Bless My Tongue

For now we see in a mirror, dimly, but then we will see face to face. 1Cor 13:12

“Oh, holy bless my tongue!”  What an exuberant exclamation of satisfaction and gratitude. My mother, Julia Redpath, proclaimed those words after having just a dab of Luigi’s Lemon Italian Ice. She lay at home in the care of Val and me, unable to take food or drink due to the effect of the cerebral hemorrhage that would shortly end her life.

To my mother, the Italian ice, carefully spoon-fed whenever her mouth and throat became dry, was like the finest meal imaginable. And she wanted to make sure it was shared. “Sit down, have some of this.” “How are we buying this; pints, quarts, gallons? We need to make sure there is enough for everyone.” She was serious. That was in keeping with more of her last words, “Live in fairness. Never take too much.”

There was something so very special, something holy, about our last days with Mom. She was seeing glimpses of heaven, and she was letting go of the striving that catches us all up, that causes us all to see only in a mirror, dimly. She was seeing clearly. And she was sharing what she could within her compromised speech and energy.

I have seen such utter gratitude before, in cultures where the people have very little. They live simple lives. And they give thanks to God continually for every little thing that they have.  Awaiting your last breath brings you to a similar simplicity. Then one sees clearly.

The fortune cookie that came with the quick Chinese dinner we had the first evening keeping vigil with Mom said, “Listen to the wisdom of the old.” We tried.

“Now we can be what we were intended to be,” Mom said. Later, “Oh, good God, thank you, thank you, thank you. You have given me so much.” God yearns that we live in gratitude for his gracious giving.

With all the distraction stripped away, with total focus on that fragile pivot between life and death, what we tend to see dimly now, becomes so clear. “Right now. This is real. What more could you want?” Mom observed.

It was particularly difficult losing Mom Christmas Eve day. Shortly before my mother’s death, I sent an email to many friends commenting on how we would experience Christmas. “We will celebrate Christmas in the joy of the gift for which it stands. Jesus became man, died, and rose so that all his faithful might have everlasting life. Yes, we will shed tears. But, perhaps, a death near Christmas is a gift in itself, heralding the message of Jesus more powerfully than it might be heard other times of the year,” I wrote.

“We have experienced two most profound Eucharists (masses) around her bedside. Love is overflowing to Julie and to our family. Prayers are being raised for her and our benefit all over creation. Centers of prayer: our parish, Mom’s old parish, the monastery with which I am associated, the seminary that Val is attending- all are carrying Mom in prayer. And the faithful friends, the brothers, and sisters in Christ- all are lifting up prayer.

“This is a foretaste of the kingdom God intended. This is the kingdom bursting forth into our hurting world; love, and prayer and thanksgiving to God.

“How will we celebrate Christmas? Mom was baptized into Christ. Her second family, for many years, has been her parish family. Our second family, no, our extended family, has been our parish family. From a secular perspective, our celebration will be different. It probably will not be as fancy as in the past. Decorating will get minimal attention. Christmas cards will probably go out late.

“But we are experiencing a richness of the presence of the kingdom, unlike anything any of us are blessed with on a daily basis. So while our Alleluias will be stained with tears, we will celebrate the birth, life, death, and resurrection of our Lord and Savior, Jesus Christ. And we will celebrate that God loved his creation so much that his way means that there is a place anxiously awaiting Julie’s arrival in Heaven. The reason for the season is so clearly in front of us,” I concluded.

There is so much to learn about gratitude by listening to the wisdom of the old. Or as my mother said as she experienced the wonder of the approach of Christ, “There’s so much to learn. You don’t dare miss a thing.”