For Me She Came

This night is warm. A cool, gentle breeze wafts through the open windows. I know it’s night because darkness covers the house. Everyone is sleeping. I thank God for the peace that has settled in my heart. I walk by Oma’s empty room and close the old wooden door which Dad had forgotten to paint. Paint chips fall quietly to the floor slats. She’s dead, I thought, she’ll miss my thirteenth birthday tomorrow. I want to cry but someone whispers, “It is well with her.”

I walk through the hallway and notice that daylight has crept in all around me. It is still night, however. Nobody stirs.

There is a knock on the door. Who could this be? I calmly walk down the flight of stairs and head to the front door. Another knock ensues before I could open the bronzed handle—a little louder this time. Slowly I open the heavy, orange door. The smell of jasmine softly intrudes inside. I smile.

“Oma?”

She nods. Suddenly, my serenity turns to happy chaos. In my confusion I slam the door shut.

“Mamma! Papa!” I yell and scream. It is a happy commotion. I yell some more. The stairs don’t seem to touch my feet. I’m flying, I think. No one wakes. My younger brother, Joshua, rolls over in his sleep. Not a sound. “Wake up! Oma is at the front door!”

I can’t wait for them, I won’t. Frantically I run down to meet her. A look of horror slaps on my face. You closed the door on her, Deborah, that’s just great.

“Oma, I’m sorry,” I say as the creaking hinges begin their haunting song. The door opens. She’s gone.

Tirelessly, I journey back up the stairs and make my way to the weather-beaten back door. It stands ajar and I stroll through—somewhat hesitantly.

I am greeted by heavenly breezes. Strands of my hair playfully stroke my face. Sounds of rushing water cascading down from a waterfall rumbles nearby. My eyes gaze upon her. One last time I call out her name. She is climbing up cloudy steps. The sky opens and there He waits for her. For my sake, she turns to face me. Her countenance is peaceful, her smile is joyous. No more sickness, no more cancer. She is young, vibrant and beautiful. No words were necessary. Oma takes the Hand of God and He whisks her away.

“Goodbye, Oma,” I say and finally the tears that eluded me since her death, two weeks ago, flood my very soul.