We had a party for Mom the other day. My sister, being the
brilliant woman she is, thought we should celebrate her life while Mom is
still with us.
She posted it on Facebook, reserved a small living room at the nursing home, set out cupcakes and coffee and we waited to see who would show up.
People came. Not a hundred or anything, but people. Some were my parents’ age, some closer to mine. Our neighbors from my childhood, old church friends and family all crammed into the room together. There were people I hadn't seen in 20 years. It got loud and hot. We had to take Mom back to her room because she looked so overwhelmed.
They braved a cold and snowy day because they love her and love us. There was laughter and banter and lots of catching up. People stayed for hours.
People hugged me and kissed me, rubbed my back as they talked to me. Their eyes, moistened by love for mom and sorrow for her condition, communicated as kindly and powerfully as their words of gentleness and affirmation.
I was loved well.
It was like God whispered in my ear, “I know you don’t understand all that’s happened with Mom. I want you to know what’s waiting for her. Old friends, joy dampened eyes and a homecoming celebration for a saint whose life was well lived. Here, have a taste.”
It tasted good. Really good.
She posted it on Facebook, reserved a small living room at the nursing home, set out cupcakes and coffee and we waited to see who would show up.
People came. Not a hundred or anything, but people. Some were my parents’ age, some closer to mine. Our neighbors from my childhood, old church friends and family all crammed into the room together. There were people I hadn't seen in 20 years. It got loud and hot. We had to take Mom back to her room because she looked so overwhelmed.
They braved a cold and snowy day because they love her and love us. There was laughter and banter and lots of catching up. People stayed for hours.
People hugged me and kissed me, rubbed my back as they talked to me. Their eyes, moistened by love for mom and sorrow for her condition, communicated as kindly and powerfully as their words of gentleness and affirmation.
I was loved well.
It was like God whispered in my ear, “I know you don’t understand all that’s happened with Mom. I want you to know what’s waiting for her. Old friends, joy dampened eyes and a homecoming celebration for a saint whose life was well lived. Here, have a taste.”
It tasted good. Really good.
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