Like My Mom

Mom and I went for our annual ride through a local cemetery. If that sounds a bit macabre, try doing it with a 90+ year old woman. Chester Rural cemetery has been around since 1863, and I want to make some crack about that being almost as long as my mom, but I'll refrain. We go there because of the azaleas. They are absolutely spectacular, and they are all over the place! It wasn't really the day for it --overcast, so their colors didn't pop quite the way they do in full sun-- and it's still a bit early. They won't be hitting their peak for another week or so; I know I'm rushing it. This time with my mother is slipping away; I can feel it. Things she was capable of doing only a few months ago have become more difficult. Things she knew to do only a few months ago are lost to her now.

It wasn't always this way. Of course, the forgetting is new --in the last fifteen years or so-- but my sadness is even newer. Mom has always been, to me, exasperating, difficult. I remember in my teen years being somewhat of her "Mini Me." We shared clothes, enjoyed the same hobbies; my first "real" job was at the same place she was working at the time. We even watched soap operas together (probably not one of my mother's best decisions). But as I began to develop interests of my own and acquire the means to pursue them, tensions arose in our relationship. The last person in the world I wanted to be was the woman I saw when I looked at my mother. In my twenties, Mom and I reunited over my children, but never really addressed or resolved the issues between us. I kept her entertained with field trips and regular meals at our home, but by the time my children were teenagers, she and I parted ways once again. My husband and I were virtually empty nesters when my father passed and my mother, living but one street away, became my charge once again. 

Somewhere in all of that I was being granted healing and Mom had begun to decline. I was being given another chance to repent, to reject the life I'd been living and follow in a much more eternal way; Mom's life was growing not only shorter but declining in quality, as they say. It has been a less than perfect journey for me (the One who has set me on this path is faithful to bring the necessary changes to fruition and see me through to the end); it has been brutal for Mom. I have been bitter and angry, blamed and resurrected ancient history (some of it in an effort to discover the source of my anger, but much of it to justify my bad behavior); Mom has as well, only for her, there is no resurrecting of history, only anger. I have hurt myself and others; Mom has, too, only given all she's been through, I would argue she has a right. I have wasted precious time; Mom is lingering as long as the Lord allows. And through that He is teaching me lessons.

The lesson I am learning these days is time is fleeting. I am making every effort to enjoy it with her. I am making every effort to enjoy it without her. I want to be as excited to put on fresh socks each morning as she is. I want to sit in the sun --no books, no phone, just sit. And I want to breathe. And be grateful for every breath. I want to squeal and coo at the azaleas every year as if it is my first --even under cloudy skies, even though furled blooms still clutter the branches-- just as she does. I want my eyes to light up at the sight of ice cream. I want to forgive quickly and love broadly. I want to leave lessons and be a blessing to others --even in my brokenness. The way my mother has.