We picked the perfect skirt suit to bury her in. It was such a beautiful cerulean color of blue, the blue that her youthful eyes had been. Of course now they were closed in eternal sleep. But I could envision how the blue of the dress would have enhanced her eyes and the glow of her face when she smiled, alive.
She wore a strand of freshwater pearls my sister and I had debated over. I didn’t have the money, and they were going to be buried with her too. The expense, said sis, was not an issue. She wanted them as they in no way compared to the cheap costume jewelry set I had found that I could afford. But I wanted the best also. Sis bought them and they complimented the blue suit perfectly along with the white rose corsage.
The hairdresser at the funeral home had not known she wore her platinum white hair parted with bangs to the side. The woman had brushed it back from her forehead, sort of halo-like. I kept trying to pull it forward a bit, as mom would have worn it. My son said, “It’s okay, Mom, maybe that style is all the rage up in heaven now.” 🙂
Mom had rallied in her last 36 hours or so, it seemed almost as if to make a turn around. The doctor warned us, however, that it would not happen as we hoped. Mom was doing so well on Friday afternoon and evening that Sis and I decided to have a slumber party with her. A second recliner was moved in and we tried to get comfortable. Mom was talking up a storm, sometimes making sense. During the last months she never had episodes when she did not know her children, though. Never did she lose sight of who we were to her.
She wanted to eat some of everything we could find. We laughed with her about lots of things going through her head. We hurt for her when we recognized some of those things were memories not so pleasant. She’d grow quiet now and then, just staring and thinking, and then she’d share another thought. By 1 a.m. it was obvious to me that she was too anxious to go back to sleep. Maybe she knew it was our last time. –How precious is the memory of our slumber party now.
My sister’s daughter had personally recorded “The Cross”, beautifully, mere months before, and Mom loved to hear it over and over. And just in time, a God thing, we found the song “She’s Finally Home” by Cissy McCaa, which we’d never heard before but was so perfect. My own daughter put together a beautiful power point presentation for the memorial DVD with that music and many pictures we had dug up. The visitation and funeral was just as Mom would have wanted it.
There is no doubt in my mind that Mom was too darned occupied with discovering her heavenly home, laughing and dancing with joy, to hear or watch us mourn her loss. After all, there are no tears in heaven, not even a heaviness of heart. God promises joy unspeakable and full of glory–I think He veils the memory of all that could cause any pain.
Hallelujah. Because I wouldn’t want her to know how much the memories hurt right now.