The Last Time I Saw My Mother

It was 1978, a sunny, summer Saturday in Nebraska. We spent a quiet morning talking and getting my mom's belongings packed. She had been with us for two or three weeks, I don't remember exactly, but she seldom visited less than two. The whole family would beg her to stay longer, but she had others to see. She loved to visit us, but we didn't have an extra bed, and so she needed to go back home to her own comfort.

The plan was to pick up my friend, Bobby, and drive mom to Omaha where we would drop her at her brother's house, and Bobby and I would spend the rest of the day shopping. Mom's plans were to visit my uncle for a few days, then take a bus to Oklahoma where she was living with my aunt. I was extremely excited, for I never shopped anywhere but Lincoln, where we lived. This was the high point of my day, yet later I would realize that I completely missed out on, and considered trivial, the only moment that was important, and the only one I remember. That's the moment I wish I could take back and relive.

Bobby and I briefly visited with my uncle and my mom, trying not to let our impatience show. We finally said our "good-byes" and we all strolled out the door. My friend and I walked down the steep steps in his front terrace to my van parked on the street. Mom and my uncle stood up on the porch to wave.

And that's the picture that lingers. I opened the door of the van and turned. I looked up to see my mom in a navy blue dress, leaning against the white rail with her hand holding the post of the porch, and her other hand waving. The smile she wore for me was bright and filled with the love she felt. I waved, threw her a kiss, and climbed into the van. We drove away.

My mom teaching our bird to talk.

That was the last moment I saw my mother alive.

Some people get that opportunity to be with their loved one, knowing it's their last moments, and privileged to share it with them. When you know it's coming you can say those words that need to be said. When you know it's the end of their life, you can make those words "I love you" more special. Can't you? Or is that possible? Shouldn't we make those words special every time we say them?

I hear people throw out the words "I love you" as they hang up their phones, or walk out a door. Sometimes you barely hear them if you don't listen closely. I wonder if that passing sentiment would seem good enough should something happen to that person before they see them again. Just a thought.

A popular commitment between those close to one another is to vow to never say good-bye without a kiss and those three words. But let me tell you, when I left my mother I kissed her, lovingly, and I told her that I loved her, more than once. Still, it wasn't enough. I wish I could have her back for just a few moments so I could kiss her and tell her again, over and over. And still..........

Put love in every moment. Don't skimp on it. Shower your special person with it. Touch them lovingly. Hold them close. Make memories of moments of love. Then do it again. Because, I can guarantee you, when you look back at it all, it will never be enough.

Blessings In Obedience

I made the trip one more time.  How many times I had walked down this aisle to the altar I don't know, but I knew that I had to do something different this time or all would be for nothing, again.  So many times I asked Him for help.  And I just didn't see any results.

Things at home were in shambles.  I was in a terrible marriage with a man who was determined to make my life and the lives of my children miserable.  I woke up every morning wondering what he would do that day, and what could I do to protect my children and myself.  Why didn't I leave him?  Why couldn't I get out of this marriage?  Every time I asked those questions God would say, "I want you to stay."  

So, I would go to the altar again to ask God to take this burden from me.  And each time I would get up from the altar to return home and try to manipulate my husband to make things easier, better. 

But his time it was different.  As I walked I was discretely clutching my fists, as if holding something firmly in my palms.  And I knelt.  "Father, help me!"  I prayed.  "I am completely worn out with all this fighting and misery.  Yet I know how I am.  I know that I will ask you to take this burden from me, and then I will go back to living in the same way, trying to change things by myself.  Lord, I am completely useless without You!  With all my heart I ask you to take it!  And don't let me keep it!"

As I spoke I turned my fists over and opened my hands as if to drop something on the altar.

"Take this from me, Lord, because I don't want to leave from this place with it.  I don't want to deal with this anymore.  Father, take it, and I will know that it is in Your hands, and I will let You handle everything.  Only You can change him, I can do nothing.  Thank You, I trust You with this."

That morning I put my problems in God's able hands, and I left them there.  Life was still hard, but little by little I began to see little improvements, small changes in his behavior.  Moment by moment my God was working to create a marriage that I had never dreamed it could be.

Today my husband is a godly man who serves Christ and loves Him.    It took us years of work, years of prayer and forgiveness, years of me changing as well as my husband, but when God instructed me to stay I obeyed, and He has blessed me for my obedience.  I shudder to think where I would be today if I had not obeyed.  God knew best in this situation as He does in all our lives, and it is a wise person who listens and obeys Him.

Where Does It Hurt? The Guilt of a Failed Parent

                                 

I've never met a mother who has raised a rebellious child who doesn't blame herself. Each one wonders what she did wrong, wishes she had done things differently, and lives with the pain of guilt for the rest of her life. She cries rivers and has countless sleepless nights. And the pain never goes away. 

