At the church dinner after Mom's funeral, a nice lady from our neighborhood leans close to place a sympathetic hand on my arm.
"God needed your lovely mother more than you did," she shakes her head sadly. She is kind and well intentioned and doesn't realize what she's saying. I thank her for coming but then tactfully turn away to find my family.
God needs Mom more than my little brothers and sisters do?
I don't understand which prayers God decides to answer or not answer. If a single good reason exists for God taking Mom, I can't think what it would be. Maybe God has nothing to do with it at all. Maybe he allows all our lives to simply march along - appalled as the rest of us when tragic events knock us sprawling to the ground.
In the early morning hours right after Mom dies, we return from the hospital. Dad gently wakes the little kids to break the terrible news that Mom is gone. Even though it's 2 o'clock in the morning, good Father Kurtenbach comes to be with us. My little brothers and sisters lean close to Dad on the living room couch while Joe, Mick, Rick and I sprawl on the floor. Harry, Mom's little mutt of a dog, climbs on my legs, circles twice and plops on my lap. The weight of his warm little body comforts me, and I wonder if poor Harry is as bewildered as the rest of us.
Long after Father Kurtenbach has departed, we lie in our rooms in the dark. I know my brothers and sisters are awake because I hear soft sniffles and occasional choking sobs.
In an instant, however, we all bolt up in bed. Harry the dog abruptly screams in the darkness. It's the only way any of us can describe it later. If a dog can scream, Harry does.
Curled up and asleep in Mom's recliner in the tv room, his favorite sleeping spot, he suddenly screams and flies through the house from one end to the other yelping in utter terror. At first we're too terrified to move, but in a second we're on our feet bumping into each other in the dark and scrambling to Dad's room. Rick flicks on the light, and the little kids leap into bed to frantically slide themselves under the covers next to Dad.
Harry hides under Dad's bed. My brother finds him and yanks him out. With the light on and all of us together, I tell myself there is a rational explanation for Harry's sudden and disturbing behavior.
"What's wrong with him?" Dad barks. The little kids cower next to him.
Harry shakes violently. He attempts to come when I call him, but his hind legs, weak with fright, collapse beneath him. My brother and I take turns consoling and hugging him then carefully check his paws for stickers or other injuries.
But there's nothing wrong with Harry except that he's scared to death. As soon as we release him, he crawls trembling back under the bed and refuses to come out. We all stare at each other with wide, frightened eyes. Every one of us thinks the same thing.
"It's all right now, kids," Dad says. "Everybody go back to bed."
It will be many weeks before we speak of the terrible night Harry the Dog screamed in the dark after Mom died. However, not long after that, Harry disappears. Carry and our small brothers Tommy and Jeff scour the neighborhood for days. But Harry is never found and never comes back.
Tommy flings himself on the couch after an extensive and fruitless search. "I think Harry went to find Mom," he cries disconsolately.
It would make sense. Harry adored Mom.
"Or maybe," Tommy wipes his eyes, "Mom came to find Harry."
When we are finally able to speak of Harry's bizarre behavior the night Mom died, even the little kids suspect Mom came home to say goodbye. Harry must have seen her, we decide.
"But did she have to scare us to death?" I wonder aloud. Dad says it would be just like Mom to have one more laugh before she went.
We will never know exactly what happened that trauma-filled night. Perhaps it was all coincidental and Harry merely had a horrible nightmare. Whatever happened in those early morning hours, Harry's terrible fright strangely helps to propel us through our grief. Mom is somewhere, we conclude. We hope it's wonderful and that she's not worried about us. Well, maybe a little worried. We hope that she's once more her happy, healthy, funny, quirky self. Most of all, we dare to hope we will see her again.
One May night a month or so later, just before school is out for the summer, a beautiful starry night beckons us outdoors. Joe and Rick have long ago returned to Kearney State for their finals, and Dad must finally go back to his job in Omaha but promises to come back in time for Deb's high school graduation. For the first time in our lives, it's just us without either Mom or Dad.
The night is too warm and inviting to waste, and none of us feels like going to bed. I am the oldest - a school teacher, for pete's sake - and should know better. Nevertheless, we all drift outside into the front yard. The little kids run and laugh. Carry turns cartwheels and Terri chases Tommy and Jeff under the light of a full moon. For the first time in months, my little brothers and sisters romp without a care like small wild animals. We sing and tell jokes and finally sprawl on blankets in the grass to look up at the stars.
Lounging in the mild warmth of approaching summer, we quite suddenly dare to be happy. Deb and Mary give ridiculous names to the constellations and search for planets.
"I'm trying to find Uranus," Deb giggles. "Get it?"
We lie close to one another, and the nearness of my brothers and sisters is a comfort I have never appreciated so much.
"Maybe Mom's up there looking down at us right now," Jeff yawns sleepily. It's almost 11 and very late for my seven-year-old baby brother.
We fall silent staring at the starlit sky feeling close to Mom and God and whatever it is that constitutes eternity. Jeff sighs and nestles close to Mary who draws him close.
"Maybe she is," I say.
It would be nice to think Mom hovers close above in the warm night sky watching over her kids.
Maybe Heaven is much closer than any of us realizes. In that moment, huddled together on a blanket under the sky, we feel without a doubt that Mom is near with the devoted Harry close at her heel.
And that one day, we will most certainly see them both again.
