My heart is sad since you’re gone, but even in the sadness there is much joy. I’m sad that I will never spend another day with you on earth, but oh the joy, to think of you finally being free!

I’m thrilled that you get to finally be with Jesus, and hear those words “Well done, good and faithful servant.” When I think of you in heaven I picture you in your new body. No pain, no devastating effects of Parkinson’s, no sadness.

The reward you have longed for is now yours and I am so happy for you.

Your long slender fingers, once played piano, changed countless diapers and put innumerable meals on the table. Once they could type an impressive number of words per minute, and rumor has it that those hands could crack multiple eggs at once. Then along came Parkinson’s, and took it all away. They slowly became stiff, and no longer obeyed your brain’s signals to cooperate.

Your feet, which had faithfully carried you for nearly forty years, decided they were no longer willing to do so anymore.

I wasn’t there to see the early effects start to chip away at your health and strength. By the time I met you, Parkinson’s had taken almost everything. The Lorretta I met 14 years ago was almost completely chair bound.

The heaviness of such a diagnosis at such a young age is not lost on me. It’s sobering every time , when I think that you were just a few years older than me when Parkinson’s came into your world and slowly started taking away your life.

For fourteen years, every time I walked up the stairs in your house, you were a constant. Always there, in your chair, with your mirthful smile and your quiet wise cracks.

You were always so delighted when someone brought a new baby for you to hold. I have many precious memories of seeing your grandchildren, and our children too, sleeping on your lap, or smiling at you as you clicked your tongue at them. Baby Cory was just learning to click back at you…

I learned quickly that when you opened your mouth it was wise to stop and listen to what came out. As life brought changes in your life and in ours, and I ended up on your caregiving team, one thing was sure. Your sense of humor was alive and well, almost to the very end.

As I think over my memories, I remember a time when we were all gathered around your kitchen table, and as usual everyone was picking on Cory. It was good natured picking, and as Cory tried to talk his way out of the situation, he kept digging the hole deeper.

Then you piped up from your corner and with your signature smirk, said “You know, if you close it, it stops coming out!” Much laughter followed and that was only one of many such moments, where we could enjoy your humor. Enjoy it we did, even though it was usually at our expense.

Another memory comes to me and makes me smile. The day you wanted help putting on a pair of shoes that we thought were certainly too small for your feet. As we tugged and pulled, we tried to talk you into wearing a different pair, but you firmly insisted you wanted THESE!

We finally got them on your feet, and as we stood there looking at your very squished feet, James said “Girl, can you stand it?!” To which you dryly replied: “I don’t stand. I sit.”

I would be here all day if i tried to tell all the funny stories from the past 2.5 years.

I would be here all week if I tried to tell all the ways you have blessed me. The ways you have inspired me. I can’t begin to convey my gratitude for the honor of being part of your life, and I wouldn’t trade that experience for anything.

We will miss the mischievous twinkle in your eyes, all those times when we walked up the stairs and you quipped: “Somebody must’ve left the door open.”

We will miss your quiet presence in your old faithful chair. Your voice, singing along with your favorite songs, when James would play them for you on the computer, or singing along to the prayer songs at mealtime.

Lorretta, you left us an example of quiet strength. You sat there in that chair, a reminder to the rest of us that, like you always would say it, “Life’s not fair, get used to it!”

And talk about leaving a legacy. You raised 8 amazing children who have grown up to live upstanding, God honoring lives. Your legacy will live on, as it’s being lived out in the lives of your children, and passed on to their children. What a contribution to the world. Your footprint is impressive, and this time I’m not making fun of those big feet of yours. 🙂

These past 2 weeks, as we watched by your bedside, a number of song lyrics went through my head, one of them being “Let me go, why should I tarry ? What has earth to bind me here? What but cares and toil and sorrow? What but death and pain and fear?”

We prayed over you, we sang together and grieved together, and then when you continued to hang on, we sang some more, and grieved some more, but ultimately we prayed for your release. And when, in God’s time, you gently slipped away, we rejoiced for you, and grieved for us. No one else can fill your spot in our hearts, so we ache with the loss, but oh we would never wish you back in your earthly body.

I can hardly think about your sweet friendship with Harrison without crying. Four nights a week, ever since he could walk, he has ran into your room after i tucked you in, and he always kissed you goodnight. I could just see the love in your eyes and the grin on your face, when his little voice would say “G’nite L’wetta! Seep tight!”

The night before you went home, when he came over to your bed and asked if he could kiss you goodnight, I wondered in passing if it would be the last time he would have the chance.., Now you’re home and you’ll never experience night again.

It won’t seem right to come up the stairs and not see you sitting in your chair, but I know the seating in heaven beats the very best that LaZBoy can offer. I love to think of you in your glorified body, singing the songs of the redeemed, in your glorified voice. No more struggle to get the words out, never another moment of being misunderstood. Eternally known and loved, and in the presence of your King.

I picture you raising your hands in praise, and your new hands are uncurled. Your feet can run to Jesus, and when you fall at His feet, you won’t need anyone to pick you up.

I can’t wait to see you there.