“Initially, I felt a little bit guilty upon seeing the fatigue in everyone’s face. I had gotten a full night’s sleep, though unbeknownst to anyone there, my sleeping hours had been as active as—actually, much more so than—any of my waking hours.
“I stood staring out the front door of the farmhouse, looking out over the porch into the grass where all my relatives’ cars were parked. Then I looked past them to the end of the driveway. In another hour, the hearse would again pull onto the property.
“I felt a pair of arms wrap around my waist from behind, followed by a head that rested against my back. It was my sister.”
BRENT FELT LYDIA lay her head against his back. She sniffled.
“Mom & Uncle Dave just closed the casket.”
Brent nodded silently.
“At first, I thought there might be some comfort having her back in her own home,” she said. “But last night and today, all I’ve done is avoid the living room. Something’s wrong with her just lying there. It’s unnerving. Even a bit …creepy.”
Brent could tell that she struggled with ending her sentence that way, but he was able to identify with her word choice. He had been enduring the same feelings.
“She’s not supposed to be creepy, Brent.” Lydia’s voice broke. “She’s my mamaw.”
Lydia’s body began to quake against Brent’s back. He had already begun to feel her tears soak through his white dress shirt.
Brent’s brow pinched and his eyes closed as he tried to rein back his own emotions. He didn’t want to be strong, but he also didn’t want Lydia having to concern herself with his grief. He started to turn around, and Lydia released her grip. Facing her, she looked up into his eyes with deep anguish.
The last time he had seen her this way had been nine years prior. She had been standing in his bedroom waiting for him to enter. He had just been in a loud and angry fight with his parents, and she had been so scared. She thought that he had gone from being her protector to that of being a third household combatant, abandoning her to endure the screaming and yelling alone.
He had been her rock during the worst of their parents’ fights. Here she was, now an adult, and she still looked to him for some measure of comfort.
Brent wrapped his arms around Lydia. She laid her head on his chest, and he kissed the crown of her head.
Just then, Sharon Lawton walked out of the living room and into the hallway in which they stood. When she turned toward the doorway and saw her children’s embrace, her eyes became even more sorrowful. Her right hand swept upward to cover her mouth in an attempt to restrain a pained sob. She looked at the two of them for only a couple of seconds before retreating down the hall and into the kitchen.
Brent held on to his sister for another minute as he made a decision. He didn’t want to suffer through the next hour in silent agony. With his chin resting lightly on Lydia’s head, he asked, “Want to go outside? I want to tell you something.”
“Okay,” she said with a whisper.
They broke their embrace and Brent opened the door for her.
Another day of sunshine. Somehow it seemed wrong that the hills of Kentucky were not blanketed in cloud cover, mist, and rain. It occurred to Brent that the rest of the world would be unaffected by the events that his family would endure throughout the day.
The two walked out to the far side of the house where the apple trees stood. Brent chose the first tree in the single row of five and sat down in its shade. Brent leaned back on his hands, extended his feet out into the grass before him, and crossed his legs. Lydia, in a calf-length black skirt and white blouse chose her spot a little more carefully, then sat down facing him, her bent knees resting modestly at her side in the grass.
As soon as Lydia looked comfortable, Brent spoke. “I’ve been hating God.”
There, thought Brent, blunt and right out in the open.
Lydia’s answer caught him unprepared. “I know. Me, too.”
Brent’s focus spun 180-degrees from himself with the revelation. “You?”
“Yeah. I haven’t felt it as long as you have, though.”
180-degrees back.
“You already knew how I felt?”
“Brent, everyone knows how you feel. If you’ve been trying to hide it, you failed.”
180.
“I didn’t know you felt the same way.”
“My hate didn’t exist until Uncle Joe told us about how Mamaw died. Up to that point, I had only been heartbroken. Maybe a little bit of disappointment with God, but still believing that he cared.”
“Now you don’t believe? You don’t believe that he cares?”
Lydia looked away from Brent. She appeared to be looking behind him, at one of three gardens on the Moore property. It was a long time before she responded.
“I want to believe that he does. But to just let someone die the way that she did? Someone who loved him so much? I mean… Really?”
Brent could hear the anger beginning to surface.
His thoughts swung back to his uncle’s description of how his mamaw had died. Now he tried to couple those details with the things that Joshua had told him. He may not exactly hate God anymore, but Brent still didn’t see the point of letting his grandmother die the way she did.
A thought came to him. While walking in the ‘board room,’ Joshua had given him an answer that he hadn’t fully thought through. What he had initially refuted was beginning to make a little bit of sense.
“We don’t know Mamaw’s story,” Brent said in a near whisper.
“What?”
“Something… Something a friend recently told me. It makes sense to me now. At least a little.”
Lydia looked at him—into him—her eyes seeking a cure for the damage done to her soul.
“It took taking my thoughts off of myself in order to see it. Because of your pain, and because I want to help…I think I got a little bit of perspective.”
“Can you share some of it with me? I could certainly use it.”
“I’m not going to say that this is the whole answer. I’m not even going to say that I like it. Okay? I’m still mad. I still think God could have done something different. But…what if God needed all of us here now? What if Mamaw’s purpose was not only to live her life as a benefit to others…” Brent was startled by the words that were about to roll off his tongue. “…but for her death to be that, as well?”