"God needed your lovely mother more than you did," she shakes her head sadly. She is kind and well intentioned and doesn't realize what she's saying. I thank her for coming but then tactfully turn away to find my family.
God needs Mom more than my little brothers and sisters do?
 |
| From left: Mary, Carry, Rick, Terri, Tommy and Jeff |
I don't understand which prayers God decides to answer or not answer. If a single good reason exists for God taking Mom, I can't think what it would be. Maybe God has nothing to do with it at all. Maybe he allows all our lives to simply march along - appalled as the rest of us when tragic events knock us sprawling to the ground.
In the early morning hours right after Mom dies, we return from the hospital. Dad gently wakes the little kids to break the terrible news that Mom is gone. Even though it's 2 o'clock in the morning, good Father Kurtenbach comes to be with us. My little brothers and sisters lean close to Dad on the living room couch while Joe, Mick, Rick and I sprawl on the floor. Harry, Mom's little mutt of a dog, climbs on my legs, circles twice and plops on my lap. The weight of his warm little body comforts me, and I wonder if poor Harry is as bewildered as the rest of us.
Long after Father Kurtenbach has departed, we lie in our rooms in the dark. I know my brothers and sisters are awake because I hear soft sniffles and occasional choking sobs.
In an instant, however, we all bolt up in bed. Harry the dog abruptly screams in the darkness. It's the only way any of us can describe it later. If a dog can scream, Harry does.
Curled up and asleep in Mom's recliner in the tv room, his favorite sleeping spot, he suddenly screams and flies through the house from one end to the other yelping in utter terror. At first we're too terrified to move, but in a second we're on our feet bumping into each other in the dark and scrambling to Dad's room. Rick flicks on the light, and the little kids leap into bed to frantically slide themselves under the covers next to Dad.
Harry hides under Dad's bed. My brother finds him and yanks him out. With the light on and all of us together, I tell myself there is a rational explanation for Harry's sudden and disturbing behavior.
"What's wrong with him?" Dad barks. The little kids cower next to him.
Harry shakes violently. He attempts to come when I call him, but his hind legs, weak with fright, collapse beneath him. My brother and I take turns consoling and hugging him then carefully check his paws for stickers or other injuries.
But there's nothing wrong with Harry except that he's scared to death. As soon as we release him, he crawls trembling back under the bed and refuses to come out. We all stare at each other with wide, frightened eyes. Every one of us thinks the same thing.
"It's all right now, kids," Dad says. "Everybody go back to bed."
It will be many weeks before we speak of the terrible night Harry the Dog screamed in the dark after Mom died. However, not long after that, Harry disappears. Carry and our small brothers Tommy and Jeff scour the neighborhood for days. But Harry is never found and never comes back.
Tommy flings himself on the couch after an extensive and fruitless search. "I think Harry went to find Mom," he cries disconsolately.
It would make sense. Harry adored Mom.
"Or maybe," Tommy wipes his eyes, "Mom came to find Harry."
When we are finally able to speak of Harry's bizarre behavior the night Mom died, even the little kids suspect Mom came home to say goodbye. Harry must have seen her, we decide.
"But did she have to scare us to death?" I wonder aloud. Dad says it would be just like Mom to have one more laugh before she went.
We will never know exactly what happened that trauma-filled night. Perhaps it was all coincidental and Harry merely had a horrible nightmare. Whatever happened in those early morning hours, Harry's terrible fright strangely helps to propel us through our grief. Mom is somewhere, we conclude. We hope it's wonderful and that she's not worried about us. Well, maybe a little worried. We hope that she's once more her happy, healthy, funny, quirky self. Most of all, we dare to hope we will see her again.
One May night a month or so later, just before school is out for the summer, a beautiful starry night beckons us outdoors. Joe and Rick have long ago returned to Kearney State for their finals, and Dad must finally go back to his job in Omaha but promises to come back in time for Deb's high school graduation. For the first time in our lives, it's just us without either Mom or Dad.
The night is too warm and inviting to waste, and none of us feels like going to bed. I am the oldest - a school teacher, for pete's sake - and should know better. Nevertheless, we all drift outside into the front yard. The little kids run and laugh. Carry turns cartwheels and Terri chases Tommy and Jeff under the light of a full moon. For the first time in months, my little brothers and sisters romp without a care like small wild animals. We sing and tell jokes and finally sprawl on blankets in the grass to look up at the stars.
Lounging in the mild warmth of approaching summer, we quite suddenly dare to be happy. Deb and Mary give ridiculous names to the constellations and search for planets.
"I'm trying to find Uranus," Deb giggles. "Get it?"
We lie close to one another, and the nearness of my brothers and sisters is a comfort I have never appreciated so much.
"Maybe Mom's up there looking down at us right now," Jeff yawns sleepily. It's almost 11 and very late for my seven-year-old baby brother.
We fall silent staring at the starlit sky feeling close to Mom and God and whatever it is that constitutes eternity. Jeff sighs and nestles close to Mary who draws him close.
"Maybe she is," I say.
It would be nice to think Mom hovers close above in the warm night sky watching over her kids.
Maybe Heaven is much closer than any of us realizes. In that moment, huddled together on a blanket under the sky, we feel without a doubt that Mom is near with the devoted Harry close at her heel.
And that one day, we will most certainly see them both again.
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