The gift of wholly/holy presence.

This morning the birds have come singing. They are so full of song, so boisterous and fully taken by their work it sounds most clearly like a concentrated pitch of peace. Like their tiny feathers and beaks are all of spring, all of dawn's light, all of joy raising straight from the apricot tree. If God could be swayed, I'd bend His ear towards me, and beg for the gift of song. I'd beg for the gift of pouring song from my heart. Beg to feel the thunder of melody raising up, out of me.

Even now, my eyes are closed while my fingers dance across the keyboard, and I am listening, whispering while I write, "God help me to sing like the birds in the fields."

Before I opened my eyes, I did what I always do, reached out to touch Edward, instinctively looking for him. I must admit that usually, on weekend mornings I instantly rustle him, unless its before seven. There is usually a catalog of things waiting in my mind to do and I am anxious to get moving.

But this morning, as I began to open my eyes, focus my sight and thoughts, my restlessness was interrupted with calm. I considered the birds, and as I thought about the day, and my yearning to visit mom's grave, I could feel God still me. 

Five Saturdays ago it was unseasonably warm. I can still feel the weight of warmth that clung to my bare arms in the breeze. I can still see the tint of the sun resting, warmly on all the faces of the houses, the bodies of the cars, the limbs of trees, even the foot of the road, as we sat in the front courtyard of the nursing home with mom. We were downtown, and the city filled with all her kinfolk was alive--they were eating, walking to and from, legs and arms and ankles uncovered, and laughter, there was a decisive gaiety of conversation hovering, as we slipped off the freeway, into downtown and the home's neighborhood.

I was appalled. Surely all those folks throwing their heads back with laughter, those people sitting so casually, with their ankles crossed on top their thighs, those people with loose arms swinging as they walked, surely they knew mom was dying, we were hurting, and they--like everyone else in the world--were just getting on, taunting us with life.

I envied them as our car broke the breeze in front of them. I envied their pizzas and beers--neither of which I eat, I envied their shorts and sandals, though I had on new sandals of my own, I envied their o-shaped mouths, laughing. I wanted so desperately to gather a chair, a menu, a stray friend or five, and sit out with the sun and the city.

But I wanted my mom, too. I wanted her to be in her garden, or on her back porch, somewhere about the house busying herself with chores. The birds needing their seeds and fresh air. The five guava trees needing water. The week's clothes needing the sun to dry. The breakfast dishes needing to be cleared. The rose bushes needing pruning. 

Us needing her to be well--playing soccer with the kids on the lawn, or visiting sisters and family in El Monte. 

There was only one working elevator in the home, which meant we'd often wait five or so minutes for our turn. As we stood starring at the numbers climb, settling in, we begin to go over the things of the day needing to be done. The kids needed to go to the bank, and there were weeds growing tall in the front yard, the house had run amuck, a child was sick, and, and, and, and.

When we arrived to her room, tip-toed past her roommate into the dark half of hers, she was propped up in bed, dressed. If I remember correctly, she'd gotten sick in the morning again, and when she was cleaned by the nurses they dressed her because she wanted to go out. She wanted fresh air. 

I was hesitant, honestly. After a week and a half of no vomiting, it had returned with a vengeance, and I couldn't quite figure out what we'd do if she started vomiting while we were in the slow elevator, or sitting out in the courtyard, or wheeling her to and from. But she wanted fresh air, she wanted to be outside and see something besides the artificial night of her side of the room.

After checking with the nurses about her medication, and getting an all clear to take her out, the four of us (Edward, Patty, Rashid, and I) got her comfortably into the chair. Edward and I slipped her bunny slippers over her swollen feet as best we could, and we sent dad to go eat, shower, and run errands while we cared for mom. I'm not sure why, but just as I was turning the wheelchair around to head out the room, I stopped, grabbed her comb and brush, before continuing out. 

I know there is always a tint of nostalgia coloring the last weeks we remember with our dearest of loved ones. We rose color and sepia color all the black and white moments, giving our grief a more beautiful tone. Every retelling gets more color, more tint, until we arrive at a fully colored, sharp photo of what we need to comfort us.

I am no different--I remember us sitting beneath a tree I cannot name, we were shaded so well we felt neither the heat of the sun or the cool of the shade, the houses were flickering as they sunned their faces, the street was Saturday busy though calm, the chatter of Riverside hummed above us, and there were birds, as gay as the year is long, serenading us. 

We parked ourselves on a bench, with mom facing the city street, and as we talked and cared for her needs, the birds sung. They sung and sung and sung. While I brushed her hair, slowly working the back tangles, they sung. While Edward rubbed her swollen feet, they sung. While Rashid went back and forth for fresh water, they sung. While Patty sponged her mouth and gave her small spoonfuls of water, they sung. While we sat in silence enjoying the warmth of the city, they sung. While mom dozed in and out of sleep, they sung. While our eyes filled with tears, they sung.

At some point, mom commented on how beautiful the birds were, how peaceful they were, like her birds at home, those she kept and those that visited her garden. We sat with the birds and the city for nearly two hours in a pocket of peace.

