Because of the layout of our living room, our TV faces the window. I hate it, because it faces the afternoon sun and we're constantly closing the curtains to reduce the glare on the screen. As a lover of natural light, that makes me grouchy.
For some reason we didn't do that yesterday. When Nancy got up to do something, I paused our show and was left sitting there, looking at a black screen. In the screen I began to notice the shadows of the world behind me. There was the frame from the window, the lattice from the porch outside, the tree with leaves blowing and other things I couldn't make out. And in the distance, tiny dots of sunlight, obscured by clouds as it set.
What mesmerized me was the depth and texture of the shadows. Distance was clearly discernible, but some some reflections weren't where they were supposed to be. The leaves were too close, the window frame too far away.
I got the note from my sister while I was in Sweden. Mom probably has weeks left, if things progress as we expect. And something strange happened. Huge waves of sorrow and loss swept over me.
Mom's been gone for a long time. She's been at least two years without words. Years before that filled only with the jabbering of an infant. I lost my mom a long time ago. I've hoped for years for the note from my sister. I've prayed for it. It was almost two years ago when I wrote I wish Mom would die.
So where was the grief coming from? Why was it so sudden? So powerful?
I think grief is like the shadows in my TV screen. It surprises us. It has depth and texture. Sometimes it shows up in ways we don't recognize. And it doesn't always show up in the right order.
I've mourned mom's passing for a long time. When I found out about her diagnosis. When I've kissed her goodbye, knowing the woman I was leaving wasn't going to be who I'd find when I returned two years later. Sitting beside her as she stared blankly at nothing.
And this is strangely different. Unexpected. Shadow.
Even still, there are glimpses of the Son. The one who illuminates the shadows so we can recognize them. The one who will one day, make them fade away. Until then I'll try to learn to embrace the grief.
For some reason we didn't do that yesterday. When Nancy got up to do something, I paused our show and was left sitting there, looking at a black screen. In the screen I began to notice the shadows of the world behind me. There was the frame from the window, the lattice from the porch outside, the tree with leaves blowing and other things I couldn't make out. And in the distance, tiny dots of sunlight, obscured by clouds as it set.
What mesmerized me was the depth and texture of the shadows. Distance was clearly discernible, but some some reflections weren't where they were supposed to be. The leaves were too close, the window frame too far away.
I got the note from my sister while I was in Sweden. Mom probably has weeks left, if things progress as we expect. And something strange happened. Huge waves of sorrow and loss swept over me.
Mom's been gone for a long time. She's been at least two years without words. Years before that filled only with the jabbering of an infant. I lost my mom a long time ago. I've hoped for years for the note from my sister. I've prayed for it. It was almost two years ago when I wrote I wish Mom would die.
So where was the grief coming from? Why was it so sudden? So powerful?
I think grief is like the shadows in my TV screen. It surprises us. It has depth and texture. Sometimes it shows up in ways we don't recognize. And it doesn't always show up in the right order.
I've mourned mom's passing for a long time. When I found out about her diagnosis. When I've kissed her goodbye, knowing the woman I was leaving wasn't going to be who I'd find when I returned two years later. Sitting beside her as she stared blankly at nothing.
And this is strangely different. Unexpected. Shadow.
Even still, there are glimpses of the Son. The one who illuminates the shadows so we can recognize them. The one who will one day, make them fade away. Until then I'll try to learn to embrace the grief.
Thank you. Your mother was the signal light to my faith, my friend, and I've hesitated, for years, to ask about her, for fear of stirring up grief. She is loved and you are in our prayers.
ReplyDeleteThank you Sean.
DeleteYou are the living legacy of your mother. You are now all the things she wanted you to be - and which she can no longer be herself. You are a credit to your mother.
ReplyDeleteSo very kind Big D. Thank you.
DeleteBeautifully written.
ReplyDeleteBUT Jeff, how is your dad handling this?
ReplyDeleteIt's hard on him as well. It probably looks different and feels different for him. Still it's a new wave of sorrow.
DeleteSo sorry for what you have had to go through. Dementia is a terrible thing to go through for all family members. I found out only a few weeks ago of my 72 year old cousin having altzeimers. She was a very smart funny person that we will all miss as she goes through this process of losing everything she has always known. So I know where you are coming from and my heart aches for you too as I do for my cousin.
ReplyDeleteThanks so much Cheryl. Our hearts will ache together.
DeleteMy heart and prayers go with you, I know John, you are tired and having a difficult time, my love is with you and your family.
ReplyDelete