I’d cried through all my Kleenex.
My brother strode up to the podium in the temple chapel and pulled out half the contents of the tissue box. Settling next to me he divided the stack and whispered, “Put as many in your pocket as you can. I’ll keep the rest for you.”
Mopping my face, I grimaced, “I won’t need them all!”
“Oh you will,” he replied, “I’ve seen enough in the last few days to know you will.”
Three days before I’d held my mother’s hand as she writhed in agony and then finally grew still. As her features stiffened and her body grew cold I lay on her chest and sobbed; sobbed for regret and unfilled promises and the wish for just a little more time.
My sobs continued as I moved through the endowment. I could see my mother in my peripheral vision—young and smiling and hovering near. Light poured through the upper windows of the jewel like rooms and I could see peace, sense peace around me. But I could only think, “Why didn’t I appreciate her more?” “Why didn’t I recognize her illness?” “Why did I find money to visit when she was sick but not when she was well?”
As I stood to pray, my tears choked me and I stumbled onto my father’s arm. There– on the altar of the temple, was the temple prayer roll. A list of names of the sick and afflicted, the worn and the weary. I knew my mother’s name was among them. I’d written it myself a few days before, before when I was sure she’d be healed.
We gathered in the celestial room and my siblings all spoke of feeling my mother, of seeing her as a young woman in their minds. They smiled and hugged.
I just sobbed.
Hollow and weary I walked to the car. Someone took a photo. Settling into the backseat I asked my sister, “Why is everyone feeling so peaceful except me? I’m in agony.”
My sister unfolded a blanket and draped it over my knees. “Couldn’t you feel Mom in the temple?” she asked.
“Oh yes. She was there.” I reached for another Kleenex. “But I kept thinking of the ways I’d let her down. I wasn’t a good daughter.”
“Michelle,” my sister sighed, “you’re doing what you’ve always done. You’re building a wall of regret. Mom just wants to love you. Let her in. Let her love you.”
I leaned back against the dark leather seats and opened my heart.
I understand… I’ve made mistakes… Life was hard for me too…I’m here to love you, not to judge you. Like fresh water in a desert I soaked up my mother’s love and went straight to the funeral home to dress her body for burial.
******************
And today, I’m struggling again. My best intentions have turned to disasters. I feel misunderstood and fallen and hated. What’s that quote? “Man will suffer no greater disappointment than that he is to himself.”
Yes. Oh yes.
When I kneel to pray my thoughts are crowded with, “I’m such a fool!” “When will I ever learn?” “I make a mess of everything.” God is there, but I’m covering my ears and shouting my failings.
But now, I’m going to lean back, like a child against a cool pillow, and feel God’s love. And I can already hear the murmuring words of comfort—I understand… I know life is hard…I know you’ve made mistakes… but I’ve paid the price for you. Let me in.
Related posts:
Continue reading at the original source →