Gravity and Brokenness

We’re broken, finite people.   I don’t always want to believe that, and there have been times in my life when I’ve tried to defy this reality.  My youngest likes to hear the story about the time I broke my foot in elementary school.  I’m pretty sure it’s not the broken foot that fascinates her but it’s the reason that it broke:   

I was trying to fly.   Duh. 

There was not a soul who could convince me that my plan was ridiculous.  I was sure that if I could get up …just high enough….that I could make this flying thing happen.  My youngest loves to hear about this bizarre occurrence from my past and when she does, these are the kind of questions that follow:  “Did you actually fly?  Like maybe for five seconds did you fly?  Can you show me how high you jumped so I can try too?” 

Um, no - to everything.  

You probably couldn't fly because your arms weren’t strong enough. You didn’t do workouts like me when you were my age.  Let me show you my muscle. So, I could probably do it mom…

I bring up gravity regularly when we discuss this story because, well, who can argue with gravity?  My hope is that her wide eyes that I just know are imagining jumping off the playground bridge because her muscles are bigger than mine, will be somewhat…um….squelched.  But then on one occasion, she said this: 

But God could have let you fly if he wanted to. 

Yep.  But He didn’t.  I wasn’t made to fly in my broken state.  And as a child, my fractured, broken bones reminded me of that reality for weeks after my attempt to defy gravity. 

My mom had some tough last days this side of heaven, an ever present reminder of this broken physical state.  One particular day, while she was in and out of consciousness, I watched her wrestle to sit up on her own, even move her leg off the bed in an attempt to stand up.  I pushed her leg back into the bed with a sense of guilt because pushing it under the covers was a way of saying to my strong mother:  let your strength go.  Be still and give into your weakness, mom.    It didn’t feel right to say it much less write it. 

But the process of dying should never feel “Okay.” Death was never the intention.  The reality of our frailty is not celebratory, and death is not good; in fact, I’ve seen first hand how ugly it can be.  Death is a result of this broken world.

Jesus Himself lamented death in the book of John when His friend Lazarus died.  Those watching the face of the Son of God exclaimed, “See how he loved him!”  (Jn 11:36)

I’ve thought many times about the weakness that this disease caused in my mom through the years. Since her diagnosis only three years ago, she has fought to defy the implications of a brain illness:  She read out loud to her grandkids every chance she had, but over time she simply could no longer form the words;  she traveled to the beach regularly, but soon enough it became impossible to function in a regular room without hospital equipment. 

And yet, with the loss of speech, strength, and simple abilities, she surprised us all with a unique strength of spirit that was displayed through her legs and her hand.  

Just three weeks before she died, mom made one last visit to her home church.  Though she was essentially wheel chair bound, mom was determined to walk down the aisle and out those church doors after the brief service.  I couldn't have been more proud to watch that ten minute struggle down the aisle as she clung to the neck of her caretaker.  I laughed imagining her twirling around and kicking the wheel chair to the side.  Because really, she probably would have if she could have. 

And while she didn't have the use of her right hand, she used that left hand to communicate everything she possible could, even in the last days.  Mom pointed, hugged, pushed cups off places they shouldn't be placed (truth), and grabbed on to the things she wanted.  That hand stayed so strong throughout her deterioration.  

   

But, the reality is that we are broken.  She was broken.  The strength in her hand and legs could not defy death; it showed it’s ugly face and we lament it's existence, just as Jesus did. 

But, that’s not the end of the story.  Praise God it’s not the end of the story.  We weren’t saying good-bye to her forever when we whispered in her ear:  “It's ok to fly to Jesus now, mom.” 

For every believer in Jesus who has kissed good-bye a precious loved one, we’re not giving into death.  Death does not have the victory, though it feels in our weakness that it has somehow won. 

“Where, O Death, is your victory? Where, O Death, is your sting?” 

No.  Death has not won, but it reminds us of our brokenness without a Savior.  Without Jesus, we fear the grave.  With him, we have defeated it. 

Jesus is so close in grief.  My sisters and I know His presence fills  the gap where our parents used to stand.   Praise God.  And praise God for the brokenness that forces us to long for what mom is experiencing now:  

Seeing her Redeemer, 

running without growing weary,  

celebrating without sin,  

worshipping with a restored heart,  

feasting with loved ones...  

and maybe there's even some flying.  

Mom is broken no more.