My first child was a rebellious child. In his early years he was bullied and picked on, even by his own brother. He was a loving and kind child, so rather than fight back he cried and ran away. This was gratifying for the bullies, so the actions grew more intense. And still he never fought back.

At home he had a step-father who bullied him for different reasons, but the crying and screaming that he did was annoying, and the step-father would punish him for that. My husband and I had different ways of correcting the kids, and that caused even more problems because I was not as harsh as my husband thought I should be. So, he would bully my son even more.

It didn't take long as a teen for him to find ways to escape his troubles by finding a group of friends to hang out with that smoked pot. My son would disappear in the evenings to meet with his friends. He would also disappear from his room after we had all gone to bed. Some nights the police brought him home. Other nights I lay awake, waiting for him until I would finally fall asleep. 

We were in and out of juvenile court for small thefts and a breaking and entering so many times that they threatened to remove him from our custody. If we couldn't control him, they would put him in a retention center. It never happened, but there were times when I was so frustrated, so tired of waking up each day wondering what we were going to face that day, that I didn't know how much more I could endure. 

I'm no exception to the rule. I've cried and prayed, and had many sleepless nights wondering about all the things I should have done to help him with his pain and to become a more responsible adult. Why didn't I leave my husband? Why did I allow some of the things that happened that I knew were so painful for him? Why didn't the kids tell me about the things that their step-father did when I wasn't around? Why? Why didn't I do more?

Counselors and pastors and everyone you confide in will tell you, a parent can only do what they know to do. You can't beat yourself up because you didn't know what to do. You can't blame yourself. 

My son was seventeen years old when I accepted Christ as my Savior. I was desperate for my children to know Him, so I dragged them to church and tried to do everything I could, knowing that I had little time before they left home. But my pushing only made it worse. He and his brother wanted nothing to do with church or this Jesus that I talked about. And, by the time I realized that I should relax and let God do the work, they were gone from the house. Their childhood was over, and I had let them grow up without a secure home, a loving atmosphere, and without Jesus.

Psalm 27: 13-14 in the NASB says, "I would have despaired unless I had believed that I would see the goodness of the Lord In the land of the living. Wait for the Lord; Be strong and let your heart take courage; Yes, wait for the Lord."

This verse comforts me when I feel the despair coming. The Holy Spirit comforts me when the guilt creeps in and the enemy tries to slay me with condemnation. The presence of my Savior within me stills the anger that I sometimes feel when I think about what I allowed to happen. And the pain becomes easier to bear because of the love I feel from Christ. But the pain is still there. And the guilt is still there. And I bask in the love of the Father, and He carries me through. And, He says, "Peace. Be still, and know that I am God. And I love you." And Jesus reminds me that He understands pain, He understands what my son has been through. He knows. 

I can't imagine what I would be like today carrying this pain and guilt if I didn't have the grace and love of Jesus Christ in my life. Before Christ, I was an angry, hot-tempered, self-centered, and nasty woman. I still have to work on these things, and more, but without Him I'm not sure I would be tolerable. Everyone has pain. Most people have some sort of guilt that haunts them. He doesn't always take the pain away, but it is His grace and love that makes them easier to carry because He helps us with our load.

Where Does It Hurt? (Part 2) Just Trust and Obey

I sat Indian style on my bed and bent forward with my phone against my left ear, my right hand cradled my forehead. Tears washed over my legs as I sobbed and listened without hope to the voice on the other end of the phone. It was my sister-in-law who was married to my husband's brother. If anyone understood my situation, she was the one. Her situation was horrible in a different way, but our husbands were mean and cruel for the same reasons. Their upbringing had taught them, and they had learned well. I had, once again, found myself telling her everything that had happened since she and I had last spoken, and it was enough to set off another binge of tears and self-pity.

She had spent a bit of time trying to console me and commiserate with me, but nothing she had said had made any difference. My situation with my husband was hopeless, and she knew it as well as I did. We both had miserable marriages, and we both felt compelled to stick it out; her for the kids, me, well I wasn't sure why I stayed. All I knew was I needed to stay. I kept telling myself that somehow I could make him change. It was all my fault because I said things that made him mad. I needed to stop doing that, and then he would change and everything would be fine. But, the mental anguish that my husband put me through was breaking me. His brothers all beat their wives, and mine had hit me once. He ended up in jail for it, and he never hit me again, ever. But he didn't have to when he knew so many ways to mentally torture me.

My sister-in-law was a Christian. I was a fairly new Christian at the time, having accepted Christ just two or three years before. Actually, I did know why I stayed with him.  I can't explain it, but even at such an early stage of my spiritual walk I knew that God was telling me to stay. He didn't want me to leave, and that fact, and the fact that my husband just seemed to be getting worse and worse, boggled my mind. Why would a loving God want me to live like this?

