It is just like labor. Passing through the thin veil of this life to the next. When you enter the world and leave this physical space, the two are so similar. I never would have imagined how closely bound the two are until I experienced it just fewer than two short months ago when my sweetest friend, my shoulder, my encourager, my dear Mom passed to Jesus.
The veil. It's so thin. The moments throughout Mom's suffering were intense. I have thought of them again and again. I have looked back, maybe not always the best thing to do, for many voices speak when there is sadness or regrets or difficulties in fear. But, I offer these pains now. I cannot go back and re-do, hug again, give my Mom a kiss again, but I can live and make, with God's grace, every single second of my life better: again, with God's grace. A better story. A purer road. A happier journey with the help and inspiration of my Mom's life. I can see it: by Mom's life, I am being drawn closer to Him, even in the times that downright hurt, are cold, feel so foreign. I can't hold the feelings. Sometimes I have to throw them down or just let them dance around me while I stand firm in Him, knowing that He won't leave me even if all this stuff forces itself at me.
I miss you, Mama. I remember when you were sick here. I saw you sick and my words that came out were, "Mommy! Mama!" Oh, you were feeling so badly. Since then, in these pains, others' words have attempted to increase the pain with as their words were of what-felt-like fire. I do not know why they threw those torcehs only other than the fact that they must have been in pain too, and maybe in order to soothe their own was to ignite pain in another's heart. It hurt, but it was ok. It was good to see the pain all for your soul. Like a dear friend of yours said to me yesterday, "Jesus doesn't want to wait a moment longer for a soul." I agree. I know I will never ever stop praying for your soul, but I sense a peace that you are well, that you are safe. And, I beg for your prayers. You have, I believe, already whispered to me, "Don't hold on to the pain." To this day, I am your daughter and I should listen. You were always trying to help, encourage, give love. You succeeded.
With each passing day the ache is strong, some days it increases. The heart aches. I miss you terribly. The first time back here in the afternoon after I returned frm Seattle, I missed that call: you, your words. You. As I would tidy things, I would talk to you. I miss the chance of answering your calls when a 100 demands seem to be there. You are not here, physically anymore, but the demands still are. I am learning: those things can wait. Be present. It is a moment of grace to be present and to push back the rest. To lean up against that dam wall, hold it back and be present to another is a grace. I miss that opportunity. There were many and I let them go. Sure, there may have been "good" things I was doing, but I miss the best: being with you. Being.
Labor. It is of the body. But, it is so much more of the soul.
I love labor. Maybe it is because I am so weak. Labor is a built-in moment, a moment we settle into and say, "Yes, I abosrb it. I take it. I am one with you, Lord, let me be one with it."
Life hurts. But, nothing can be separated out, compartmentalized. This life and the next have one thin veil, and a path of labor to pass through to the next.
Fiat.
 | ||
| the little bag from The Bethlehem Walk 2016. Mom, constantly you are telling us, "I am here," through these little butterflies.- Just when the butterfly thought life was over, he became a beautiful butterfly.- |
