All the beauty of this world is wet with the dew of tears.

                                                                        Theodor Haecker

She folds into me like a small child and rests her head on my chest. So tiny and frail she seems now. So childlike and innocent. I hug her, tight, once more and turn to climb into the passenger seat of the car. I have my hand on the handle of the door and begin pulling it shut before I realize she is trying to get in the car with me.  “Oh, mama,” I softly say, “I have to go home now.” Her face is crestfallen, tinged with confusion.  My step-father comes across the lawn to fetch her.  He distracts her and gently leads her away.  My heart is breaking.

One year ago, on Mother’s Day, I wrote about my mother’s journey with dementia (She Walks in Beauty).  For those of you who know my mother, you know what a gift she is. For those of you who don’t know her, here are a few of the lessons she taught me as I was growing up:

·   Be kind. (It’s that simple!)

·   Life isn’t fair (But I will be here to love you through its disappointments)

·   Serve others (This is the best way to get out of your own funk)

·   Don’t stand like a question mark! (Her way of saying, “Stand up straight”)

·   Don’t judge (Give everyone a break)

·   God is faithful (You are never alone)

·   A tidy house makes you feel better (It’s true!)

·   Clothes hung on a clothesline look and smell good (And there is a real        art to hanging clothes on the line, involving the most judicious use of the clothespins.)

·   Tithe

·   Save money for a rainy day

·   Read everyday 

·   Laugh loudly and often (Even if it irritates certain family members)

·   At some point, mothers become the best of friends (usually when the    daughter turns 30 or so)

Author E.B. White encourages us to “Always be on the lookout for the presence of wonder.”

When I am with my mother, I see wonder through her eyes as we walk through her neighborhood.  Her gait is slower now (In years past, I could hardly keep up with her brisk pace). She looks up to the clouds and points. A flower’s flash of color catches her eye. The barking dogs prompts an occasional utterance.  She holds my hand. We stop and I show her the lamb’s ears, pick one and she caresses the softness of it. Words are not essential. Our shadows walk in silence, searching for wonder. 

Later, we return to the house to eat Jamoca Almond Fudge ice cream (her favorite) decorated with Oreo cookies. She eats with her fingers because the fork in her hand all of a sudden seems foreign and odd.  She smiles, she laughs that deep, wondrous laugh. I heed E.B. White’s advice. I see the presence of wonder in this beautiful woman sitting across the table from me and I voice a silent prayer of gratitude.

Always Mercy

Pamela