The school Christmas Ensemble concert turned out okay, I guess, considering the painful circumstances. Instead of playing the piano, I sang, which was light years removed from being “the” accompanist for the group.
Several times during the first song, Mary Beth caught my eye. I knew she was trying her best to figure out why I was singing alto up on the second riser while she sat center stage at the piano, instead of the other way around.
Christmas Eve was like every other night before Christmas I remembered from age seven or eight. I curled up in the only overstuffed chair we owned, wrapped up in one of Mommy’s afghans. The vocal score of Handel’s Messiah in hand, I turned on the old radio, ready for two hours of heaven.
Mommy lay on the sofa, dozing in and out, determined to join me in our annual tradition. “I can hardly remember a Christmas when we skipped Handel,” I said.
“Mm-m. It’s going to be beautiful.” Her voice was growing softer these days, as if fading. Her energy level was more down than up. I wondered about her will to live. Was Mommy giving in to the cancer?
I’d kept track of the days—now weeks and months—since I’d played those final piano chords at Aunt Mimi’s. Three days shy of three months.
Though there were times I felt as if I might shrivel up and die without my music, I was learning to compensate. Listening to music had taken the edge off the harrowing experience. That, and thinking I might teach piano someday. Might attempt to pass on my love for the instrument to young children, though I had not determined how I could do so without actually performing for them.
So the pact was ongoing, and I continued to exercise my faith in hope of a miracle, though the discordant reality became more evident with each day that passed.
As for Mommy’s requests for my playing, she seemed to have forgotten—almost as though she were concentrating now on her own concerns. Perhaps a divine focusing on things to come. The hereafter; heaven, in particular.
While the Overture began, slow and majestic, she recounted her Bible college days for me, though I’d heard the story many times. How she had enjoyed presenting Messiah with the choral group there, singing two solos—”Come Unto Him” and “Rejoice, O Daughter of Zion.”
I listened attentively, both to the music and to Mommy, getting up only to light several more candles to heighten the enchantment of this sacred evening.
The Christmas tree, how it glistened, surrounded by the most glorious music this side of the pearly gates. Emily and Daddy wandered in and out of the room on their way to the kitchen, making popcorn and hot cocoa for themselves and me, and tall glasses of carrot juice for Mommy. But for the most part, the musical ritual of this magical night belonged to my mother and me.
Occasionally, she hummed, and I joined in, too, being careful not to cover her wispy voice with my youthful, strong one.
She talked of the sunroom, how light and airy it had been. “Oh, I wish you could’ve seen it, Becky. So brilliant and warm, with streams of sunlight to bask in.”
Why she’d think of the hospital on a night like this, I had no idea, but she was indeed caught up in a passion for the place. The lovely room, no doubt, had offered her a respite from the cancerous storm.
“Like the Holy City, God’s heaven must surely be,” she said almost in a whisper. “I’d hold the phone close to my ear, listening as you played the piano here at home. Oh, Becky, hearing your music made all the difference.”
“It did?” I asked, hesitant to pursue it.
“You’ll never know how much it helped. I imagined you sitting at the console piano in the corner of the sunroom, your fingers flowing over the keys. . . .”
Hard as I tried, I couldn’t recall her mentioning a piano in the sunroom.
Her face was radiant now with the remembrance. As the opening strains of the “Hallelujah” chorus began, she turned to me suddenly, stretching out her hand. “Oh, honey, play this one. Play it along with the radio.”
“Mommy, I—”
“Please, Becky. I want to hear it . . . want to feel it.”
I looked at her lying there, so ravaged by pain. Was she slipping into heaven even as I sat here, sharing our beloved music? Was Jesus calling her home on the night before His birthday?
Something urged me on. No longer could I refuse her. I had the power to give her the very thing she longed for—that thing she desired to bring her joy, to lessen her physical agony.
