Letters to Taylor: On Heaven
I don’t know how you do it.
We made it through your shower and now you are sleeping peacefully. Friday was such a good day that I thought maybe you were on an upswing. After not smiling for months, you smiled right at me! Your eyes said, “Yes, you’re my mom and I love you.” You did the same thing for Daddy. So precious.
Don’t worry; I heard you loud and clear, even though you haven’t been able to say a word in over 13 years. While I basked in the sweetness of that moment, and though it filled me with hope, Saturday morning, you were different again.
Disease is causing your brain to do its own thing outside of your control. Your arms fly around randomly, and your legs kick up in the air without purpose. The last few days, you are startling easily, even with the gentlest approach. You’re struggling to swallow, and we are back to using the dropper at times, though it’s hit or miss. You’ve lost so much weight that I’m afraid to hold you up. Your bones peek through where they shouldn’t, and your skin is paper thin in places.
I’ve heard so many people say in the last few months: “I don’t know how you do it.” I never have an appropriate response. Because there is no other choice. My love for you chooses to walk through hard things with grace. My heart for you demands strength be infused from my spirit to yours. The truth is that I don’t know how you do it.
We keep going because God has a plan. I won’t pretend to understand it fully. But the smiles you gave us on Friday? A reminder that He still works miracles.
I have something I really need to tell you.
When you are ready, and God gives you a new heartbeat, one that won’t stop for eternity, then I don’t want you to stay here for me. Okay? This world is only a temporary place.
While you have made it lovely in so many ways, and you’ve taught me so much, your body is worn out and your brain is confused.
Stay as long as you need. But I want you to know that you’re going to be so much better once you leave here. I can’t wrap my head around how incredible it will be for you to walk and talk and sing again.
Disease has not been our friend, but it has been our teacher. The last lesson is remembering that the wonderful life we experience on this earth is limited.
So, when you’ve reached your limit and Jesus calls for you, don’t keep fighting for me and don’t be afraid. Just run into His arms. He loves you even more than I do and He’s going to make you all better. That’s something I can’t do for you and something I can’t do here.
After you see Jesus, I have no doubt that your Grandma Charlotte will be next in line. She is probably about to bust down heaven’s gates to get her arms around you once again. There’s also one, and maybe two, sisters or brothers you never knew. And you have dozens of friends there too. Danny, Brianna, the other Danny, Megan, the list could go on and on. Hug them all extra tight for me and tell them when it’s my turn, I’ll be home.
Until you’re ready, we’ll just keep taking it one step at a time. The finish line can’t be too much farther ahead, but regardless of the miles, we know heaven awaits on the other side. It’s going to be so beautiful.
Rest in that.
I love you.