This I Know
Bobby Winters on the Love of Jesus & the Love of a Mother
wo years ago we moved Momma into a nursing home. She didn’t want to go. She kept asking, hinting, yearning to go home. It was heartbreaking to hear her ask, but it was more heartbreaking when she stopped. She lost names, she lost people, and then she lost home.
We climb the mountain on faith, and then we see the valley on the other side; but when we climb down the hill, we do it on faith again. We can’t remember what we saw, but there is no other direction to go but toward the valley.
Momma taught us, my brother and me, about Jesus. The first song I remember learning was “Jesus Loves Me.” It is not a masterpiece of music; it is not a marvel of the poet’s art. I’ve not used it as a foundation to learn a great deal about either.
But Momma did teach us to have a foundation of love. If my brother and I ever met Jesus, it was not through the dulcet tones of a musical instrument or through the effort of any preacher, but through the love of a mother.
Jesus Came
We went to see her for Thanksgiving. She is going through a time of changes, and with dementia, there is only one direction of change. We know it’s coming; there is only a question of when. God gives us ambiguity as a mercy.
As we enter the door to her room, I can tell that she is happy to see us. She doesn’t know our names; at least, she can’t say them. And I can’t say that she knows who we are. But she looks out and there is love in her face.
“How pretty,” she says, looking at my wife and daughters. “I love you.”
I sit by her side and hold her hand. It’s warm now. When she could still string sentences together, she would complain about being cold. Now the ambient temperature of the room is about 85 degrees and she’s covered with a blanket, and her hand is warm.
“Has the preacher been by?” I ask. I don’t know why. Her look is blank.
Bobby N. Winters is Assistant Dean of the College of Arts and Sciences and Professor of Mathematics at Pittsburg State University in Pittsburg, Kansas.
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