Monthly Archives: June 2015

Life Goes on at Shady Acres.

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One of the things that is sometimes hard to assimilate is how life goes on after life changing events.  Things continue to happen, the world doesn’t stop turning and the sun comes up each morning. It’s strange how things can be so different, and yet life keeps calling our attention and it isn’t always gentle about giving us time to think about how different things really are.

Over the intense time of Mama’s illness and death, one of our little beef calves started to look a little peaked, and had intestinal issues.  Certain Man came into the house greatly concerned one morning and said, “It looks just like the ones that died last year.  I can’t figure it out.  They’ve been weaned for a month, on pasture for that long, and now this one comes down with something.”

He started right away to treat it with the usual treatment for calves with diarrhea, but nothing seemed to help.  Then the second one came down with the same thing.  Certain Man called the vet, and got medication, and continued to treat and worry and worry and treat.  All to no avail.  The first one died Tuesday morning, and the second one last night.  The third one, who looked great throughout it all, started with the same symptoms last evening.  This morning he wouldn’t get it up. He looked pretty good — alert and perky, but just lay in the isolation pen that Certain Man had fashioned for him, all comfortable in the straw.  As the day wore on, he seemed less interested in life around him.

Certain Man is greatly discouraged.

Somewhere along the line last night I realized that he was blaming himself for this whole scenario.  Daniel, who tries so hard with his animals and all of his farm, can just about not take it when something is wrong that he cannot figure out.  He goes over and over every possibility, tries to find the answers, thinks and thinks and thinks.  Sometimes he reads labels and tosses the bottles across the room in frustration because he just. cannot. understand. the jargon.  Or what it is that is needed, for that matter.

This morning he spent time on the phone with his farmer friends, the Department of Ag,  and the Animal Medic and then went again to try to find something to help.  He really wants to save this last calf, but he honestly doesn’t have a lot of hope.  I look at the slump of his shoulders, and see him sit with his head in his hands, trying to figure something out, but also dealing with what, to him, is more than a monetary loss.  Daniel likes his little animals, and he also likes to raise healthy, quality animals that he turns into an edible blessing for many others.  He has been raising calves for 20 years.  I can only imagine the frustration he is feeling with this situation.

And so, he is trying another recommended remedy.  The little one doesn’t seem much better this evening, but he doesn’t really seem worse.  That could be a bad sign, though,  The night hours are hard on sick calves.  At least it isn’t as hot as it had been.

And so life goes on at Shady Acres.  The trailer home that housed our friends who had rented from us for over 20 years was vacated over the time of Mama’s illness and death, and H. and C. flew out of the country to Guatemala.  It was a sad night when they came to say their final good-bye, and it seemed almost unfair that I didn’t have more time to give to them with their pending departure.  The last night, as they were leaving, I stood in the garage, the tears falling fast.  And then I heard my friend as she walked across the lawn one last time to her house.  She was sobbing out loud, the noise of her sorrow came floating back to me, and I felt as if my heart would break.  Ah, the memories we hold from their years as our next door neighbors are sweet and good, and I hated to see them go.  But Lupe and her husband, Ervin, have been making a place ready, and I know they will enjoy life there with their daughter and her husband and the two grandchildren that they have never seen. It will be okay.  I think.

We’ve been busy in the trailer.  About once a day, someone stops to ask if it is rented.  My heart aches to tell them that it has, in fact, been rented.  This evening a young hispanic mama with three littles stopped and asked about renting it.  I looked at the three little faces, so reminiscent of the faces of years ago and wished that there were five trailers that I could rent for the people that are so in need in our world.  The trailer isn’t livable right now, anyhow,  because there are renovations going on inside.  The thing is, some of these people would take it just the way it is and it would be better than what they have.  I’ve stopped over occasionally to take a look and it still is going to take some work, but it is coming along.  Our new renters,  Mary Beth Sharp and Preston Tice have a little over two weeks until their wedding, so we are really trying to stay on target and keep things moving.  What has been done looks nice, but there is some (lots) of old water damage that will take some work, floors to replace and painting to do. I was desperately discouraged at first because of the short time frame, but was reassured by the “about to be marrieds” that they, with help from their families, were up to the challenge.  It’s good to see young people with dreams and enthusiasm and starry eyes.

We are also planning for the annual Fourth of July picnic,  Certain Man says it will be on its regular day — July 4th, Saturday this year.  So everyone is welcome.  I do appreciate knowing who is coming — especially children so I know how to figure prizes and such.  (Oriental Trading Post, Dollar General and even Wally’s World, here I come!)