But if it were I, I would appeal to God. . . . Mommy was appealing to me, her Becky, her firstborn—the little girl she’d encouraged to play the piano all those years ago. That faithful child of God who had been given the gift of music.
Pushing the afghan aside, I went to the old upright piano. If Mommy was going to die, why not obey her, do what I could to ease her across the golden shore?
I sat down, my hands poised on the ivory keys. Silently, I prayed. Dear Lord, please understand what I must do. . . .
Chapter 17
The New Year made its debut, blowing more snow and cold around than December ever dared to. Eagerly, I began writing in a brand-new diary—a Christmas present from my parents.
After thinking about it for some time, I decided to write a dedication on the first page, something I felt prompted to do. Not so much out of shame for having broken my end of the pact or trying to get on God’s good side again—nothing like that. I did it because I believed that my heavenly Father, the supremely divine Parent, had forgiven me. Had overlooked my blundering, childish mistake, because He knew my heart better than I knew it myself.
Almost a teenager now, I was growing wiser in the Lord. By consuming the Scriptures, as Mommy had, I was learning to trust God’s plan for her future. And for mine.
So I penned these words on the first page:
This diary is written to the glory of God.
January 1
Dear Diary,
I’m playing the piano again—practicing more than ever (up to nearly two hours a day and improving, I must say).
I’ve learned that God is the giver of every good and perfect gift—my musical talent, for one. I’ve learned the hard way, I guess.
The hardest way!
March came all too quickly. She fooled us with an early thaw, then dumped an ice storm on all of Lancaster County. Spring was out of reach, yet Mommy hung on to life’s rough sea, buoyed by hours of my piano playing each day. She had taken to her bed just after the New Year, and Aunt Mimi, as well as Aunt Audrey and others, had continued to assist with housework and cooking. And tending to Emily and me.
I joyfully resumed my piano study with Mrs. Patterson, at Daddy’s request. My teacher gave me some new music for the spring Sonatina Festival, but Mommy asked me to keep playing the Impromptu.
The kids at school were kinder, more accepting of me as the weeks turned toward spring, passing the six months mark—that bleak forecast for the duration of Mommy’s life.
In late March Daddy took on a part-time job to help pay the hospital bills, working for a tree nursery in addition to his regular pastoral duties. All the while, Aunt Audrey reminded me not to worry.
But I did worry. Every day, every single day, I hurried home from the bus stop to see if Mommy was still alive.
The road from the top of the hill to the end of our lane grew longer and longer. Where was spring? If Mommy could make it past spring—maybe to Mother’s Day—she might fool the doctors and live, I decided.
I looked for signs of crocuses pushing through the snow along the road. In the neighbor’s yard, I searched for buds on the pussy willow bush. Each afternoon, I watched the sun slant its rays against our fence, the shadows inching farther toward the road like bony fingers.
Upon arriving home, I would lean hard on the back door, out of breath. Then shoving it open, I’d race up the stairs. Mommy! I couldn’t call out, could only breathe the words. Are you still here? Are you alive?
Then, one mid-April afternoon, I found the shades drawn, probably to soothe her eyes. When I peeked in, the room seemed drearier
than usual. Daddy had moved the dresser and mirror, positioning the bed at an angle so my mother wouldn’t have to see her own sallow face or her thinning hair.
I took off my shoes and left them in the hallway, then crept across the room. Softly, I began to hum the melody from the Impromptu.
She opened one eye. “You’re home.”
I knelt beside her bed. “It’s my birthday.” Turning her head, she smiled. “I know. Happy thirteenth.”
“Spring is coming. It really is,” I whispered. “I saw my first robin.”
“Was it singing?”
“No, but he looked chipper enough to.” That made her smile again. “What piece are you going to play for me today?”
“What would you like?”
“Something exciting,” she said. “You pick.”
The 1812 Overture came to mind. “I know the perfect piece— only it’s not for piano.”
“Help me sit up, will you?” There was a hint of a twinkle in her eye. “I can hear the music better that way.”
