The Bench

When we realized my mother was actively dying, we could not leave her alone. It was the end of a semester, so I had to go to work. Sometimes even death is not excuse enough to miss deadlines. A schedule of caregiving somehow naturally developed. My husband would sit with her in the mornings until I got off work. At the end of the school day, I would rush to the assisted living facility where my mother had lived for a little over a month.

Every day was the same. When I entered her room, I would let my mother know I was there with a sunny greeting, a squeeze of her hand, or a kiss on the cheek. I had done all of the searches and read all of the advice. I knew to always tell her, “It’s Stacy,” so she would not have to struggle with recognition if she heard me and wasn’t sure. After a few moments of talking to her and with my husband, he would tell my mother he was leaving, he loved her, and he would see her tomorrow.

After the goodbyes, I would follow him into the hallway, where we would sit on a bench conveniently located right outside her door. There we would have the honest conversations about what the hospice nurses had said, who had visited, and how she was really doing. Then he would leave for home, and I would return to her. I learned to swab her mouth with water and then stroke her neck to help her swallow. I would share memories and sing songs, read to her from the Bible, and sometimes I would just touch her hand so she knew I was there.

I learned quickly that dying exists in a vacuum. Despite the roar of the oxygen machine and the rhythm of staff coming and going to “just check” or give the next dose of medicine, time had no meaning within the four walls of that room. Hours would pass in what seemed like minutes, and sometimes minutes held the weight of hours. Then the door would open, and the bustle of my sister entering the room with her husband and daughter would breathe life back into it for a few moments.

Then the dance would begin again. “It’s Lisa.” “It’s Brittney.” Hands squeezed and cheeks kissed. The chatter became much louder because the party had arrived. Eventually, though, we would quietly make our way to the bench.

The bench was our respite from pretending things were fine. It was the place where we could have honest conversations, and it became the place where we could laugh because we couldn’t cry anymore.

My memories from this time are fuzzy, but one day my sister looked at me and said, “Do you know this is the only bench in a hallway in this entire facility? Do you know how much we have used and needed this bench? I’ve decided to focus on what we have to be grateful for. I’m grateful for this bench. I’m grateful for the kind caregivers. I’m thankful she moved in here when she did because we could not have cared for her at home the way she needed to be cared for.”

At that moment, something changed.

When I got home that night, I ordered three beautiful leather journals, one for me, one for my sister, and one for my niece. These would become our gratitude journals.

Now I document my gratitude, big things and little things. When I need to be reminded of how much God cares about every tiny detail of my life, I only have to open those beautiful hand-cut pages and remember the ways He has proven that love over and over again. I have bought gratitude journals for others since then, and I want to use this blog to share stories of gratitude, big and small.

But I wanted you to know where it started.

On a bench in a hallway, just outside my mother’s room.

I was not there the morning my mother left this world and entered into God’s presence. But as I drove to work that morning, I knew it would be the day she did. The sunrise was glorious, and I knew it was God’s way of telling me that everything was fine.

I am grateful for that, too.

I still use this journal, and I love it. If you would like to start your own gratitude journal, you can find the one I use here.