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Her Story

I was invited to come to her house on Saturday morning.  Pulling up my car to park under the purple Jacaranda blossoms in front of her home, I still felt my heart of anguish and defeat.  Yes, here I was reaching out to an older woman I had always wanted to get know better.  I was seeking a mentor in my time of self doubt, loneliness and despair, my first year of being in the role of a Nurse Practitioner.  A crisis had fractured my unrealistic expectations and goals, and I needed someone to completely hear me out.  That day,  she graciously extended her hand, her ears and time for me.  She invited me into her story.

Her story was always to write.  She often explained how she had told God, "all she had was the pen in her hand," but that was enough for Him to use to make her an author of prayer poems.  Poems that spoke from the heart, honest and genuine, humorous and uplifting, encouraging and always full of hope.  I had been drawn to her the very first time I met her in church and heard she was an author.  I was my own "hidden author" at home, writing poems for my mother who no longer heard my words, but could read them.  That day my  heart connected to hers, as she listened to my thoughts, read my writings, and opened her story to me.

Today, I have just come from her bedside.  Her breathing is assisted with oxygen, though her pulse still beats strong, but her vim and vigor has given up to generalized weakness.  She opens her eyes to look into mine, and tells me again of her love for me.  I find myself quietly sitting with my hand in hers, realizing the story we have had together for almost 20 years, though a short story as compared with some of her other lifetime friendships.

Her story became our story.  We soon discovered we had to get together more than every other month.  We purposely made the second Saturday of each month our morning.  She always had fresh coffee and pastries ready on the kitchen table.  She'd often leave her front door open or cracked for me to "come on in." Around that table, we'd share, laugh, read, and pray.  I always left in a much better mood and frame of mind, ready again to face the challenges I would have at work and home.  My husband even told me he could tell "when it was time for me to go see Ruth!" 

I have memory pictures flashing through my mind, as my hand remains in hers. I see her always walking me out to the door, waving as I pull away in my car, at the same time telling me how much she is looking forward to getting together again next time!  I remember our meals out, how much she enjoyed a fillet mignon dinner at Black Angus, and never got tired of peach pie in the summer at Marie Calendar's.  She filled the gap for me of being an orphaned daughter, as she was there through the loss of my mother and then my father.  I could never write or blog enough of how she walked me through so many transitions in life;  job changes and losses, family trials and blessings, personal times of sorrow, grief, joy, fear and solace.  She was always grateful for whatever I did or offered, even when it seemed to be so little. I have endless cards, and tiny messages she has sent me or given me, reminding me of her joy in being my "Mom Ruth."  

Her story is about to end, at least the earthly part.  We have told each other we will love one another forever.  And we have planned to be there in eternity with the One who brought us together in the first place.  Yes, it was our love of Jesus that brought us together that very first meeting in church, when she told me how much she loved my smile and the way it made my nose crinkle!  I know deep down I don't want her story to end, but that is only selfish on my part.  She has actually been longing for her next "heavenly story" for several years.  It will be another loss for me, a definite change for my Sunday afternoon visits to her place.  I guess too I won't have to be baking as many cookies, since I won't be giving them away. . . 

Her story is like a real good book, one that she allowed me to read with her.  Soon the few chapters I have in her story will be completed.  May God grant me grace to live my story as Mom Ruth, in faithfulness, kindness and love, in deed and word. . .   

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