“There Will be a Day” -- Reflecting about my mother with Jeremy Camp’s song

My mother raised the five of us alone. Dad was there – but on the easy chair, asleep, or on the tractor. She dressed us, made the food, cleaned the house, teased us, and loved us largely by herself – while doing most of the morning and evening milking. She remembers being nine months pregnant and barely able to bend over and put a milker on a Brown Swiss. She remembers crying when she found out my younger brother, Steve, was coming – how would she handle another baby when Bruce would only be four I would be a hyperactive-into-everything-tornado of two? She regretted those thoughts for years. I think her 81-“I-am-not-82-yet!” brain under her fly-away, wispy gray hair has mercifully forgotten that memory now.

I remember cold, January days when Mom and a brother or two or perhaps a sister and a brother would be milking the cows. I would be banging into the barn around big, white buckets, empty of mash or milksaver. Mom was standing there with her hands flat into her back jeans pockets, an impish grin on her freckled face as her bottom played “bumper car” with Steve. “I’m standing there,” she’d tease, nudging my brother over a few inches. What would ensue would be Mom’s crazy version of, “King of the mountain,” as everyone within a 30 feet radius would join in. I miss the head of dark brown hair she had and her quick, bright sense of humor. More than anything else, when I saw Mom fallen to the floor in the bathroom this morning, struggling to get up, I miss my young mother – the one that would sneeze and I would swear a tornado was coming; my young mother who would work circles around me, then sit down and go to sleep in an instant; my young mother who would climb to the floor to play a game of Rook with us – then scramble up to show my youngest brother where the vegetable soup was in the cupboard.

I cry when I think of how I found her slumped on the floor this morning, saying determinedly, “I’ll get up. I’ll get up. Don’t worry – I’ll get up.”

There will be a day with no more tears.

We have to make difficult decisions now. How do we help Mom cope with the next few months before she has knee replacement surgery? Will she be able to live independently? If she falls, my best efforts to get her up could hurt her more than help her. The doctor told my sister and my mom yesterday that Mom’s left knee is mush. It pains her constantly but all I hear occasionally is a small groan.

She was talking today over lunch about people she admires. I said, “There is someone I admire. She raised all her children practically alone as she almost completely ran the family business.”

“My!” Mom said.

“Yes,” I agreed, “and now she copes with constant pain and dramatic problems and is always positive. When she prays, she always begins her conversations with God by praising Him. She is an inspiration to me.”

“My goodness! Who is it?”

“It’s you, Mom.” She sat there, surprised. I added, “You are always cheerful, Mom, even with the pain that you are feeling.”

“I don’t see any value in complaining,” she said simply.

But Mom lives with pain.

Praise God – praise Mom’s God and mine - there will be a day with no more pain.

When Mom fell the first time tonight, we struggled for a while together. Mom crawled to this position, rolled to that one, moved to the bathtub, and leveraged herself with the walker. Finally I brought a small step stool into the bathroom and helped her push herself up, first to the step stool then finally to the toilet. I was shocked at how helpless mother has become – how weak and frail. I told her that we would have to call Nancy, my sister, and discuss options with her. Mom was afraid to – she wants to continue to live independently. Who can blame her? I said, “Mom, I don’t think we have a choice. We need to have the conversation with you, not about you, but we need to talk to Nancy.” My sister is an RN and the most compassionate health professional Mom or I know. Mom is afraid to let even Nancy know of the extent of her incapacity, though.

But when Mom fell the second time, she tried to get herself up for over an hour before I finally awoke and found her there, struggling to pull herself onto the step stool. She looked at me with despair and said, “I think I will have to go into a home until I have my knee surgery. I was hoping God would take me Home before I had to go into a home.”

As gently as I could, with tears flooding my face, I helped pull Mom onto the step stool and toilet.

There will be a day with no more tears, no more pain, no more fears.

I drove Mom thirty miles to lunch today. Both of us could use the distraction. All the way up and back, we listened to Jeremy Camp singing about the day that is just an eternal second away. As I drove, I imagined myself hiding in Jesus, crying into His chest about the pain and the changes Mom is going through.

There will be a day He’ll wipe away our tears. He’ll wipe away our tears. He’ll wipe away our tears.
Mom and I will hold to Jesus until that day. Together or apart, we will faithfully hold to Jesus. We will face our darkness, tears flooding our faces, praising Him in faith. We believe.

Praise God, there will be a day.