And she loved the birds that sang from those branches. Her Nana gave her a birdfeeder one birthday. I hung it under the porch roof, right outside the kitchen’s window. Season after season, Heidi watched the birds in the dogwood tree as they waited their turn at the feeder.
One Sunday morning in January, as she sat confined to the wheelchair necessitated by a stroke, she said, “Mom – look! Look at the pretty bird!”
I glanced at the pile of equipment that overflowed the foyer, waiting to be loaded for the morning service. But a still, small voice said, “Sit. Have breakfast with your daughter.”
So I put the chore off and sat with her a few moments.
Church was glorious that morning. I could sense God’s presence permeating the worship in a sweet way that often eludes the one serving as the worship leader due to the nature of the work. But that morning, His nearness almost overwhelmed me, yet somehow I managed to keep leading and not turn into a voiceless puddle. The afterglow stayed with me the whole day.
After lunch, I asked Heidi if she wanted to take a nap or help me takedown the Christmas tree. Twelfth Night had passed, and now for our family Christmas was over. Normally Heidi would jump at the chance to help with the tree. Long-term radiation damage had become increasingly compromised her ability to do much with the ornaments. Still, she found a way to cradle one between her paralyzed left hand and her body, and use the functioning right hand to deal with the hook. Her chatter made for good company, and we both looked forward to these times together.
So I asked her, fully expecting her to opt for the tree. But she looked at me a long moment. Time seemed to suspend. Then she said, “Mom? I’m tired, now. I would like to go to sleep.”
Those were the last words I ever heard her speak…
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