We didn't know it then, as we tended to her physical needs--brushing her hair, massaging her swollen feet, moistening her mouth, but it was her last full Saturday, her last time listening to birds, feeling a warm breeze, being out and a part of the hum of the city. Within three days she'd be too weak to speak, to open her eyes, to stay awake for more than a minute, and in a week, she slip away while me and Edward held her hands and Dad sat by her side. 

Many months ago, during a Sunday morning service, it dawned on me--we all have a song, a particular, unique song. If you sit next to me at church, you'll hear me singing with all of my heart and lungs, off key, beneath our worship groups. I love worshipping, with my hands and heart outstretched, with as much of my body given to praise as I can manage. Often, I have to let go of Edward's hand, so I can outstretch mine in praise. And this particular time was no different, in fact, I had tears in my eyes. I remember looking at Nikki sing, and thinking, God, let me sing like her, with the gifts you have given me. Make it a song, make it all praise, and worship for you.

When we got to the car I shared with Edward how I had given up on writing, how I had grown weary, and believed it wasn't a plan for me, and that for the past few months, most of the year, I had decided to stop writing.

But, God. 

But God kept urging me, whispering to me that I could not. Just like Nikki could never rid her body of her song, I could never rid my heart, my hands, of my song--words. 

I told him it dawned on me that writing was my praise, my worship, my song and it was not mines to strangle, or hoard. Not even mines to question, but mines to receive. I decided in that moment that I would gather myself and all the words that come with me, and write again. And sure enough, along the way, it seemed like God would wink and smile, as if saying, keep going.

This morning, before I had unscrambled my to-do list, before I could rustle Edward awake, before I could make out the birds, I heard, "The gift of holy presence."

I instantly knew what God was putting on my heart, the prayer He was answering.

For four weeks I've tried to untangle this all. I've tried to understand what mom was speaking of when she said her state, the cancer, her pain and sickness, all of it was a gift. I've tried to figure out what she meant when she told her sister not to look at this as a curse, but instead a gift, a blessing. The very idea, the existence of this all, for the past three months, has been the most unflinching, painful experience of my life. 

What gift?

What blessing?

I've asked again and again, in anguish and in peace. 

My mom had a gift of holy/wholly presence. Throughout her life, she was able to be fully present in the Lord and in this life, with whatever moment she was in. I'm not calling her a saint, she was known to play quite a few practical jokes on her siblings and friends, but she had the ability to see this life and the lives of those around her through the lens of love and faith. It allowed her to be present in a moment, with whatever it brought to her, and see the hand of God in it.

This holy presence allowed her to live with such fullness, such joy, such light-hearted and fun-loving freedom. I am unable to count the times she's prayed for peace and calm over me from worry, the countless times she told me, not to worry and to look to God. I, and so many others are not able to recount a time where she was angry, or bitter, upset, or where she failed to see the good, the God in someone. She was tireless in her love and care of others, but also in her joy and ease with life. She was never a hurried woman, or a woman who ever seemed to need to have or be or do something. 

It would be so easy of us to sum this up to her particular demeanor, her personality, or who she was, but after watching her embrace the most painful, vile cancer this life can give any of us with such grace and humility, with ironclad faith and assurance of God's will--despite how much she wanted to live--after watching her walk confidently into the arms of God, I am able to see that her song, her unique gift was her ability to live wholly, in the holy presence of the Lord, through faith. 

We all walk with God given gifts. In some part of us, whether through the work we make of our hands, minds, or voices, God has tucked a unique gift, coupled and complimented with the life He's breathed into us. She with hers, you with yours, and me with mines. Never, through all the souls come and gone, a repetition. We may share, we may even overlap, but never has or will the uniqueness be recycled or repeated. 

What I want you to know most of all is that it is entirely up to you to share your gift, the poem of you, with all of us. You are our only chance. And I can bet you, with all my heart, the world needs you. 

That brings me so much more than comfort or joy, it brings me hope. Hope in all of us, and what we can give the world. I have hope in your song, my song, and all the songs to come. I think, what if it is as beautiful and giving as my mom's. We needed hers, and we need yours. Share it with us.

I am working hard at sharing mine--through work and life, but I am also working hard at allowing my mom's gift of holy/wholly presence change me. I am learning to be wholly present, and wholly present in the holiness of God.

What does that mean? 

Selflessness. Giving. Abandoning judgement. Acceptance. Loving others fully. Being joyful just because. Slowing down and abandoning the need to hurry. Slow to anger. Quick to forgive. Be present and fully available. Letting go of multitasking. Letting go of perfectionism. Studying the Word more. Laughing more. Helping more. Celebrating more. Self-care. Trying new things. Releasing fear. Releasing worry. Building faith. Quiet time with God. Being a mindful wife. Being a mindful mom. Letting go of attachment to material things. Praying God's will over my will. Spiritual obedience. 

Each day I walk through grief, I am finding I also walk through the gift of Mom's life, and how she has changed the world. It still feels surreal--thinking and talking about her in past tense--my heart is still struggling most with that, but I am confident in where she is, with whom, and the legacy of love she left me/us.

Everyday I am gifted to be wife to her son, mother to her grandkids, and daughter to her beloved, and family to her family. There is so much love and hope in everyday.

I pray wholly/holy presence for you, and I pray for your song to serenade and change us. 

Be love.