I held her hand for a little while. I sat beside her, hugged her a bit, kissed her cheek and let go a few tears beside her wheel chair.
I half whispered half shouted the words I needed to say. “You have been an important part of my life. You taught others, you were an example to so many mothers, mine was one of them. The things you taught my mom, she showed to me, and I get to teach to other young mothers. I feel so honored to have known you, to have grown up with your influence on my life.”
They spilled out of me and met her ears softly. I don’t know how much she heard. I don’t know how much she understood. She had been in the nursing home for some time, her mind a flickering bulb, sometimes bright, sometimes darkened to what was around her, sometimes lit up to unseen, or long ago faces. She truly wasn’t herself anymore, but I think she remembered who I was. She asked me if my mother were still living. I smiled and shook my head no. She had known that at one time, but so many things were lost now. She kept watching my squirmy boys. She smiled at them and asked me about them. I told her their names, ages and appealed to her mother heart with, “they are a lot of fun, and a lot of work some days.”
She nodded and whispered, “be patient with them when you can.”
Even in this state, she was offering advice. Instinctual mothering. Urging patience first. Patience to understand that boys have to move to learn. Patience to know that noises and sound effects are a language they speak to one another. Patience to laugh at their creativity instead of cry over it’s results….when you can. That last part struck me.
Even in her frailty, I felt I’d been offered a bit of strength in those words. Be wise, you don’t always have the luxury of patience. That is no license to scream at them, it is a caution to be alert, be vigilant, be discerning of what is after their heart and soul. Patience should always be at the ready to stay your desire to control your environment, but wisdom knows that sometimes it is their environment that needs control and you must be ready with strong hands to hold fast. The busy parking lot, the crowded mall, the dangerous physical environments, but also the lying tongue, the disrespectful mouth, the rebellious spirit…there can be no patience for these things. It is not the child you are shutting down, it is the enemy who wishes to infiltrate their hearts. Patience will guide you, but it must never stop you from protecting what is intended for the Kingdom of God.
My tears just wouldn’t stop that day. They were probably crying for the mother I still miss, as much as the sweet Marie I had the honor of seeing one more time. One last time.
She was my pastor’s wife all through my childhood and teenage years. They moved to our little town in Michigan, around the time of my birth, and her husband, my pastor, we just called him Landis, passed away the summer before I moved to Tennessee. She and her dear sister and mother eventually moved to Ohio, where I visited them one time before my boys were born and then not again for ten years.
I ached to see them, and convinced it was very important, I planned a trip with our whole family to go to Pennsylvania to visit Marie and Corlene. It was the best trip I’ve ever taken. God was so good to us. We visited family along the way and saw sights and I was blessed to spend a few hours with Corlene and a short but much needed visit to see Marie in the nursing home.
Holding her hand that day, was a therapy I needed, and when I wheeled her back into their common area a woman who worked in the facility asked if I were family. My throat caught a bit because I wanted to say yes. I felt a little like she was mine, but I smiled and said, “almost” and explained briefly what she meant to me. I was standing behind and above Marie in her chair as I positioned her back near the fireplace. I was in tears, but the woman facing us was beaming and said, “she’s smiling so big, you must be special to her.”
I took that with me. She and “aunt” Corlene both, I marveled at how they treasured people. Corlene had her scrapbook out for me, with faces of people I barely remembered, but had grown up around. Scrappy little boys who weren’t raised by anything one could call a parent, but they knew they’d be loved by Marie and Corlene and Grandma Schulz. They didn’t just tolerate people, they held on to them, taught them, believed in them and gave them love that was more than a passing affection…it was a remembrance and an attachment.
Early Sunday morning, Marie passed away. I am so happy for her. I am so thankful for all that she gave, all that she represented to my world and how much of that instinctual mothering I will do my best to pass on to others. Treasure people, love the scrappy little boys and the curious little girls with love that doesn’t fade when they are out of sight, believe in what God wants to do with them, and be patient with them…when you can.
I found her obituary from a local newspaper this morning. Would love to be able to be at her funeral service, but it won’t work out to go. Thankful, so, so thankful that I could hold her hand for a moment before she left.