mom as a visitor

I didn't know, when mom came to visit me, 

how weird it is to be a visitor at your own daughter’s house

to let her make the meals and get out the towels

and to not know where she keeps her forks.

and how happy a mom can be that she has found her people
and sad at the same time, that we no longer have “our” people
and how a hand that lets go has to be forced open again and again
and every time it’s a prayer of grief-gratitude
like bubbles popping, or balloons launching into the air while I watch from the ground.

I didn’t know when my mom cleaned counters or did laundry for me
It wasn’t judgment on my housekeeping
but it was a chance to love again, in the old way

and even though it’s not necessary anymore
it’s a little offering, from the old days,
a quiet “thank you for welcoming me still, into your new world.”

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In church my heart goes out to the sheep on the ground, the one looking up at Jesus carrying the little lamb. She’s glad Jesus has her baby, of course. She’s asking, “where are you taking her? Do you need my help?”
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I sit on the pier staring at the glimmering lake. God asks me to leave her here at this altar and is it really so hard? With the sparkling lake and the husband who loves her and her face turned up to the sunshine?  I no longer get to see and document every second of it, or to call my mom to tell her about each new milestone like I did when she was tiny.  I have other things to do now, and so does she. It is well.
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One more glorious morning coffee date, and then the goodbye hug. I’m an amateur; I forgot to pull my sunglasses down before the tears started. All the while I’m aware that I look just like my mom, who still cries when vacation ends, and I will never apologize for that.

I stare at the lake for a little longer, with awareness of God’s presence in this place. I have a grown child who loves what is lovely, and she dwells in His house even when she’s far from me. 

Eventually I turn my face away from the lake towards home, where He has more for me, too.

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How lovely is your dwelling place,

    O Lord of hosts!

My soul longs, yes, faints

    for the courts of the Lord;

my heart and flesh sing for joy

    to the living God.

Even the sparrow finds a home,

    and the swallow a nest for herself,

    where she may lay her young,

at your altars, O Lord of hosts,

    my King and my God.

Blessed are those who dwell in your house,

    ever singing your praise!

(Ps 84:1-4)