Dear Mimi,
I know this is going to sound strange, but I think you dance like Mama Cass. While I always considered you graceful (specifically when compared to my extreme clumsiness), you were not a dancer. This is not to say that you did not dance. You loved to dance - with Dad. And everyone loved to watch the so obviously loving and intimate conversation you two carried on while dancing. And you danced with him everywhere. On trains, down hospital hallways, in the grocery, in the chemo room.
8.29.2011
8.10.2011
Our Special Day
Dear Mimi,
Thirty-one years ago, on the way to the hospital, you were having some doubts. You told Dad to turn the car around -- you were fine, you didn't need to go to the hospital. It was two weeks earlier than you expected to be making this trip. Plus, you didn't like those pale and pasty chubby babies with no hair. I like to imagine that you made the 'yuck' face as you delivered this speech.
The next morning, at 5:55 a.m., I arrived -- long and skinny, with a thick tuft of black hair, and quite ruddy. You told me I was everything you didn't expect a baby to be, to your surprise and delight.
Thirty-one years ago, on the way to the hospital, you were having some doubts. You told Dad to turn the car around -- you were fine, you didn't need to go to the hospital. It was two weeks earlier than you expected to be making this trip. Plus, you didn't like those pale and pasty chubby babies with no hair. I like to imagine that you made the 'yuck' face as you delivered this speech.
The next morning, at 5:55 a.m., I arrived -- long and skinny, with a thick tuft of black hair, and quite ruddy. You told me I was everything you didn't expect a baby to be, to your surprise and delight.
8.01.2011
I'll Never Say Goodbye
Dear Mimi,
I listened to the same song everyday on my way home from work. Everyday, for a few months. It always made me cry. At first, I thought it was because I identified the song with your fighting spirit. There is a refrain in particular that I think of:
You keep alive a moment at a time
But still inside a whisper to a riot
To sacrifice but knowing to survive
The first to find another state of mind
I'm on my knees, I'm waiting for a sign
Forever, whenever
I never wanna die
I never wanna die
I never wanna die
I'm on my knees
I never wanna die
I'm dancing on my grave
I'm running through the fire
Forever, whatever
I never wanna die
You fought the cancer. You cursed the cancer. You radiated the cancer and poisoned the cancer and demanded the cancer leave. You were a little conquerer, trying to take back your body. The times the cancer was on the run, you did victory dances and screamed in jubilation. When the cancer came back, you spit, you stomped, you fought ever harder. If there had been a burial plot waiting for you, you would have danced on it. Defiantly.
I listened to the same song everyday on my way home from work. Everyday, for a few months. It always made me cry. At first, I thought it was because I identified the song with your fighting spirit. There is a refrain in particular that I think of:
You keep alive a moment at a time
But still inside a whisper to a riot
To sacrifice but knowing to survive
The first to find another state of mind
I'm on my knees, I'm waiting for a sign
Forever, whenever
I never wanna die
I never wanna die
I never wanna die
I'm on my knees
I never wanna die
I'm dancing on my grave
I'm running through the fire
Forever, whatever
I never wanna die
You fought the cancer. You cursed the cancer. You radiated the cancer and poisoned the cancer and demanded the cancer leave. You were a little conquerer, trying to take back your body. The times the cancer was on the run, you did victory dances and screamed in jubilation. When the cancer came back, you spit, you stomped, you fought ever harder. If there had been a burial plot waiting for you, you would have danced on it. Defiantly.
7.20.2011
Things I Learned From You - Good Movies
Dear Mimi,
You taught me about good movies. We used to check out old movies from the library and have themed marathons. Cary Grant nights and Alfred Hitchcock weekends were regular family events. But my favorite movie education occurred when I was in high school, on days when I stayed home sick. On those days you introduced me to movies like Harold and Maude, Wings of Desire, The Graduate, and all of Woody Allen.
One afternoon, we were flipping channels and I stopped at a movie I didn't recognize. When I asked you what it was, you stared at me in shock. You immediately wrote me a note to excuse me from school the next day and ran to the video store. That next day while I was playing hooky we watched all three Godfather movies. In your mind, cultural education (including movies) was as important as the things I learned in school. You made sure I watched many of the classics, and we watched most of them together. I thought of you and our Godfather Hooky Day this weekend when I watched Gone With the Wind for the first time. I'm not sure why we never watched this movie together - especially as you are named after one of the main characters.
