Time Marches On

"You're gonna miss this.

You're gonna want this back.

You're gonna wish these days hadn't gone by so fast.

These are some good times.

So take a good look around

You may not know it now

But you're gonna miss this." - Trace Adkins

Today my son came home to spend the weekend with me to celebrate Mother's Day because he will not be able to come home next weekend. We had a great time. He gave me a darling card of a little boy playing drums on pots and pans. It said, a mom is someone who can sit through a drum solo . . . and still hear beautiful music in it. The card hit the nail on the head.

My boy is a drummer. It started in the womb. Then, it progressed to pots and pans, makeshift drums, car dashes, car headrests, some body part of his sister, a counter top, a garbage can, the back of a church pew - any available surface that would receive the beats coming from the brain waves sent to those talented hands. He later directed that talent to three different drum sets here at home, a bass drum and snare drum in high school, and symbols and bass drum in college.

He was playing away on his set one day when I was on the phone with my sister. She asked, how do you stand that? I asked, what? I had grown accustom to the drums. It was background noise to me - really - music to my ears. But noise to my sister.

It's really quiet in our house these days. Occassionally, Will, our grandson asks to play Drew's drums, but it's not the same. We no longer have the beat on the kitchen counter top to which we marched, the drum solos to which I heard beautiful music.

The little drummer boy doesn't live here anymore. He's moved on. When he visits, the beat is back and we're marching again to his staccato beat. There's life in the house again. But when he goes, it's so quiet. I know he's happy, I know he's found the love of his life, I know he's enjoying life - so I guess you can say the beat goes on - the sound is just a little fainter.

"Why, why, why does it go this way?

Why, why, why - and all I can say -

All I know to say now is:

Somewhere down the road, there'll be answers to the questions. And somewhere down the road, though we cannot see it now. Somewhere down the road you will find mighty arms reaching for you. And they will hold the answers at the end of the road." - Amy Grant

My strong, 77 year old dad who is no ordinary senior citizen, has been diagnosed with Non-Hodgkin's Lymphoma. He is in Stage IV. The week before he was diagnosed, he was here, delivering a birthday card to Drew. It was raining. He was coming from church - he was dressed in a brown blazer - his color. We commented as he made a fast trot back to the car in the rain how good he looked and what good shape he was in to be 77.

The next week, he was diagnosed. We are going through chemo treatments again (we did it once before when he beat Chronic Lymphocytic Leukemia - remission for 4 years), and I wonder if the sickness Daddy is going through is from the cancer or the treatment. Both are cruel - both can be killers.

I know one thing, many people say it is so good to know - you have this time to say the things you need to say. But you don't. You live life pretending everything is just fine when you are together. He knows - we know, but we can't say it. Sometimes there's a joke about doing up a funeral just right or saying he'll be watching to make sure I'm doing things right. But on the surface, there's this awkward silence. We can't speak it. Then, it's real - there's too much emotion.

There is a difference now. My Daddy who was a tough guy who never put words to feelings is suddenly telling his children to be careful. When I say, "I love you", as I'm leaving the house, he no longer gives me an uncomfortable "all right". He says, I love you, too. It cuts like a knife, the words I longed to hear for so long I now know he is saying because he wants us to know he loves us - just in case. He knows nows the time - in case there's no more time.

I am so thankful for an earthly father who I could set the clock by. So consistent, so methodical, so faithful. I used to wish so badly he was a mushy, gushy father who told me he loved me all the time. But now, I see just how valuable those words are - how important it is for him to voice them - even though it goes against every cell in his body. We laugh because he told my mother years ago, I love you, if anything changes, I'll let you know!! He meant it. And thankfully, she was secure in those words. I hope, in their private moments, he's telling her he loves her, too. Even though I know after 54 years a lot of things have changed - but thank the Lord, not that!