Through the darkness

She hasn't been herself for some time now.Her mind is becoming more and more--well, I guess sluggish is the word. And it seems that she lives in a shadowland--she's changing and I don't know how to stop it. The other day, we found her wandering down a street far from her house, and she said that she just forgot how to get home. I'm not sure how much longer we'll be able to keep her if this continues.

I saw her again. She is so familiar--I know that I know her as well as I know myself, but I can't put a finger on it. And once I see her, it doesn't really matter, anyway. We walk and talk. She is a friend, and something more than a friend. When we first met, she told me that I would be walking with her for a time. I had a road to walk and tasks to complete before I was able to come home, and she was going to walk with me, if that was okay. Okay? I was relieved. I didn't know what her words meant, but I was so happy to hear that this precious child would walk with me. Child? No, she was ageless. She could be a daughter or a mother or a sister--time doesn't exist here. It's funny. I know that I've seen her many times, but when I'm in that other land--when I'm myself--I have no recollection whatsoever of it. I don't think I like living in that other land any more. It seems to me that I've been mistaken all my life--that the reality of life is here, with her."

Time goes on. Some days are better than others. Sometimes her eyes are as clear and sharp as normal, but then an hour later and she's gone. I wonder where she goes? She is just not with us. Her eyes are vacant, lost to us. And then the next morning and she's fine again. It's breaking my heart.
She's coming more often now, and the real work is beginning. I don't come home as often, and when I do, it's more because they need me to. I want to be there, with her, doing this work. At first, we walked and talked together bathed in love. That's the only way I can really describe it. It gave me the understanding that even though I'm going to deal with some very hard things, love will always be there. I know that God is here, but I can't see or hear him. Somehow it's just not that important. He's all around me--I don't need to know any more than that. But she is always with me. We started by sitting and talking. I learned about her--her likes and dislikes, her dreams and desires, and the life that she lives daily. She says that right now I am her life. She lives for me. It's her desire to walk through my journey with me. I am so sure that I know who she is, I don't even ask her. I just know.

And then she took me to a house. In this journey, times doesn't have to make sense. If she is who I think she is, she can't be here, but here she is. I walked up to the door, opened it (no reason to knock here-I know I belong), and I am in the present with my mother and father. We have some things to talk through, some scores to settle. At first, we simply pass the time of day. I feel young, no longer bound by the hand of time. I can see them clearly, more clearly than I ever did before. I used to see them through the cloud of time--my mother careworn and defeated, my father stern and full of bitterness. Now, however, they seem young--no, not young, ageless, as is my guide. It doesn't occur to me to ask them how they've been or what they've been doing. The understanding that they're both long dead is far from me, as well. They are here, and I am thankful.

After a few minutes (hours? weeks?) my mother begins the real meat of the conversation--the real reason for my being here. 'I know that I treated you badly, Honey. I know that I expected too much from you and didn't give you enough of myself when you really needed it. I wanted to tell you that I'm truly sorry for that. We spoke for a while on the subject, my friend holding my hand throughout. Mama remembered every single time that she had let me down, and she explained to me why. For the first time, I saw my life through my mother's eyes. She never blamed me, never shrank from accepting responsibility for her actions. As she spoke, I began to see things, too. I remembered times when I had hurt her, times when I had been cruel--sometimes unintentionally, many other times with purpose. We spoke with love about those times, and we saw them together for the first time. I've never felt such love. My mother had not been especially vocal in life, but now it was as if a barrier had been removed. And every word that was said was spoken in love.

Then it was my father's turn. He didn't start in the same way as my mother had. He did not immediately apologize for the way that I'd been treated. Instead, he spoke in the third person, his eyes distant, far off.  "A child learns to love by watching love. He also learns to hate by watching hate. Most children have examples in the family. A child who has no family, however, has no example. He cannot experience real love, for there is nobody that loves him as he should be loved. He can learn hate. He learns it by others around him. When others care for their own children and leave him alone, he feels pain. When others blame him for misdeeds that they know were really the fault of their own children, he learns that he has no ally in life. When he is beaten because he is available, he learns to hate the punisher.' For the first time my father looked at me. "I didn't know how to love you. I was cruel to you because I was afraid of you. You were my child, but I didn't know how to be your father. I didn't know what to do with you. You seemed so vulnerable, and that was something I knew too well. In my life, vulnerability was punished, and so I punished you. I know it seems ridiculous now, but at the time I was trying to make you strong.' My father did something that I had not seen another person do in this place. He began to cry. However, these were tears unlike any I had seen before. They were beautiful, diamonds of love running down his cheeks. 'My child, may I hold you?' I ran into his arms and sat on his lap. I can't explain it, but I felt myself growing smaller, and the child in my soul, the child who had always yearned for a father's love, sat in his lap, felt his presence, and was satisfied at last.