I dried my eyes, calmed my spirit, and listened as she asked me a question that would echo over and over in my mind for years. She asked me, "What if he never changes? Have you ever thought about that?" I sat on my bed stunned. Of course I'd thought about it. But, when you hear someone else put it in words, out loud, it was totally different. It meant that, yes, it really could happen. "You need to answer that question to yourself," she continued. "You have to decide. Are you willing to live like this for the rest of your life?"

What that meant to me was clear. Was I willing to obey God when I knew that my life would be hell on earth? Or was the pain too overwhelming? Would I have to leave to save my sanity? Was it God or me? It came down to God or me.

From that day on I trusted God one day at a time. Some days were good. Some days I thought I couldn't make it, but I did. I didn't know what would happen tomorrow, but He had gotten me through today, so I trusted Him. Those were the most miserable and horrific days of my life.

Ron and Shirley Schmuck

I didn't know it then, but because I obeyed the Father, because I trusted Him and lived each day for Him, He was honoring my trust and obedience as I struggled through the years. He was changing that horrible man a little at a time. My husband fought with all his might at times, but God doesn't give up on us. He knew what a kind and thoughtful husband he could be, and He was sculpting a precious wonder of a man.

God never quits on us, and if we are faithful to Him, He has so many marvelous things awaiting us down the line. But we must be patient. We must never doubt the Father, and we must accept the bad with the good, realizing that it shapes us and makes us stronger. Yes, He had great plans for my husband and me. It took us years to work it out, and we still have our moments when things aren't right with us. But we are both committed to one another, committed to our marriage. We have fun together, and I have a wonderful and kind husband. And yes, the pain was worth it.

Where Does It Hurt? (Part 1) Healing the Wounds

The doctor walked into the hospital room and stepped up to the side of her bed. The nurses scurried to prepare the necessary items he would need to redress the wound.  The woman in the bed had been dreading this moment for the last hour. Her heart was racing with fear, knowing the pain that she would have to endure when he began to work. The nurses had sedated her with a pain killer, but even with strong medication, the woman knew how it would be. Also adding pain, and great fear, was the seemingly uncaring attitude of the doctor, doing his job as a machine would operate and barely looking at his patient. He began the process.

Bandages and dressings were removed that left an unimaginable gaping wound. The initial surgery that had been done was to repair an abdominal hernia. But another doctor who had performed the procedure had unknowingly nicked the bowel, and ten days later the woman had been rushed back to the hospital with expectations of an almost surely fatal outcome from the foul and deadly infection that had filled her body. Her wound, because of earlier surgeries, was seventeen inches vertically and seven inches deep. It was left open to heal. The color of the tissue was an angry crimson because of the infection. To properly heal and clean the wound the dressings needed to be changed every four hours. These dressings that packed the wound before bandaging were soaked in a mixture of distilled water, baking soda, and pure bleach. The medical term for it is called Dakins. The doctor prepared this mixture each time, and the woman was sure he purposely prepared it too strong. The pain of this mixture on her open, burning wound was beyond words. The only thing this woman could think about for the last hour was how she was going to be able to endure this procedure one more time.

Many times our hidden emotional wounds are just as deep and just as painful to heal as our physical ones. Preparing the wounds to heal is frightening. Sometimes it makes us so fearful that we reject the medicines and the process. Many times the painkillers we use will cover the pain just long enough for us to function normally so no one will see the hurt or the scars, but eventually, we must have more painkillers and cover the wounds with new and bigger bandages. Toward the end, the bandages won't be big enough. The pain will overpower us. Symptoms of the brutal infection creep out into the open, and we bleed involuntarily, and we cry out with sudden pangs of anger at those we love or anyone who has the misfortune of being in our path.

People will wonder at these symptoms, but when we cover up the real problems well enough they will think the behavior must be a part of our character and walk away, never knowing that what we need most is to remove all the bandages, take away the hurtful dressings we have stuffed into the gaping wounds, and let the sore heal completely. Many times our wounds heal only when we painstakingly remove the scabs, clean, medicate, and repeat this process until the problem has healed on the inside as well as the out.  Emotional and spiritual healing from the inside out takes diligent counsel.  It is like going to war with a hidden enemy that attacks from all angles and at a moment's notice, using weapons of which you've never seen or heard. Emotional and spiritual carnage will remain, leaving you to attempt the battle with nothing more than wet tissues and an endless stream of tears. And God.

The Author
Shirley Johnson Schmuck

This story isn't over, because the real healing comes when all the pain, all the heartache, all the anger, all these affectations and problems are completely placed in the hands of a loving Father, God Almighty. He has created us. Therefore, every attack that we face, whether it be mental, physical or spiritual, is an attack that can have no foothold in our lives when He is allowed to be in charge of it all. Victory is His claim through the sacrifice of His Son, Jesus Christ. And that victory can be our claim if we choose to release it all to Him.

No. The story is not over. There is so much more to come and look forward to. There's no need for apprehension or fear, no need of pain killers and bandaids. There may be pain in the healing, but, in the end, the victory is so sweet that the memory of the pain will be all that's left of it.