Some said they'd noticed that she
seemed to be getting tired.
Others were just amazed because she
didn't seem to be slowing down much at all.
Whenever someone shared that they had
begun to think it would soon be time, I listened carefully, curious
to see what they had seen.
Each time, I heard only those seasonal
things – the observations of aging that relate to movement,
appearance, etc. The things already familiar to her children; we had
been taking note and sharing notes for years.
She had a temper, and folks still
called her sweet. I'd seen her fully charged, and I'd seen her weary.
And this was true for all the years, traced from my childhood to the
current day. I'd seen her revved-up and revved-down. Fragile and
formidable.
Many times over the years, she'd share
childhood memories, with the joy of remembering and recreating them
to share with us. Often, she'd lament that she couldn't go back to
the days when she was the baby of the family. What she always called
the innocence of youth.
Sometimes the tone of world-weariness
puzzled me, because these were my sweet years of early memory. And after
the three of us left home and my father passed away, she admitted to
some loneliness and depression. These were most visible in the years
right before a seemingly destructive storm relocated her to my home.
There she became part of my boys' sweet years of early memory. Her
distress at being relocated from her lifelong hometown gave way to
the affirming thrill of discovery, as she began to navigate a new
town.
And when she was able to restore her
home and move back, she continued to flourish, her faith deepening as
she saw her own restoration and that of her hometown around her.
More and more in every conversation, I would hear
her say how blessed she was. All the more after an accident led to
long recovery from a broken ankle, instead of a fall that would have
likely been fatal. In recent years, when she praised God, she did so
with increasing awe that he not only cared for her, but that he still
found purpose for her here.
She was childlike joy packaged in a
woman who was a walking tour-de-force. That was quite a gift. That's
quite a legacy.
Her funeral was amazingly both
triumphant and warm, and I was thankful to see each and every one who
came to show they cared. My sister and brother, as we loved and lived
through this moment together, asked how I was doing. I could honestly
say that while sorrow shows up – that each time, it finds my heart
filled to standing-room-only capacity with joy. And it is just as
quickly crowded out, retreating back through the door.
Joy that so many would celebrate my
mom, and celebrate her so well. Joy that I had her so long – long
enough to share with my children – and that I had her in the first
place. Joy at the forceful impression she made on who we are, those
of us in her family and in her community.
So when I asked myself whether I saw
any indications right before she died, I only saw … a lightness of
being.
In those seasonal changes of aging, I
saw the coziness of one who remains warm in winter. She could watch
an old TV show and laugh, as though it hadn't been on earlier that day. She listened pleasantly as I thanked her for encouraging me
in a work dilemma, even though her pause made it clear she didn't
recall speaking into the situation with words graced by God's
perspective.
Most of all, each time we spoke, it was
how she marveled that she was still here, and that God was so good to
her. The words were not new, but the wonder had grown. This was the
lightness of being that I saw. And it was the best indicator of a
life transition that there ever could be. Because she was genuinely
prepared to go home, thankfully more than she realized.
What lightness of being we know, when
we allow God to be sovereign. When we begin to trust and give Him
glory so.
The lightness of joy.
