Pancakes and Butterflies

Mom passed away last Sunday, as peacefully as one could hope, I suppose.  It was Day 453 from the time of her diagnosis.  We could not have asked more of the doctors, nurses, and caregivers.  Beyond the medical attention, they continually provided her the kindness, encouragement, and love she needed even more.

My brother, sister, and I put together a tribute to her that was read at the funeral.  I thought I would post it here:

Mom always wrote notes on everything.  There were notebooks all over the house.  Among the addresses and phone numbers of friends and family, notes to send “Thank You’s,” and references to Bible verses, there were a number of letters and prayers to God.  Her life was spent in preparation for the next life (she had the songs picked out for her funeral) as well as helping prepare those around her to make the journey, too.

If you had to sum her up in a single word, it would be that Mom is a giver.  Her giving is complete; she holds nothing back.  Her needs are few – her daily bread – which could be pinto beans, cornbread, and a favorite passage from the Psalms or one of the letters of the Apostle Paul.

Mom is all about family.  It was really all she ever wanted or needed.  She might have gone without food for a while, and since the scriptures are stored up in her heart, she might even part with her Bible, but she needs family.  Her blood family (children, grandchildren, sister, parents, cousins far and near) and her “other blood family,” Christian brothers and sisters everywhere.  She would have died for any of them, and, in a sense, she has.

If there is a single virtue that she most shares with God, it would be patience.  If she ever raised her voice to us, it would only because we were making so much noise that we couldn’t have heard her any other way.  We’ve seen her hurt, but never angry.  Her love is without condition, no strings attached, no fine print.  You couldn’t have earned it, nor would there have been any point trying.  It is given freely by virtue of who she is, not who we are.

Mom is her occupation in life. It is what she was called by God to do.  And she is mom to more than just her own children.  She is happy to be mom to every kid in the neighborhood.  If not for mom, many of these children would have known nothing but turbulent or broken homes.  They could show up at our door at any time, knowing that they were welcome, knowing there would probably be Rice Krispie treats on the table and Kool-Aid in the fridge.  Knowing they could stay as long as they wanted.

If the kids slept over on a Friday night or showed up early enough on Saturday, there was a good chance there would be plenty of pancakes to enjoy with the Looney Tunes.  We’re not sure if there was any secret recipe.  Our guess is that it was a few cups of love that made them the best pancakes this side of eternity.  The last full meal she enjoyed in this life was pancakes.

Mom loves to work.  She takes care of people, and she made our house a home.  There was always a meal on the table; that much you could count on like you could count on the sun rising in the morning and setting in the evening.

And she loves to work in the yard, digging in the soil from whence we came.  Just like God breathed life into our bodies of clay, she and God would breathe life into a garden.  The flowers are always growing and blooming.  She cares for her garden like she cares for her children.  No lawn care service could compete.  Just ask the butterflies that swarmed the south end of the house every spring.

There is a very short list of things she hates.  She hates sin, and she hates to see people hurt each other.  And she hates to be the center of attention, although she’ll have to forgive us today.  Maybe “hate” isn’t exactly the right word there.  Let’s just say she really, really, really doesn’t like being the center of attention.  Whatever you do, don’t give her praise or recognition – you’ll steal the reward she has on deposit in heaven.  All the glory to God, for only He is special.

Of course, her friends cannot help but see God in her, because He is in her, just as she is in Him.  To love her is easy and natural, and she treasures the love she receives.  If you give her a gift, she will write the date, occasion, and name of the giver on it.  When her diagnosis came in, the cards began to flood the mailbox by the hundreds.  Literally hundreds of well-wishes, hundreds over and above the birthday cards.  Hundreds over and above the Christmas cards, like those she used to tape around the doorframe in the foyer every year.

And the typical well-wish isn’t just a card and a signature.  They are paragraphs of love that filled the cards.  If love had weight, the envelopes would have certainly needed extra postage.

If mom had any struggles in life, it was not easy for her to feel lovable.  But clearly the love she shares comes from a Source greater than she, from Someone who loves her dearly and perfectly and beautifully.  She is a mirror of that Love that is without measure, and it pours out of her everywhere she goes like an unstoppable flood.

She truly loves her Lord, and she taught us to love the Lord.  Whenever God’s family gathers, she wants to be there.  She admitted that there were many parts of the Bible she had a hard time understanding, but that didn’t matter.  She would keep learning, keep listening, keep growing just like the flowers in her garden.  She has always been ready to depart this life.  Her bag has always been packed and sitting at the door, you might say.

