She Called Me Mom

She called me mom. Gina (not her real name) had been outside and came back in with a sunburn that evening. Because few chemicals can be left in the possession of any of the kids, the aloe vera had to be applied by a nurse and documented accordingly. I was tired, and had my own children waiting at home; but I trekked down the hall to her room where Gina lay on her bed, face in her pillows. I gently rubbed the soothing cream over her blistered shoulders and neck. Looking on, her roommate piped up.
“Nurse Ladonna, I think you take care of us like you do because you have kids of your own”.
I paused, reflecting on that comment, then continued. Perhaps she was right. I’ve certainly applied enough aloe vera in my time!
Then a muffled voice said, “Nurse Ladonna, can I call you mom?” Gina craned her neck around to gauge my response. Unruly and obnoxious though they can be at times, something inside of me hurt for this little girl, and I smiled reassuringly at her. 
“Gina, you can call me whatever you like. Just don’t go outside like that without sunscreen again” the mom in me replied.
I love being a mom. Though not without its difficulties and frustrations, having these amazing people who ask questions, present new ideas, and challenge me to be a better person is at once exhausting and exhilarating. 
On my better days I remember that this whole symbiotic relationship is more than keeping mouths fed, bodies clothed and minds stretching; but I sometimes forget that the greater picture of the parent/child relationship is something beyond the here and now, that it is based on the eternal relationship of God and man. What I do is merely an imperfect reflection of the Perfect Parent and His not-so-perfect children. 
As I finished the simple task, I thought of the many times I had done something similar for one of my own children. And yet this one had no one to do such a simple thing for her. And I thought of the power there is in the concept of being a parent, the overwhelming desolation when that space is vacated and children are left to raise themselves. The damage done in those formative years by the lack of or ineptitude of parents is profound, and the consequences last a lifetime. 
We never outgrow the need to be loved and affirmed. God must have known this when the Bible refers to Him as our Heavenly Father. Indeed, we are told to call him Abba Father. Abba, the Aramaic word that would most closely be translated as “Daddy” was a common term that young children used to address their fathers. It signifies the close, intimate relationship of a father to his child, as well as the childlike trust that a young child puts in his “daddy.”
As I turned her light out and wished her good night, a child-like questioning voice came out of the darkness, “Good night…..mom”. I stood with my hand on the door knob and recognized again that we are the only representation of Christ some people will ever see. And if one of them has to call me mom to get to the love of her Heavenly Father….I’ll rub aloe vera on a few more sunburns.

Promises Kept

“Promise me you’ll see me again!” her delicate hands felt as though they were covered with tissue paper as they grasped my much younger ones.  And I felt like a young child being earnestly instructed by its parent. I deflected her request with assurances that the office would certainly contact her later, you know, to see how she was doing. She appeared unperturbed by my reticence.

“He’s with Jesus now, he’s not hurting anymore” and there was a sweet simplicity in her childlike statement.  Her husband’s passing several hours before yielded confusion interspersed with moments of vivid clarity as she struggled to hold onto each thought.

“His breathing got slower and slower, then it just stopped.” she said to the room at large.  Then the veil of confusion lowered over her milky blue eyes and she turned to me again. “Promise me you’ll come see me again, dear!” then turning back to her daughter, who patiently reminded her again who she was and of her husband's passing.  And I wondered how hard it must be to relive that kind of loss repeatedly when our own minds can no longer hold onto and process information.

I completed the requisite tasks as we waited for the funeral director to arrive.  And we talked. Sixty one years it had been.  That, she remembered with clarity.  As well as the memories of their first date, their first home, their first child, as well as the two they’d lost.  And grief was still mirrored in her face at the memory.  But she would see them again, she assured me.  And her mother’s heart beat in her voice when she said it. And she loved him, the man who lay cold and still in the bed across the room. Of that she was sure, as well.  And despite her daddy’s objections, she had married him. They had been poor, poorer than the mice that lived in the balcony of the old Baptist church they’d been married in, and her quirky grin had to be a reflection of the demurely impertinent young girl she had once been. Then her mama and daddy died. Did you know they were buried in the cemetery just down the road? But they were in Heaven, too, and she would see them again soon. And I marveled at her peaceful, albeit simple, confidence.

I finished up a few last obligatory matters as the coroner made his final preparations to leave.  Then kneeling beside her chair, I put my arms around her frail body in a gentle hug. And as I leaned back, I felt her hands on the sides of my face “promise me you’ll see me again!” And there was a clarity in her sharp eyes that belied her transient confusion. And suddenly, I understood. Her insistence for my promise suddenly made perfect sense, and my heart clenched with the understanding.  Our eyes met with mutual clarity.  “Yes,” I murmured softly, “I promise, I will see you again”.  And her contented smile remained even as her eyes clouded again in sweet confusion. 

Tears blurred my vision as I stepped out the front door into the bitter cold that morning. I may never come here to visit her again, but I will never forget her simple admonition. I will see you again, dear one. That, I promise.