Forgiveness at Its Finest

We were enjoying what had become our weekly talkfests, Mom in the blue vinyl recliner hooked up to the chemo cocktail, Aunt Cinda and I in the rolling stools huddled close. We were pleased to end up in the left corner spot which gave a bit of privacy in a room lined with others receiving their meds. In what turned out to be her last weekly treatment, aided by my aunt who’s a brilliant psychotherapist, Mom and I had one of the most significant breakthroughs in our rocky past.

“I just wanted you to listen. I’d yell and sling hurtful comments and you wouldn’t react, didn’t flinch. I felt you didn’t care,” I shared.

Cinda, who’d facilitated many healing conversations in the last 11 months, asked her sister, “How’d her actions make you feel? What does that stir up in you?”

Mom replied, “I wasn’t ignoring you. I felt growing up I was to be seen, not heard. I wanted you to have a voice.” Ah-ha dawning. Burden lifting. Definitive forgiveness on both sides in her final days. Eyes shining. Tender smiles shared.

We’d been on a journey toward harmony for about a decade. Seeds were planted as I witnessed my son’s full-onslaught adoration of her. She was the dream grandma. Not only would she listen intently to my son’s recounting of a half-hour show in 45 minutes, but she’d take dictation in her spiral notebook on each Pokemon character and their powers. She’d talk knowledgeably when he brought his pack of cards next time. We’d overhear little Josh complain “Oh, man” and beg for a couple more hours when we’d call saying we were on our way to pick him up from overnighters. Grandma would negotiate, “We were just fixing some mac ‘n cheese. Can you wait?” “We just started a game of Sorry. A couple more hours?”

Mom’s and my relationship grew from weary to wary to friendly to loving. The seeds turned to sprouts when she wrote me a letter as part of a 72-hour retreat. In it she shared how much I’m loved and thought of. She listed “some of the things you do that I’m especially impressed by.” And the theme I make out as I read it today, her birthday, and on the eve of Mother’s Day, is that she was listening to the details (my son inherited his sharing of details) I’d share about my life. She ended by saying, “You’re a lovely and accomplished woman and I’m very proud you’re my daughter.” Seeing her words on stationery – she could’ve said this many times before – helped me to hear.

My son’s working on his driving time, and he’s a cautious kid. I’ve had so few moments of fear on the road with him; a couple incidents of pressing an imaginary brake, mind you, but otherwise a calm experience. I shared with him the couple times Mom took me out driving before my license. I’d back out of the driveway in her brown ‘70s Chevy Impala with the V8 engine, shift to drive, and gun down the road. I’d accelerate through turns, my periphery catching Mom’s petite frame slide across the bench, press against the door, seize the handle. She never said a word. My aunt asked, when I relayed this to her the other day, “Did that settle your urge for her to react?” I reflected, “No, just spurred me on more, took those turns a little faster.” My son’s eyes widened, and he chuckled. “I told you, Josh, I could be a pistol,” I said.

I redirected my energy, after receiving her letter, to search for the positive memories. I see examples of unconditional love, grace, forgiveness. She wasn’t perfect, but she loved me the best she knew how. And she is my earthly example – Lordy, she’s set the bar high – for how Jesus loves, how He wants us to love.

Christmas 2011 was our last trip together, her stage IV cancer diagnosed the previous July. We relished our moments, aware this would be our last time at the beach. We walked slowly, her still-present sashay as we meandered down the beach. Learning to catch with Josh and me, she’d curtsy as she picked up the ball. Ah, her dainty nature. Dave, who adored her, and I chuckle at the recall.

We spent our last 11 months together crying, laughing, loving. Crazy in love with her. May 25 she died in my arms, her back against my chest, my legs along hers, my hand stroking her downy short hair, as I whispered, “I love you, Mommy, I love you.”

Dave, Josh and I crazy miss you, Mom. You are one of God’s finest.