I SIT here waiting—waiting for a sign from my mother that all is well. Friends and family say it will come when I least expect it—not when I’m waiting for it.
I have seen my mother three times before the 40th day. Twice in a vision and once in a dream. But it was all in a flash. In seconds, she was gone. She looked good. But she had no words for me.
I thought I was going to go first. I became so preoccupied living it up, I failed to see my mother slipping away. I should have seen it. Every time I said good-bye to her last year as I jetted off to yet another faraway destination, she seemed sad. I noticed it but I chose to ignore it.
I saw it but I still left. Why? Because I was selfish. I was consumed with living, I didn’t see my mother dying.
What now? I’m still here. But my mother is gone. No matter what I do, I can’t make it up to her. So I can only sit here and wait—for my mother’s forgiveness.
My mother raised six children, worked side by side with my father in the family business, made snacks for each one of us to bring to school every day when we were kids, picked us up from school, sat down and helped each of us with our homework and school projects.
She was multi-tasking long before the word was ever invented. Yet, I cannot recall a single moment when she brushed me aside and told me she was too busy to listen, to help or to get me something.
She always had time. For me. For all of us. And yet, I cannot say I had time for her. Every time. All the time. In fact, most times, I didn’t have time. I was always busy working. And when I was not working, I was travelling.
But she understood me. And that is what is so heartbreaking. She understood. But did I try to understand her? She knew I needed the break. She knew I was under a lot of stress. But did I even try to understand that she was lonely, that she needed me, that she wanted to spend more time with me?
My mother faced a life and death crisis when my sister underwent exploratory surgery 47 years ago. My mother lost so much weight that her wedding ring slipped from her finger while she was washing dishes in the hospital.
She served her parents-in-law, tended to her ailing mother, buried five siblings in her lifetime, yet, I never heard her complain. Instead, I always heard her thank God for all her blessings.
My mother lived a full life—in the service of her family, in the service of the Lord. She was, what I would call, a true Christian because she lived her life in the service of others.
But I still sit here waiting—waiting for a sign from my mother that all is well and that she has forgiven me for not having loved her better.
And I will wait for as long as it takes. If I have to wait forever—I will.