There's a song in my head for her. It's sweet, and funny, sarcastic yet gentle. It's got crisp notes that speak of a daddy's love, a daughter's admiring gaze, and kisses for grandchildren. It's full of experience, of adventure, of bright-colored hair and pearls. It knows well of betrayal and hardship, yet it sings of one well-loved by her own son and daughters.
Every person's life is a song, and should be so, but there is a special song for this valued life that I only knew for a short time.
Her name is Sheila. She was a miner's daughter, and proud to the marrow to be one; she has the tattoo to prove it. I caught wind of stories of the past where she would skip school to bounce along in her daddy's dirty truck to work, beaming at every chance to be with him. Her grandfather was a preacher in the South, and so with every piano played in the house, a gospel song accompanied it; and she knew every word! What a hymn-filled treasure she stored up in that heart.
Sheila's favorite holiday was Halloween. In her jammies, under a warm blanket, she would watch all the scary movies she could get her hands on, and rewatch all the best ones. Murders, mysteries, crime solving, and thrillers were regulars on the television. A nail-biting story with a big bowl of ice cream was just what she loved to have at her fingertips.
I had the chance to know her because of her incredible daughter. I personally got to see what generous, sacrificial living was really like. This wasn't like anything I've seen before in my (young) life; this was giving when it is not required, and serving when it isn't convenient, and freely opening heart and home because Jesus has freely given. This meant open hands and a willingness to be hurt or rejected by anyone involved. This meant worrying over someone that few have taken the time to worry over before. This meant time, costly time, and resources that quickly run dry. This meant working five times harder, and resting twice as less, to care for the mother who, in a perfect world, would have the roles reversed.
You see, caring for anyone who is sick has its hardships, but there is something in particular about caring for a cancer patient that is unique. Yes, cancer it was, and what a brutal thing it is.
Yes, let's call it what it is: brutal. Let's use all the strong words to curse such a curse! Yet even in such a curse, I can see a tiny bit of hope, which begins to flood the heart.
I had the immense privilege to photograph Sheila with her family in the summer of 2017 before she passed away a few months later in November. Her children and grandchildren joined her for the photos, some who were visiting the south from the state of Ohio. Again, I say, what a privilege. The evening sunlight was perfect, the breeze was perfect, the country house was the perfect backdrop, and Sheila was feeling good enough to stand for that memorable family picture fit for a fireplace mantle. I share these photographs in memory of her.
How can anyone count their precious days? When work and school and the world's demands are placed on a person's shoulders, how is anyone to count the minutes and enjoy them? Please be mindful of it today.
