Back then my psyche was fragile. My therapist Carol knew it but she kept prodding me to get out some of the grief. I'd dab into it once in awhile but I didn't see what the point was.
Cathy was gone. I'd never have another woman who understood me like she did. Get up and move on.
My Dad sent so many mixed signals I never knew what to believe. This signal was easy. He was dead. Nothing more, nothing less.
Sharing the message of Jesus with Maryla when she was up and conscious is the warmest feeling I have. She and her roommate Barb saying, "Yes," when I asked if they believed Jesus was their forever friend and died for them brought tears to my eyes. The next time I saw Maryla was in the hospital with a brain aneurysm. I walked into her room alone. I asked her if she wanted Jesus to take away her sin. A tear fell from her eye. I asked her if she'd like me to baptize her. Another tear. I baptized her.
Aaron died from huffing propane. He was 18 years old. When I laid hands on him to pray, I didn't feel any activity in his head. We'd talked about Jesus the week before. I asked him the same questions as Maryla. Same tears. Baptized. I put two pins on his lapels. I was there when the machines were turned off and Aaron passed into eternity. Nothing eclectic. He was gone.
After each of these deaths came helping my nieces. They needed a lot of consoling. I'm glad God gave me the stamina to do just that. Late night talks over the phone, crying, deep crying, whatever they needed.
What about me? I put myself on the back burner. I've always done that. I've always known I'll get around to it one of these days.
I guess the time is here.
