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| My mother and daughter in 1991. |
Mother got lost two weeks ago.
Inside her own home.
The house she designed forty-five years ago.
Lost inside her own home.
To me, this feels worse than the day she did not recognize me.
Far worse.
You see, Mother’s always been a "home body." Decorated and redecorated with impeccable taste. Dressed to match her decor. Spread beautiful tables for family and friends.
So we've comforted ourselves with our commitment to keep her at home, in her favorite place.
But now, so abruptly, her safe haven has vanished.
She is lost inside her own home.
Molten anger simmers within as I ponder the inventor of a disease such as Alzheimer's.
Who would perpetrate such a masochistic cruelty on such a gentle giver?
And why?
The answers come tucked in a long-forgotten memory.
* * * * *
It’s my third year of teaching, and I’m staying after school to catch up on grading.
I’ve spread out a quilt so my 6-month-old daughter can have some “tummy time” while I work.
Suddenly, the classroom door slams open. The 16-year-old who earned a conduct slip for disrespect that morning saunters in.
Then stops.
Right at the edge of the quilt.
He looks at me.
A sneer curls his upper lip.
He looks at my baby.
A fierce gleam flickers in his eyes.
He stares straight at me and lifts his size 13 shoe over my daughter’s fragile head.
His eyes narrow, and his wordless message thunders in the silence:
I hate you. I want to hurt you. So I will hurt her while you are helpless to do anything but watch. Hurting her will hurt you far more than anything I could possibly do to you.
* * * * *
I flew to southern California last Thursday. Over the weekend, my father, brother, and I had the kinds of conversations we were never meant to have.
By the time I flew home Sunday night, we’d planned Mother’s funeral. Now, we await the date.
As the lump in my throat makes each breath a battle, I picture that heavy foot above that precious head.
I remember the unleashing of my “mama bear” instincts as I drove those astonished boys from the room and scooped my baby girl into my arms.
I anticipate the day when God will stop this bully once and for all.
Until then, He feels all our hurt plus the protective “Papa Bear” pain of watching when He’d rather be rescuing.
Until then, I will point the finger of blame away from us.
And cling, in mutual comfort, to His scarred hand.