You taught me about good movies. We used to check out old movies from the library and have themed marathons. Cary Grant nights and Alfred Hitchcock weekends were regular family events. But my favorite movie education occurred when I was in high school, on days when I stayed home sick. On those days you introduced me to movies like Harold and Maude, Wings of Desire, The Graduate, and all of Woody Allen.
One afternoon, we were flipping channels and I stopped at a movie I didn't recognize. When I asked you what it was, you stared at me in shock. You immediately wrote me a note to excuse me from school the next day and ran to the video store. That next day while I was playing hooky we watched all three Godfather movies. In your mind, cultural education (including movies) was as important as the things I learned in school. You made sure I watched many of the classics, and we watched most of them together. I thought of you and our Godfather Hooky Day this weekend when I watched Gone With the Wind for the first time. I'm not sure why we never watched this movie together - especially as you are named after one of the main characters.
7.09.2011
A Season of Thanksgiving - Universal Truth 2.7
Dear Mimi,
I'm a card-carrying member of the Choose Your 'Tude squad. I repeat the phrase with great consistency to myself and the people around me. ('Choose your 'tude! Choose your 'tude! Choose! Your! 'Tude!) And I think those people would be surprised to know that I don't think of myself as naturally cheery -- I'm quite inclined to melancholy. But even when I was a hormonal teenager, you embraced my moods while reinforcing Universal Truth 2.7.
Universal Truth 2.7
You choose
how you respond to the life
that happens around and to you.
This means that you have options in every situation.
**ESPECIALLY**
the ones that seem out of your control.
I remember being that teenage girl, staring at you as if you were quite mad, and thinking, 'What is this nonsense?' But after rolling my eyes (I'm sure I did), and halfheartedly agreeing to 'try it out', I realized that you were quite right. So I choose my attitude, every day. And lately, I've been working on thanks-giving. I want to exercise gratitude and give thanks for the many blessings and wonders in my life and the world in which I live. I want to actively participate and enjoy the richness to be found in this life, and I can't do that unless I see and appreciate and am thankful for everything. Everything? Every-thing, everything?
Even those stupid ants that keep overrunning my yard?
And that lady at the grocery store who gave me the stink-eye?
And..........cancer?
Yes, I think I need to choose Thanksgiving for the good, the slightly annoying, and the real-awful-bad. I think that's what you would advise. It is certainly what you practiced. I know, I know, it sounds crazy, but let's think about it.
Easy things to be thankful for, in no particular order -
my husband and son
a house I own and can decorate however I like
that pay raise I wasn't expecting
my adorable nail beds
the Little One
Sister Cousin, 8, and Shanz - the ladies who stood by
me when I married, as they have, always
sushi
But what about those FREAKING ants?
They are just ants, after all - it's not like they said, 'Hey! Look at that A lady. She looks like we could really bug (ha) the poop out of her if we went NUTS in her yard! Yeah! Let's go to HER house!!'
They are a part of creation, following their instincts.
And they are fascinating to watch.
They only bite when I'm trying to destroy their
home...I would do the same!
I guess I can accept ants. Give thanks for the wonder of their creation. My plants must be lush and healthy if the ants have chosen my yard as their home - that is certainly something to be thankful for.
Ooh, but the lady! With the stink-eye! Maybe she DID single me out!
............
.............
..........and if she did?.......
(I can hear you asking this.)
........so what?
Maybe she's having a bad day, or the sun was in her eyes, or she thinks my purple paisley scarf is garish, or she hates brunettes, or she was trying to remember the GDP of Iceland, or she can't believe someone would let their hair grow so long, or she was doing long division in her head, or the cabbage bin next to her was emitting a foul odor.
Again.....
....so what?
I will choose to be thankful that I have money to buy my groceries, and healthy legs and arms to walk and push my cart, and good eyesight (and glasses) that allow me to see the look on that lady's face. And for the lady - I can be thankful for the lady. She's just a lady, and I can't presume to know what was going through her mind. This lady is a miracle of creation! And whoever she is, and whatever is going through her head, I want to wish and hope the best for her. I want her to be filled with love and peace. I will pray blessings on her while exercising my thanksgiving for the intricacies and wonderment of my existence here. And maybe when I pass by her cart, I'll let her know that it's 12.134 million US dollars. The GDP of Iceland, that is.