I found her bathrobe, then moved several more pillows to support her back. “How’s that?”
She looked at me, studying me. “Something’s different about you, honey.”
How could she possibly know?
“You’ve become a young lady, haven’t you?” Her eyes, as blue as asters, saw right through me.
I nodded, feeling the warmth in my cheeks. “Right before Valentine’s Day.”
“Bless your heart, sweetie.”
We laughed together. I turned to go, embarrassed. “Ready for some noisy music?”
“How about a little sunshine first.” She motioned toward the drapes. “Please?”
Wasting no time, I pulled on the cords at the far end of the windows. There on the eaves stood a beautiful bird sporting a plump red vest. “Look! That’s my robin!”
“Oh . . . help me out of bed, Becky. I want to see him up close.”
Steadying her as she leaned on my arm, I peered out, amazed at this moment.
“It is the first robin, isn’t it?” she whispered as we watched.
“The very first.”
Startled by my voice, the bird flew away.
“Quick, play the music,” she said. “I want something rousing.” I helped her back to bed, noticing a hint of color in her face, then scurried off to find Tchaikovsky. “It’ll grip you from the start,” I shouted up the stairs.
“Play away,” she called back, and if I wasn’t mistaken, there was a merry ring to her voice.
Her jovial mood lasted only a few days, then Mommy took a turn for the worse. I worried that she had experienced something akin to the energy surge the body puts out just before a person slips away. I’d heard enough about it, what with the many elderly relatives on Mommy’s side.
And there was Grandma. The same thing had happened before she died. We thought she was getting better, going to be healed. And she was healed. Her ailing body just fell asleep and woke up completely well in a place called heaven.
I recorded my thoughts:
Sunday, May 3
Dear Diary,
Mommy returned to the hospital today—one week before Mother’s Day. Daddy missed out on preaching his sermon, and Emily and I went to eat Sunday dinner with Uncle Mel and Aunt Mimi after church.
I can’t explain it, but having Mommy leave us is harder this time, and the toughest part is Emily’s reaction. She’s a little older now. Maybe that’s it; I don’t know. But she clings to me all the time and keeps asking a million questions. Mostly about dying and how hard it is to walk through the “valley of the shadow of death.”
So I’m gentle with her, trying to give her as much attention as a big sister can without mothering her too much—she hates that.
We probably won’t be seeing Daddy much this week. Who knows when we’ll see Mommy again . . . on this earth.
Chapter 18
Monday, May 4
Dear Diary,
We found out that Aunt Mimi does sleep with her glasses on at night. Lies flat on her back and wears them. Must be something like having your heart washed white as snow, ready for the Lord’s return.
Emily found it out first. She got up in the night—was probably sleepwalking—which she does pretty well these days. It’s hard to tell if she’s awake and walking or just plain dreaming where she’s going. Anyway, she walked right into Uncle Mel and Aunt Mimi’s bedroom. Scared the livin’ daylights out of both of them. Emmy, too, I think.
That’s when Aunt Mimi turned on the table lamp next to her side of the bed. And there they were—glasses perched on the end of her nose.
You’d think she’d snap them in two, but when Emmy asked her about it this morning at breakfast, she said she never moves in bed. Stays motionless, as quiet as a log floating down the river. I think she meant to say “as still as death,” but she didn’t, of course.
After school, I practiced my music lesson on Aunt Mimi’s piano. It didn’t feel or sound much different from ours. I’ve requested some classically arranged hymns, and my teacher doesn’t mind. She thinks it’s a good idea, and I’m glad.
“You oughta practice up something for Mommy’s funeral,” Emily said.
I stopped playing and turned around. “How can you say such a thing?”
“Sorry,” she whimpered, backing away.
“Come here.” I got up and pulled her over, setting her down on the bench with me. “Don’t give up, Emmy. We can’t give up.”
“I’m tired of hoping.” It was a whisper.
