Dreaming

Last night I dreamed about Mom. It was a good dream. She was sitting in a place that wasn’t specifically familiar to me, but for some reason it felt like home. It looked very much like “her space”: a little cluttered with too much stuff, dimly lit, and very cozy. She was young, perhaps 30 at the most, with her gorgeous black hair pulled back loosely, swept to one side over her right eyebrow.  She was slender, too. I asked her, “Mom, how much weight have you lost?” She answered, “About 45 pounds.” I said, “Well, you look great.” She smiled hugely and said something in response, but upon waking, I lost the rest of our conversation. I woke up feeling very good, and the feeling has pretty much stayed with me all day.

I’m sure it sounds like a strange dream, as most dreams are. I didn’t perceive it as strange though. I saw her much as I would expect to see her, and in an environment that seemed right. Her surroundings bore her unique stamp: comfy, dark, and overflowing with dainty knick-knacks. You see, Mom could never say no to anything pretty and sparkly if she had the money to buy it, and because she loved yard sales and second hand shops, her home was full of things that made her smile, just a few too many of them! And her house was always dark because she was forever hot-natured. She kept the blinds closed to keep out the heat of the sun, plus she eschewed overhead lights, preferring small, fancy lamps instead. So in the dream, her environment was as it should be.

The conversation about her weight is not surprising either. Mom’s beauty had been a part of her identity since she was a little girl; people often remarked about the pretty, petite girl with the mane of dark curls.  She grew into a striking young woman with a feminine figure that she kept well into middle age. She wasn’t unpleasant about it, as some beautiful women are; her beauty was simply a part of her. She was often frustrated with the aging process. Recently, it became more difficult to keep her weight down, and for the past few years, she weighed – look at this; I just counted it out so I could write it down – almost exactly 45 pounds more than she had in her youth. She said to me many times over the past year or so, “If I could just get rid of this belly!” And so, in the dream she finally has, hasn’t she?

It’s no surprise this dream makes me happy. I don’t know how much is actual reality and how much are just my thoughts of her. I do know that she is young and beautiful again, like she was; of that I am certain.  Gone is the grey hair, and also the bleach blonde she loved so much in her later years; her black, native American locks are back, and they are gorgeous against her unlined, olive skin. She is petite and pretty, and comfortable in her skin, if I can say that about her now. This is how I remember her best.

 A few weeks after Mom died, one of my friends told me of her mother-in-law’s death at 55. Apparently she was a beautiful woman; my friend even pulled out an old yearbook and showed me a picture of her to prove it. She always used to say that she would die young, my friend said. In fact, she predicted her own death at 55. It seems she knew she didn’t want to become old, elderly, even, and perhaps infirm. She wanted to be always beautiful, always young, always happy to look in the mirror. The story is double-edged. It is sad to be willing to die rather than become wrinkled and old-looking. But it is happy because this Christ-follower is, indeed, beautiful again.  As is my mom.

I hope your home There is full of mirrors, Mom. 

Closure?

Last week something important in this journey of grief took place. In an event that won’t be ignored, the monument company installed the headstone on Mom’s grave.

 On Saturday morning, I left for the cemetery; I wanted to see the headstone and take flowers, and remember her. I spent the three hour drive up to the mountains praying, listening to Christian music, and generally trying to prepare myself for my first glimpse of the completed marker. I had chosen it, requested the short epitaph, made all the arrangements. But seeing it there was earth-shaking; there are no words to adequately describe the feelings that rushed over me upon seeing that stone.

I wasn’t prepared.

My mother’s name, carved into the cold granite, and the dirt now sunken, level with the ground around the grave, delivered a powerful blow to my soul. For just a moment, I was struck again by the disbelief. Then came the realization that, after three months, it is true and there’s no sense dwelling on the surreality of it. I was and am resigned.  

For a while I busied myself with the silk flowers I’d brought for the granite vase. I dusted off the stone. I repositioned the silk flower my cousin had sent to the funeral. I took some pictures to share with my uncle, Mom’s little brother. Finally I sat down there, in the red North Carolina mountain dirt, on top of her grave, and I tried, with little success, to pray.

There is something about thinking of your mother there, UNDER THE GROUND, that breeds a sort of panic. I had a taste of it when I was leaving the cemetery after the burial, when I saw them begin to crank the coffin down into the vault. Now I knew she was there, in the cold ground, and I hurt beyond belief.

It wasn’t long before I remembered though, of course, she isn’t there. Her body is, but SHE isn't. Not who she was and is. Not the vibrant, big personality I have loved my entire life. Not the essence of the generous, talented and fun lady everyone knew. I thought of the words to one of the songs I’d heard on the way up there: You’re in a better place, I’ve heard a thousand times.[i]  And I actually said aloud, “But knowing that doesn’t help, God.” Almost immediately, though, I blurted out, “That was stupid!” adding, “Yes, it does. It helps. It helps a lot. It just still hurts because she’s not here, and I miss her.”

This hurt won’t be put to bed by some sort of closure brought by a headstone or anything else. It just has to hurt. It won’t ever go away, but I suppose it will become less intense over time.  In the same song, MercyMe sings, “In Christ, there are no goodbyes.” Unfortunately, the song is mistaken;  there are most definitely goodbyes. However, thanks be to our sacrificial and merciful God, they aren’t permanent.  Nevertheless, “I’ve never been more homesick than now.” [ii]

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[i] MercyMe, Homesick, 10, Simpleville Music.

[ii] Ibid.

The Destiny of All

Tonight I was watching a Barbara Walters show where she was talking about her and others’ experiences with open heart surgery. It drew me in because I am rather more interested in the fragility of life nowadays, as one might imagine. Walters, usually recognized for her considerable skill as an interviewer, spoke openly of her personal fear when faced with the prospect of such an invasive surgery, even of the slim but very real possibility of dying while undergoing it, and her co-stars on her daily television show, The View, weighed in. I was appalled to hear one of them, Whoopie Goldberg, say with incredulity, “This wasn’t some namby-pamby person. This was Barbara Walters! Of course she was going to be alright.”

I couldn’t help but think, “Really, Ms. Goldberg? Did you really just say that? Did you seriously mean to imply that my mom wasn’t famous enough, or smart enough, or successful enough, or WHATEVER enough to be protected from the final enemy?” I’m not usually all that sensitive, and especially not at the comments of celebrities. I tend to write them off as “too big for their britches,” to use a term that will certainly expose my Southern roots, but the comment caught me so off-guard; I didn’t expect to hear anything quite so asinine. Could anyone really think that Barbara Walters’ fame, intelligence, success or anything else will protect her from death? Death comes to all, whether of high or low estate, doesn’t it? Job 30:23 assures us that death is “the place appointed for all the living.”[i] That wisest of all men, Solomon, reminds us, “…death is the destiny of everyone; the living should take this to heart.”[ii]

On the same show, Walters interviewed former President Clinton, Robin Williams and David Letterman about their similar experiences. She asked Williams and Letterman if they had been changed as a result of facing such a serious and potentially fatal surgery. Williams spoke reverently of gratitude, and Letterman of living his life differently, of being a better person. Walters asked former President Clinton what he would tell people who were facing heart disease and possible surgery. He responded, “Look at us. We got a second chance.” Walters affirmed all their feelings as similar to her own. These four survivors, perhaps because of having to face their own fragility, recognize the fragility of us all. They have “taken to heart” the destiny of everyone. It makes it a little easier to forgive those who, in trying to be witty, reveal that they have not done so. May God help them, and may He help us all.

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[i] Holy Bible, New International Version

[ii] Ecclesiastes 7:2, Holy Bible, New International Version