Love wash over a multitude of things

Jesus save us from a multitude of things

Make us whole.

There is a love that never fails
There is a healing that always prevails
There is a hope that whispers a vow
A promise to wait while we’re working it out
So come with your love and wash over us

When It Was Over by. Sara Groves

The last time I saw Sydney was July 17, 2011. It was after church. I went up to her and gave her a hug. She stayed seated and seemed weighed down. I knew she had not been feeling well. We talked for a bit.

She grabbed my hand and said that she would like for  me to come over to her house very soon. She wanted me to sit by her bed and just pray with her. I would have liked nothing more than to spend that special time together.

The next day, I got sick. It turned into a bad two-week summer cold which finally went away while I was at camp. The next week, we went to the beach to celebrate my girls birthday’s with my family. I got home to begin school on Monday August 15th as Sydney began radiation on August 17th.

Twelve days later, she was gone.

I did not get to sit by her bed. I did not get to pray with her.

Grieving is hard. It is like an unruly toddler. Some days it won’t come when it’s called. It is illusive and slips away. Then on other days it follows you around like a shadow. It grabs relentlessly at your pants leg, begging you to stop and bend down to pick it up.

Yesterday morning, I sat and let grief crawl up into my lap. I read countless emails that I have saved through the years and notes that Sydney and I had written to each other. I cried. I laughed. And I remembered.

I realized that our relationship has always been one of comfort and encouragement from a distance. Tons of emails, even before her diagnosis, that were prayers, verses, and words of love and affirmation.

I realized that though I did not get to sit with her in the last month like she wanted, that she was never farther away than a prayer.

Which is still true today.

*taken at my friend’s grave side.

The family released Monarch Butterflies during a private burial service in honor of Sydney Gaylord’s life and death. I went on Friday to say goodbye to my friend. One of the butterflies stayed behind. I do not know if someone placed it there, but I found this one nestled into the white flowered cross Friday evening. Such a lovely picture.

Rest In Peace, Sweet Syd.

Psalm 91:1

“She who dwells in the shelter of the Most High will rest in the shadow of the Almighty.”

Sydney Boone Gaylord

April 13, 1976 – August 29, 2011

January 2, 2009
Dear Syd,
I am sending you some songs and pictures that God has given me on my journey to remind me of His tender presence in the midst of such trial, suffering, and ‘seeming’ absenteeism. Sometimes the only place He can be found for me is in my iPod or my garden.

Too, I know I have tried to communicate this in such a floundering, helpless manner, but my heart is with you both in this prolonged season of testing. Coupled with the fact that I am a deep feeler by design and I have found such a deep, restful comfort in being your friend.

I am constantly amazed by how you can be so present and full of gentle anticipation and wonder with people. This has been such a gift to me. I am someone who has deep seeded fears of being known and being still with others. But, you have this God-given ability to make people relax and almost treasure the thing that brings them the most fear. This truly has been one of your gifts to a lost and hurting world.

Yesterday I went out by myself to try to get anchored and rooted after the shock of your diagnosis. In a parking lot, I wept deep tears for you and Todd before God. The Lord dealt with me gently and kindly said, “Carrie, you cannot take this away for Sydney and Todd. And you cannot take care of her. But I can. I am going to take care of Sydney. I promise. Your job is to love her, but not to carry her.”

So, I just wanted to let you know that I am trying to fight this overwhelming urge to ‘carrie’ you.:) Instead, I am going to offer you up to the One who can. I thank you for being in my life and giving me yet another opportunity to trust God and believe in His goodness.

I am reminded of when I spoke at my grandmother’s memorial service and looked up to see you and Todd in the balcony. I was so moved by you both being there, supporting me in my deep loss and sadness. Now I will look up again to the One who will do the same for us all. I will look up to the One who will carry and comfort us through this season.

I love you Syd. love to Todd, and the little cuties:)

soon and very soon,
Carrie

September 1, 2011

Dear Sydney,

I have been reading the letter I wrote to you years ago because in a few hours, we will celebrate your life and lay your sweet body into the ground to rest and wait. I admit that the reason for my deep fear and what prompted me to write you that letter in the first place was because I was terrified of this day.

When Holly called to share with me your diagnosis, I had to sit down right in the middle of Barnes and Nobles. I was overwhelmed. I was afraid then and there that you were going to die. I was scared for Todd, the kids, and all of the rest of us who could not imagine life without you as part of our skyline.

I realize now, completely exhausted from all my tears shed over the past week, that racing to the end of the story that day was very short-sighted. Sitting there in the fiction section, I could not see all that God was going to speak with your life. He had used you so well in health, why would I think that would change in your sickness?

On that dreary December Day, I could not see that you would have almost a year and a half of feeling better than you ever had in the previous 33 years leading up to your diagnosis. I did not know that you would begin to wake up early, exercise, and LOVE it.