Brent could tell that Lydia wasn’t buying it even before she spoke. “How could Mamaw’s death be a benefit, Brent? How? How could breaking a leg and bleeding to death be a benefit to anyone?”
Anger grew in her eyes. Brent had thought—had hoped—that his words would have had the opposite effect, but apparently he hadn’t thought things through well enough before speaking.
“Okay. I…I don’t exactly know how. Not yet, anyway. But God knew Mamaw’s story. He knew what her purpose was, and he knew why he kept her on Earth for the length of time that he did. I’m just saying that maybe there’s an impact that Mamaw’s death, not just her life, is supposed to have on some of us—or maybe even just one of us—to help us in our life stories as we go on.”
Lydia had had enough. She lifted herself to one knee, then stood up. She looked Brent in the eyes and said, “That didn’t help, Brent. Not one bit.”
Without giving Brent the opportunity to respond, she walked away and rounded the house toward the front porch.
Brent thought through the words he had just spoken. He knew, now, that he hadn’t made much sense with what he’d said. He tried to think it through again, but gave up. Maybe Lydia was right. Maybe he was trying to reason out something for which none of them would ever have a satisfying explanation. He had used a number of “what ifs” and “maybes” in what he had tried to explain to his sister, and unfortunately, their sum didn’t add up to anything even close to a worthwhile answer. Not even for him.
Hannah Elizabeth Moore’s life wasn’t lived for herself alone. Her family and her God were at the fore
front of the decisions that she made for her life. She had a life-long commitment to both, and both saw her through even to her last day with us. Those of us who got to know her as a friend…”
The preacher’s words became muffled when Brent heard his grandmother’s middle name. Elizabeth? How was it that he had never known that? He had never asked what the ‘E’ in her monogram stood for—the one he saw stitched into the handkerchief his mom had held the day before.
Hannah Elizabeth Moore.
Her casket rested in front of the raised pulpit. Flowers of all kinds abounded, surrounding her in color. Framed pictures, a visual record of her life, were placed on tables at either end of the coffin. Brent had yet to look at them, but he knew that he would spend several minutes looking at how other people had seen her.
Brent’s family—Mom, Dad, Lydia, and he—sat in the front row on the left side of the little mountain church. At most, the humble structure held three-hundred people. Its light-colored, hardwood pews contained close to a third of that number as family and friends listened to the pastor’s eulogy. Soon members of the family would also have the opportunity to go up to the pulpit and speak words of remembrance about this woman that Brent loved so deeply.
But Brent’s mind was still stuck on her middle name. Obviously it was no coincidence that God had chosen a girl named Elizabeth for him to help during his ongoing…
It’s not a dream, though. Is it? It’s just far too real to be a dream.
His mind tried to justify the idea that he was helping a real girl and a real baby. But if they only exist when I’m sleeping…
There could be no doubt that the evolving events were orchestrated by God. It was one storyline that had been played out over two nights of his life. Two nights…so far. And for the girl’s name to be Elizabeth? It was one more powerful argument that God was behind the whole scenario.
If it wasn’t real, then how could he be living it with such clarity, without it being odd and disjointed as most dreams were? If it was real, was he being transported to another state? There were no mountains in the drea…in the other reality. Maybe it was another realm? An Otherealm, as Tara might call it. Even if it was, would that make the people in that realm less real? Were they less worthy of his help?
“…invite the children of Hannah Moore to come forward. Each would like to share his and her heart about the woman whose life we celebrate this afternoon.”
Brent watched as his mom and her five brothers and sisters got up from their pews and climbed the two steps leading up to the preacher’s platform. They stood behind the lectern in order of age—youngest to oldest: Susan, Sarah, Joe, Carson, his mom, and Dave.
Brent listened to the sorrow so evident in the hearts of his two aunts. It was interesting to hear them both describe a mother who always found time to spend with them, allowing them the opportunities that they needed to be carefree children in the midst of so much work that was required in and around the farmhouse. Their mother had wanted to make sure that their home had as much joy as it had chores and schoolwork.
It was obvious to Brent that his Uncle Joe was still beating himself up over the death of his mother. He made no direct reference to how she died or how he could have prevented it, but he was a shell of himself as he tried to relay how blessed he was at being able to see and spend time with her just about every day. He was able to convey a couple of memories that were special to him, including how his mother never fully gave up her motherly role in his life, and how she would continue to pester him about eating cookies that had been bought from a store. “She couldn’t understand how I could eat those ‘nasty Oreos.’”
Brent heard Lydia, sitting to his right, laugh quietly. He looked over as she tucked her light brown hair behind her left ear then wiped a tear from her cheek. She produced a soft smile, something Brent had yet to be able to do. He was envious. The closest to a smile he had managed was feeling some of the muscle tension leave his face as he listened to favorite memories relayed by his aunts and uncle.
The ‘rebel’ of the Moore family spoke next. Uncle Carson hadn’t had a close relationship with his mother for most of his life. The middle son had been closest to his dad.
