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For now we see in a mirror, dimly, but then we
will see face to face. 1Cor 13:12
“Oh, holy bless my
tongue!” What an exuberant exclamation of
satisfaction and gratitude. My mother, Julia
Redpath, proclaimed those words after having just
a dab of Luigi’s Lemon Italian Ice. She lay at
home in the care of Val and I, unable to take food
or drink due to the effect of the cerebral
hemorrhage that would shortly end her life.
To my mother, the Italian ice, carefully spoon-fed
whenever her mouth and throat became dry, was like
the finest meal imaginable. And she wanted to make
sure it was shared. “Sit down, have some of this.”
“How are we buying this; pints, quarts, gallons?
We need to make sure there is enough for
everyone.” She was serious. That was in keeping
with more of her last words, “Live in fairness.
Never take too much.”
There was something so very special, something
holy, about our last days with Mom. She was seeing
glimpses of heaven, and she was letting go of the
striving that catches us all up, that causes us
all to see only in a mirror, dimly. She was seeing
clearly. And she was sharing what she could within
her compromised speech and energy.
I have seen such utter gratitude before, in
cultures where the people have very little. They
live simple lives. And they give thanks to God
continually for every little thing that they
have. Awaiting your last breath brings you to a
similar simplicity. Then one sees clearly.
The fortune cookie that came with the quick
Chinese dinner we had the first evening keeping
vigil with Mom said, “Listen to the wisdom of the
old.” We tried.
“Now we can be what we were intended to be,” Mom
said. Later, “Oh, good God, thank you, thank you,
thank you. You have given me so much.” God yearns
that we live in gratitude for his gracious giving.
With all the distraction stripped away, with total
focus on that fragile pivot between life and
death, what we tend to see dimly now, becomes so
clear. “Right now. This is real. What more could
you want?” Mom observed.
It was particularly difficult losing Mom
Christmas Eve day. Shortly before my mother’s
death, I sent an email to many friends commenting
on how we would experience Christmas. “We will
celebrate Christmas in the joy of the gift for
which it stands. Jesus became man, died, and rose
so that all his faithful might have everlasting
life. Yes, we will shed tears. But, perhaps, a
death near Christmas is a gift in itself,
heralding the message of Jesus more powerfully
than it might be heard other times of the year,” I
wrote.
“We
have experienced two most profound Eucharists
(masses) around her bedside. Love is overflowing
to Julie and to our family. Prayers are being
raised for her and our benefit all over creation.
Centers of prayer: our parish, Mom's old parish,
the monastery with which I am associated, the
seminary that Val is attending- all are carrying
Mom in prayer. And the faithful friends, the
brothers and sisters in Christ- all are lifting up
prayer.
“This is a foretaste of the kingdom
God intended. This is the kingdom bursting forth
into our hurting world; love, and prayer and
thanksgiving to God.
“How will we celebrate Christmas?
Mom was Baptized into Christ. Her second family,
for many years, has been her parish family. Our
second family, no, our extended family, has been
our parish family. In a secular perspective, our
celebration will be different. It probably will
not be as fancy as in the past. Decorating will
get minimal attention. Christmas cards will
probably go out late.
“But we are experiencing a richness of the
presence of the kingdom unlike anything any of us
are blessed with on a daily basis. So while our
Alleluias will be stained with tears, we will
celebrate the birth, life, death, and resurrection
of our Lord and Savior, Jesus Christ. And we will
celebrate that God loved his creation so much that
his way means that there is a place anxiously
awaiting Julie's arrival in Heaven. The reason for
the season is so clearly in front of us,” I
concluded.
There is so much to learn about gratitude by
listening to the wisdom of the old. Or as my
mother said as she experienced the wonder of the
approach of Christ, “There’s so much to learn. You
don’t dare miss a thing..” |