But cancer? Really and truly? I think it sounds ridiculous - being thankful for cancer. I'm concerned that if I said that out loud, the villagers would arrive with pitchforks and torches, and run me out of town. Little old ladies on the street would hit me with their purses, and small children would kick my shins.
But -- I am thankful for who I am, and how I have grown, and the things I have learned while you had the cancer.
And I am thankful for all the time we made to spend together that we otherwise might not have prioritized.
I am thankful for the amazing people we met in doctor's offices and chemo rooms, and even the strangers who recognized the cancer on you/us and offered support.
The few friends who remained to stand by me are unfathomably precious to me - I would fight lions while covered in raw meat armed only with a spork for these few. They have done the same for me.
I now know how strong you really taught me to be, and that it runs deep - much deeper than I suspected.
These are very good things. These are things worth FIGHTING for. And if they are worth fighting lions, they are certainly worthy of my thanksgiving. And not my whiny 'I guess I can' teenage eye-rolling, or any half-hearted, 98%, one pom-pom thanksgiving. No! This is a standing on top of the mountain, with my hands in the air, screaming with everything I have:
THANK YOU!
THANK YOU GOD!
Shout it with me: TTTTTTTTTTTTTTTHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAANNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNKKKKKKKKKKKKKKKKKKKKKKKKKKKKKK YYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUU!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!
And, thank YOU, Mimi. For teaching me Universal Truth 2.7, among so many other life lessons. You gave me all the tools I needed to stand on my own, while remaining within arms reach. After everything, we still stand - though separated - and how can I feel anything other than exuberant thanksgiving for that!?
Love,
A
I'm a card-carrying member of the Choose Your 'Tude squad. I repeat the phrase with great consistency to myself and the people around me. ('Choose your 'tude! Choose your 'tude! Choose! Your! 'Tude!) And I think those people would be surprised to know that I don't think of myself as naturally cheery -- I'm quite inclined to melancholy. But even when I was a hormonal teenager, you embraced my moods while reinforcing Universal Truth 2.7.
Universal Truth 2.7
You choose
how you respond to the life
that happens around and to you.
This means that you have options in every situation.
**ESPECIALLY**
the ones that seem out of your control.
I remember being that teenage girl, staring at you as if you were quite mad, and thinking, 'What is this nonsense?' But after rolling my eyes (I'm sure I did), and halfheartedly agreeing to 'try it out', I realized that you were quite right. So I choose my attitude, every day. And lately, I've been working on thanks-giving. I want to exercise gratitude and give thanks for the many blessings and wonders in my life and the world in which I live. I want to actively participate and enjoy the richness to be found in this life, and I can't do that unless I see and appreciate and am thankful for everything. Everything? Every-thing, everything?
Even those stupid ants that keep overrunning my yard?
And that lady at the grocery store who gave me the stink-eye?
And..........cancer?
Yes, I think I need to choose Thanksgiving for the good, the slightly annoying, and the real-awful-bad. I think that's what you would advise. It is certainly what you practiced. I know, I know, it sounds crazy, but let's think about it.
Easy things to be thankful for, in no particular order -
my husband and son
a house I own and can decorate however I like
that pay raise I wasn't expecting
my adorable nail beds
the Little One
Sister Cousin, 8, and Shanz - the ladies who stood by
me when I married, as they have, always
sushi
But what about those FREAKING ants?
They are just ants, after all - it's not like they said, 'Hey! Look at that A lady. She looks like we could really bug (ha) the poop out of her if we went NUTS in her yard! Yeah! Let's go to HER house!!'
They are a part of creation, following their instincts.
And they are fascinating to watch.
They only bite when I'm trying to destroy their
home...I would do the same!
I guess I can accept ants. Give thanks for the wonder of their creation. My plants must be lush and healthy if the ants have chosen my yard as their home - that is certainly something to be thankful for.
Ooh, but the lady! With the stink-eye! Maybe she DID single me out!
............
.............
..........and if she did?.......
(I can hear you asking this.)
........so what?