Thankful that Aunt Mimi or her daughters weren’t around, I cupped my hands around my sister’s face. “Mommy’s not giving up, is she? Just because she had to go to the hospital doesn’t mean she’s gonna die.”
“Seems like it.”
“Maybe so, but listen, I want to tell you a story. It’s the one Grandma told me a long time ago.” I began to tell her about a little girl who was climbing a mountain.
I took a deep breath. “At the foot of the mountain, the breezes were sweet and gentle. The trees and flowers blossomed and grew along the river. Everything was summertime in this valley, and the little girl smiled and kept walking.”
“Is she real?” Emily asked.
“Just listen,” I shushed her and continued. “The path got a bit steeper, but the girl, who was now becoming a young woman, stopped and caught her breath every so often. She looked out across the glen, enjoying the view in every direction, which made the hard climb worth the effort.”
Emily’s eyes were wide now. I wasn’t sure, but I thought she was catching on.
“The last part of the climb was the hardest. It took every bit of the woman’s breath. Her body was older now, so she couldn’t just skip up the mountain the way she had in the valley. But she didn’t look back at the hollow much, either. No, she kept her eyes on the summit—the highest peak of the mountain.”
Emmy was starting to cry. “I don’t want to hear the ending,” she said. “Please, don’t let the lady get to the top.”
I thought of Mommy’s struggle. How she’d had to learn to live with acute pain. “The sun shone brightly and everything was beautiful at the top of the mountain . . . like a dazzling room filled with light.” I had to stop for a moment. “Like a sunroom.”
“Maybe that’s why Mommy loves the sunroom at the hospital,” Emily said.
“She feels close to God there,” I whispered.
Emily leaned her head against me as we sat there on the piano bench. “Now you can finish the story.”
“Finally the woman reached the end of her long, hard journey.” “ ’Cause that’s where she dies, right?”
I wrapped my arms around Emily. “We don’t know if Mommy’s finished climbing. We just don’t know.”
“But if she is, will Jesus come for her? Will the angels?”
“She won’t be alone when it’s time to stand on the mountaintop.” I remembered the Twenty-third Psalm. “And she won’t be afraid, either.”
Cha
pter 19
Daddy wanted to do something special for Mommy on Mother’s Day. So did Emily and I. With a little help from Aunt Audrey, who’d invited us over for the weekend, we made cards complete with verses. Actually, Emmy’s card had a copied saying in it, but mine was an original poem. One I’d composed especially for the occasion.
Roses are red, violets are blue,
Jesus loves you, and I do, too.
Roses are red, lilies are white,
Happy is she, whose sunroom is bright.
We put colorful stickers on the paper—pretty mayflowers, lilies, and butterflies. They reminded me of spring.
“Mommy has lived way past the doctor’s prediction,” I told Aunt Audrey.
She was arranging a bouquet of her own, a real one. Stopping to glance at me, she smiled. “Your mother has a strong will to live, and I believe the Lord gave it to her.”
“Was she born that way?” Emily piped up.
Aunt Audrey came over to the table where we were working. “What counts is God’s grace.”
Emily’s hair danced as she bobbed her head up and down. “She’s not going over the mountain yet,” she chanted.
I wondered what Aunt Audrey thought of that, hoping my sister wouldn’t blurt out that it was I who’d told her a death story. It was, after all, a life-and-death story.
“I wish we could take the cards up to Mommy,” I said after church. “Along with Aunt Audrey’s flowers.”
Daddy pulled into the hospital parking lot without a word, and soon we were getting settled on the familiar lobby loveseat. Lonesome for Mommy, I hoped Daddy’s visit wouldn’t last long.
When he led me over to the elevator, I was confused. He pushed the button. “It was quite an effort, and could possibly be a hospital first, but the nurses have agreed. You’re going to spend twenty minutes with your mother on Mother’s Day.”
The Sunroom Page 8