The one thing we really need for the picnic yet is someone with a lot more youth and a lot less creaking in the joints than this Delaware Grammy.to organize the games and relays  So if coming up with with these sorts of things is down your alley, let me know and we will certainly work something out.  It would be especially nice to have volunteers to fill the water balloons.  This task is one that provides enjoyment to so many people, (especially the children) but is not one that I can easily fit into the hours before the celebration.

The same guidelines apply as always have:  We furnish hotdogs, hamburgers, paper products, condiments and some of the drink.  We are also looking to crank or electric freeze some ice cream to finish things off.  Bring potluck picnic foods, anything that you would like to have at a picnic..

So come on out — bring your friends and the kids in your life.  We plan to have the little train, “the Jones Express” running for the kids.  There are horseshoes, and cornhole and whatever else gets brought along.  We’ll be glad to have people bring outdoor games for sharing.  Time:  anytime after 3pm for fun and games, with the eating around 5:30-6-ish.

. . . and so life goes on at Shady Acres, while my heart gives grateful praise.

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Mama Day

Over the last few years, when I would get my new calendar for the year, I would go through the months and on every Tuesday, I would write, “Mama Day.”  I wanted it firmly in place so that whenever there were things that I needed to do, I could say, “Not Tuesday.  That is my day to go to my mother’s house.”  We often planned her appointments on that day so that I wouldn’t need to take another day out of my week, but most of the time, we spent Tuesdays together in her house beside the nursing home on Yoder Drive.

I honestly cannot say how long I have gone to her house one day a week, but I know that I started it sometime after Daddy’s death ten years ago.  I had tried to get out there without a set schedule at first, but I found that I just didn’t make it unless we had a set day.  At first, it seemed like Wednesday worked best, but as time went on, and I found things jammed up on Wednesday from small group meetings and other mid week activities, we agreed on Tuesday as the day that would be best.

“I don’t care which day you come,” she would often tell me, “but I get such a wonderful feeling inside when I realize that you are going to be there the next day.”  She never ever acted like it was something she took for granted, but she was always so disappointed when something came up to interfere that I decided early on that there was almost nothing worth making her sad.  Tuesday mornings I would often dash into Rite Aid for a prescription, on to Wal-Mart for a few groceries and some OTC meds and other supplies, then out to Mama’s house for the business of paying bills, organizing the medication box, and conversation and companionable silence.  Usually I would be at the kitchen table, and she would be in on her recliner.  In the last year and a half, she would often be sleeping in her chair, sometimes reading, sometimes talking on the phone, but always, always trying to make conversation with me, apologetic for being so sleepy, interested in any community news that she might have missed.

“Do you know anything new?” she would ask me almost every time I talked to her.  I would scramble over the news and try to think of something that she would be interested in.  It got so that I would listen for news that would be the kind of thing she would be interested in.  Where the newlyweds of the community were going to live.  What was growing in the garden already.  How Daniel had installed an irrigation system in the pavilion for my hanging plants.  How the last flock of chickens did.  Who had bought a new car.  What the grandchildren had said lately.  Who was or wasn’t at church on Sunday.  Who in the community was sick.  What our adult children were up to.  Sometimes the pickin’s were slim, but she always wanted to know.

She loved the Daily Guideposts, and kept all of her yearly editions.  When she got the new edition in the fall, she would read the short biographies in the back and catch up on all the long-standing authors’ lives.  She felt like she knew each one, and if she learned that they were sick, or if one of them died, or got divorced or had family problems, she felt deeply for them.  I would often come in and find editions from years back stacked up on her little chairside table, and she would talk to me like they were one of her family.

She loved to read.  Recently she was working her way through the whole “Love Comes Softly” series by Janette Oke.  When she found there was a sequel series, she wanted those to read.  She was in the middle of reading A Searching Heart when she had her fall.  A strip of paper, torn from some advertisement or magazine marked her place on page 115.  Often Middle Daughter was responsible for finding and bringing reading material to her.  Some authors just didn’t hold her interest.  “I just couldn’t get into that book (or author)” she would say ruefully.  “I hope Deborah won’t care, but I just didn’t like it too much.”  And once the opinion was formed, it was seldom changed.