Maybe she's having a bad day, or the sun was in her eyes, or she thinks my purple paisley scarf is garish, or she hates brunettes, or she was trying to remember the GDP of Iceland, or she can't believe someone would let their hair grow so long, or she was doing long division in her head, or the cabbage bin next to her was emitting a foul odor.
Again.....
....so what?
I will choose to be thankful that I have money to buy my groceries, and healthy legs and arms to walk and push my cart, and good eyesight (and glasses) that allow me to see the look on that lady's face. And for the lady - I can be thankful for the lady. She's just a lady, and I can't presume to know what was going through her mind. This lady is a miracle of creation! And whoever she is, and whatever is going through her head, I want to wish and hope the best for her. I want her to be filled with love and peace. I will pray blessings on her while exercising my thanksgiving for the intricacies and wonderment of my existence here. And maybe when I pass by her cart, I'll let her know that it's 12.134 million US dollars. The GDP of Iceland, that is.
But cancer? Really and truly? I think it sounds ridiculous - being thankful for cancer. I'm concerned that if I said that out loud, the villagers would arrive with pitchforks and torches, and run me out of town. Little old ladies on the street would hit me with their purses, and small children would kick my shins.
But -- I am thankful for who I am, and how I have grown, and the things I have learned while you had the cancer.
And I am thankful for all the time we made to spend together that we otherwise might not have prioritized.
I am thankful for the amazing people we met in doctor's offices and chemo rooms, and even the strangers who recognized the cancer on you/us and offered support.
The few friends who remained to stand by me are unfathomably precious to me - I would fight lions while covered in raw meat armed only with a spork for these few. They have done the same for me.
I now know how strong you really taught me to be, and that it runs deep - much deeper than I suspected.
These are very good things. These are things worth FIGHTING for. And if they are worth fighting lions, they are certainly worthy of my thanksgiving. And not my whiny 'I guess I can' teenage eye-rolling, or any half-hearted, 98%, one pom-pom thanksgiving. No! This is a standing on top of the mountain, with my hands in the air, screaming with everything I have:
THANK YOU!
THANK YOU GOD!
Shout it with me: TTTTTTTTTTTTTTTHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAANNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNKKKKKKKKKKKKKKKKKKKKKKKKKKKKKK YYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUU!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!
And, thank YOU, Mimi. For teaching me Universal Truth 2.7, among so many other life lessons. You gave me all the tools I needed to stand on my own, while remaining within arms reach. After everything, we still stand - though separated - and how can I feel anything other than exuberant thanksgiving for that!?
Love,
A
6.28.2011
Please Go
Dear Mimi,
I wanted you to go. I prayed for it, harder than I've ever prayed for anything. I even begged your still form, once.
Even in the moment, I felt guilty for what I was doing. I love you so much, and couldn't bear to think of your bedroom without you in it, let alone an entire plane of existence. And yet, I was hoping you would leave at any minute. As your breathing slowed, we fell into a pattern of stopping whatever we were doing and watching you until you took your next breath. We were simultaneously willing you to take your next breath and hoping fiercely that you wouldn't. At least I was.
The easy thing to say is that we wanted it for your own sake. We didn't want you to suffer anymore, I didn't want you to suffer anymore. Not that you made any of it look like suffering. You fought and you clawed and you railed the heavens, and you napped and watched Oprah and curled up with me in your bed and read books to your grandson. And it wasn't easy for any of us, so I can't imagine how it was for you. And of course, we wanted the cancer to end. And we knew you would have hated the week in the hospital, and we wanted for you to go to peace and love and shining joy and eon-long worship sessions lead by our friend David Jones.
But, the ache-in-my-chest honest truth is that I also wanted it for us. For me. I could feel us fraying at the edges. The tumbler of life with cancer had already polished off our edges, and I felt us wearing down, wearing away. Simultaneously trying to carry the weight of the situation, always striving to lift you up and support you, protecting and helping you above all things, while also living complete lives of our own. The first few years were easy. We were strong and full of that foamy and sweet hope that clings to your face and goes straight to your head. We KNEW things would get better, we knew YOU would get better. We had buckets of our Hope Brew left over to pour over our friends and extra tankards to clink with the strangers we met in the chemo room.
