Everybody, Always

On New Year’s Day, Carol was clinging to life by a few threads and was
far too weak to get out of bed. She’d made it to the day of the parade she
had once presided over as queen. This was an ambition I think had
sustained her during the last months of her courageous battle. Just before
the parade started, my sons Richard and Adam, along with Lindsey’s
husband, Jon, went across the street and carried Carol from her bedroom
to a chair they’d placed in front of her living room window facing the
street.
Carol could hear the music and knew the parade was coming soon, but
she couldn’t see past the corner of her window. What she didn’t know
was that we had changed the parade route, and within a few minutes all
five hundred people walked right through her front yard.
I sat next to Carol, holding her hand as hundreds of her friends and
neighbors walked up to her window, pressed their noses against it, waved
to her, and bounced balloons. As they did, through her tears, Carol lifted
her weak hand slowly to her mouth and blew each one of them kisses
goodbye. A few days later, Jesus lifted Carol up to heaven. It would be
her second parade of the week.
I don’t know if the streets of heaven are paved in gold, but I’m kind
of hoping they’re lined with balloons. And at the end of the parade, I bet
we’ll find Jesus blowing us kisses, rubbing our noses, and welcoming us
to our next neighborhood. I just hope I get a house somewhere near
Carol’s again.