Seeing Through a Glass Darkly

It's been one month since Mom passed, and I'm still trying to grasp this reality called death. I've seen it played out thousands of times on movies and television-- real and fiction, and I've read about it in books, and I've even written about it, but I still don't understand it.

Everywhere I look around the house I see evidence of Mom's every day life, and yet she isn't here. If I stay busy enough, I can keep that new reality at bay, until something-- a clothing item I missed taking to the clothes closet, one of her handwritten recipes, the unopened yogurt in the refrigerator I bought for her, the empty wheelchair, her comb, mail still arriving with her name on it, her eyeglasses, or a hundred other things-- pulls me back to remembering she's gone. But I can't let myself live in perpetual sadness. She wouldn't want that.

In each of us, two realities live congruently with each other, but most of us don't recognize it until something shakes them apart-- sometimes it's just a momentary awareness, but what most flagrantly separates the two is death. The physical reality-- the seen remains, but the invisible reality-- the unseen-- the soul and the spirit-- the eternal part that enables thought and reason and movement in these tangible bodies-- leaves. That recognizable body instantly becomes a lifeless shell, confirmed by touch. As soon as my mother's last breath was breathed, she wasn't there anymore. What remained was what we recognized by sight, but what left the body, the room, and the house was what we truly knew-- not by sight, but the soul and spirit relationship we had with Mom. We're left with the love and memories of that relationship, thank heavens, but it's severed for now, and that hurts.

I'm sitting here looking at my computer through physical eyes, but it's my soul and spirit that are doing the seeing and thinking and reasoning. It's hard to let that awareness truly sink in. It's like I've possessed this particular body and I'm controlling it to do my bidding-- typing these letters on the keyboard, breathing in and out, taking a drink of my tea, shedding tears, leaning back in my chair when the words refuse to come. This body does what I tell it to do... until something interferes with that. Like disease.

Mom had a disease that gradually took away her control over her own body. Her soul (mind, will, and emotion) and spirit were fully functioning, trapped in a physical body that mostly refused to do her bidding. But the essence of who she was still there; it just wasn't as easily accessible.

I was so shocked to see the last pictures of my mother at my nephew's wedding ten days before she passed. She looked so ill and frail. But I don't remember her that way at all. I remember her beautiful and strong and so brave. I think that up until the end, I was seeing the essence of who she was-- her soul and spirit, which were quite different from the physical reality of her body. And that is what I want to remember about her. And I will.

I wonder what we'll look like in heaven? I don't believe this ol' body comes close to what I'll look like there. I believe our spiritual eyes will be completely opened in heaven, and we'll be able to see all of the unseen, the essence of who we are. I believe we get glimpses of that occasionally. I have to confess that the best part of me in this life is Christ, whose spirit lives in me because I asked him to. Otherwise, I'm nothing but an occupied shell-- still moving and breathing and physically alive with an eternal soul, but existing only for myself-- my wants, my needs, and my stuff.

And life is meant to be so much more than that.

For now we see through a glass, darkly; but then, face to face: now I know in part; but then shall I know even as also I am known.  I Corinthians 13:12 KJV

Major Life Shift

Mom, in the mid-1960s

I'm still trying to work through the reality of my mother's death. I watched her take her last breath when her life and spirit left her body. Her face relaxed; I could see no wrinkles; her skin looked so young. We agonized at the thought of losing her, but at the same time we were so thankful she wasn't suffering anymore.

I remember Mom telling me that since her mother had moved in with them during her last years, it was harder when she lost her because she'd gotten so used to being with her all the time again. I understand that completely now. This house I love so much seems like such an empty shell without her. But I know things will get better in time. People all around me have survived losing their mother, and I will, too.

My sister and I cleaned out Momma' closet on Sunday. I'd been dreading that, but it helped to not have to do it alone. I shed more tears as I remembered her wearing certain favorite items of clothing. But it also made me think about clothes hangers. Mom and I had different opinions about clothes hangers after we moved in together. I thought I was helping my parents out by gradually getting rid of the old wire hangers and replacing them with the plastic ones when she stopped me one day. She told me she preferred the wire hangers over the plastic ones because she could get more clothes in the closet with the wire ones. That surprised me at the time, and it makes me smile as I write this. I thought I knew just about everything about Momma, but I didn't know that one.

Then yesterday I hugged and bawled on every stack of her clothes I took to the minivan, and then over to a local clothes closet ministry. I know moments like that will continue to come, sometimes when I least expect it, but I don't block the grief. I know that's part of the healing process. And it is a cathartic experience for me to write things down through blogs, journals, and even emails and letters to friends and family.