When you started to lose weight, I felt everything grow heavier. You were delighted. I was aghast. There is that strange feeling when everything suddenly seems a little out of place, and things start moving in an unexpected way - you can't tell if you are moving, or if the world is moving around you. I started to feel that way, and I realized the drink in my hand had started to go flat with the knowledge of one too many medical journal articles, and 500 too many family meetings about the place the cancer was this time, and the sobering realization of how long we really had been 'at it'.
I described it to SisterCousin at the time by saying that the gut feeling of 'this sucks but it's going to be okay' was suddenly and irrevocably gone. And as much as I did my own fighting and clawing and railing, it would not come back. People around me, looking at me, might think I lost my hope. In fact, I read it on a few shocked faces when they realized I wasn't praying for you to jump out of the hospital bed. There was still brew in my cup, and it was even still called Hope. It just started to change. Foam doesn't last forever. As much as we would like it to and as much as we pretend that it does, it simply does not. And as much as I would like to think I could have held us up, that we could have held you up forever, I know we could not have.
I found myself staring into my cup, and hoping for whatever was to come next. Because the thing is, I really can't imagine. Even watching it so closely and sharing in it so intimately with you, I can't really imagine or understand what it was like for you to live through everything you did. Not really. I can infer and transfer and fer-fer, but I can't really know.
At the end, your strength was gone. You were starting to fade from your body even before the hospital. And our arms, steadfastly holding on and up, were weary. I began to look forward to setting down my burden, to anticipate my life without you. Because even though this world -- that sometimes seems filled with your absence -- is scary, and littered with pockets of longing for you, it is nonetheless easier. I don't fear or worry for you. I know you have peace, and I have peace about you.
We could not have held on a minute longer than you did. But we didn't let go until then. We were huddled on the floor together for a week knowing we were done. Unable to lift up any longer, but still holding on. All together.
But we didn't lose hope. I didn't lose my hope. Not even for a fraction of an iota of a whisper of one thought. I just reached the grace at the bottom of my cup. And when I did, there was nothing I wanted more for you than to go.
Love,
A
I wanted you to go. I prayed for it, harder than I've ever prayed for anything. I even begged your still form, once.
Even in the moment, I felt guilty for what I was doing. I love you so much, and couldn't bear to think of your bedroom without you in it, let alone an entire plane of existence. And yet, I was hoping you would leave at any minute. As your breathing slowed, we fell into a pattern of stopping whatever we were doing and watching you until you took your next breath. We were simultaneously willing you to take your next breath and hoping fiercely that you wouldn't. At least I was.
The easy thing to say is that we wanted it for your own sake. We didn't want you to suffer anymore, I didn't want you to suffer anymore. Not that you made any of it look like suffering. You fought and you clawed and you railed the heavens, and you napped and watched Oprah and curled up with me in your bed and read books to your grandson. And it wasn't easy for any of us, so I can't imagine how it was for you. And of course, we wanted the cancer to end. And we knew you would have hated the week in the hospital, and we wanted for you to go to peace and love and shining joy and eon-long worship sessions lead by our friend David Jones.
But, the ache-in-my-chest honest truth is that I also wanted it for us. For me. I could feel us fraying at the edges. The tumbler of life with cancer had already polished off our edges, and I felt us wearing down, wearing away. Simultaneously trying to carry the weight of the situation, always striving to lift you up and support you, protecting and helping you above all things, while also living complete lives of our own. The first few years were easy. We were strong and full of that foamy and sweet hope that clings to your face and goes straight to your head. We KNEW things would get better, we knew YOU would get better. We had buckets of our Hope Brew left over to pour over our friends and extra tankards to clink with the strangers we met in the chemo room.
When you started to lose weight, I felt everything grow heavier. You were delighted. I was aghast. There is that strange feeling when everything suddenly seems a little out of place, and things start moving in an unexpected way - you can't tell if you are moving, or if the world is moving around you. I started to feel that way, and I realized the drink in my hand had started to go flat with the knowledge of one too many medical journal articles, and 500 too many family meetings about the place the cancer was this time, and the sobering realization of how long we really had been 'at it'.
