It is and I can’t sleep. My mind seems numb and I am having a problem remembering—remembering simple things like faces from the past. Is it my age, now that I have reached the golden years, or could it be that my brain is sending distorted messages to my body, because of all the sleep that I’ve been getting the past five days?
I’ve been trying to kick an illness that someone in choir practice passed on to me. I believe my body is a bit confused with regards to day and night sleeping habits. It is perplexing to me why my mind refuses to give up images of a person that may have influenced or impacted my life in some way.
I am cognizance that my heart is beating a little harder than before. It must be the medications that I’m taking to rid myself of this affliction. Nevertheless, the harder I try to remember, the farther away the face seems to fade.
What is it about this person—am I trying to hide from the abuse, or unkind words they may have spoken to me? Why have I buried this face so deeply into the recesses of my subconscious memory, that the mere thought of them scares me?
I must be frightened, because my heart is not only beating faster, it is now skipping beats. Is the face of the person horribly disfigured, possibly by my hand; that to see it, to view the damage that was inflected, will only bring hurt and regrets once again to me? Is this the reason my mind refuses to respond?
Where is the key that will unlock the hasp that binds and holds my mind captive? It’s like having a mind-block when writing. One of my college professors made a profound statement that stuck with me through the years. He said, “When writing, if the words won’t come, get away from the typewriter and come back to it later.” Is there one word in the above sentence that tells you how long ago I was in college?
I think I will try that—perhaps I’ll let my mind rest and just relax…Ah, that’s better. I will close my eyes and see what happens… “Hello, anybody there?” I am waiting patiently and nothing is happening… No, wait! I see someone! I am beginning to see images, faintly, but they are coming!
It’s a young, male child. It appears as if he is learning how to roller-skate. I look quickly at his face to see if there is any evidence of abuse or scaring of any kind, but there is none, thank God! All that I see on his face is a look of pride, with his lips tightly holding the mouthpiece of a toy horn.
The setting is a bit strange and out of the norm. He is skating in-doors. I can hear him trumpeting his entrance as he skates through the archway from the living room into the dining room, while making his way into the kitchen—all the time tooting his toy horn.
He is skating on hardwood floors, and his parents are allowing him to do so. Is this the face that I am trying to recall? Is this the picture that was causing my heart to race and skip beats? Why did I find it hard to recall this boy’s face?
Look! An arm out of no-where is reaching toward him as he passes through the door into the kitchen—an extended arm blocking his passage! What’s happening? All that he is doing is what his parents are allowing him to do.
Ouch! The boy has been knocked to the floor! The toy horn that he was having so much fun blowing has been struck from the front and driven deep into the boy’s throat, causing discomfort and pain. It was the arm that did it! The person that was reaching for him! It was his Aunt Ethel who was just wanted to give him a hug like she had done so many times before—to give him a kiss to say, “I love you.”
Tears now flowing, the boy reached deep within himself, and I cannot believe the words he is saying, as I recall the event. “I hate you! I hate you!” he screamed. Now, hurting within her and feeling to blame, she reaches down to pick the child up from where he lay on the floor, and again I hear him, “I hate you! Leave me alone! I hate you!”
Is it her face that my mind will not allow me to recall—the one that injured the boy’s throat so badly? Was it because of the pain she was responsible for, which angers me so greatly that I refuse to think about her anymore?
Listen! Did you hear that? The boy is crying so loudly that he didn’t hear it the first time either. There it is again—a recognizable voice is speaking—one that the boy has heard many times before—a familiar voice that he knows quite well.
It is the same voice that sings lullabies as she tucks him into bed each night. It is the same voice that tenderly spoke his name while running her fingers through damp, curly hair as she wiped a fevered brow with a cool, wet cloth when he was sick.
Listen carefully, you too will sense the tenderness of her voice and feel the gentleness of her touch as she comforts the child. Her voice, kind and soft is saying, “Is that anyway to talk? Now say you’re sorry to Aunt Ethel and come over here and let me pray for you.”
She extended her arms of love; receiving him and holding him close to her bosom as she kissed his face. She said a simple prayer, asking God to take away all of the pain. A few moments later the pain subsided and he was off again into his world of make-belief. Everything was all right now, because Mommy prayed and God answered.
Lying here listening to my thoughts; the voice is quite familiar to me as she speaks to the boy—saying his name in love. That’s my name! She is speaking to me! It’s my mom that’s talking! I remember nothing but kindness coming from her—a wonderful person that had a lasting impact upon my life. I thought I would never forget the love that emitted from her lovely face.
Tears are beginning to flow from the corners of my closed eyes; running down both temples. I can remember times when she took me by the hand and knelt by my bed at nights, teaching me a bedtime prayer. “Now I lay me down to sleep; I pray the Lord my soul to keep. If I should die before I wake, I pray the Lord my soul to take.” Amen
I recall the certain way she called my name on those rare occasions when I was able to play out-of-doors. Her voice filled the air of our quiet neighborhood. The manner in which she called my name could only mean one thing—come home now.
