And so I prayed that all the long-distance plans would work while heeding all the warnings from across the state.
Mom was growing less responsive. She no longer wanted to drink, eat or take her medicine. And that staff at the nursing home, in hospice care, began talking about her "transitioning."
My wise older brother warned me not to expect too much of the old, fun loving Mama with the razor-sharp wit.
I heard, "She sleeps 22 out of 24 hours a day."
At 84, time - and Jesus - was calling.
I knew it. Already, I could feel her spirit near me in the mountains - in the same river valley where her ancestors settled in Tennessee when George Washington first became president - and not far from her hometown of Greeneville, where she was the first baby born at Laughlin Hospital.
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In quiet times, I could talk to Jesus and already feel Mama near me. It had been a year now since she had last talked to me on the phone. So, in many ways, I had already said goodbye.
What ailed this strong-willed retired schoolteacher - what finally brought her to that nursing home - was now wearing her down and making her tell my daddy and brother, "I don't want to open my eyes anymore. I just want to go back to the garden ..."
That latter part mystified all. But I took "the garden" to mean a dream or that she must have already been transitioning to the after-life, and Jesus was showing her the way.
Hearing that story, I really did not know what to expect when we finally got there. And so I prayed.
We entered the nursing home on a Monday afternoon.
Mama turned out to be lively -- quite talkative, too. She held our hands and said, "I love you" to my wife, son, nephew, brother and me. My nephew even managed to get her to drink a little tea and water.
Then she tossed out another zinger when she asked about Alice.
We all gave a collective "Huh?"
"The only Alice I know is the one on that old TV show," my brother said.
I racked my brain, too, thinking of the housekeeper on "The Brady Bunch" as well as the waitress at Mel's Diner.
Then somebody pointed to my nephew's Alice Cooper T-shirt. And we thankfully realized Mama's eyesight wasn't so bad after all; she read the words without her glasses. We all laughed. Mama was still full of surprises.
I kissed her right cheek. It was still as silky soft as I remember from my childhood.
"They used to be softer," she said when I complimented her. "That's when I could take care of them."
"With what?" I asked.
"Aloe vera," she replied. "The aloe plant."
With a smile, I kissed my mama's forehead as she lay in her hospital bed, now starting to wear out after our visit had gone past 20 minutes.
Still, I left with joy and promise. Maybe she would start to eat and drink and take her medicine again. Maybe she would make it to December for our annual Christmas visit.
I thought about Mama for the rest of Monday as we took a brief trip to Chick's Beach, where she taught me to play in the sand in the '70s while growing up in Virginia Beach.
We returned Tuesday. I kneeled at Mama's bedside, held her hand and kissed her forehead to wake her up.
"It's Joey," I said.
"I know," she said softly. "Did you spend the night?"
"No," I replied. "We were here yesterday."
I told Mama that I had ordered one of her favorites the night before -- fried soft-shell crabs.
"Remember how we used to catch those and you would cook them and put them on bread with mayonnaise?"
"No," she said quietly.
I tried explaining more, but she did not seem interested or just did not understand.
So I told her she was a great mother and had taught me right from wrong.
"I tried," she said, sounding tired already.
Four of us that day talked a bit more, but it soon became clear that Mama wanted to close her eyes -- and maybe even go back to "the garden."
On Wednesday, on our way out of town, we stopped one more time to see Mama. Only, this time, she barely awoke when I softly approached her bedside, just like the day before.
"I love you, Mama."
"I love you, too," she told me.
But she really did not say much more. I kissed her forehead, her cheek and her hand. I told her I wanted to see her again, but, at the same time, I told God that I knew my mama's tired fate was in His hands.
Four days later, my Mama went to "the garden" forever.
I gather she must now be at the Garden of Eden -- the paradise that God created and could now only exist in the after-life. Yet that paradise shows up each morning in the promise of the rising sun, piercing so bright we must look away.
When I see sunlight, I see God. And, now, I also see Mama. She is healed from all that ailed her -- and perfect, like she was at 21 when she graduated college or 25 when she married Daddy or 33 and carefree, teaching me how to catch crabs on the Lynnhaven River. She's also inside my heart and soul -- my biggest fan and toughest critic.
And so I pray, knowing God answered my prayer in keeping my mother here to say goodbye. She held on and perked up that day to see me, as my brother surmised. And yet I know her spirit is with Jesus, and Jesus is in my heart. So she's not really gone but waiting in the garden until one day I close my eyes forever and hear her voice in the bright light, saying, "It's this way, Joey ...."
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