Mom’s childhood was not an easy one.  It was a life survived by slipping into an imaginary world.  As a little girl, she spent hours playing Sunday School, pretending to be the teacher for imaginary children as little as she.  She trusted in God then as much as now.  She knows He’ll take care of her, so she never has to worry about herself.  So, in the midst of cancer, she only worried about her family, that they would be OK.  “Did you take your B-12 shot?  Why don’t you go lie down on the couch and rest?  Call me when you get home so I know you made it safely.”

She never thought of herself as strong, and, next to God, that makes a lot of sense.  She knew her share of pain in this life, and through it all, she responded only with a gentle spirit.  Gentle with her children, gentle with the ailing loved ones for whom she cared for so many years – parents and sister.  Gentle with every one around her.  Gentle, like the way you would hold a butterfly.

The Greek word used in the New Testament for soul is “psyche.”  It is also a word commonly used in the Greek to mean butterfly.

It takes little imagination to envision the butterflies that visited mom’s flowers to be departing spirits stopping by for one last meal.  The blooms weren’t exactly pancakes, and the nectar might not have been from Aunt Jemima though just as sweet, but like mom’s breakfast, there were a couple of cups of love thrown in for good measure, a little boost of energy to help weary souls along in their journey.

Mom was truly one of a kind.  Fly away, mom.  Fly away home.

Shining Star

Good intentions.  I truly wanted to chronicle this journey, but the journey took precedence over the chronicle.

The situation is not good.  There are several small lesions in her brain.  She rarely opens her eyes, and she is only sometimes able to communicate with a mumbled syllable or two.

She's in the hospital again, but we may bring her home today.  My siblings and I are all wired to fight until the bitter end to hold onto her, but yesterday we had to put the fight in us aside.  There is a time to fight, and a time to lay down our arms.  A time for war, a time for peace.  Today is a time for peace.

I went by the house last night to take care of some things.  Looking at the pictures on the wall, I suddenly realized that every one of them meant something to my mom.  Not just the family photos, but even the hodge-podge of prints she displayed here and there.  The two ducks in the foyer.  The overgrown wagon-wheel.  The little girl over the server.

Especially the little girl.  A simple white dress.  A petifore?  I can't recall even now.  I seemed to notice only the face.  Downcast.  A seeming look of guilt.  Did the child do something wrong?  Probably not.  But she felt the guilt anyway.  It is her nature to carry the burdens of others, isn't it?  She loves those around her, and intensely desires good for them, even when they don't want it for themselves.  She serves with total selflessness, because she believes that she was born to give of herself.

No, she was born to give herself.  To give until the vessel is dry.  Empty.  And then, when there is nothing left inside, I wonder, where is she now?

Where is the giver?  To many, the selfish, the blind, the misguided, she was invisible.  A piece of furniture or a part of the landscape.

But to those who could see, she was so much more.  She was innocence in an age of filth.  She was love from a time when it still went by the name "Charity."  To her, it was only the little things that mattered.

After all, we people are little things.  If you haven't noticed this fact recently, then you probably haven't stood outside and looked up at the stars in a long time.  You won't see them from here in the city.  You'll need to get out into the countryside.  Out away from all the streetlights, perhaps on a farm, the kind where a little girl like the one in the print would play.  And as fall would push the sun lower in the sky and begin to drag the leaves from their branches, the little girl would play late into the day, pretending that she was a princess or maybe one of the heroines from the Bible.

She would talk to herself, to the insects, to the sky, to God.  And even though chaos reigned back at the house, her imaginary world was perfection.

The sun was setting early, the back porch light came on (supper would be soon), and the stars came out by the millions.  She would lie on her back on a grassy hill and count them.

But now she is old and weak.  She lies in a hospital bed, her eyes closed, but above her she still sees the stars.  And soon she will shine among them.

Day ???

Somewhere along the way I lost track.  Things started moving too fast.  Other trials of life crashed in.

Mom got through chemo and radiation.  Scans were clear until just recently.  One showed a "suspicious area."

There will be another scan soon.  We'll know more then.

Other trials...

Now my wife has cancer, too.  She's recovering from the surgery.  Long story there.  Port put in last week.  Chemo starts tomorrow.  The prognosis is good.

"Love never fails."  Yes, but it does get very, very tired sometimes.