I described it to SisterCousin at the time by saying that the gut feeling of 'this sucks but it's going to be okay' was suddenly and irrevocably gone. And as much as I did my own fighting and clawing and railing, it would not come back. People around me, looking at me, might think I lost my hope. In fact, I read it on a few shocked faces when they realized I wasn't praying for you to jump out of the hospital bed. There was still brew in my cup, and it was even still called Hope. It just started to change. Foam doesn't last forever. As much as we would like it to and as much as we pretend that it does, it simply does not. And as much as I would like to think I could have held us up, that we could have held you up forever, I know we could not have.
I found myself staring into my cup, and hoping for whatever was to come next. Because the thing is, I really can't imagine. Even watching it so closely and sharing in it so intimately with you, I can't really imagine or understand what it was like for you to live through everything you did. Not really. I can infer and transfer and fer-fer, but I can't really know.
At the end, your strength was gone. You were starting to fade from your body even before the hospital. And our arms, steadfastly holding on and up, were weary. I began to look forward to setting down my burden, to anticipate my life without you. Because even though this world -- that sometimes seems filled with your absence -- is scary, and littered with pockets of longing for you, it is nonetheless easier. I don't fear or worry for you. I know you have peace, and I have peace about you.
We could not have held on a minute longer than you did. But we didn't let go until then. We were huddled on the floor together for a week knowing we were done. Unable to lift up any longer, but still holding on. All together.
But we didn't lose hope. I didn't lose my hope. Not even for a fraction of an iota of a whisper of one thought. I just reached the grace at the bottom of my cup. And when I did, there was nothing I wanted more for you than to go.
Love,
A
6.25.2011
Tea in Heaven
Dear Mimi,
I was reading through your travel journals, something I would not have done before you left. I wish I had, they are such a unique view into our travels, and I would love to talk to you about them.
You recorded your Russia 1997 thoughts into an unassuming blue notebook.
Towards the end of our trip, you wrote this:
At end of mtg. I didn't minister - no strength, and my Russian lady, friend whose feet I'd prayed for, came + found me. I'd prayed w/her on diff. days, but never w/an interpreter, so we'd never exchanged words that were understood, but many hugs that were.
She came, with her bags, and I cleared the chair next to me. We hugged + spoke + prayed. Had our picture taken + I said 'Spa-si-ba'. She said 'Spa-si-ba E das vi dan ya' - my 1st Russian goodbye. We prayed more w/ea. other, took turns speaking words we knew the other couldn't understand, and not being bothered by the lack of translation at all. when there was an announcement about having to empty the auditorium, we hugged with tears, and I told her I felt we'd be very close friends if we could live closeby, and that I could imagine us having tea together in Heaven. As she left, she stopped every 2 steps and looked back at me - I remained turned backwards in my seat so I could see her - at the top of the landing she blew kisses and made hand gestures about her heart being with me.
Thinking about a tea party with you and your Russian lady makes me smile. Thinking about all the lives that you touched, all the hearts that were and are with you, and the way you really and truly cared about every person you met, makes me proud to have come from you. Save a place for me at the tea party.
Love,
A
I was reading through your travel journals, something I would not have done before you left. I wish I had, they are such a unique view into our travels, and I would love to talk to you about them.
You recorded your Russia 1997 thoughts into an unassuming blue notebook.
At end of mtg. I didn't minister - no strength, and my Russian lady, friend whose feet I'd prayed for, came + found me. I'd prayed w/her on diff. days, but never w/an interpreter, so we'd never exchanged words that were understood, but many hugs that were.
She came, with her bags, and I cleared the chair next to me. We hugged + spoke + prayed. Had our picture taken + I said 'Spa-si-ba'. She said 'Spa-si-ba E das vi dan ya' - my 1st Russian goodbye. We prayed more w/ea. other, took turns speaking words we knew the other couldn't understand, and not being bothered by the lack of translation at all. when there was an announcement about having to empty the auditorium, we hugged with tears, and I told her I felt we'd be very close friends if we could live closeby, and that I could imagine us having tea together in Heaven. As she left, she stopped every 2 steps and looked back at me - I remained turned backwards in my seat so I could see her - at the top of the landing she blew kisses and made hand gestures about her heart being with me.
Thinking about a tea party with you and your Russian lady makes me smile. Thinking about all the lives that you touched, all the hearts that were and are with you, and the way you really and truly cared about every person you met, makes me proud to have come from you. Save a place for me at the tea party.
Love,
A
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