Walking with Mom

through an ordinary Wednesday in the land of the gray

I rolled over in my bed in the early morning and a couple of knickknacks caught my eye. Gifts from my late mother line the nearby shelves, and there was something in the noticing that had me asking the oddest question. “Mom, do you want to do this day with me?”

My mother has been gone to Heaven since 2012, but if I’m honest, I’ve had a hard time in this hard world as of late. It’s been difficult for me to see the beauty amid all the injustice, to find the security in all the fear, but I knew my mother would help me find it again. After all, it had been a while since she got to experience a regular day in a life and so in my spirit and in my mind’s eye, my mother delightedly accepted my invitation.

Have you ever talked with a loved one who has passed? Though I’m certain they want to speak with us and surely, they have a lot to say, communication with those who art in Heaven can be tricky business. Our imagination can generate their responses to our questions and their reactions to our circumstances, but maybe that’s not the worst thing. Some part of my mother lives within me, after all, and my faith teaches that communion with the saints is possible. So, with some combination of memory, hope, imagination and my mother’s beautiful spirit, off we went together into an ordinary Wednesday.

Any onlooker would have seen me talking with my mother through most of that day, telling her about the sweet neighbor on the street, narrating my commute to music class, explaining how much a regular chiropractor appointment and 10,000 steps a day really help my body. But it was my perception of my Mom’s reactions that helped bring a good measure of color and joy back into an ordinary day.

When I asked her if she knew that I say hello to her every time I pass a certain place on a certain road, my Mom said, “Of course!” Or at least that was the feeling of it. When my somewhat unruly music class finished up for the morning, she beamed with pride saying something like, “When I was raising you, I didn’t even know what a preschool music class was, and here you are teaching one!” When I brought her to the chiropractor and then asked her if she wanted to see my favorite farmstand and get some good zucchini, she was all in. My Mom took every walk with me that day, which is something she never could’ve done when she was alive. We talked a bit about how walking hadn’t been her habit, and then because of her health, it became impossible, but I wondered at what walking or running looks like for her now. Also, I wondered if in Heaven, my Mom sings– a thing all of us in our family could do except for her. Singing was an ability she always wanted back when she had a body. Why would I take it for granted that I can do it now?

I asked my Mom if she wanted to hit up the midday mass and maybe go to confession first. She thought this was a great idea, as I hadn’t been to confession in probably a couple of years and she knew it might be the kind of divine hug I really needed. My Mom sat there with me as I poured out and let go of a lot of what I’d been carrying. She helped me attune to that feeling of lightness in my chest that meant something had cracked open that the Holy Spirit could finally move in. She let me cry with her in the chapel for a while.

At mass, there were just four of us including the priest, but my Mom suggested a prayer I could offer during the intercessions. She helped me extend my hand in the sign of peace and sat with me after communion. Generally speaking, I believe my Mom loved the day, the feeling of the sun on our shoulders, chatting with people, laughing and dancing with kids, all the movement and the connection. She liked my car, liked riding in the passenger seat with me with the windows rolled down. At some point after we returned to the farm where I splurged on a chicken salad sandwich and a very good cup of coffee and a molasses cookie, she said, “You know, Kerry, you really have a beautiful life.” And of course, she’s right.

It made me think of that scene in “It’s a Wonderful Life” where George kneels at the grave of his brother Harry. The angel Clarence reminds him of all that George’s life has meant, the circles of influence of every one of his actions spreading out like a pebble in a pond: lives saving lives saving lives. Clarence said, “You know, George, you’ve really had a wonderful life. Don’t you see what a shame it would be if you threw it all away?”

If you’re like me, you see the direction our country is moving in and it’s setting off major alarm bells: stifling of speech, suppression of rights, injustice and suffering spreading like wildfire. Most critically to me as a person of faith are the people and even Catholic and Protestant leaders who ought to know better saying and doing the most hateful things in the name of Christianity. In my prayer, I’ll frequently tell the Lord about how hard it is for me to witness what can look like a descent into darkness, and how I don’t remember ever signing up to be a part of a generation that would have to do this hard and terrifying thing, not with my nervous system (which is nervous enough as it is). If I had to put a name to the feeling of this time, it might lean pretty close to despair.

But life is, after all, a gift. That you and I are here, alive, at this time in history is something that God planned before time began. That we’re here together connected in any way is a kind of miracle. And life is so beautiful, isn’t it, even when it’s hard. Our time on the stage is short, which is a thing my Mom knows very well. Seeing the beauty and loving people and making the difference we can is the work of our lives, and sometimes that work will be to slow down long enough to really enjoy a molasses cookie, dance with a three-year old, and let someone you love pour in the perspective, love and encouragement you need as you walk it all out together. Trusting God to do the rest as we rest in Him.

As I prepared to go to bed that day, I thanked my Mom for spending a regular Wednesday with me here in this land of the gray. I was reminded how fortunate I was to be headed toward a hot shower and a comfy bed in my cozy house with a snoring dog nearby. It was a good day with good memories and a boatload of blessings she helped me see. Maybe we’ll do it all again tomorrow.

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