Gazing Into Glory

My reflections on my mountain visit are not complete.  But something else takes precedence for today's blog post.  I will return to the story later.

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On Thursday, November 19 at around 4 a.m. my Mom was released into the care of the One who loves her most.

And I was here and not there.

When Dad left five years ago I stayed by his bedside 24/7 for the last several days.  I sang and read Scriptures and sometimes just sat quietly holding his hand.  I received his last spoken blessing over me.  My hand was on his chest as he took his last breath.

This time, for Mom, I waited for the next text.

I couldn't get home in time.  Not from this far away.

When I left my rather delicate Mom last September, not planning on returning until December, I knew I was taking a risk.  In some ways she had stabilized, making a remarkable, albeit not full recovery from her hip fracture and replacement surgery in March of 2014.  Cognitively she was failing, and she knew it, and it was distressing to her.  She spoke often of being ready to go Home, see Dad, gaze on the face of Jesus.  But her blood sugars were good, her weight was staying steady, she had an appetite and could carry on a lively conversation.


The last time I saw her, it was a very good day.

We had just come from the Celebration Service of my Uncle Ted, her brother in law.  We had two of her great-grandchildren with us.  Mom was delighted to see them, and asked them several times what grades they were in and what subjects they liked, a repeating pattern that was more and more symptomatic of her failing short term memory.  The kids happily obliged her, touched her parchment-paper skin gently, sang to her.  And we ate cake.   It was her 88th birthday.

We took pictures.  Might actually be the best pictures I have of Mom.  Certainly the best of me and her in these later years.

And I remember just sitting and receiving those moments, being as fully present in those moments as I possibly could be.  And I remember thinking that if this was the last time I ever saw my Mom this side of eternity, it would be a good memory.

It is.

This past week of waiting from a distance has been awful.   Added to my sense of helplessness has been the hourly agonizing of whether or not I should fight through the almost impossible challenges of getting home, would I be on time, would it matter. If this were happening more into the middle of my stay, it would be more obvious to make the journey home and then return.  As it is, with only three weeks left, that complicated the decision immensely.  There's two credits and a whole term's worth of work in the balance, and while Mom is unquestionably the priority, that fact did come into consideration.   So, what to do?

And then there are the family factors.  For reasons I won't get into here, but anyone who's ever lived in a family can probably understand, it's not been too much of a stretch for me to believe that God actually had some work to do for others that was best done in my absence.  Me personally, I, along with Ken, have cared for my Mom's every need since my Dad had his stroke in 1999.  Her affairs have been well looked after, and she received the great benefit of my Dad's astute stewardship in making sure there were resources available for her care.  Protecting and managing those resources has not been easy work, and neither has it been easy to make sure Mom's quality of daily life remained high.  But we were diligent, and available and honourable in all things.  That's just the way you're supposed to do this, when it comes time to care for your parents.

So I have no regrets, no loose ends, no closure issues that would have needed to be resolved at her beside these past days.  And in fact, this past summer, I did some good final releasing of Mom emotionally, spiritually, as I surrendered again to her decision to move to Lakefield five years ago.

And then there's this other thing.  Part of my Mom's story that seems fitting to tell again, right now.

For the first 13 years of my Mom's life she was a clever, outgoing little girl who could memorize easily, able to recite Scripture and poetry at great length.  On the last day of grade seven, however,  a classmate playfully bopped her on the head with a book, and caused a massive stroke that almost took her life.  She recovered, remarkably I will be told later by neurologists who analyze her brain scans, but was forever changed.  She now struggled endlessly in language and communication and problem solving.  That's the part of the brain that was affected.  She still had a great aptitude for numbers, and way up into her later years did not need to look up phone numbers, and could even recite her driver's license number.  Not the license plate, but the actual number on her driver's license.  However, the language part was gone.  This made her painfully shy and highly sensitive to conflict or stressful situations, often actually feeling a physical weight in her head if things got too tense.

Even so, it was her deep desire to serve God as a missionary.  However, her first semester in Bible school soon made it apparent that she could not manage the work.  This was excruciatingly difficult for her, but she found comfort in what she believed was a vision from God.  She believed that one day she would have children and that one of her children was to go in her stead.

So here I am.  And I'm here on the day she leaves for Home.  Here, not there.

And I can't help but wonder if God doesn't have some sense of poetic beauty in that.  Even though I barely identify with the designation of 'missionary', feeling that I certainly don't deserve that title compared to those who have dedicated their entire lives to doing what I've only done for three months, it is what they call me here.  It is what my Mom called me.

My family has agreed to waiting until the end of December or into January to do a full celebration service.  This is a great gift to me, and I believe will ultimately honour Mom.  I am surprised and grateful.  On Monday her body will be laid to rest beside my Dad.  I won't be there.  But I can visit the grave site when I get home, and I will.

And so I'm staying.  Here.  Half way around the world from there.  But maybe, maybe exactly where I needed to be when Mom went Home.

One of the last songs we sang together that last day was That Will Be Glory.  She sang with all the gusto of her frail little voice, a huge smile on her face as we finished.  "Oh yes," she said, "I can hardly wait."

When all my labours and trials are o'er,

And I am safe on that beautiful shore,

Just to be near the dear Lord I adore,

Will through the ages be glory for me.

When, by the gift of His infinite grace,

I am accorded in heaven a place,

Just to be there and to look on His face,

Will through the ages be glory for me.

Friends will be there I have loved long ago,

Joy like a river around me will flow,

Yet just a smile from my Saviour, I know,

Will through the ages be glory for me.

Oh that will be glory for me,

Glory for me, glory for me.

When by His grace I shall look on His face.

That will be glory, be glory for me.

Gaze deeply Mom.