I used to come see Mom every day.  Then it went to every other day, then once a week. Now it is once every other week.  I know I should come more often, but she isn't there.  The person in Mama's room isn't my mother.  She is a living ghost--someone who just occupies my mom's body.  She may come back to herself for a moment or two, but only if I say something that has great meaning for her--mentioning a neighbor that she despised, or perhaps talking about a friend or relative from her youth. She will look at me then, and she might mumble something, but that's it.  She never comes all the way back from wherever she is any more.  I come because I have to.  It's what a good daughter is expected to do.  But I don't even know if she knows that I'm there.  God, why can't you take her?  Where has my mother gone?  What is happening in her mind?  What possible good can come from her living like this?

Time is passing, I know.  Through enormous shadows of time, I can vaguely see a room filled with bodies like mine, broken in half and only sitting upright because a constraint keeps us from falling.  I see prisoners in cells of flesh, and I know that we must grieve our families.  But I can't reach beyond the place where I am.  Truth be told, I don't really want to.  I'm moving through the shadows, coming toward a place that shines like purest gold.  No, I don't see it fully yet.  It isn't time yet.  The very fact that I still think in time tells me that it isn't time yet.  But I wish those families that sit with tears in their eyes could see what I see and know what I know.  There is no sadness here, no sorrow like the sorrow that we know on Earth.  There is struggle, yes, and loss, and painful climbing toward answers, but even to say that denies the truth of what is there.  Struggle, loss and pain are different here.  We struggle to overcome the frailties that kept us bound to lies.  We work through the loss of self, of pride, of complacency, of arrogance--but all in order to fully engage in the life that we are living even now.  And pain--how can I describe the pain?  It's sweet.  It's beautiful, because it is bringing healing.  I hear myself saying the words, and I laugh.  They don't come close to describing what it really is.  It's like telling you to look at a Jackson Pollack painting in order to understand the beauty of a sunrise in Venice. 

But I realize that I have not explained my companion in the journey.  When I first began, I thought that it was my niece.  I didn't know her well, but everyone said that she was the image of her mother.  And so I felt very smug within myself that I had figured out her secret.  Until one day I used the name "Peggy".  And my companion smiled.  I went on to say that I appreciated her help, and she laughed out loud.  I have to admit that I was perplexed, even annoyed.  "What on earth are you laughing at?"  I said.  My companion just laughed harder and said, "Has it been so many years, Dearie?  Do you really not know me?'  I looked again, harder, and then understood.  "Juanita?"  She said nothing, just came to me and gave her a hug that the living Juanita could never have given.  All the sickness, all the frailty, all the pain that had kept her from enjoying life was gone--this was Juanita as I had never seen her before!

Another thing I should mention:  I've heard her ask why some of us go through these shadows and others don't.  I have no answer.  This is neither reward nor punishment.  It is simply our path.  Everyone walks through at a different pace.  But that isn't the real question.  The real question is this:  do any of us go before we're prepared?  And the answer, of course, is yes.  I'm eternally grateful that I was given this shadow walk.

Finally, the day has come.  I got the news early this morning:  Mother died peacefully in her sleep last night.  I came after breakfast for the last time.  I've packed away her belongings, kept some, gave some to her nurses and attendants, things that I feel she would have wanted them to have, and marked still others for Goodwill.  I am grateful to everyone for the help that they've given.  Strange, though, how little grief I feel.  I'm sure it will come eventually, but for now I'm relieved.  Mother is finally out of the darkness and is going to the Light.

Finally, time has ceased.  I am one with my sisters, my brothers, the saints, and the Apostles.  We are all in Love, and where before I walked in the shadows, now I can finally walk into the Light.  My dear husband, my child lost at birth, my friends who came before all gather round me.  Together we walk from light to light, from brilliance to brilliance, and we are filled with exuberance and joy.  The brilliance no longer blinds, and for the first time I can see the glow of Glory.  My soul resounds with the knowledge, the understanding, the certainty that I am truly in the Presence that I have longed for all my life. Holy Holy Holy Lord, God of Power and Might. Hosanna in the Highest.