I just had a great visit with my mother, who will soon be 93 years old. Unfortunately, her faculties decline with each passing day. She sleeps continually and is very hard of hearing. For the past several months, she jumps and quivers as though frightened when I touch her arm and speak her name, then opens her eyes and just as quickly closes them again. She just can’t seem to stay awake. She hardly ever speaks and seldom looks at me.
Today was different. Today she opened her eyes and looked at me—made eye contact! I said, “Hi Mom! It’s good to see you again!” I surprised myself—speaking as though one of us has been away for a long time. I guess that’s precisely the case, I’d just never looked at it that way until today. She studied my face and smiled. First smile I’ve seen in months. Confined to a reclined wheel chair, unable to walk for over a year now, she is non-communicative most of the time. So when she connects like she did today, it’s so encouraging!
I’ve found that if I rub her hands or shoulder as I speak she is more likely to stay with me—otherwise she dozes off. Today she continued to make eye contact. I talked about old times and reported on my visit to the homecoming at Oakthorpe Church this past weekend, the church where she and dad raised their four boys—the church where Marilyn and I met as children, and the church in which we were married. The church where we dedicated our newborn sons “to the nurture and admonition of the Lord.” Again, she smiled as I described those I knew she would remember and told her how they’d asked about her.
Normally I’m anxious to complete my visit and return to my world of multi-tasks. I wish I were a better son, but its labor for me to visit for more than a few minutes at a time, especially since she’s stopped speaking. I try to say something light-hearted and current, then dismiss myself quickly. “Well, I’d better get to work before I get fired,” something inane like that, and then I trot off like the President is waiting in the parking lot to resume our high level discussion.
Today I found myself going beyond duty and compassion. I was soothed by her continued gaze. My world seemed to slow down, and I found myself drawing on the moment. I asked if she remembered the good people of Oakthorpe. She looked past me for a moment, then returned her gaze to mine and said, “No… It’s hard to remember.” Tears welled in her fading eyes and I caught myself looking at her differently than before. It’s difficult to express what I was experiencing; it touched something deep in my spirit. I didn’t feel like the 62-year old grown son. Somehow—strangely, indescribably—I felt like Ronnie, the little boy, again. My senses miss-fired; mentally and emotionally, I was transported to my boyhood home on Lake Road. Mom was capable and I was dependent on her. Her teary gaze acted like a tractor beam jettisoning my spirit into the past. I wasn’t her care giver, I was her boy. I felt secure and free of responsibility.
I even sensed aromas familiar to that long-gone environment, my nose twitching at that unique blend of cold country air and our coal-fired furnace which combined to create a scent that lingered on our winter coats. I remember as a boy fetching mom’s coat for her and being comforted by that familiar aroma.
My time travel returned me as quickly as it had kidnapped me. It only lasted a millisecond. I suppose my experience was a result of blending a nostalgic church reunion with mom’s renewed awareness.
Then, as though not in control of the conversation, I asked the question I’ve been dreading. “Mom, do you know who I am?” She narrowed her gaze, looked into my eyes, shook her head and said, “No… It’s hard to remember.” I unthinkingly said the first thing that came to mind— “Hi, Mom, I’m Ronnie, your son, it’s so good to see you again!”
She pulled her head back as though to refocus on my face, smiled and said, “I know!”
I kissed her forehead and walked away. Usually the tears begin to flow by the time I reach the parking lot although I try to keep my composure until I’m safe in my car. Today was different. I wasn’t sad, I was grateful to be with my mother one more time, both then and now. I hope she visits me again, but age and time are working against that hope.
I wonder—when we arrive in heaven, is Jesus the first one who greets us? And I wonder if when His gaze meets ours, we’ll experience something similar, a transforming experience in which we are able to see ourselves as He sees us. I imagine we’ll experience how deeply loved and valued we are. Perhaps we’ll stop stressing and finally, fully, relax in that atmosphere of acceptance and care. I hope so, don’t you?
Lord, I am so grateful that you never withhold Your love from me. It’s incredible that I can look to You and know that You will see the best in me. You’ve made me and You have a perspective of me that no one else has…You see me as valuable and purposefully made. You see me as good, even though I don’t feel like I’m good. Thank You!
Read Psalm 139:13-17
- What insights do you gain from this passage about your importance to God?
- Take a moment to consider that the Lord sees you as valuable just because you’re you.
- According to verse 16, how often are you on God’s care-radar?
- If God has thoughts that are precious about you, what might they be?
Read Psalm 139:23-24
- Take a moment and pray this verse directly to your Lord Jesus.
- What personal attitudes and actions come to mind as a result of your prayer?
- What do you do that might offend God?
Lord, thank You that you are patient, merciful and forgiving. I want to please You with my life’s attitudes and actions and never offend You. Please empower me to do just that. Amen