January 03 Archive

Give sorrow words; the grief that does not speak whispers the oe’r fraught heart and bids it break.” (Shakespeare)

It is morning and the sky is still dark.  I am beckoned to enter the world again for a new day, and I fight it.  It is not long before I hear her footsteps.  They travel up the stairs and into her room.  They stop.  I find her sitting on the end of her bed, staring in the mirror, for what may have been ten minutes, but to her is the first second, first glimpse at her own image.  I try to comprehend the complexity of her mind, but it is so difficult.  What does she see?  What does she feel?  What are her thoughts?  Will I ever really know?

When I was in high school, I enjoyed the writings of Washington Irving.  I thought I understood his work, but I really did not get it at all.  Irving wrote, “The sorrow for the dead is the only sorrow from which we refuse to be divorced.  Every other wound we seek to heal, every other affliction to forget; but this wound we consider it a deep duty to keep open; this affliction we cherish and brood over in solitude”  (The Sketch Book).  Deep down inside of me, I cannot seem to let go of this wound, this deep ache of recognizing that my mother is indeed dying.

It is an unusual experience to grieve over someone with whom you visit daily.  Someone whose voice you still hear, and hands you still hold.  Someone whose warmth you can still feel and presence sense.  But, slowly, over time, we are losing her.  And, I think the enormity of this statement has been tearing into my world these last few months, as her words become fewer and her eyes become more and more distant. 

This was all affirmed on Christmas morning, when I realized that she no longer has any memory of Christmas… of the planning or traditions, of our family experiences.  Of course, Christmas is not about families and traditions, but there is something about familiarity that is so comforting.  Christmas each year is like a footnote in my brain that marks the progression of mom’s illness.  Why?  Because it was three years ago, a week before Christmas, that we were told of her diagnosis.  And, she has changed so much.  And, I fear what next year may bring to our family.

It is time to face the uncertainty of a fallen world, time to recognize that this entire experience will indeed be painful.  I have to face a great deal of certainty and uncertainty.  It is a challenge to acknowledge that my parents will not always live in this house, and I will not always have a “home” to return to at a later date.  Time to reconcile the fact that my mom may not understand the meaning of my wedding, or live to see my children.  One day soon, she may not even know me.  How does one face such a thing?  How do we live knowing that, and yet continue to press on? 

I have been greatly comforted recently by C.S. Lewis’ experience in facing the death of his wife, Joy.  In ­­A Grief Observed­, Lewis writes, “No one ever told me that grief felt so much like fear.  I am not afraid, but the sensation is like being afraid.  The same fluttering in the stomach, the same restlessness, the yawning.  I keep on swallowing.”  Lewis understood the grieving process.  He watched his wife die of cancer.  He took care of her.  He selfishly longed for her to return to him after she was gone.  It comforts me to know that he felt some of the same things I have.  And, yet both he and I have been comforted and strengthened by our good and faithful God.  And, Lewis made it through, and so will we.

What is the difference, I have often wondered, between the grieving of a believer verses a non-believer?  “How can I be a testimony through this?  What hope do I have to offer?”  The only hope I have to offer is the truth of God’s Word and the hope that has come through Jesus Christ.  Have I felt His comfort?  More that I would have imagined!  Has He restored my hope?  Yes!  Do I struggle daily?  Often.  Does this change who God is?  Never.  He is the same, regardless of what changes in my life.  He has been my hope and strength and I am so thankful.

So, it is night and the sun has gone down.  She is in bed and I go to kiss her goodnight.  She still says the words, “I love you, Jocie.”  And, I tell her I love her too.  I go to bed at night comforted by the very One who can identify with my every weakness.  And, I sleep wonderfully. 

“I rise before dawn and cry for help; I wait for Thy words.  My eyes anticipate the night watches, that I may meditate on Thy Word.”  

(Psalm 119:147-148)