The last five weeks have really run together for this Delaware Grammy, and even though Mama was in the hospital, I still tried to keep Tuesdays as her day.  Last week, Youngest Sister, Alma, needed to trade with me because she had something to do later in the week and wanted to be free.  It was afternoon when I decided that whether it was my day or not, I was going to go.  And thus, I got to spend the last seven hours of her life with her. She went home to Heaven on what my calendar says was a “Mama Day.”

Last night I was thinking about this morning, and planning my day.  I suddenly remembered that I didn’t have to go to Mama’s House today.  I mentally thought about the morning and things that needed doing and decided that I could still be doing things for Mama today.  And so, I have been working on the business of closing accounts, organizing some papers, reading some of the cards, and remembering a Mama who loved Tuesdays with all her heart and wasn’t afraid to let me know that she wanted me to come.

And I’ve spent some time very teary as well.  I expect that Tuesdays will be easier for me on many accounts, but harder on others.  I won’t be dashing out for prescriptions, groceries or supplies then hurrying to get to her house before too late.  But on every single square on the remaining Tuesdays of this year there is the notation, “Mama Day,” and I think this pang will always remind me of a loss that is too big for me to comprehend at this point.

When Daddy died, I had no idea of how things were going to be in the months that followed.  “We hadn’t had time to miss him yet,” said Youngest Sister one day when I was so confused by how the grief just seemed to get deeper and deeper.  I think of those words now and think about what may be ahead for me, for us.  Mama missed the woman she had been in her youth — the vibrancy, the strength, the abilities, the talents that shone.  And while we have missed the Mama that she once was, nothing could have prepared me for the finality of these days.

She won’t be coming back.

How dark this Tuesday seems without her.

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On This Rainy Night

It was such a wonderful day.  The friends who came, the people who served by setting up, cooking, serving the wonderful food, those who were still cleaning up when we finally went home, all of these kind people gave us an inestimable gift.  They extended comfort in the form of memories, hugs, encouraging words and assurances of their prayers.

Tonight, at home, with some of the things (I felt) needed to be done finally finished, I sit in the comfortable circle of my family, some of the dear faces missing, some still here for awhile.  I feel bone weariness, soul weariness, and the sub-conscious grief that tugs at my heart.  I haven’t really had time to think clearly about much.

Today we buried my Mama.  I looked at her face before closing the casket for the last time, and put my cheek against her cold one, and told her once again, “Oh, Mama.  You were such a good Mama.  I will always miss you.”  And I know I will.

And then the rest of the day was a blur.  There was lots of music, and there were so many people.  Our cousins from both sides of our big family sang songs that brought back a thousand memories and gave me hope and comfort.  My brothers, nephews, a niece, a son, a daughter and a family friend all worked together and the essence of my Sweet Mama was captured in the laughter and the tears and the words of Eternal Life. Six grandsons carried her gently to the final resting place and another grandson spoke the final familiar words while we sang songs of triumph that exalted in the face of the loss that I could not think about.  And then, we covered the grave.  My mama’s body, the shell of the woman who gave birth to me, was at rest.  I shall never see that form of my Mother again.

Tonight, I sit in this comfortable circle and a sturdy thunderstorm has moved in.  It has rumbled and crashed.  The lightening has flashed, and the rain has poured down in buckets.  I think of that fresh grave and think of the rain pouring down and wonder about the dirt that our family carefully piled in and around and over the vault until it was full and even with the ground.  I think of my Sweet Mama’s body, there under the earth and wonder if the vault is waterproof.

And then I feel that searing, desperate grief as I think of the natural decay of the body that I knew as my Mama’s.  I think of the damp trickling in, and the pretty dress and carefully combed hair and even the perfume that we spritzed on her neckline when we did her hair, and I suddenly want it all undone. I sit in my chair, alone and quiet in my sorrow while I finally have time to think about how this all is, and the tears just won’t stop.  She hated to be wet and cold.  She hated to be alone.  She hated the dark.

I need to stop.  I need to find comfort and I need to think differently.

And then, clear as an angel’s chime, I hear my Sweet Mama’s voice in my head.  It is December 23, 2005, and we have just buried our Precious Daddy.  And someone asked Mama about how she felt about leaving the grave on that cold December day.

“It really was okay,” she said, even in her deep, deep grief.  “It wasn’t Daddy that we left there.  That was just his shell.  He isn’t there.  It isn’t something that he even cares about.”  And as the months and now years have passed, she has never had the need to go to his grave.  She went very occasionally at first but has long since stopped going.  She just hasn’t had the desire or the need.

