Categories: uncategorized
Date: 24 December 2006 19:55:48
When my mother died ten years ago, a lasting memory was this. I left the hospital on the day I knew she was not going to get better. I walked to my car, putting the radio on and hearing Maria Carey singing "You'll Always Be My Baby" which somehow seemed to be appropriate, especially when you bear in mind I was my mother's youngest child by thirteen years. But more important than that. The sky went dark, it began to rain, and then a sudden shaft of light broke through and I saw the biggest and clearest rainbow ahead of me and heard a voice in my innermost being say "Don't be afraid of this. All will be well".
Some days ago my friend's father was seriously ill in hospital and it became clear that the time was coming closer for a goodbye. I told her of God's message when my mum was so ill and, as I told her I looked up at the sky and, believe it or not, a rainbow was there.
Mum's favourite hymn was "Oh Love that wilt not let me go", an amazing hymn that has never failed to reach right inside me and touch my heart with its beautiful words, in particular "I trace the rainbow through the rain and know the promise is not vain, that morn shall tearless be". What a promise.
I knew the promise held true with Dad although the winter weather clearly held no prospect of a visual image to remember - freezing fog doesn't somehow hold the same meaning as a rainbow. And I didn't need an image anyway as I know the promise is one for all time. But yesterday morning my sister arrived at the hospice after a short trip home to put the washing in the machine and do a bit of shopping. She had picked up the mail and handed me an envelope that brought a tear to my eyes before I even opened it. It was a card made for my Dad by his great-grandaughters (both under three). My nephew had written in it. "Dear Grandad. This card was decorated especially for you by P and E. I am not sure what the decoration on the front is meant to be, but if you look inside, P tells me she has drawn a rainbow for you"
Dad never saw the card, though we told him about it.
Last Tuesday I was unable to visit Dad in the hospice until evening as I was trying to sort out my son and it was really the day for my sisters to be there, one saying what was clearly her last goodbye before having to return home, one longing to see him because she had only just arrived after being home for a few days. By eight I was unable to settle because I was beginning to resent being kept from his side all day, especially as my sister had phoned me to say that he was not as well as the previous day. We went, just to spend a short time with him before bedtime. The nurse who greeted us looked at us sadly and, when we confirmed that we would want to be contacted should anything happen at night, she asked us to stay another hour. Could it really be so soon? His breathing was intermittant and laboured and we realised the time for goodbyes was near at hand.