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!!

                                             Or JRT, Massey with Cree (Catahoula Leopard Dog)