I could not see that you would go on to run half marathons(*read talk during half marathons), ride a bike across the state of Virginia, take spin classes, love Nascar, discover bird watching, keep painting, love your family and friends deeper, and continue to leave your fingerprints on many lives, especially those who were hurt and suffering.

I know it was hard for you to be sick and in so much pain. I am not trying to minimize the hellish nature of  a brain tumor and living with the fear that you may not get to age with Todd or watch your children grow up.

But, you did it Sydney. You ran the race with such tenacity and perseverance, and I am so proud of you. You dear, special, beautiful woman.

Remember in February when Todd asked me to come over with Lisa and Kelly to have dinner with you? You were in your wheel chair and we just chatted. You asked me how I was doing and what was new in my life. I told you that I was speaking at a large Womens conference April first. You began counting out loud and landed on seven.

“Sydney,” I said. “Seven what?”

“Seven weeks, Carrie. You speak in seven weeks. I’ll be walking by then.” you said.

I smiled and hoped for you.

And the night after that conference, you walked all by yourself into the restaurant for my birthday dinner.

So tenacious. So brave. So Sydney.

Sweet Syd,

These are the verses I’ve prayed for you since you got sick. Look at them now. I came across them in my fear one day and prayed them with a heart that pleaded to God that you would get well. I begged Him to heal you.

With these verses back in December, we cried out that He would give you back to us. And He did. You got better and for 7 months, you got to love all of those who loved you with a fullness that few can understand.

Now I see that His plan all along was to heal you.

So today we will shout for joy at your victory.

And we’ll shed tears because you are gone and will be missed terribly.

Love to you,

Carrie Luke

December 27, 2010

It was two years ago today, that my friend was diagnosed with a significant brain tumor in her left frontal lobe. I remember exactly where I was when I received the call. I can recall vividly having to sit down in the middle of Barnes and Nobles because I was in shock and stunned to the deep parts of myself.  It was as if someone had knocked the wind out of me, and I was struggling desperately to catch my breath and regain control. As if I had control in the first place.

Last week, I received an email from her husband telling me that she wanted some Christmas music. She was now home from the hospital recovering from pneumonia and some complications from the swelling of the tumor.  After her diagnosis, I made her lots of music to try and convey my thoughts from a far since they had stayed in their home town with family trying to regain their footing after such a revelation.

Music has always had an uncanny knack of reaching into those undisclosed places in a unique way.  And I was at a complete loss of my own words, but had no shortage of fears, feelings, and desires for her to know that I was with her as much as possible. Even if I was afraid, which I was. And am.

So, the day before Christmas eve, I quietly knocked on the front door of their home bearing gifts. My friend’s husband let me in and led me to their room. The house was very quiet since the kids had been taken on an outing with their grandparents.

She was in bed resting, so I had to approach her from behind. I was very nervous. Would she recognize me? Would she be too tired to see me, and therefore aggravated by my intrusion? And what do you say in the face of so much suffering and sickness?

I leaned around the side of the bed, and smiled. She looked up at me, and grinned. We hugged and kissed each other on the cheek. Then she pulled me close to her and said, “Kiss me on the other side as well, I’m now greeting like the Europeans.”

I obliged happily, and  laughed at her ability to remain so unique. I gave her the CD’s and unwrapped a framed picture for her that I took this summer of a butterfly in all it’s glory. I said her name, held up the image and said, “This is you. And will always be you to me.”

We spent some time laughing and talking.  I tended to her needs very thankful for the moments I had spent with others who were sick.  I tried to follow her thoughts even when I did not understand. It was in the midst of our time together that I realized, I was no longer afraid of saying or doing the wrong thing. It was just good for me to be present with her and to meet her where she was. Acknowledging and being so sorry that she felt bad. And laughing with her because she is funny.

It was just like the text I had received from my friend Michelle whom I had asked to pray for my time. She wrote to me, “The ministry of presence is so huge. There is something it does for the soul that the Lord meant for us to give to one another.”

When I could tell that my friend was getting tired, I ran my fingers through her soft hair. I told her that I loved her and was going to let her get some rest.  She nodded her head and we hugged once more. I went on my way as quietly as I had entered.

Though I was not the same, for the word Emmanuel was upon my lips in a new, fresh way.  I thought again of Michelle’s words and the ministry of presence that one simple word communicates. Emmanuel. God with Us. With Me. In my sickness. In my sadness. In my lost places. In my loneliness.

In my joy. And in my glory.  Always. And Forever.

Luke 1: 78-79 “Because of God’s tender mercy, the morning light from heaven is about to break upon us, to give light to those who sit in darkness and to guide us to the path of peace.” (NLT)