The Echo

The Happy Farmer

It's the name of a piano piece you played for me on the old upright in the living room, when I was young enough to still know that running around in joyful circles was an amazing way to spend an hour after supper. And I remember being in awe of your magic on the keys as you played.  But then again, you were the 'magic one' who made everything happen, those early, early years.

The Poky Little Puppy

It's the name of a children's story you read to me over and over, your soft voice so familiar, and your face as you read it.  Sometimes I would lose track of the story just for the sake of watching your face, and trying to remember the first time I saw it.  And when I realized that I had never known a moment of my life when I didn't know you, I would marvel in that, contemplating childlike abstractions of the cosmos and how life works.

The Accident

It's how you always referred to the traumatic brain injury you sustained as an almost 13 year old, that last defining day of your grade seven year.  That day dramatically redirected the trajectory of your life in ways only God could redeem.  And He did.   Impossible to speculate, I know.  But if the stories of your personality and capability transformation as a direct result of 'the accident' are true, which I expect they are given it was your own mother who told me, then it's not hard to suggest that had you not been injured, you would have been a very different person in your teen and young adult years.  Those are the years we make significant, life-shaping decisions.  Those are the years you realized you were not able to fulfill your dream for overseas missions.  Those are the years you met Dad.  Those are the years to began your family, me being your first go at mothering.

The Release

That's what I call what happened for you very early in the pre-winter morning of November 19, 2015.  When all that God had asked you to do was done.  When this part, the fleeting part, of your life was over, and you were released into the eternal part; the part where things are as God always intended for His people.  No more pain.  No more confusion.  No more angst.  No more tears.
You were getting restless.  You were talking more and more about 'the release', hoping it wouldn't be too much longer.  And, Mom, I am so glad you got to go home.

The Echo

Sometimes these days, if I'm sitting quietly, I think I can hear The Happy Farmer being played, somewhere off in the distance.  It's as if there is a room in Heaven with an old upright piano.  And you've sat down at the keyboard, and are playing it for me still, inviting me to set aside the grieving, and the other heavy things we carry in this fleeting part of life, and to just run in joyful circles for a little bit.

Because now you know.  Now you can see.  And it's all okay.