The past week has been strange, as our roles switched for
the first time in 34 years and suddenly I was telling you what to do. Things
like eat. And get up, walk. And you can do it, and stop letting the pain win,
and drink water and walk some more.
And you told me some things too. Things like stop talking.
And that I am mean and potentially a Nazi. And that I’d better not leave you to
go back home but that when I do, you are going to change the locks on all the
doors. And then there was the proud moment when you took my hat off my head and
covered my face with it to make me stop telling you what to do.
(Since sarcasm has always been a valid form of communication
in our house, I will not take any of that personally.)
But in the middle of the night, when you would wake and the
pain would seize your leg and your back and your mind, and you would start to
drown in that abyss, and the cries would start to rise up from your gut; when I
tried to fight that battle for you the only way I knew how, by asking
questions, anything to get your mind off of the nightmare; and when you
submitted and opened your mouth and let the words come out instead of the sobs;
in those hours between midnight and dawn, you told me some other things.
You told me a story about a boy born in the prelude to the
Great Depression, whose father couldn’t hold a job and whose mother waited
until all eleven of her children finished eating each night before she would
make her own plate, if there was any food left at all. You told me about how that boy grew into
coarse man named Paul who was funny and smart but who loved the bottle and the
cigarettes and the lust of the eyes, whose hands could craft bookshelves and
houses and entire complexes, but who didn’t know how to begin to love the
people who lived in his own little four room house.
You told me a story about a woman who was at once both meek
and strong, whose soul was gentle and whose heart was determined to love and be
devoted to the man who did not yet know how to love, or how to be faithful at
all. You told me how those two very different people met and married within six
months, and had a little girl fifteen months later, and had a little boy
fifteen months after that. You told me how that nineteen-year-old bride always
had food on the table at supper even though it was mostly out of a can, and how
she had her two children in church from the time they could leave the house, and
how she took in her five year old nephew for two years so that he would have a
fighting chance at education and life, and how when Paul was out of town for
months at a time on business, this shy woman asked her neighbor for some
pointers and then drove herself to the DMV and got her driver’s license, only
telling her husband about it after the fact.
You told me about the time that Paul woke from a drunken
stupor to find himself standing over a bloody body, only to find out that he
had come within inches of killing a man with his bare hands. How from that day
forward he never tasted a drop of alcohol again, and how he knew in his spirit
and declared with his mouth that if he ever took one more glass of it, he would
never be able to stop. And so he didn’t ever take that one more glass. You told
me how a few years later he went into a fit of coughing and decided that night
that he would never smoke another cigarette, and how he gave his last box of
the things to his sister-in-law for Christmas. And how years after that, when
he suddenly realized that his lust of the eyes was really unfaithfulness of the
heart to that gentle, strong woman who loved him, he got rid of every one of
those magazines and never looked at them again.
He was changing. He was not yet changed, but he was on the
road.
You told me about the little boy who was born second to Paul
and that beautiful soul, how he was funny and smart and talented. How he played
tennis until he beat everyone in town, and then he stopped. How he was an
Olympic-in-training runner until he couldn’t find anyone around who could run
faster than him, and then he stopped. How he played guitar until he wrote two
beautiful songs, and then he stopped. How he loved and lost, and how he lived
for years alone until he met the one his heart really loved, and how he adored Paul
and was like him in all the best ways.
You told me all this through the eyes of that first one, the
little girl with dark hair and green eyes, the little girl who always felt a
little lost. The one who wanted to be a dancer but was afraid to try too hard,
because what if she failed? The one with the beautiful voice who sang in the
choir and at church and in the recording studio with those two songs her
brother gave her to sing before he stopped. The one who wanted to believe but
questioned whether she had wanted it right, had said it right, had prayed it
right, and what if she hadn’t? The one who grew up with a coarse Paul and a
gentle, strong mother.