I can’t say that I am like that.  I still go to my Daddy’s grave when I am troubled or sad or just missing him so much.  I know he isn’t there, but the physical remains of the Daddy I knew and loved are there, and I am comforted some how.  Mostly I talk to Jesus, but sometimes I will cry out my anguished heart and try to think how he would answer me.  And I know that I will do that some more in these next months.

One of the things that was hard over these last few weeks was that there were times when Mama seemed more reluctant to engage her children than she was (outside the family) friends or even strangers, and I found that so hard until the night that Middle Daughter, our resident Hospice nurse stopped me on my way out the door to go to Mama’s side.  I was so sad and confused and weary that night. I had just asked my husband to please pray for me, and he had held me gently and prayed for wisdom and strength and courage.  Most of all, I hated it that I was dreading the time with my Mama.  But Deborah stopped me.  She hugged me and she said something like this:

“Mama, you need to remember that Grandma’s emotions are still on ‘this side.’  She knows that she is slipping away and she is deeply grieving the separation from her beloved children. She cannot yet see Heaven and all the Glory that is waiting for her there, so she is living still with the emotions of this world.  And engaging with you all is a reminder to her of all she’s going to part with, and it is just too hard.  Don’t take it personally, and don’t think she is cutting you out.  She is just working through this business of leaving, and there is no set way that this happens. She loves all of us intensely.  She loved living so much and with the emotions from this life, all of this is probably giving her a deep, deep sense of grief.”

That helped me so incredibly much to believe that God would work in all or our lives to stay focused and steady and working towards the time when she could go HOME. That the less I expected or asked of her, the more she could concentrate on that other world.  It could be our gift to her in this time when it felt our hearts would break.  Truly a sacrifice of praise.  And so, we did.  We kept our heads and hearts where we knew that our Heavenly Father’s care could hold us tenderly and we found Him faithful, and our Mama did not disappoint us.

And tonight, Mama’s emotions are all on the other side.  She is home free.  She is not thinking about a deserted grave in a dark cemetery or the rain or the ones she left behind.  She’s alive and free and timeless and full of incredible joy.  The journey to Heaven was but a split second from that last peaceful breath, and she is only beginning this new adventure.

And this aching heart still offers grateful praise.

‘Weep not.  Weep not.  She is not dead!  She’s resting in the bosom of Jesus!”  (James Weldon Johnson)

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Obituary for Alene Elizabeth (Wert) Yoder

Alene Elizabeth (Wert) Yoder died June 16, 2015 in The Country Rest Home near Greenwood, Delaware, surrounded by her loved ones.  She was 86.

Mrs. Yoder was born January 1, 1929 in Bunkertown, PA, to the late Michael and Alma (Lauver) Wert. She chose early to follow Jesus, and the rest of her life was defined by that decision.  At sixteen, she moved to Delaware to work, met the love of her life, Mark Yoder, married him and lived in the Greenwood area for the rest of her years.  She worked side by side with her husband, first as a farmer’s wife and then wherever needed in her husband’s business when he became the owner and administrator of The Country Rest Home.  She also served as a pastor’s wife, and provided care for handicapped adults in her home.  Through all the years, the thing she did best was being an incredible Mama and Grandma.  She loved life and babies and birds and reading.

She is survived by her six children and their spouses: Clinton Yoder of Wagener, SC; Nelson & Rose (Beidler) Yoder of Morris, PA; Mary Ann & Daniel Yutzy of Milford, DE; Mark, Jr. & Polly (Heatwole) Yoder; Sarah & Bert Slaubaugh; and Alma & Jerrel Heatwole, all of Greenwood.  Also surviving are five sisters; Orpha (Lloyd) Gingrich of Cocolamus, PA, Gladys (Jesse) Yoder of Dover, DE, Freda Zehr and Alma Jean (Harvey) Yoder of Harrisonburg, VA, and Ruth Ann (Allan) Shirk of Lancaster, PA,  a brother, J. Lloyd (Beverly) Wert and a sister in law, Mary Wert, of Lancaster, PA. She is also survived by 27 beloved grandchildren and 35 great-grandchildren, and a host of cousins, nieces and nephews.

She was preceded in death by her beloved husband, Mark Yoder, Sr., a daughter in law, Frieda Mishler Yoder, a great-granddaughter, Ariel Yoder, and her oldest brother, Harold Wert.

There will be calling hours at Greenwood Mennonite School on Friday evening, June 19, from 6-8:30.  There will be calling hours at the same location from 10 – 10:45 on Saturday morning, June 20, with the funeral following at 11.

