In retrospect - this entry is a little bit disjointed. scrabbling together a lot of thoughts and feelings.

Mom's last days were a patchwork of gifts that we may not, at the time, have recognized as such. Of course the time we spent with her was an undisguised blessing - and the moments in which she made eye contact, spoke clearly, understood us, those were pure joy. But the difficult moments - especially the memories of physical closeness - now that some time has passed, they are coming into a different focus. Still accurate, still clear, but I feel them differently.

Cancer ravages a body and mind like nothing you can imagine. In her last weeks, she would sometimes not recognize people she had known her entire life. She would confuse people, events, reality. She told us to do things that were physically impossible, congratulated us for things that had never happened, scolded us for misdeeds we hadn't committed. Her appetite, and then her body, diminished until she was eating almost nothing, and was so thin that I was afraid transporting her from bed to chair would break a fragile bone.

We began the process of caring for her as one would care for a very young child. And we were already grieving then, for what was lost - essence, vitality. Autonomy. Clarity. Life as we knew it. And our mom, Amy, as we knew her. As we supported, and then lifted her body so she could get from place to place, we silently remembered the heartbreakingly recent days that she walked Bentley around the block, gardened for hours, showed us her newest zambudan exercises.

But even as I helped her scoot to the edge of her bed, slipped my arms under hers and around her back, bracing, feeling her use what little strength she had to pull herself up and balance, even supporting most of her weight, feeling so scared that I would drop her or that she would suddenly forget whether she was getting up or sitting down and panic and flail ... even as we did this time after time, even as the days went by and the distribution of weight and effort shifted from her to me, greater than my fear or my sadness, was a feeling of grace.

I was born to be here, right now, with you in my arms. To lift and steady you, to support and love you. With my arms around you I feel every bone, and I feel every tremble, but I also feel your will and your strength. You don't speak, but your essence hums from within, it isn't lost.

Walking in this embrace is an exercise in faith. Every step forward, every time a foot comes off the ground, we are putting our faith in each other and our faith in God. One step forward, I feel your breath on my cheek; steady and brace, I hear your voice but no words, I am not sure if you are trying to say something to me. But I keep saying to you, hold on tight, we're almost there.

Aunties came every day to talk to her, relive the old days, give her the news. Uncles came to sit in their characteristic older-brother silence, the grief of losing a baby sister all over their faces. Her sister came to pray and come to grips with the surreality of it all. Her beloved nieces, nephews and godchildren came daily to say hello, and maybe goodbye, and hello again and again, and finally, goodbye. In the midst of all of this, the greatest gift was just to be there to care for her. Everyone did what they could to keep her heart full and her mind at peace. Sometimes I found the greatest comfort and sense of honor in caring for her physical body. The act of cleaning her skin, combing her hair, applying balm to her chapped lips brought such comfort not only to her, but to me. One of Matthew's many responsibilities was administering pain medications to keep her comfortable. Dad kept her nourished. Cousins massaged her with moisturizing lotion and filed her nails. Mom had always been down-to-earth, had always taken care of herself and everyone else. It filled us with peace to be able to lavish this care on her. I cannot honestly say with 100% certainty that she would have approved of or allowed this if she'd been at her regular strength - she was always proud, capable and incredibly self-sufficient. But it was the last small thing any of us could do to honor and connect with her, especially when it became difficult to communicate with words.

D gets married tomorrow and I am humbled to have been asked to read 1 Corinthians at the wedding ceremony. So that I don't squeak, choke, pause or ultimately let my emotions pull me under, I've been poring over the familiar words that D's mom, my Aunty Fran, read for me, and that my mom read for Laurie, D's sister, 7 (?) years ago.

I really can't make up my mind - whether to believe that A) my mom is here, in spirit, with us, or B) that she is indescribably far away in a place of unimaginable perfection, and we along with her earthly existence are long forgotten. There is a profound beauty in the second, but it has so far been too much and too final for me to swallow. But whichever turns out to be true, Corinthians has been immensely comforting. All you need is love - and it is patient, kind, truthful and unfailing, even if our best human efforts don't always produce this kind of love. It is in turns visible and invisible, but it is always there. We have been immersed in it and surely by now would have drowned without it.

Since Dad's diagnosis of mantle-cell lymphoma on the heels of losing Mom, we've had approximately five minutes for the whole woe-is-us rigamarole. We are stunned, to be sure, but there isn't time for the luxury of wallowing. Dad wakes up every day saying, "Life moves on," repairing this, cleaning that, keeping the house in order, and doing what he does best - soldiering on. We are all doing our research, Dad starts chemo on Monday, and we will keep on keeping on because that's what we do. It's less important to know why than it is to band together and form some kind of game plan for negotiating this beautiful but jagged terrain of life. Cue the marching band because like it or not, for better or for worse, we're all in this together. It's hard not to believe in scenario A at times like these.