One day I disobeyed her regarding something that she told me not to do. As she was disciplining me by swatting my behind a few times, I can remember as though it were yesterday, crying out in pain saying, “Pray Momma, pray!” I knew that if she would pray the pain would go away.
At a very young age, Mom taught me that God was concerned about the small things in life. I knew that this invisible God, the One who had healed me so many times before, would not let me down this time. I had faith that He would take away the pain, even the pain of a spanking.
God had been faithful to me the many times that Mom had called out to Him for help on behalf of her sickly child. I required a lot of attention in my early childhood, but I never heard my mother complain—not one time. She only did what a mother’s love for her child could do, and that was to love, protect, and pray.
I remember Mom reading Mother Goose stories and Sunday school lessons to me; taking me regularly to doctor visits; sewing cute little shirts with cowboys and Indians imprinted on the fabric; giving me dosage after dosage of varying medicines; bringing home a special little toy now and then when she returned from the public school that I attended—having picked up back homework, because of my absences.
I remember many late nights as she sat by my bedside singing softly, while adding more water in the two humidifiers that had been placed under a makeshift tent made from bed sheets. These acts of love helped me to breathe easier and sooth coughing spells that I had.
Having raised three children of my own, I can only imagine the pain and anguish that she was feeling as her child lay there suffering and helpless. It was Mom and me. She was my caretaker, confidante, playmate, and my best friend—so why was it so hard for me to remember her face?
She was never abusive. She had never struck me out of anger. All that I can remember is Mom always being there, loving me. So what was so terrible that I refused to open the memory of my mind to think about this Godly woman?
My heart is beginning to beat faster! I don’t like where this is taking me! I feel confined as though a straitjacket is holding me fast. There is tightness in my throat and tears continuing to course down the sides of my face, filling the little, formed cups at the bottom of each of my ears, as I lie here staring into the blackness of my bedroom.
I am listening to myself breathe harder, and out of the blackness I hear those same words that I yelled as a child come thundering back into my mind now as an adult, “I hate you! I hate you!” Only this time I was saying it to the One I had learned to pray to as a child.
Tears are streaming now—like a dam that has broken within my bloodshot eyes. Feelings, too long hidden—feelings, too long obscured from view are beginning to surface. I had felt betrayed and cheated by the very One that my mother had raised me to love. God wronged me and I hated Him for it—and I told Him again and again that I hated Him.
God understood me like no other person could. He allowed me to hide my disappointment and pain. He permitted me to suppress it, but He knew that this night would finally come that I could allow myself to remember.
What’s happening to me? I am crying uncontrollably! Why did I feel that I had to be strong for my siblings? I was the youngest of four. Why couldn’t I have allowed myself to completely fall apart at the most saddest time in my life—at the passing of Mom? Everyone would have understood.
Why did I keep a stiff upper lip when I helplessly stood by and watched the dearest thing in my life take her last breath? I believe that I was holding onto faith for Mom, just as she had done for me so many times in the past. She couldn’t do it for herself now—so someone had to do it for her.
I knew in my heart, though she appeared dead, that she would soon take a breath, open her eyes, and look into mine and say, “Thank you!” even while the nurses were coming into the room and asking me to leave. “Come on Mom” I said softly, but she failed to open her eyes. Mom had gone on to her reward in heaven.
What am I feeling? Am I, after all of these years, finally coming to terms with the passing of my mother? Is this grieving? Many questions are unanswered. I once heard someone say, “Our lose is Heaven’s gain.” These words are easily spoken by those trying to comfort, but hard to swallow when you’ve lost a loved one.
Why did God need Mom at such a young age of fifty-eight? I needed her more. Why did God take her so quickly? I didn’t have time to say goodbye. Are these questions the reason I am writing this today—to finally say goodbye to her?
Is it that I am to give honor through this writing to the one person that gave her all for me when I was a child; protecting me as a mother bear protects her cubs; so I could live and have life now as an adult? I think so…
I know God has forgiven me for my anger, which was focused toward Him, but more importantly, I thank Mom for her many prayers, not only for me, but for all of her children. God bottled up the tears she shed for us, which are a constant reminder to Him of the sacrifices she made as she fasted and prayed days at a time for our health, and that salvation would be ours.
There was nothing more important to her than for her babies to know Jesus and serve Him all the days of their life. She was filled with joy as each of her children came to know the Lord as their personal Savior.
(3 John 1:4), “I have no greater joy than to hear that my children walk in truth.”
I thank Mom for giving me life, but I thank her more for teaching, through her example, how to find real life in Jesus. Now that my spirit lives, my eyes will behold her again one day. She will once again take me into her arms, hold me tightly to your bosom, and kiss my face—home—together in heaven.
I will now pause from this writing, rise from my bed, take a shower, and wash my face. There are many more wonderful memories to think on, later. As for this writing, I encourage you, the reader, to be an example to others, that they see the attributes of Jesus in you—in word and in deed.
Written by,
Papa Boyd
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