Close your eyes in the moments. Take pause from the doing and just listen. Open your eyes and look around you. What do you see? Smell? Hear? Close your eyes again and imagine a file in a cabinet or a tab on your computer. Star it, save it, catalogue it.
A cup of warm coffee in my pajamas and cinnamon coffee cake shared with my mom in her apartment cluttered with memories. “Happy Birthday” cards, pictures, Christmas cards to mail, dad’s chair with his hat on the headrest. Books with titles that inspire you and draw you closer to God cover every inch of table top space and corners.
The morning moves from daily list to memories. We cry. Her blue eyes that show her wisdom and age tear up. I kiss her forehead and say, “Oh mom, I love you so much.” “Thank you.”
“Mom, I sing for the first time tomorrow. Can I read what the music minister said to me? All God needs is a willing heart and He will refine us.”
“To know you are singing again, Anna, is my Christmas gift.”
“Anna, today, you will decorate and clean for Christmas. Think of it as a gift to your family and friends who will enter your home. (She closes her eyes) I have so many memories Anna, and they are good. They bring me joy.”
“Mom, out of nowhere last night, a small still voice, not heard, but felt in my mind; I felt Jesus say, ‘I love you, Anna.’ Quiet, out of nowhere, and gentle.”
We talked about dad, Aunt Polly, and God’s love. We laughed and shared our hearts.
“Anna, you are such a sensing person–the way you experience God’s world. You feel it and I can just see it in you spilling out to the world around you. You write about it and share your experiences for us to enjoy.”
I shared with her my experience of laying on Kim’s deck at the beach. Soaking in the sun for 20 minutes and then returning inside to a room painted blue. I was overcome with the majesty of colors, warmth, and the connection of all things created–light, my body receiving the light, the outpouring of the warmth through my eyes, and the miracle of colors. I stopped in those moments to take a picture in my mind because I knew the sensation would change as my eyes adapted to the light.
As you move through life, you will immerse, embrace, and let go or adapt. This continuous cycle can be a richer experience if we allow ourselves the time and intention to take notice, take pictures in our mind, and, in the letting go, experience hope not regret. I’m not sure how I’ll carry on without morning coffee with my mom. That day will come. For now, I treasure the moments with you. They are a continuous movie with snapshots. I’ll take them all and store them up. And, when I sit at 91 with my daughters, I will remember you, mom. You are already there.