In lieu of flowers, donations can be made to Laws Mennonite Church Building Fund, 125 Schlabach Road, Greenwood, DE 19950.

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She’s HOME

It was soon after lunch that I texted my sister, Alma, who was keeping watch with her daughter, Carmen, and said that I was going to come out to Mama’s room where our family has kept constant watch for the last two weeks.  Each of Mama’s children has spent time by the bed in the corner, speaking love to our Sweet Mama, spooning food into her reluctant mouth, giving drinks of ice water, adjusting the fan, and, along with the amazing staff at Country Rest home, doing all we could to keep her as comfortable as possible.  There was music, there was sunlight, there were clean sheets and fresh nighties, there were gentle hands and kind words, there were prayers and prayers and more prayers.

I left my house around 3:15 and got into the room soon after 3:30.  The noise of my mother’s labored breathing was the first thing that I heard.  There was the swish of the oxygen in the background as I leaned over her bed and spoke to her.  She couldn’t talk, her eyes were seeing things I couldn’t.  When they would catch and hold mine, the suffering there wrung my heart.  “Oh, Lord Jesus!  How long?”

Mama’s sister, Alma Jean, was there with our sister, Alma, and Carmen.  It wasn’t too long until our sister, Sarah came and our brother, Mark, Jr., and we, along with Aunt Alma Jean, stood around her bed.  She just looked so bad.  I looked at that lined face, so sunken and tired and thought about how much the Mama of better days would hate this.  She always hoped that she wouldn’t have to suffer, especially gasping for breath.  My heart ached for her in the hard, hard work that she was doing.  And on this day, it seemed that none of the usual remedies worked.  And I suddenly realized that this was probably home going time.  That this labor, so like the labor of birth, was the inevitable labor of death.  It was hard.  It was real.  It was wrenching.  But Jesus was with us and His presence and the Hope of what was to come, kept us steady, even while we often wept.

Throughout the afternoon, family came and went.  There was a time, after supper when it was Sarah, Alma and I, Nel and Rose and Mark and Polly, were alone in the room and we sang for her, songs of faith, songs of Heaven, songs of our childhood.  I listened to the full, rich harmony of our family, singing our Mama Home, and felt the comfort and the peace of the unity we’ve been so blessed to enjoy, and my heart swelled with so much emotion it felt like it would explode.  We started with the song she first taught us, “Jesus Loves Me” and worked our way through “Great is Thy Faithfulness,” and many other old favorites.  Then, again, family started coming in.  She had three nurse granddaughters in the room at one time last night, and their tears told me more about the gravity of the situation than anything else.

Through it all, the labored breathing went on and on and on.  When it seemed like she just couldn’t breathe another breath, it still went on. Occasionally she would be with us, it seemed, but as the evening wore on, she was clearly leaving.  We prayed for God to just take her home, to set her free and to give her the ultimate healing.

And then, soon after ten, with granddaughter Holly on one side, and granddaughter, Carmen, on the other, and the rest of us sitting around and waiting, some in quiet conversation, some in contemplation, her breathing changed.  Instead of the ragged, labored breathing, there was this peaceful, no struggle, easy breaths.  Her face was peaceful.

“I think she’s going,” said Hospice trained nurse, Holly.

“Really?”  Said Carmen.  “You think so?”

“Yes,” breathed Holly.  “She’s is definitely going.”

We gathered around and we held her hands, touched her where we could reach her, and watched in awe as a Saint of God made her final journey.  Peaceful.  Quiet.  Eternal Rest.

How very much we will miss our Sweet Mama!  She has been where we go for comfort and understanding and reassurance and unconditional love.  But how we rejoice in her triumph!  What a joy to think of her in Heaven with Daddy and the rest of the family that has gone on before.  She loved living here.  Heaven is so much more.

I can only imagine.

And this grieving heart still swells with grateful praise.

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Smart Phone Woes

Certain Man and Certain Man’s Wife have been old sticks in the mud when it come to their flip phones.  There never was any reason to change.  The phones had been loyal, dependable and very sturdy friends.  CMW actually washed hers in the washing machine.  One time a whole cycle.  But it was put into the rice remedy and continued to work without complaint.

However, the offspringin’s prevailed upon their parents and offered help and assistance and both Certain Man and his wife became to owners of one of the smart phones– something “6-ish.”  (CMW honestly does not know its proper name.)

