Have you ever heard the phrase "God whispers"? I sometimes think He is whispering to me if I'm struggling with some thought, event, or life change and then something subtle occurs to make me look at it in a new, different, and much clearer way. Kind of like the kick in the pants to turn you back in the right direction. I had one of these occurrences on Monday and it really touched my soul.
My mother has been giving my sisters and I a very difficult time lately regarding her health. She has many issues, yet is uncomfortable dealing with them. Oftentimes, I'm reminded of the ant and the grasshopper story - she is much more at ease waiting until we are in a crisis and dealing with whatever it is at that time than doing the normal, everyday things that can keep those crisis times to a minimum.
Monday, my mother needed to have a colonoscopy. Supposedly routine for people after they are 50, my mother has a certain sense of pride that she 'dodged that bullet' and was having her first one at 78. So I get my three children on their respective three buses at three different times over the course of 90 minutes, get prepared and drive to NY to take my mom to the hospital for this procedure. On the way I get stuck in commuter traffic, then get stuck in some other kind of traffic on one of the Hudson river bridges, and I arrive flustered, angry that I spent so much time in traffic, and certainly under-caffeinated as I had no time to get the coffee that I was planning to get in town. I whip through the house, cleaning bathrooms, taking things my mother has cleaned out, and the last thing I do on this 'take no prisoners' circuit through my mother's home is to grab another photo album. Many of the family pictures are in those 'magnetic' albums and many of the photos are showing wear. So I've slowly been replacing them into safer albums. I open up the cabinet, look at all the albums left to do, groan to myself and pick one from somewhere in the middle. As I open it up I realize the album is full of Polaroid photos. My father received a Polaroid camera for his 60th birthday, and WAS good at putting photos in albums as this one was neat, organized and full.
The first photo was a picture of a pretty woman, somewhere in her 50s. Hair done, put together outfit, sweet smile. It was my mother. In my father's spidery handwriting underneath, written so hard as to leave an indentation of his intent, were the words "My Favorite Person". I felt slapped. Tears immediately sprung into my eyes, and as I was getting ready for a good cry (and I'm not a cry-er) I hear my mom chatting behind me...blissfully unaware of the love that I was holding in my hands. I composed myself, put the album back for her to find someday and took another one and then looked at my mother. Really looked at her.
She is an old lady that was someones "favorite person" for 55 years. And now that someone isn't here. My father has been gone 3.5 years now, and my mother has been miserable. Over those years, my sisters and I have fallen into the role of taxi, confidantes, housekeepers, home managers and health care providers and we start to act it - less compassion, more facts and schedules and upkeep. But I was about to take a scared old lady that was someones favorite person to this procedure that you would be hard pressed to find ANY one thrilled to undertake. I softened. I became gentle. I became loving. I became... kind. I became the daughter I wanted to be instead of the daughter that I had turned out to be. And it was okay. It was really okay. I listened to her stories on the ride....when I went through the admission process with her we laughed so hard, it was not the dramatic scene it could have been. My sister (a nurse in the hospital) met us in the waiting room and was all brusque and busy and annoyed acting and as soon as I could, I told her the story. She visibly relaxed, the difference was palpable. When calling sister #3 to tell her the results (which were clear and clean, thank you) she also began to cry and you could hear her manner gentle as well.
So thank you, God, for whispering when I needed to hear it. Thank you, Dad, who I'm sure worked hand in hand with Him to show me the way I needed to be. My hope is that when I'm tempted to rush my mom, when I'm tempted to snap, or get frustrated with her age and the related frailties that come with it, I can remember "My Favorite Person" and be that person I was on Monday. That person that I want to be. That person that I AM with everyone except the woman that desperately needs me to be.
God whispers. We need only be quiet to hear Him do so.
