Since writing my last letter to you, about my mother leaving
once more for Hawaii, I have spent a great deal of time thinking about the relationship
I had with her from that point on. At
the end of that letter you will see that I referred to my bitterness, self-pity,
hard-heartedness, unforgiveness and sense of entitlement. Sadly, those are the words which defined the
way I related to her for many years.
It wasn’t a conscious decision on my part, it was simply the
outgrowth of the attitude I fostered in my heart. I didn’t even recognize it for what it
was. I had been hurt, and I was angry,
but when my mother returned from Hawaii over a year later, this time to stay, I
thought I had put that all behind me. I
had not. Part of the problem was that I
was a teenager by then, a stage in life where we typically rebel in an attempt
to see ourselves as individuals, separate from our parents. As with many teenagers, I developed a
haughty, arrogant posture toward her, but I never outgrew it.
From the outside, I imagine that we appeared to be very
close, but my resentment toward her was always just barely under the
surface. Others may not have noticed,
but I’m sure my mother was aware of the steady hum of unforgiveness emanating
from me.
To her credit, she kept trying, over and over, to
demonstrate her love for me through the years, despite that hum. I accepted her offerings, but they were never
enough to appease me. From my point of
view, whatever she did was “too little, too late”. I felt magnanimous for allowing her to be a
part of my life. The sad fact is, I only
see this clearly now, in hindsight.
During my mother’s final years, caring for her needs became
a large part of my life. This was during
a time when I was a recent widow with three teenage children to support, and I
remember a moment when I had the terribly self-righteous thought that at least
I wasn’t leaving her when she needed me, the way she had left me; and, instantly
I recognized that thought for the ugly thing it was. I was reminded, then, that
my mother was not just my mother; she was God’s child, as I was, and that made
us not only mother and daughter, but sisters in Christ. Maybe for the first time ever, I was able,
that day, to view my mother as just a person; another broken, sinful, fellow
human being in as much need of love, mercy and forgiveness as I was. That was the day the hum finally stopped.
The night before my mother died, the nursing staff called me
to say that she wasn’t feeling well and had stopped eating. I went to visit her then, to see if I could
get her to eat something. Her dementia had
progressed to the point that she had a difficult time verbalizing a
thought. I had become quite adept at
figuring out what she wanted to say, and then saying it for her. She always rewarded me with a grateful smile
when I got it right.
When I arrived I couldn’t get her to eat anything, but I was
able to get her to take a few sips of pineapple juice, her favorite. Then, she began to try to say something to
me. She had an urgent look on her face
as she struggled to make her lips form the words she had in her head. She forced out the word “I”, but the next
word just would not come. She looked me
straight in the eyes and grabbed my hand.
I understood, then, and said, “I know, Mom, I love you, too,” but the
determined look did not leave her face, and she kept fighting to speak until finally,
with great effort, she was able to string the words together herself, “I love
you.” Those were the last words she ever
said to me.
The next morning I received the call that my mother was
being taken to the hospital. I raced
there with my youngest daughter and found her, unconscious, in one of the
emergency room cubicles. I asked the
nurse whether my mother could hear me and she told me she believed she could. Her vital signs had been steadily declining
and the nurse told me gently that it was just a matter of time now. I walked up to my mother, reached for her
hand and leaned into her ear. I told her
I was there and saw her pulse and blood pressure increase in response. I knew she heard me. I told her then that I loved her, and that
she had been a good mother. I told her
that I knew she was tired, and that it was okay if she was ready to rest now, and
that I would be with her; then my daughter and I watched her slowly slip away.
As you know, most people feel guilt after a loved one
dies. I was tormented. I was finally able to see that my mother’s
choices, while hurtful, were never made with the intent to hurt me. She was simply a woman, like me, living her
life with her own baggage, doing the best she could. She realized the pain she caused me and she
spent the rest of her life trying to atone.
In the years since my mother’s death, I have learned what it
is like for my choices to be the source of pain for my own children. I understand so much more how my unforgiveness
must have affected my mother and I have found it to be very difficult to
forgive myself for my hardness of heart.
Now, perhaps, it is clearer to you why the message of God’s
grace is so important to me. I know how
desperately I long for forgiveness (we all do), and how undeserving I am (we
all are); yet God tells me over and over that I am deeply loved and completely forgiven
– not because I have earned it, but because his Son earned it on my
behalf. It is something I need him to
tell me again every day; and he does.
Our stories are all different, but God’s grace applies to
each story in the same way. Thank you for helping me sort through mine.
Love Always,
Bonnie
Powerful Bonnie....such revelation
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