Roller coasters

I've really never liked roller coasters. From my first ride on the Lagoon roller coaster when I was just tall enough to reach, I really didn't find them amusing. Roller coasters really are well-engineered designs in emotions, fear, anticipation...I don't know--everything, really. (First you pay for the "thrill," then you get on and buckle up, then it starts slowly...click, click, click..picks up a little...clickity, clickity, clickity...then slows down while you climb to the top so you can anticipate the horror that is coming...swoosh!...and then that part is over...but is it really?...just when you start to enjoy it a little...click, click, clickity, clickity, swoosh... then, thankfully, it stops just when you feel you can't take this anymore.) How is this fun? Honestly, I just don't like them. Never have. Never will.

When Kendra was four and finally tall enough to stretch herself up to the you-have-to-be-this-tall line, she could not wait to ride the roller coaster at King's Dominion. I explained that I needed to stay with the baby and could not possibly accompany her on the ride. (Mothers do fib). But her older and much-loved and trusted sister came forward and told her she would take her. She would keep her safe. She would hold on to her. She would whisper in her ear and soothe her. She would stay by her side, even (or especially) when it was scary.

So after some motherly coaching and an explanation of the hills and valleys and, more importantly, the need to stay calm because it really would come to an end and she would be just fine with her sister by her side, and I would watch the whole time and be there at the finish, I watched an excited little girl climb the stairs to her journey. Oh, what joy on that little face. And tears on mine.

I positioned myself to see her as she came over the crest of the first and biggest hill. Oh, what sheer terror on that little face. Or at least, as much as I could see of that little face--her mouth was open so wide (picture The Scream magnified) I could barely see her bulging eyes. But her big sister was there, just like she said she would be. She was whispering in her ear and pointing at the path they were going to now take.

I missed most of the other parts of the ride since I couldn't run fast enough to catch more than a glimpse here and there. But I'll never forget her little triumphant face as, once released from the beast and unaware of her proud sister standing in the background, she ran toward me with her arms outstretched and her face radiant. When she came in for a big hug and lots of "I'm so proud of you, brave one," she said, "I DID IT! I DID IT! AND I ONLY CRIED A LITTLE."

I really do dislike roller coasters. I want to go slow in life--enjoy the scenery. I want little surprises, not big twists and turns and drops that literally take your breath away--and not because they are beautiful and breathtaking.

Right now my life feels like this:

 

Somewhere on that roller coaster is a little girl silently screaming her lungs out, crying more than a little, and holding on to everyone and everything for dear life, especially the One who promised to protect her and stay by her side.  

Life is like a roller coaster, so is cancer. So is loving and longing. Big turns. Loops. Rushing forward. Slowing down. No chance to catch your breath and there you go again taking a turn you didn't want to take. Will it stop? I guess eventually. 

And what will I have learned along the way? These things and more: The Lord knows. He really KNOWS. We are loved. Families are forever. Marriage and love are eternal. Children are God's greatest gifts. Friends and family are cheering us on throughout the entire ride. Angels exist on both sides of our experience. And these angels love us. And these angels cheer for us, hold us, whisper in our ear. And these angels wrap us in blankets of peace and calm our souls. And these angels never let go.

I feel in my heart that the ride with my sweetheart on this earth is almost over. This ride really is not amusing or fun right now. It's not the least bit exhilarating. But, even with the bumps, loops, turns, terror, screams, and tears, I really don't want it to end. Not now. Not ever.

I hate seeing my sweetheart in pain. I hate seeing my beautiful family and our cherished friends in pain. I hate watching him struggle to move the smallest part of his body even a little bit. I hate listening to him breathe and hoping another breath will come.  I hate hearing the home healthcare nurse tell him he needs to say the things he wants to say because soon he probably won't be able to say them.

I don't like this ride one bit, but, oh, how I do love him. He's promised he'll stay near me. I know there will be times when I wonder if he is there, and other times, hopefully often, when I'm absolutely sure he is. We've relied on each other for 45+ years (can't we take that cruise for our 50th, please?). I know we'll go on loving and relying on each other as we always have. But forever. I know I will someday run back into his arms and triumphantly tell him what now seems impossible, "I did it! I did it! And I only cried...well, a lot."