One Year Ago

A year ago, my mom passed away. She was the bravest woman I ever knew.

On September 10, 2001, the day before that infamous day, my mom had surgery at Stanford Hospital. She had been diagnosed with having little blood circulation in her legs. The plan was to retrofit her femural arteries with dacron tubing. The long surgery was only partially successful. Bloodflow increased to her right leg, but nothing in her left leg. It was decided to then take my mom back into surgery to remove her left leg just below the knee.

I was driving from Los Angeles to Stanford when I got a call from my wife, Beth. "A plane just hit the World Trade Center." So all day, I drove to Stanford, glued to my radio, thinking of the victims in New York, and of my mom at Stanford.

My mom's recovery was slow, but steady. She was released after a few months and transferred to a rehab hospital in Santa Cruz, nearer to her home. My brother Dave and I made many visits. But the hero of the recovery was my mom's second husband, Kel. Not naturally a care giver, he took it upon himself to do what he could to get my mom home. So he worked to make the house ready, and kept encouraging her with her rehab. Finally, she was allowed to move home.

Her recovery went very well. She went back to playing bridge with all her friends. She learned to use a walker, and then to walk on her own. She began to drive again. She and Kel took some cruises together. Life without a leg was certainly looking up for mom and Kel.

She was diagnosed last January with a brain tumor and massive lung cancer. Then in February, she developed a leak in her abdominal cavity. Facing a painful operation and recovery, only to face chemo and a less than certain future, my mom decided that this was it. She was in the hospice for about two weeks, and passed away March 7. (I wrote more on this here.)

This past year has been difficult for me. I miss my mom. I miss being able to talk with her on the phone, and visit her in Aptos.

However, I feel as if today, I have turned a corner with my grief. After a year, I feel as if somehow, I have received permission to move on. Grief can make the future and present look mighty bleak. And after leaving my church six weeks ago, my present and future have felt bleak. But oddly, today, I sense a new future developing. A gift.

While I miss preaching, I have benefited from hearing some local preachers and have been helped by listening to the Spirit speak through their hard work and delivery.

One sermon was on the familiar passage in Luke 5 about Jesus' call of Simon Peter. I had taught on this passage for years, and know it well. Yet last Sunday, I perceived something new. When Peter was in the fish-filled boat, begging Jesus to go away, Jesus did not. Peter had doubted Jesus, and his doubt had been met by a gracious haul of fish. A dream come true for Simon, and yet, he felt unworthy.

I have been dealing with feelings of doubt and guilt and failure after leaving Faith United. I could have done more. I should have done more. Leaving things undone is a hard burden to bear for an ENTJ! So I have felt, at a subliminal level, like Peter. "Go away, Lord. Your presence reminds me of my failure."

But it is as if the Lord replied, last Sunday, "My presence will sustain you in the present, and prepare you for your future." Momentary humiliation is good for the soul, I guess. But the momentary humiliation is exactly that: momentary.

One of the sad things I think about with my mom is that I am not sure she ever made it past her failures. Her first marriage, for which she had left her beloved Catholic Church, had ended in a divorce. One loss or failure compunded by another. Like Peter, she seemed unable to bear the presence of Jesus. Grace and forgiveness were strangers to my mom, as far as I could tell. And that grieves me.

However, the question is, will this family pattern be true of me? I pray not.

I miss you, mom. In the past year, much has happened. Mark grew taller than me. Rachel is getting as tall as her mom. Mark played basketball and volleyball, and had mono for a month. Both kids got braces. Rachel misses her grandma. You would have loved our Cocker Spaniel puppies, and they would have loved you. Dave is finishing his garage. May you truly rest in peace.