Mom was in relatively good health all of her life until a low heart rate meant having a pacemaker wired to her heart about twelve years ago. She told the grandkids the doctor installed a Sears Die Hard battery in her. Some years after that before ALS came calling, Momma told me that if something were to ever happen to her, and I think she figured it would be heart-related, that she wanted us to know she'd had a good and happy life, and that she had no regrets. She told me that what she was most proud of was her family, and she loved being a mother to us kids and a wife to Daddy.

Since Mom lost her ability to speak verbally, she had to write to communicate. Coming across even the smallest scraps of paper with her handwriting on it moves me to tears. I found a note written to a co-worker at the hospital where she volunteered long after her ALS diagnosis that said, "I'm going to have to quit working soon; it tires me out too much." I found other ones reminding Dad to "Trim the crepe myrtles next" and "Read the to-do list by the back door." Or asking how someone was doing or telling us what clothes she wanted to wear to the doctor appointment or telling Dad where something was or saying "That baby has been such a blessing to us" or "I'm glad you came-- I always enjoy visiting even though I don't talk" or "You take care" or "I think he needs the hair cut around his butt" (referring to our dog) or "Tell the girls hello-- I miss them" (to Donna, the beautician who came to our house every Friday after Mom couldn't visit the beauty shop) or "You stay out of trouble, but have fun" or "Yogurt"(when asked what she'd like to eat) or "You ought to plant green beans, okra & squash today,"or "Go close the desk," or dozens of other notes written over a two and a half year period. Most of them she threw away over time, but I treasure every one of them I find now.

Mom's mind was fully functioning up until two days before her death, but I think some people assumed the opposite since she couldn't speak and her body gradually quit working. We didn't talk at all about what would happen after she was gone-- it hurt too much, but looking back, she was gradually preparing us. Toward the end of last year, Mom started showing Dad how to do all the financial stuff-- things she had always done for them. Dad and I had to write everything down to remember it and post signs on the kitchen door, but Mom always remembered appointments, birthdays, and her complicated medicine schedule. We've found notes with all the insurance and banking information, and even her wishes for her celebration service.

I really thought we had another year with her, but part of me is grateful that she never lost the ability to communicate with us, which so many ALS patients go through when everything is paralyzed except the blinking of the eyes. I don't want to forget anything, but I know time will fade the memories, so I'm determined to write down as many of them as possible.

I know death is a part of life. I know we're all going to experience it through the death of our loved ones as well as our own. I know my Mother is with the Lord, and I know some agnostic friends and family can't wrap their logic around that. I don't know how they deal with their belief that this brief life is all there is, and then we turn into dust. Maybe they just stay busy enough to not have to think about it. Without Christ, life has little meaning for me, and losing my mother or any of my friends and loved ones would be absolutely unbearable with the thought that I would never see them again. Everyone will experience eternal life, but when it comes to being with the Lord, there's a caveat, and that requires a relationship with Christ.

If it were up to me, I'd probably set  up the scales of good outweighing the bad to get you into heaven, thinking that would force people to live a decent life here on earth. And most people with little knowledge of God's grace through Christ actually think that's what determines if they're going to be in heaven after death. But God didn't set it up that way, and since He's God and Creator, I believe He can design this plan called life and beyond however He sees fit. How arrogant of us pots telling the Potter how things ought to be. We can blame God for the tragedies in our lives, or we can face them with His grace and strength. No one is immune to hardships in life. We can let them destroy us, or we can learn from them and let them make us stronger.

And when it comes to putting my faith in something that will determine my eternal destination, my choices are:

1. no belief and turn to dust; [grab all the gusto in life because this is all there is]
2. no belief and hope for the best in the afterlife; [stay busy enough to avoid thinking or doing anything about it]
3. a limited belief and try to be good enough to earn one's way to heaven [tip God occasionally or do a lot of feel-good works, which negates Christ's sacrifice for us], or
4. faith in God through His Son Jesus. [It gives life meaning & makes beautiful sense when you take the time to look into it; start with the Book of John in the New Testament]

I'm going with number 4. This faith is based on an unfathomable love for us, not hate; on a free will choice, not death threats or shame or coercion; on a relationship, not a religion.

Looking back, I see where God began preparing us for this journey with Mom, and I have to say these past four and a half years have been good ones, in spite of the illness. And God was the biggest reason for that. Life has shifted in a major way for us, and we'll miss her for the rest of this brief life, but we are okay.

O death, where is your sting? O grave, where is your victory? I Corinthians 15:55