As one of our days at the beach house was winding down this year, I had a little time to myself.  Matt was in charge of bathing and feeding The Boy that evening, so I had the opportunity to take a leisurely shower and dress for dinner.

I trotted up to our room, dropped our beach bag by the door… and was suddenly struck with the instinct and desire to call Mom.

Maybe it was the fact that we were staying in the same exact room as last year.  And it was the exact right time of day, when the sunlight is deep and the shadows are long - just like it was that evening a year ago, when I knew it was a good time to call and catch my parents before they sat down to eat.

The phone call I’m remembering would have been my second one to Mom for that trip.  During the first, to let her and Dad know that we’d arrived safely, I learned that she had a partially detached retina in one eye, and it would require immediate surgery.  A random symptom of getting older, she said, unrelated to the cancer.  These things happen, apparently.

Of all things, and of all times… eye surgery.  After so many other hospitalizations.  And the radiation treatments.  And the cancer drugs with their horrible side effects.  Hey, she said, I’m just glad they can fix it.  For the millionth time, I wondered if I was actually a source of support for her, or if I was a voice of weakness, trying to drag her down.  Now, later, I can see that she was teaching me her final lessons on courage.

I wanted to go home, but this was a minor procedure, and she didn’t want to be the reason our vacation was canceled.  So the next day, the one with the long rays and longer shadows, I slipped out on the back porch to call and see how the surgery had gone.

In medical terms, it had gone well.  Were they able to manage your pain?, I asked.  For my eye, yes, she said.  But sitting in the exam chair for that long… well, you know…

Yes, I knew.  I knew that the cancer was eating at her bones, and that just sitting was excruciating for her.  Tears started streaming down my cheeks.  I hoped that no one came out on the porch.  The sun was starting to set over the water: a beautiful display of reds and oranges, and its mirror image.

But it was worth it, she said, because I had the chance to talk to one of the nurses for a good while.

She told me about how one of the nurses had been particularly attentive, knowing her condition and trying her best to make Mom comfortable.  Nurses can easily tell flint-faced suffering from garden variety wimpery, you know – but Mom was not only not complaining, she was pleasant.

How can you stay so calm?, the nurse finally wanted to know.  I know you’re hurting.  I have perfectly healthy patients who whine the whole time…

That’s easy, Mom told her.  My suffering is for a purpose.  I’ve given my whole life to Christ, the good and the bad, the pleasure and the pain, and that brings me peace.  And I always carry this small blue blanket with me – it’s a prayer blanket from a friend, which reminds me how many people are praying for me, and that brings me strength.

You know I’m not much of an evangelist, Mom told me, but the nurse cried as we said our goodbyes.  I hope I was able to touch her somehow. 

A boat went by, cutting a wake through the orange.

I swallowed hard through my tears, told Mom how proud I was of her, and reminded her of St. Francis of Assisi’s famous quote: “Preach the Gospel at all times, and when necessary, use words.”  It was her kindness and strength that did the talking.

Friends, I’ve told you before that instead of feeling sorry for herself, Mom transcended her suffering to help others, and this is just one example of what I was talking about.  It wasn’t even my fight, but I was acting like a child, throwing tantrums about things I didn’t understand and certainly couldn’t control.  She could have easily done the same, and been justified in many ways; instead, she used those challenges as opportunities.

This year, after my flashback to that phone call, I continued my original plan to take a long shower - and even though I couldn’t call her, Mom spoke to me anyway.  This is kind of hard to explain, but sometimes I medidate to seek her out, and sometimes I have these spontaneous visions – sort of like she’s meditating on me.  The closest thing I can compare it to is a daydream, but that doesn’t quite do it justice.

Anyway, I was in the shower, thinking of that sunset conversation from a year before, and letting the water mask my tears.  And then I saw her in my mind.  She was standing at the back of a large boat, which was setting sail from the end of an impossibly long pier.  She had her same body, battered and bruised, using the railing for support to stand.  As the boat pulled away, she was waving and smiling that be-strong-for-me-now smile that moms have during difficult goodbyes, with tears of sadness and joy streaming down her cheeks.

I was standing at the pier, not wanting her to go, desperate to grab a rope and hold the boat back, or, at the very least, jump over the widening gap and go with her.  Which I knew was ridiculous and impossible, but I had to do something.

Except that I couldn’t.  I was holding my son in my left arm, and holding my dad’s left hand with my right.  Matt was standing on the other side of The Boy, with his strong arm around both of us.  I couldn’t break away from all that and still make a fool of myself trying to stop the boat.  I had no choice but to watch her go.  I had responsibilities, back on the pier.  Here on dry land.  All I could do was yell, Thank you!  I love you!  Pray for me! … until she was gone from view.

For the long months of Mom’s battle, I struggled with balancing my responsibilities on the pier (mother, wife, daughter) with my desire to help Mom comfortably board the boat, or more honestly, keep the boat from sailing away.  I spent a lot of energy being upset about the terrible timing of it all – my baby boy and my mom needed me most at exactly the same time.  I felt like I wasn’t completely “there” for either of them.

But now I see that they were “there” for me.  If I hadn’t been holding my son on that dock, I most assuredly would have broken away from Matt and Dad and tried to jump, or grab, or claw, or God only knows what.  And I would have failed.  And I would have struggled all the more.

But, you see, my son’s infancy distracted me from a complete freak-out about what Mom was going through.  And Mom kept me distracted enough from going over the new-mom deep end, which I actually made a decent effort at doing anyway.

All this time, I thought they needed me.

As it turns out, I was the needy one.

“After you have suffered for a little while, the God of all grace, who called you to his eternal glory in Christ, will Himself perfect, confirm, strengthen, and establish you.”  -1 Peter 5:10