What greater thing is there for human souls than to feel that they are joined for life — to be with each other in silent, unspeakable memories.
In January, with just six months left (although we didn’t know it at the time), my conversations with Mom were about love, fear, and the future. Mom wasn’t worried about her eternal fate — that was secured by her faith in Jesus, firmly established over the previous two years. Instead, her heart was heavy with thoughts of how Dad (her true love of fifty-six years) and I (their only child) would manage without her.
Lying in the hospital bed with Mom, I promised her that Dad and I would hold each other up whenever the time came. She was brave, so I tried to be, and I promised her we would continue to be brave as we moved forward.
An idea came to mind, and it took hold. When Mom returned home from the hospital, we would start a new routine where I would come by their house for coffee every day before work. The benefit would be two-fold. First, by laying eyes on her before going to work each day, I could be more “present” when I got to the office, knowing exactly how she was doing that morning. The second benefit was establishing a routine that included my dad as much as my mom. I had always been Daddy’s “princess,” but the relationship between Mom and me was so tightly wound that others could really only watch from the outside.
That had to change. It was time for Dad and me to get to really get to know each other on our own, without Mom as the intermediary. We had to start laying the foundation for a new future together.
Nearly every day for the next four months, I stopped by for coffee and a short visit with my folks. Often, Mom wasn’t up to much talking, but she loved the ritual and welcome her “care bear” enthusiastically.
And something really special happened during those visits. A stronger connection grew between Dad and me right before Mom’s eyes. We didn’t talk about it, but I like to think that the greatest gift we gave Mom at the end was proving to her, and to ourselves, that we were taking care of each other and would continue to do so as things progressed.
Now, from the crack in my broken heart, something new and beautiful is sprouting; a rich and fulfilling relationship between father and daughter. I see this man in a whole new light. As I have told Mom several times in my mind, ” I get it. I see why you loved him so much for so long.”
During our morning visits, Dad and I talk about current events, history, politics, his grandsons, my job, and the number of steps our Fitbits registered the previous day. I have learned what classes he enjoyed in high school (history and auto shop) and other things he loved in high school, too (pitching pennies and sneaking a smoke).
We talk about our pain, too, although not a lot — that’s hard. But we share the pain, and that’s enough. We shared a great love for a great woman, and now, more than ever, we share a very special friendship that is all our own.
