The first
night I spent with my mother at the hospital over five weeks ago she said to me
that when she was pregnant with me, she prayed for a daughter. She said growing up, she never had the chance
to play with dolls. So I was her doll,
she said. I understood in that moment
why she dubbed my first apartment the doll’s house.
We spent a
lot of time talking when she had the strength or was in the mood. It was the
only time she couldn’t do anything but lie there and just hang out with me and
I was the only one who was insane enough to drop all my responsibilities and
just sit with her for hours. It was the
first time in my life I ever had frank intimate conversations with my mom. I opened up my heart and told her things that
I never imagined saying to her. I felt
regret at first for not having had this connection with my mother sooner.
When she
first came to this country she left behind her home, family, and church. She followed my dad and adapted to a whole
new lifestyle. My mother was a lady
through and through and they just don’t make them like that anymore. She believed in proper behavior and
etiquette. She used to say that you’re a
woman, no one should know you were ever there.
Meaning, don’t leave behind a mess.
She used to tell me to cover up too.
Then she’d buy me clothes that didn’t really cover up things the way she
thought they ought to. I never
understood that. As you can see, save
for my accessories, I’m still wearing her clothes. Yes, I’m 36 and my mother still dressed
me.
She was the
first of our family who came to ICC nearly 17 years ago. Before then, she could be found sitting with
her bible reading and praying every day. She was the one who brought us
home. Both my brother and I got married
in this church. My sons’ were dedicated
in this church. This was her home as it
was ours. This was our family and she
brought us here.
The last
two and a half months were the most spiritually intense moments of my
life. The last time I attended Sunday
service, not counting the day after her death was her first Sunday home, June
15th, the day after my brother’s birthday. I remember coming here and sitting in the
back with my family. I looked up and the
space next to my dad was empty. I had an
intense urge to see my mother so I left my kids with their father and went to
see her. I sat beside her and we
prayed. From that moment on, every
Sunday was more or less spent with her.
After she
came home from the hospital, my brother wanted her to go to church but I could
tell she was too weak to leave the house.
That Sunday, we had Holy Communion at home because she couldn’t go to
church for communion. The next Sunday,
again I stayed with her and it was the Sunday her son went on vacation. The Sunday after that, I was back again and
this time she kept asking me when my brother was coming back. She asked me to bring her grandsons, she
wanted to see them. I did. My brother came home and saw her. She didn’t make it to the next Sunday.
The time I
spent in her presence was so peaceful and it filled me with such hope that I
couldn’t understand it. That last
Sunday, as I drove home, tears streaming down my face, I knew that I had to let
her go. What I didn’t understand is, how
was it possible that I could have such sense of hope and peace when the word
God spoke into my heart was that I needed to let her go.
Once
before, God gave me a word that she needed to seek treatment and he would take
care of the rest. I could be angry or
bitter but later I understood that it was never for the cancer. It was for the pneumonia. If she hadn’t gotten treatment for that, we
never would have had those moments in the hospital. She said that she had been worried about me
but she had seen that I had changed.
I did change. She changed my life in a way that I had never
imagined. God opened the doorway to
heaven for her to pass into eternity.
She stayed in that opened doorway and let me rest there with her, basked
in his presence. That Saturday after she
went home, I’m not sure which was worse, losing her or being shut out of that
powerful godly presence that seemed to hover around her.
My mother
was a woman of faith. Every breath she
took, every word she uttered, every step, every moment of her life can be
measured by her faith. The Saturday
before she died, as I was driving home, barely able to see the road for my
tears, Chris Tomlin’s “Whom Shall I Fear? (God of Angel Armies)” came on the radio. The next day when I arrived to see her she
was struggling, anxious from fighting for breath. I turned on the radio for
her. The same song came on and I saw
her, silently raising her hand and then to the best of her ability, she quietly
sang along with it. In that moment, I
clearly saw this woman who brought me into this world and was about to leave me
here. This faith is my legacy, I could
either accept and embrace it and let her go or spent the rest of my life feeling
lost in a sea of grief.
If you
don’t mind, I’ve tasted grief and it is bitter.
I will take the hope she left me.
Because one day I will see her, and we will rejoice together in the arms
of Jesus. I am my mother’s
daughter. However, I am not as good at
signing as she was, so I would like to ask my dear friend Nicole to help me
leave you with this song that will always have such a special meaning for me.
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