"My mother's last sabbath" by J. Dana Trent Christian Century, August 14, 2019, pp. 10-11.
"I had the first true sabbath of my adult life in my mother’s hospice room.
I’d tussled with her over busyness for many years. She had staunchly kept the sabbath since she was a young girl, when she learned well that the hours of the Lord’s day were holy. It was a day different from the others—sacred time for ceasing from any labor and worldly activity one might do six days of the week. Only church, acts of service, family visits, and resting were permitted.
She practiced sabbath for herself and held hallowed space for me, too. Growing up, Mom ensured whatever apartment we rented was within walking distance of a Baptist Church, such that come hell or high water, we’d be there anytime the doors were open. Church gave her life. She was so buoyed by a mother-daughter sabbath spent studying, praying, singing, fellowshiping, and napping that she could continue carrying the heavy loads of poverty and single parenthood. We spent decades keeping holy days together.
On Sundays, she experienced what many of us miss: a weekly glimpse into Rabbi Abraham Joshua Heschel’s “palace in time.” Sabbath was a temporary relief from being a mortal in this material world—a chance to rest in the balm of eternal life to come.
But then I got married and ambitious. Sabbath became a point of contention, not sweetness. Gone were the days when we shared a hymnal and swayed to “What a Friend We Have in Jesus.”
I am a trivocational religious professional: writer, minister, professor. Mom chided me for trying to do too much. I saw my fervor as staying alive; she saw it as hubris. I valued the rich sabbath inheritance Mom passed along to me, but I’d neglected its value in reminding me of humility and humanity.
And so we wrestled over sabbath—and life.
“You’re trying to do too much,” she’d repeat when I skipped sabbath rest amid duties for my three part-time jobs. I’m doing what I must do to be successful, I thought.
But success looked different to her. We danced like this for the last seven years of her life. Mom slowly and steadily letting go of this life; me gripping onto it as hard and as fast as I could. A piece of us longed for what the other chose, but we never met in the middle. I coped with her withdrawal through nonstop wheel spinning; she met my attempt to exert godlike control over my life (and hers) by doubling down on her surrender.
And so I was not surprised when she declined a green-scrubbed surgeon’s plea to repair her perforated intestines in a simple yet life-saving surgery.
I had to reconcile myself to her decision, releasing my desire for her to combat her condition—to fight for what I, and the world, perceive as valuable: more time on earth. I let go. Sabbath and death are, after all, an acceptance of what’s left undone in order to lean into that which transcends. Letting go on a day of rest is to trade chaos for peace; letting go of the lives we’ve known is to trade the temporary for eternity. In both, we draw nearer to God."
She writes "Sabbath and death are, after all, an acceptance of what's left undone in order to lean into that which transcends." This resonates with my perception of Joanne in hospice. Retirement was not an easy adjustment for her. Eventually she made it partly because of her infirmities. "Doing" was terribly important to her and the outpouring of affirmation she received via email, comments on Caring Bridge, letters, cards, phone calls and visits helped to her acceptance of "I've done enough." With that assurance she anticipated the final sabbatical of death with equanimity. She died peacefully without fear or anxiety.
Yes, rest in peace good and faithful servant!
Takk for alt,
Al
PS One question to ponder: Are you more comfortable 'being' or 'doing'?
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