She Will Find Me

Marjorie 1922-2022

She Will Find Me

I arrived to visit my mother on what would turn out to be one of her final days. I was informed that when the massage therapist arrived earlier in the day my mom told the therapist to please not bother her and to go away because she, my mother, was at church. When I went into her room, indeed she was sitting by the window with her eyes closed and a perfect Buddha smile on her lips. She seemed very content. I tried to interrupt her. She looked up at me and smiled and shook her head and waved me away gently. I sat back and let her be until she suddenly seemed to realize that I was there needing her attention. She came out of her trance to be with me, but reluctantly.

How many times in her life had a child interrupted her in whatever soulful activity she may have been engaged in? And how many times did she pull herself away to be present for them? I felt selfish; at that point I was needy, needing her to be present with me as much as possible, needing her to stay on this earth

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It did give me great consolation to see her in that state, in church as she called it. She had told me around that time, after the chaplain came to see her, that she didn’t need anyone to tell her how to pray, she had been doing it for a long time, and already knew how. When I saw him with her the one time, I couldn’t help sense that she was the priest and he, the supplicant. She took his hand in both of hers and gazed into his eyes to thank him for coming. He seemed a bit humbled by her attention, and responded awkwardly, his usual greetings seem to fail him.

Recently, while praying, I became very aware the ticking of the clock she had loved that now hung on the wall of my room. She loved to tell the story of how we found it at the hardware store in Fairhope, Alabama, all dirty and dusty on top of a box on the floor. Just waiting for us in the middle of a chaotic mess. She loved that clock. The clock seemed to be ticking very loudly, and I thought, that clock does not belong here. I opened my eyes and looked at it, then at some of her other things, her purse, which I have yet to empty, her statue of Mary, her photo of her parents. I felt strongly that these things did not belong here in my space. They were in the wrong place.

For decades, her physical space, where her body lived, with all of her things around her, was my refuge. I always said that I could sleep more soundly in her presence, under the same roof with her, than anywhere else. It made no difference if we had disputes and disagreements, or when she was unhappy with some of my choices. None of that seemed to matter. The core of the connection seemed to remain intact. I think that must be a unique blessing, at least that’s the sense I get talking to other people about their relationships with their parents. Or siblings, or anyone.

Now I try to recall the sensation I had when I was in her presence and most often, I am able to do it. I’m afraid that will fade with time. Because I lived far away from her, and visited several times a year, I think that the habit of this decades long practice is still with me. I am still waiting for the next time I will go home, and she will be there. That is painful, but grief is the other side of love, so I am thankful for it. As Rilke says, we should not beg for consolation for in losing the grief we lose the opportunity to continue to love and learn from that love.

What continues to surprise me is that I keep learning from her daily. From the life she modeled, from her embrace of death, from the shared sentiments of so many whose life she touched. She is teaching me still how to live a life of joy and service. And I believe that as long as I seek her out, she will continue to find me.