When I was little, I was afraid to face this day. I knew that
she was older, so naturally she would die first. It was not
long before reality set in people of all ages die every day.
Nevertheless, there was still that nagging in the back of my
head, "What would life be without Mom?"
Mind you, when I was seventeen I left home for college and
only returned two summers to work in a local National Park.
During my college years, I was close enough to occasionally
drive the four hours home for a weekend visit. After graduation,
I had a wonderful job in a large city in another state, but
I still made time to go see her. I always felt compelled to
go because she had been a widow since I was fifteen. I was the
older of the two children remaining at home and felt a certain
responsibility to see that everything was OK with Mom.
During the five years I lived in Europe, I was Mom's best pen
pal. I told her about my work, about the customs, about the
sights and the warm and gracious people who were befriending
me. She had the opportunity to visit me on a couple of occasions.
My friends loved this diminutive, smiling lady, and they particularly
loved her fried chicken dinners. She had a way of making the
most rugged people smile, relax and chat (or listen Mom was
a talker).
Anyway, back to my friend. She told me that grief has to come.
Yet every day since Mom's death, I have awakened to a vision
of her with a smile from ear to ear. She is far younger than
the 89 years she lived on this earth. Instead of her white,
close-cropped hair, she sports a brown, shoulder-length pageboy.
More importantly, she is genuinely, thoroughly, deeply happy.
Honestly, I cannot remember ever seeing Mom quite that peaceful
and happy. I can tell she knows beyond a shadow of a doubt that
she is loved.
How can I grieve with that picture in front of me day in and
day out? Yet, my friend warned me that I am one to handle crisis
well and fall apart later. That could be an accurate observation.
I certainly will not take her to task on it, because she has
walked with me through some very difficult and disheartening
times. She did say, "This is the end of an era. Your mother
is gone. You are no longer a daughter." She wanted me to know
that when the grieving starts, she will be there for me. For
that I am grateful.
After I hung up the phone, I sat back in my chair and thought,
"No longer a daughter Now, that's a different thought." I don't
suppose I ever would have gone there. As an ache started to
well up in my heart, I suddenly remembered part of a Scripture
a man had given me about four months ago. When I remembered
the Scripture, the tears coursed down my facenot from grief.
They were tears of overwhelming joy.
As God has said: "I will live with them and walk among them,
and I will be their God, and they will be my people I will
be a Father to you, and you will be my sons and daughters, says
the Lord Almighty." I Corinthians 6: 16b & 18.
The end of an era? Perhaps. No longer a daughter? Not so. I
am forever His daughter.
Copyright 2002 by Gail Casteen. Used by permission.
A caring friend will be there to pray with you in your time of need.
