What does comfort look like to you? In these times of uncertainty, when the chess pieces have been swept to the floor, we long to feel comfort. For me, it comes in the form of a sacred story.
Seventeen years ago, early in the spring, my dad was hospitalized. After receiving the call from my mom, Eva Dell, I was on the first flight headed south. I always thought the urgent phone call would be from my dad about my mom. Her illness had been clinging to her for over a decade, and I worried about her so much. Now, my worry had multiplied. Gratefully, dad was stable, only needing rest and monitoring. It was just me and my mom sharing something that we had not since I was a child: time. A serendipitous handful of glorious days stretched out before us. Broken bread, poured out joy, and bottomless conversation filled us to overflowing. A new garment, woven of laughter, tears, and gratitude, was made. Coming home together again in this sacred “now,” encircled by our delicate past, and what life would hold tomorrow. A sweet chorus of grief and praise.
On the night before I left, after the kitchen was cleaned, we sat down together one last time. I gathered up all my courage, like fragile eggs from a nest, and asked the hardest question I had ever asked her: “How much time do you think you have?” Given the depth and texture of our relationship, this question was neither given nor received as dark. She did not wince. With a sigh and brief pause, she peacefully said, “Maybe three years, no more.” She was gone in two.
“I will not leave you as orphans,” Jesus tells his closest friends after the last dinner he will have with them.* Though unaware, and soon to be frightened, confused, and scattered to the winds, his friends listen: “When I’m no longer with you, the Great Lover will send a Friend to you, the Spirit of Truth, so that you will never be alone.” It was a promise that they would not understand until he was gone. They were afraid. And so was I.
Mom was beginning to make her graceful exit. Like Jesus, she wanted to leave me with something hopeful, just as the sky was darkening. I couldn’t see it then. It took her leaving in order for it to appear. She was already thinking of comfort, and how best to give it to the two men she loved most. We cried and talked all that night. “This will be hard on your dad.” She continued, with a knowing look, “I hope Sandra’s not married when I’m gone.”
I replied, “I don’t want to talk about that right now… but I agree.” Sandra was mom’s closest friend and a second mom to me growing up. Years later, when I officiated their wedding, I told this story. Within Jesus’ promise, and my mom’s small gesture, lives the same symbol: a seamless veil, woven and un-torn. A Friend was sent.
*John 14:15-21, The Message (MSG)
–Jim Marsh, Jr., Bread of Life Church
