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)