Saturday, March 28, 2026

A Son’s Love, Part II

“He has made everything beautiful in its time. He has also set eternity in the human heart, yet no one can fathom what God has done from beginning to end.” Ecclesiastes 3:11

Over the following months I asked about our sordid family history. From her prodigious quantity of photo albums, I began posting and rotating photos – many unfamiliar – onto a corkboard next to her head. I discovered a cache of farm animal photos, close-ups of cows, a horse, her beloved Belgian dog. I learned that during WWII, my grandfather purchased a farm. My mother didn’t like the farm, the chickens, the horse that galloped to the far end of the meadow as she approached. Being out of town made it difficult for her to visit her friends.

In October, I strung colored lights around her double window. Significantly, we could turn off all the room lights, leaving the soft glow of the colored lights, by which I would read after she fell asleep. By November, Hospice joined in. They liked my mother because she could carry on a conversation.

December: her interactions became fewer, being present, but saying little. I had kept a spiral tablet on which I recorded the days’ events and conversations. One night she abruptly sat up, looked at me straight in the eyes, her pupils black, haunting. “I need four more cows,” she exclaimed, before falling back asleep. Having recorded her usual conversations, I thought she might be losing her way.

A few days later as the staff changed her gown and bedding, at nearly 6:30 am, mother, sitting upright looked me in the eye, a message to give her privacy. Stepping into the nearby bath, I puttered a little; ran hot water over a washcloth. Staff walked behind me into the hallway. I moved to the foot of the bed. She preferred having her feet exposed while sleeping. I wiped her feet with the warm washcloth. Perhaps this was my apology for hanging around.

I sat facing her near the bed. Her head moved slightly, and she died. In those few moments I understood we were a part of something bigger.

One of the aides entered with mother’s morning tea. “She’s dead,” I said to the aide, incredulous, because she had been there only a short time earlier.

My need to record this mundane account stems from “I need four more cows,” mentioned four days earlier. My mother died on December 22, 2010, the date of my brother’s birthday. There is more: Mother’s funeral was December 28, which was her birthday. During her funeral we appropriately sang, “Happy Birthday.” Though not consciously aware, at that time, the “something bigger” evidenced in the position on the calendar of her death and funeral: December 25, three days after she died, and three days before her funeral-birthday. Father, Son and Holy Spirit brought us two together in reconciliation, forgiveness and love.

Michael Calligan