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| Category: The Sacred In Everyday Life |
Date published: March 15, 2005 |
"Bought four boxes of detergent for fifteen bucks," she said, "it should last me...
Most tremble at the thought of death. Others face it `head on' and accept it. Some even look forward to it. My mother speaks of it with the same matter-of-factness as night following day. Does she like the idea of dying? Nope...I know that for certain, but she knows, at nearly eighty-one, it's in her future. "No one escapes death or taxes," I've heard those words said often. The funny thing about that statement is that many really do escape both. Many tax evaders are never prosecuted, but escape death? As a Christian, I believe that faith and trust in Jesus as savior can deliver me and pass me from death unto life. Death is but a passing from one world into another...a better one.
My mother knows this, knows that Jesus is the way, the truth and the life...but...and this is what concerns her about death, she also believes in "works." Now, don't get me wrong, I, too, believe that "works" are important, but not for salvation. Salvation is a gift from God and not of works less anyone should boast. The words of Saint Paul may cause some to believe that, therefore, our behavior doesn't matter. Not true, `tis not true, it does matter, without works faith is dead. I believe it was James who said that.
Now it's this "works" thing that gets in the way of my mother's complete assurance of going to heaven when she dies. Her faith is strong, very strong, but her understanding of the scriptures is complicated by her early teachings as a Catholic. "I have sinned," she says, and I smile inside when I hear her say that for I know my mother is a saint. To further convince me of her sinfulness, she relates an old sin to me, one she never confessed to a priest. "As a kid, I used to steal a banana from my father's grocery store," she says. "I don't know why I did that, they would have given me one if I asked."
Once a month, even in her old age, my mother attends confession. Once again I smile as I struggle to think of what she could possibly confess. Oh, I know that we all sin in thought, word and deed, and I'm not na?ve enough to think that my mother has "no sin," but it's the listing of them that I imagine her struggling with. As if reading my thoughts, she tells me what she confesses...over and over again, month after month, the same boring sin. She tells the priest how she often gets riled up over the "know it all" attitude of her eighty-five-year-old friend and often relates her aggravation to others. This same friend became ill not long ago and my mother feared. "What will I do if she should die?" she said, knowing how much she would miss her.
I dread my mother's death, but I do not fear it for I know where she will be. She knows Christ died for her sins and I know that the blood of Christ covers her "grievous" sins. She isn't old, not by today's standards, but her health isn't good. Little by little, she gives her children a gift of money, but keeps enough "in the event" she lives longer than she anticipates. She speaks of that `inevitable' day like it's no big deal. "I've lived my life," she quips, but worries about her children having to sort through her old, and sometimes stained, underwear. "I was thinking I should bleach them," she says, and once more I smile at the "silly" things she worries about. I reassure her that we won't check them out, but instead, place them quickly into a bag. "Don't give them to Saint Vincent De-Paul," she says, just throw them out. I want to tell her that we will be too busy grieving her to care about her stained underwear and our tears will keep us from seeing or caring about such things.
"I have enough to last me for the rest of my life," she says, concerning the detergent.
"I sure hope you don't," I say, dreading the thought.
"It's only me," she reminds, "I don't have much laundry...it should last."
In my mind, I think of how quickly I run through detergent, large one rarely lasts a month, and my heart fills with sadness at the thought of her laundry detergent out lasting my mother.
If I knew it would make a difference, I would send a large shipment of laundry detergent to Upper Michigan and have it delivered to my mother's doorstep. When it's gone, then she can leave us for that other world. Perhaps by then, I may also be looking at my own "lifetime of detergent," think I'd better sort through my underwear.
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In My Own Words: Out-of-the-Ordinary Experiences
