep in like a thief and steal strength, time, and hope.
 I've heard a silence so deep it can be felt to the frail bones of the inhabitants that linger there.
I've felt a loneliness that can only be filled by a vision greater than this fleeting world can give us.


My first reaction is to come here and plead with you.
Plead with you to not leave me. 
Plead with you to set aside your life, sacrifice your time, and walk with me through those halls.
But as I sit here and really think about it, that's not what I will ask for.

I hope and pray you will make space for me, that you will find some value in giving of your precious time for me, but I will not ask it.

Instead I ask for you to pray. 
Pray with me for my mind to stand firm.
That if I lose my sight, if I lose my strength, if I lose the very memory of who you are, pray for my mind to hold fast.

To hold fast to my hope of a future beyond this, to hold fast to the hope of Christ's love, to hold fast to the memory of all the answered prayers and intimate moments when God met me. That I would hold fast to all the times when God came through in all my pain and suffering.


This world will end for me one day. This water drop will one day plummet into the sea of eternity and as I exit this life, that was a small but precious gift, I want to leave with my hands held high, my head bowed low, and my voice singing out to the psalms of David one last time.


If you have no time, don't fall into the trap of guilt but instead know that in your prayers you are doing all I have asked. Know that God has carried me, guided me, and sustained me through this treacherous life for this long, and my dears, I promise you that He will continue to do so until the very end.

So for today, as I look far beyond where I am now. As I listen to you play downstairs with messy faces and dreaming eyes, this is all I will ask.


photo credit: Peter Ras Discarded Mono Wheels via photopin (license)