Walk our faith: through a glass, darkly

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“Right now, we see through glass, in the dark; but then face to face: now I know in part; but then I will know as I am known. – 1 Corinthians 13:12

When I was in high school, I was on the swim team, and my mom was a vice-principal doing her doctorate in education at a small college right across from my high school. So, some nights after I finished her lessons, mom would take me home after swim practice.

As she drove home, I would listen to music on the radio, stare out the window, and daydream, creating whimsical stories in my head and often laughing to myself.



My mom asked one of her child psychology professors if this behavior should be cause for concern, and luckily the professor told her it was just a sign of my creative mind.

As Mom and I walk this final part of her life’s journey together, my fanciful imagination — or perhaps it’s more realistic as my reluctance to face reality — has once again become an issue.



On Tuesday, Mom’s hospice nurse came for a weekly check-up. When she visited, mom said she prayed that God would take her quickly. The hospice nurse asked if mum was in pain, and mum said no. But Mom frequently experiences periods of confusion and a feeling of loss of control, not knowing what is going on in her mind. This confusion is causing her anxiety and she wants it to stop.

She is not afraid to die because she knows heaven is waiting for her and she longs to be with Jesus.

Hearing his words, I’m ashamed to admit, frustrated me and made me angry. I said, “Why are you in a hurry to leave? If you’re not in pain, why won’t you stay here with me?

I can’t understand her point of view because I want her presence in my life, and I can’t imagine my life without her. In my ignorance, the absence of pain means that everything must be fine.

And yet, when I’m more realistic and thoughtful and less selfish, I can reflect on Mom’s diminished capacity and what her world has become over the past six months, over the past year.

I look at pictures of her a year ago in Fort Lauderdale when she was still able to walk with her walker, when she had her hair done every Saturday so she looked her best when she went to church on Sunday and saw his friends. She was the belle of the ball and much loved, still much loved as evidenced by all the phone calls she still receives today and the many vases of flowers that were sent by friends in Florida and brought by new friends in Breckenridge.

Now her life consists of spending most hours in bed and in daylight from 10 a.m. to 5 p.m., sitting in her wheelchair coloring in a coloring book, talking to friends who call, but also struggling to remember what she’s supposed to do.

Unless I stop and force myself to take this inventory of what has been lost, I don’t see it. I still see my mother in all her glory, her beauty, her wisdom, and I want her to live forever.

While my mother, in all her beauty and wisdom, sees things as they are and is ready to let go, to begin a perfect life with God.

I am determined to learn to see things from his perspective and make every precious moment count, to be part of this journey in his own way.

“So shall it be with the resurrection of the dead. The body that is sown is perishable, it rises imperishable; it is sown in dishonour, it is raised in glory; it is sown in weakness, it rises in power; and it is sown natural body, it resurrects spiritual body. If there is a natural body, there is also a spiritual body. —1 Corinthians 15:42-44

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