Mothering, Nurturing, and Me

I was a scrapping male, from the very start. Over 9 pounds and some ounces, born to a young Wyoming farm girl in Whittier California. Over the years mom would have many problems to cope with. The most ardent foe was an illness that most doctors never knew what to do with. Due a chemical shortage in the brain, Mom faced terrible mental challenges. It was so bad that even long term care would be required for her throughout her life.

I take time today to related how great mom was, even while she fought this illness. Time and again the darkness that was caused by this chemical imbalance would haunt her. The battle was mostly alone. No one could fight it for her. No one could take her place. No one could answer the question of why me? What made her so great? Why do I take time to write about her? Simply put, no other person on earth could have loved me more than my mother. All her years while in the throes of illness and in the hospital, she always loved me.

When I graduated from Bible college, she was there. When I was a Pastor, my mother would always introduce me as Reverend this or that. I was always a little bothered by the title of Reverend. Too holy sounding I thought. But mom, she loved me and the fact I was a Reverend. Over the years I became busy with our current Watchman Institute and related outreaches. Mom would always ask me about the Lords work. Now, Mom was a writer. She had written many articles. My Grandmother was a writer for a local newspaper . Writing was in our bloodline. Mom would spend hours, fighting her illness and writing. From those pages, you saw the battle in her eyes.

I was gone a lot. Visits were far and few in between. It seemed I always had to travel to visit her. That is until the last few years of her life. Her illness was so bad, Dad could not take care of her. He had battled along with mom for 50 years or so. He could not do it any longer. The state then got involved and she was in their custody. I had no say so, Dad had no say so. I would visit her and my heart would sink. Over the years Mom had battled this illness and was able to raise two kids and be a wife to a great man. She would call me and we would talk of an evening of the days events. We carried on like this for years. We were close. On the visits, however, she was distant and lost. Far away from me. In a place no one but her, knew of.

When a person writes, it can be lonely. As I write this, my goal is to reach out and touch you. Let you know my heart and set the scene as good as I can. This can be a challenge. For in a few words you have to let a stranger know your story, and hope it touches them. You reach out and grab their heart and pull it. Can you feel my sadness here? To tell you a stranger what Mom meant to me and have you appreciate the story is hard. You weren’t there, but in the moments we share on this page, you become lost in the events. I bring you into the room with me. There on the bed, mom sitting across the other side. She looks distant still. Confused, she tells us story after story, moving from one bit to another without finishing the previous story. In this I try to understand. To pick up between the lines. To find Mom. That person who is hidden in the lines of thought and words being spoken. But alas I cannot.

I find her writing and there on the pages are prose and verse. Putting her thoughts down before was a daily task for her. Now in this place it was an urgency. She would write prose and verse on napkins, backs of business cards, pieces of scrap paper and anything else she could use. Then all this would be thrown in a large carryall. As she walked around in this place she called home, this piece of carryall with her papers in it was the most important thing in life. It was her link to the outside world. Everywhere she went, this came along. As I watched her when I visited, she would go from person to person, aisle to aisle going somewhere but nowhere. In her world she was a writer, young, and working in the world. Going out to eat, and enjoying my company. Even in the midst of all her confusion, she would stop, look me in the eye and ask "Son, how is the Ministry doing?" For a moment, she was there connected to me. One second, a short time in eternity when son and mother can join together and really see the depths of each others soul. She looked me in the eye, waiting for an answer. She knew my soul hurt. Tears would creep down, my heart would sink, a lump in my throat. Memories would flood back to the joys of childhood and the mom I knew. Then I would say "its going well Mom, thanks for asking". She would then drift off again.

We came to know the staff. This is usual for people who have loved ones in homes as this. The one thing they all told us is "they just loved our mother". "She is so nice" we just "love her to death". They would tell us of the times every day she would get out a piece of paper with something she had written on and read it aloud. Everyone seemed to enjoy her prose and verse. They would ask about moms books she wrote and they made us promise to bring them a book. Mom wrote "Grandma’s Tell a-loud stories". They were heartwarming. When Mom died, we had waited at her bedside for three days. She was in a coma, sleeping and never awoke. I never nor did Dad get to say goodbye to her while awake. We shared a quiet moment alone, Mom and I. Kissing her on the check after she died, I knew Mom was now on her final journey.

My son regularly calls his mother (my wife) nightly. I am usually in another part of the house, while ‘wife and son’ discuss the days’ events. When they talk, sometimes I sense my own mother and recall the times when another ‘son and mother’ would talk together. Sharing moments in history, a day’s life, a shared experience, and a time of a mother nurturing me, her son.

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