In the Wilderness

One of the devotionals that I often read, Streams in the Desert, was compiled by an American missionary named L.B. Cowman, who served in the early 20^th century with her husband in the Far East. As its name implies, it is intended to minister to those going through difficult times, what we Christians often call “wilderness seasons.” I’ve been reading this one for a very long time.

This present wilderness began in Spring 2006, when a very important companion animal died. I had a bond with this particular cat that was unusual, even for me, an avowed “animal person;” he was as much a child to me as I can imagine, never having had a child of my own. I mourned him hard. Follow that in Summer 2006 with the death of my marriage, then the death of my work in 2007, then in 2008 a move away from ALL of my friends, and the restarting of a former career. In 2010, I began to think I was coming out of the wilderness: I was rekindling some lovely old friendships, was in my element at work, had traveled twice to Spain, the land that has my heart, and was enjoying an interesting relationship with a guy I was undoubtedly falling in love with. His insulting rejection of me in August of that year proved to me that I was not out of the woods yet, as it were. A few months later, the dénouement: the death of my mother. I plunged deeper in the wilderness than I had ever gone before.

Recently I had lunch with a friend I hadn’t seen in more than a year. This friend and I have both gone through some pretty deep wilderness seasons. I was happy to hear that she seems to be coming out of hers. She has a new job, one that seems to suit her perfectly, is living in a city she loves, three minutes from her parents and less than an hour from her brother, she just joined a church she’s excited about, she’s content in her singleness, and she is happier than she’s been in years. It was good to see her that way! She is coming out of her wilderness and I am beyond happy for her.

This friend had met my mom a time or two. Naturally, she asked about her death, saying “All I know is she was here one day and the next she was gone.” I said, “That’s pretty much all I know, too.” It seems I don’t know anything except that I hurt for the absence of her; I continue to feel more alone than ever.

I don’t often subject people to my sadness. I just try to be happy when I’m with people, and I usually am. When I’m alone, though, all bets are off. I still cry regularly; songs or something I read may set me off. When I get in my car, if the drive is more than an hour or so, sadness will usually overtake me at some point along the journey. This heaviness has become a part of me that I can’t shake. I don’t want to stay in this place, but I can’t seem to come out of it, and maybe I’m not supposed to, at least not for a while longer. It scares me a little though because I don’t want to make this wilderness my home. You’re supposed to go THROUGH a wilderness, not set up permanent residence there.

Most of my friends who’ve lost their moms attest to the lasting quality of the loss. One, a 72 year old woman, told me, “Sometimes I still think of my mama and just boo hoo.” Another friend lost her mother probably thirty years ago now and the last time she mentioned her to me, her eyes filled with tears. Apparently this is normal. So I am coming to terms with the fact that I will probably be in a similar state when I am much older, years from now, and that is okay; she was far too important for me to think I will ever stop missing her. I will not accept that this wilderness is my destiny, though. I will come out from here, when it is time, because my Father will bring me out. He will not leave me here forever.

Who is this coming up from the wilderness, leaning upon her beloved? I awakened you under the apple tree. There your mother brought you forth; there she who bore you brought you forth. Song of Solomon 8:5 Holy Bible, New King James Version

Therefore, behold, I will allure her, will bring her into the wilderness, and speak comfort to her. Hosea 2:14  Holy Bible, New King James Version

The Importance of Hearing

A few days ago, a caring friend asked me what I missed most about my mom. I thought for only a second or two before I responded, “Her voice.” Suddenly I felt the tears and before they could overflow, I said, “Stop, enough. I can’t talk about it.” My friend felt terrible as he tried to change the subject for me and move on from my unexpected reaction. I realized later that, strangely, I hadn’t thought before of this horrible truth: the familiar voice that I loved so much is slowly fading from memory and becoming harder to recall. This disturbs and saddens me.

It is said that of blindness and deafness, deafness is worse. Most hearing, seeing people seem to disagree with that, but I can totally understand it. I am a language geek, dialect mimic, music lover and dilettante maker of same. Sounds of nature fascinate me; one of my favorite CDs is music interspersed with nature sounds and wildlife calls. I so love the ocean partly because of the sounds of the waves pounding the shore and the seagulls calling to each other. When I study, I must have quiet; music only distracts me, draws me in. Often in the car, I turn the radio off so I can think. When I’m doing housework, however, I want music playing, loud enough for me to really hear it. And when I go to a concert, I want it LOUD, really loud, so nothing distracts from the entire experience of the music. Sounds comfort me, excite me, fascinate, disturb or distract me. Whether lovely or loud, sound is of vital importance to me.

Right now, just over seven months since her death, I can still hear the rich, velvetiness of my mother’s voice. For most of my life, she had a soft North Carolina accent that made her a delight for employers in Colorado, California and Germany; they were thrilled to have her as one of the “voices” of their organizations. During the last years of her life, her accent was made more pronounced as she shared her home with her sister, who rarely left the Southern Appalachian Mountains; I teased her sometimes about sounding like a hillbilly. Her singing voice was deep in the alto range; treasured are my memories of singing with her. She took the harmony as we sang together, until I learned from her to harmonize as she did -- a third below the melody; we favored Gospel and Country songs as our repertoire. After years of smoking, she lost much of her range but the notes she retained were still strong and full.

Hearing her voice in my head makes me smile. Bits of our conversations sound as real as the times I actually heard her speaking. Several specific things she would say are fixed in my memory. When anyone said something nice about me or my sister, she would affect this silly and unidentifiable accent and say, “Well, of course; she only takes aftah her mothah!” When she would call me and leave a message for me to call her, she would usually begin with, “Now, nothin’s wrong…” because she knew I worried about her. And her usual greeting to me: “Hey, Baby Girl.”  Her laugh is there, too, uninhibited, throaty, filled with abandon and absolutely contagious.

It scares me, though, that already some of her words are starting to fade from my memory; I have to think really hard to bring them to mind. She loved to watch “Dog the Bounty Hunter,” and she would tell me about it sometimes. I can’t hear her voice saying the word, “dog,” though. I can’t hear the accent exactly right. She would greet loved ones with a happy, “Hey!” but I can’t remember which word she favored with people she didn’t know very well, whether it was “hi,” “hello,” or something else. This forgetfulness is disturbing; I want to remember her voice!  I want to remember how she sounded as we sang together, and the sound of her laugh. Most of all, I want to remember her calling my name or calling me “Baby Girl.”

I realize how blessed I am to have been “Baby Girl” to her for so long; she called me that for fifty years! How lucky I am! It doesn’t do to feel sorry for myself; there are so many who don’t have their moms for nearly that long. I really do hope, though, that the memory of the sound of her voice stays with me for many more years yet; I dread the thought of saying goodbye to her voice, even though it lives with me only in my head.