Anyhow, said phone has proven to be very helpful in the many messages to siblings and offspringin’s and keeping up with things when CMW was away from home.  And she was especially delighted with the way there were suggestions for words across the top of the screen when she was messaging, because it cut down on the time considerably.  A great invention, indeed.  She came to rely heavily upon the given suggestions.

Too heavily.

With Sweet Mama being so sick, and a history of things being needed, it came to pass that CMW had the cell number of the beloved family Doctor.  On rare occasions, she would employ this for things that were needed at inopportune times, and this morning was one of those times.  She texted a message to Dr. Wilson, and about a half an hour later, her texted back a short, but very welcome, “DONE.”

Now CMW does not take such things for granted, and so she texted back, “Thanks, Dr. Wilson.  YOU DA BEST!!!”

At least that was what she thought she had texted.

The morning wore on, there was laundry to do, other messages to field and then there was the time when she suddenly noticed the text that she had actually sent to the good physician.

“Thanks, Dr. Wild One.  YOU DA BEST!!!”

Oh, dear!!!   Oh, Dear!!!  Oh, Dear!!!

She still thinks the good doctor is one of the best, but “Wild” is not a word that would be appropriate for this particularly steady, southern Delaware family doctor.

CMW is going to just blame it on that smarty-pants phone.

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Fourth Sunday

It is Sunday afternoon.  Mama’s bird is singing in the sun room.  I collapsed on my chair, the exhaustion of the week caught up with me and I slept a restless sleep.  The music that is playing quietly is Classical Lullabies by Fisher Price, and Certain Man is kicked back in his lazy-boy, sleeping soundly.  He came down with a bad cold and sore throat and needs the sleep even more than I do.  Lena is quietly here, doing something on her computer.  Middle Daughter is sleeping, getting ready for an evening shift with Delaware Hospice.  Youngest Daughter is in Chicago, believe it or not, spending time learning to know one of her daddy’s cousin and his family, Dan and Heather Yutzy and their precocious five year old, Kiran.  Rachel actually went to Chicago for the bachelorette party for her friend, Anna, whose wedding is coming up in a few weeks, but it has been a grand week for God happenings, and this Mama gives grateful praise.

I am just ready to head out to Country Rest Home.  My brother, Nel and his wife, Rose, arrived yesterday and have been helping to fill in the gaps.  Mama’s sister, Alma Jean Yoder, from Harrisonburg, Virginia, caught a ride to Delaware last evening, and her helping hands have already filled in some gaps for us.  It is pretty much the same there for our Sweet Mama.  Sometimes it feels like these days just run together with almost no variation except decline.

Early in this journey, one Sunday morning, while I sat by her bed in the hospital, she reached for my hand and spoke life giving words of love to me that I’ve needed for some time.  I always have known that my Mama loved me, but this last year has been hard for her and us all, and there were many times when it felt like the filters were gone and things were said that would set me back on my heels.  Sometimes when it was time to travel the miles to her house, I would ask the Father for the garment of praise and for wisdom to understand what it was that was best for my Mama, for I knew that she always could tell when something was bothering me and she hated it terribly when she thought I was sad.

“Mary Ann,” she would sometimes say with her eyes all pleading, “Have I been a good girl?”  Often this was after one of her more strident declarations, or actions that were out of character for her. How I hated that question that put me fully in the place of being the parent, while my heart still begged to be her child.  I didn’t want to be the one to tell her that she needed to stop driving.  I didn’t want to be the one to tell her that she needed a wheelchair or a walker.  I didn’t want to be the one to tell her that her days of self medicating were over.

“Everytime you come,” she said earlier this year, “you take something else away from me!!!” And she burst into tears.  Mama almost never cried, and it wrenched my heart as I struggled to know the difference between what was okay, what was negligence and what risks were acceptable.  I almost never laid down the law (we don’t do that with our Mama) but tried to negotiate what she was willing to live with and what she wasn’t.

And now she is suffering so much.  She moves so restlessly on the bed that has been her “home” in these last ten days, no longer asking to go home, not asking me to take her home with me.  She hasn’t spoken my name since Wednesday, and that is okay.  I don’t ask her because I don’t want her to have to think that hard.  I remember her words of love and I am comforted.  How I wish I could fix this for her.  I wish I could transform her into the healthy, young vibrant Mama of my youth, bring back the good, good times, the dancing eyes, the music, the love of beauty and the strong body.  These are the memories that we have of this brave, indomitable woman who is our mama.

But even if I couldn’t bring back the body the way it once was, today I’d give almost anything just to have her be the Mama.

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