Mom came for a 4-day visit and left yesterday. She lives in Florida and I’m in Maryland, so visits require scheduling and travel.
Over dinner Sunday night, we discussed family mysteries and unanswered questions – particularly the ones we wish we could ask the women who came before us and who have since passed on. There are many puzzle pieces missing, and while we have plans to do a little research, we know it may only get us so far.
Thinking about these women – my grandmothers and their sisters, all the ‘greats’ on my mother’s side – I wonder endlessly.
Which qualities did they like most in themselves? Which did they like least? Where, if at all, did they find emotional connection? With whom did they have their closest relationships? In times of trial, poverty, war, disease, abandonment, and the loss of husbands and children, where did they find strength? In several cases, we don’t know anything about their faith lives. So I wonder… How did they carry on? What did they believe?
And finally, what were their greatest successes? And by that I don’t mean the worldly definitions of success….I mean – at the end of their lives, what did they want to be remembered for? And do we remember them for that?
In the midst of this conversation, Mom turned to me and said,
“You know my story, right?”
I nodded weakly. It was such a loaded question. I know so much about her life, but to know her story? A person’s depth is endless. Another human being can hardly fathom it. How I’d love to say I fully know her, that I can understand her every experience, thought, heart and soul’s desire, but I am limited in my ability, and there is more to discover all the time. I hear something new every time we talk. Each encounter with every person I meet is like that – if I’m listening.
And Mom and me? Our time together is finite. Just like everyone’s. It’s not because of geography.
Her desire that I know her – that I know her story – is the great call of each soul. We all have this need to be fully known. And there is only One who can meet this need, who knows our story better than we do, who has been writing it with us and for us since before time began.
“Are not five sparrows sold for two cents? Yet not one of them is forgotten before God. Indeed, the very hairs of your head are all numbered. Do not fear; you are more valuable than many sparrows.”