As Katie and I were heading home last night, she mentioned that she wanted to see a shooting star. “Momma, I want to see a shooting star. If I’m see one, I’m gonna wish on it with all my heart for my papa to get better from this awful cancer. I’ve only had seven years with him and that’s not enough. I need him to live until he’s 100.” I, in my ever so practical and ridiculous ways, told her that I didn’t think a shooting star would help papa at this point. I quickly realized my mistake and how callous and crushing I had been. I quickly followed up with something along the lines of “but we should absolutely give it a try.”
When we got home a few minutes later, I started trying to fuss with putting the back seat in the car up. It dawned on me how tired I was, that I could fix the seats in the morning and gave up. I moved around to the other side of the car to help Katie get out and gather her things. She and I have been watching Jupiter and Mercury move around in the sky off to the west of our house. She noticed that the clouds had parted, they were visible and called out to me about it. As I turned my eyes heavenward, I watched in amazement as the most brilliant and beautiful shooting star streaked its way above the sky. It b-r-o-u-g-h-t me to my knees. The tears I had held all day came pouring forth and completely overwhelmed me. I have never seen anything more beautiful or truly amazing and awe inspiring.
Upon first seeing the star, I was filled with an unbearable sense of grief and panic. I grabbed my phone and frantically dialed my sister’s cell phone. I was utterly convinced my dad had just passed and the star was his sign to me. I had to ask her three or four times if anything had happened at that exact moment. After being reassured repeatedly that he had not passed, nothing had happened and they were still waiting for him to be moved to a patient room at the hospital, I quietly hung up my phone and buried my head, tears and aching heart in my daughter’s hair.
As I’ve thought about these events throughout the day today, I’ve decided the star was a sign. Not a sign of sadness, but a sign of hope. A lesson to me that just as we are told to have the faith of children, perhaps we are also to take cue from them on hoping. That perhaps there is a miracle waiting for my dad. That even if there isn’t and his time left with us is really as short as they say, that we can cling to the hope and knowledge of seeing him again.
Baby Girl of mine, you keep hoping and wishing on those stars…
No comments:
Post a Comment