skip to main |
skip to sidebar
Song in my head: Shine on you crazy diamonds................................Pink FloydThe last few weeks have been mind numbingly dysfunctional. The horror of the holidaze leaves me petrified and keenly aware of my lack of disposable income. The pressure to provide a Happy Christmas to my two sons dissolves into empty cards sent with no extra cash to reward my kids for their good behavior. The root of my depression, this year, came from my Mom's early death in 1997, three days before Xmas.My sister called me in late October commanding me to sit down. She explained how Mom had an inoperable brain tumor and was dying. They gave her 6 months to live. I made plans to visit for 6 weeks that December. I took a leave of abscence from my job, made arrangements for my son to stay with his father and flew to Myrtle Beach, South Carolina to be with my Mom.Being with a dying person is an extremely spiritual experience. I was a devout atheist before my last visit with my Mom. Within 6 weeks i knew I was experiencing a life changing event, whether I was emotionaly prepared or not.No, I didn't find religion and go all Christian, but I had one experience that has altered my rational thoughts. And I need to write it down.Mom was growing more tired every day, I sensed death was near and I needed to honor my parents somehow before she died. (My dad was killed when I was 10). I left my Mom's deathbed for an afternoon walk. I surrendered to the world, to the cosmos, to the Great Spirit......and asked the great universe what should I do to honor my Mom as my father would have wished.At that moment my walk took me past a Catholic church. As I don't believe in coincidences, I was certain this was where I needed to be. I walked to the church office and I asked the secretary if a priest was available to talk to me for a few moments.A priest, of East Indian descent, promptly came out of his office and asked what I needed. I explained how my Mom was in the housing development behind the church dying. Would he come with me and provide her with her last rites. He agreed immediately and I knew I had done what my father would have wished.The quickest route to my Mom's home was to cut through a field between the church and the housing development. I led the way but as I crossed a ditch with the priest in robes I realized we came out on the wrong street. I explained how I was lost and my Mom's street was up one block. The sun was setting and the coastal breezes were wicked on this wintery grey day. I was embarrased by my miscalculation. "We can cut through these yards and we will be on the right street." I muttered. So, the priest, with his robes catching wind, and I, cut through people's yards to find my Mom's home. The hilarity of the situation hit me and I delighted in tresspassing with a man of cloth on private property.We finally found my Mom's home and I ushered him in my Mom's bedroom. We had a nice moment of prayer and silence holding hands. I left the priest with my Mom so they could talk. I came back in my Mom's bedroom and smiled at my Mom, feeling more at peace. Mom looked at me and expressed her gratitude and wonderment at this impromptu time of prayer. She explained to me that when she married my Italian Roman Catholic father the priest that taught her Catholicism was East Indian, the priest that married her and my father was East Indian, and now the priest that I dragged home through suburbia's backyards and field was East Indian.
No comments:
Post a Comment