In 1973, with the passing of his father, Carson’s life had begun to spin out of control. His already-rocky marriage ended the following year and he hadn’t remarried since, though he was seldom without a girlfriend, despite being in his late fifties.
Brent’s mom suspected that Uncle Carson held some measure of blame against their mother, saying, “He always held it in his mind that Mother’s healing was the start of Daddy’s death.”
Despite whatever resentment he might have held toward his mother, Brent’s Uncle Carson was very respectful, if not given to anecdotes regarding his experiences with her.
Next was Sharon Lawton. Brent tensed as his mom stood before the lectern. He didn’t know what he would do if his mom’s remorse got the best of her. He wouldn’t be embarrassed, to be sure, but as he and she were both standing barely a step away from the same emotional abyss, he wasn’t confident that he’d be able to maintain his composure should she lose hers.
“Mother was so much more than just my mom,” she began, the monogrammed handkerchief making its appearance again in her right hand. “She was an example for me. She taught me to hang on to what was good, regardless of the circumstances and the cost. She was tenacious and strong-willed in her dedication to Daddy, as well as her faith. I got the strong-willed part of her personality, as Keith can attest.” There were a few soft snickers from the pews. “I grew up with a mother who had strong faith and an unquenchable desire to serve God. That was something that I didn’t take with me as I left home and moved to Ohio. I wanted to do things my way, not Mother’s and Daddy’s way. I felt that I had to work out my own life.
“Now for a bit of irony. I stand before all of you with a heart that is passionate for God because of what my mother did for my son.”
Goosebumps sprung up all over Brent’s arms, shocked at his mom’s mention of him.
“I’m ashamed to say that I had traded away my relationship with God away for the idea of independence and being able to work out my own circumstances. I wasn’t looking to the future—toward my own death. I was living my life for the day. But that wasn’t the way that my son, Brent, was looking at life.”
Oh no. What is she going to say? Brent didn’t mind sharing his story, as long as it was he that was doing it.
“Brent told me that certain circumstances in his life had been leading him to evaluate what would happen to him should he die. He knew his mamaw’s dedication to Christ—something that he didn’t see in me or his dad—and he knew that she believed in both a literal Heaven and Hell. Her insistence that they were real caused him to seek out answers. Mother’s intense prayers for her grandson—in the midst of a difficult situation that he’d been going through—resulted in our entire family developing personal relationships with God.
“I could tell all kinds of stories about my good times with Mother and even her relationship with Daddy, but the fact is that her real legacy isn’t the fun memories; it’s what her life spoke. It spoke God’s love. It spoke relationship with God. It spoke that God is real and that Christianity isn’t a religion; it’s a relationship with Christ. Her undying love for Jesus resulted in my whole family’s destiny being changed.”
Brent’s mom stepped around the lectern and walked to the front of the platform where she leaned down to look upon her mother in the coffin below. Her voice quaked and tears flowed as she said, “Thank you, Mother. Thank you for pouring out your life to God. We are all better for it.”
Sharon Lawton’s body shook as she began to weep. All of her brothers and sisters responded by walking over to her and surrounding her with their arms, adding more strength and tears to her own.
Brent was unable to control his sorrow any longer. He lurched forward, elbows to knees, and began to sob with such anguish that it was hard to find a breath. Everything around
him became nothing more than muffled background noise.
“Oh God… Oh God… I miss her.”
TARA YAWNED.
“What did you just do?” I asked.
With an exaggerated cringe, she said, “Umm… Nothing.”
“You were supposed to be overwhelmed with my emotion. You were supposed to be ‘in the moment,’” I said, a playful annoyance in my voice.
“We’re lying on the couch with my head on your warm chest. You’ve got a voice that soothes me in one ear and the sound of your heartbeat in the other. All that and you want me to be ‘in the moment’ at…” She lifted her head and looked across the living room to the clock on the fireplace mantle. “…at 3:20 AM?”
“Okay. Fair enough. How about we get a good night’s rest and continue this in the morning?”
“I really do want to hear more,” she said through another yawn. “And I truly am hurting inside for what you went through.”
I kissed her forehead. “I know. I could use the sleep, too. Let’s go to bed. My heart can lull you to sleep up there.”
She looked up at me, another playful smile forming. “But my pillow’s softer.”
The next morning, I sat at the dining room table with Tara and our children.
“Could you two have been any louder last night?” asked Jenna, our sixteen-year-old.
I raised my eyebrows and looked at her.
“You woke me up, too,” said Jamie, our rambunctious fourteen-year-old.
“Me, too!” And that would be my darling princess, Amy. She’s now seven and not shy about letting everybody know it.
I looked over to Tara. She smiled and shrugged. And I just shook my head.
“The last time that we were all up that late,” began Jenna again, “we were sitting at an Eat’n Park.”
My daughter’s reference pertains to what we not-so-affectionately call ‘Hell Night.’
About a year ago, my family, along with a new family friend, suffered a hellish spiritual attack. It came at the hands—or claws—of a cluster of demons that were commanded to enter our house by a power-crazed maniac and his followers. The whole episode culminated in a good amount of stitches for our friend and a close call with death for me.
Behind the Darkness Page 12