You told me about how this shy girl grew up into a shy
teenager who loved to go on mission trips and who graduated from high school,
surpassing her strong and gentle mother’s tenth grade education. You told me
how when she was nineteen she had to receive a blood transfusion after an
artery burst and how Paul realized for the first time that life was fragile and
that he could have lost that dark haired, green eyed girl. And how that was a
sign post on the road that led him to life and to change and to the feet of
Jesus. And how he was made new and he wasn’t Paul anymore, now he was Dad.
You told me how that dark haired, green eyed girl finally
had it and refused to live in fear and doubt any longer. How she turned it all
over to the One who held it anyway, and stopped questioning whether she was
enough to be a true believer, and told Him that He was enough for her to be a
true believer. And how that very next week, she saw a dark haired, blue eyed
preacher boy in a green leisure suit, and how the green leisure suit didn’t
even end the whole thing before it started, thank the Lord. You told me how
that girl’s scheming pastor and wife invited those two potential lovers into
their home to meet over supper, and how that was the girl’s fourth date that
week. How anything had to be better than the first date of the week who had
asked her if his marijuana smoking habit might come between them. Hey, a green
leisure suit is nothing compared to that.
You told me how that dark haired, blue eyed young pastor was
everything that sweet, shy girl had ever dreamed of. How he was steady and true
and how they fell in love. How on their wedding day she accidently sprayed her
hair with furniture polish instead of hairspray. How they got married and
learned what it meant to pour out their lives for the body of Christ, and how
through all of these thirty-nine years and three children and six grandchildren
since then, staying faithful to that faithful blue eyed pastor was the easiest
thing she’s ever done.
You told me about the end of Paul’s beautiful, gentle and
strong woman, or at least the end of this part of her journey. How the cancer
was so painful and how when I was four I would sit by her bed and make everyone
else leave the room so that I could just hold her hand and be with her. How she
was in the hospital with 24 hour care, and how one day Paul didn’t want to
leave the room but his brother convinced him to leave just to get lunch, and
how the nurse suddenly became nauseated and had to leave the room for just a
minute, and how that dark haired, green eyed girl stayed in the room alone and
saw the sudden last breath of her gentle and strong mother.
And I remember the end of this part of Paul’s journey. I was
there. Not four anymore, but this time twenty-two, and still sitting in that
same bedroom, chair pulled up to the bed, singing “It is Well.” I was in the
house when he drew his last, and I saw you, with your dark hair and green eyes,
as you said goodbye to the man who had been changed all those years before.
And so, over three sleepless nights, you have shared your
history with me. I am so honored to know where you came from because it is also
where I have come from. Because I too have a mother who is at once both meek
and strong, whose heart is full of faithfulness and devotion to the man that
she loves. You named me after your mom, but I want you to know that you are so
much more like her than you think.
And I have a father who has always known how to be a dad,
but Paul’s story is full of grace and so are you. You know the power of the
gospel to transform, and you know how not to give up on someone, and you
appreciate all the steadiness of the blue eyed pastor that you love. All the
pieces of your history – the desirable ones, the broken ones, the ones you wish
were different – have made you the treasure that you are.
Last night I ran out of questions. You were beginning to
weep and I was growing desperate and the only thing I could think to tell you
was to say the words of your favorite hymn. You didn’t want to but I begged you
and so you whispered against the night…
Great is Thy
faithfulness, o God my Father
There is no shadow of turning with Thee
Thou changest not, Thy compassions they fail not
As Thou hast been, Thou forever wilt be
There is no shadow of turning with Thee
Thou changest not, Thy compassions they fail not
As Thou hast been, Thou forever wilt be
Great is Thy
faithfulness, great is Thy faithfulness
Morning by morning new mercies I see
All I have needed, Thy hand hath provided
Great is Thy faithfulness, Lord unto me
Morning by morning new mercies I see
All I have needed, Thy hand hath provided
Great is Thy faithfulness, Lord unto me
And that is your story, Mom. That is your theme. Keep
singing it until the night is over.
