I have been in an underwater cave for two years. Every time I tried to rise to the surface, a wall of immovable circumstances stood in my way.
My dear mother June died last year.
My plans ceased to exist as her care took precedent. My creativity dried up. My writing faltered, except chronicling the days in my journal. The year of isolation from Covid-19 contributed to my mother’s mental and physical decline. All my attention was on adapting to the changing landscape, the inevitability of her death, and an unknown future beyond.
All the joy and fun we had together: theater nights, Sunday dining out, choir practice and performances, Chapel gatherings, holiday decorating, and day-trips, lively discussions and walking down memory lane — all gone. Near the end, she did not know my name.
I’d say, “Who am I?” She’d say, “The one who loves me.”
We were at her home when she passed. I held her hand and prayed. Her spirit left her well-used 97-year-old body to the sound of the “Hallelujah Chorus” from the “Messiah” by Bach. It was a glorious release. I do not grieve for her. She is with the Lord . . . and my father and my son.
I grieve for me for I am without.
This past year I have diligently carried out her wishes as the executer of her estate, a task I was unprepared for and for which I was despised by family members. I was blessed and privileged by her faith in me, and even though I took the blows, I know she is pleased.
The task is now complete. Walking through the Valley of the Shadow of Death, the Lord was with me and saw me through to the other side. I was not sure I could pick up where I left off, but the creative flow returned — first a drip, then a trickle, then a flow, now a gusher, drowning me in living water, refreshing my spirit and giving me a new hope for the future.