A Different Kind
of Waiting…
Advent this year
held a very differing kind of waiting. This waiting did not take place in a softly
lit sanctuary with candles and beautiful visuals. My sisters and I experienced waiting by my
mother’s bedside as she began the dying process. And then, after her death we waited for family
to arrive to celebrate her life and our memories.
Advent
anticipates a sacred birth, our dying vigil felt sacred too. Hymns and anointing oils replaced Christmas
carols and scents of pine and cinnamon. Waiting
is seldom easy. I confess I don’t always
appreciate the Advent waiting that becomes the focus of most Christian churches
this season. I love the beauty and the
symbolism but I sometimes find it odd pretending we are waiting for the end of
a story we already know. Which itself is
odd because seldom do I truly know the end to any story. This year every cell
of my body felt the waiting, both symbolically and authentically.
We sensed our mother
might be preparing to die weeks ago. While I welcomed her release from dementia
and wheelchair, I dreaded all the steps involved in a final goodbye.
I feared I’d be too squeamish to keep vigil, and I was already feeling
overwhelmed with holiday bustle.
Waiting for death,
as well as waiting for birth, can be inconvenient and bewildering. I resonate
with Mary’s predicament: pregnant and anxious, her home preparations for birth
were completely disrupted by the sudden trip to Bethlehem. How hard it is to flow easily with disruptions! No matter how apparent and normal the
process, one is never fully prepared for birth or for death. Neither can be experienced beforehand.
My mother began
showing active signs of dying on Sunday, the same day I decided I could not
keep a rescued dog I had come to love very much. Cree, a striking colored Catahoula Leopard
Dog, had too strong a prey drive for our farm.
Our barn and its equally loved critters held too many temptations. How
could I give up my precious Cree at the same time I would be grieving the loss of my
mother?
Waiting is dark
and lonely. Though warm hugs, words of
encouragements and hot meals offered by supportive friends and family make
waiting easier, no one could take my grief and experience it for me. As a wise friend reminded me: standing in the midst of it all is a process
of choosing to let go of what I can’t fix or don’t need in order to embrace
what is happening.
My mom is gone
now, as is Cree. My home is empty of
gathered family as my lap is empty of Cree’s big, warm body. I have no silky ears to pet and no tongue to
divert from licking my face. I no
longer have to think about when I will visit mom. Whenever I mistakenly do so, my heart will
feel a pang of loss just as when I spot a toy I forgot to send along with
Cree.
Relief, emptiness,
grief and joy arise new every day like the stillness of dawn, the flutter of
sparrow wings outside our door, and the aroma of bayberry when I light my
Christmas candles. There has always been a hint of
death in the Christmas birth story. I will know that more fully now, just as
I more fully have experienced waiting.
I’m grateful mom
is pain-free and rejoicing in another realm. I’m also grateful I don’t have to
worry about Cree accidentally getting out and killing a goat. I like to imagine Mom is with her two
beloveds: Jesus and James. And I imagine
Cree in her new home, jumping up on someone she’s learning to love while wagging
her whole body. I’m overjoyed to report
Cree has been adopted! My dear mom and
sweet Cree have gone ‘home’ for Christmas!
Joyfully,
Sharon
Mom and my grand daughter, Avery at Conestoga House -12/2009
WE MISS YOU MOM, GRANDMA and CREE!!
