Healing
Moving On
I'm always happy to see correspondence from Foster Parents in my mailbox. It usually means I've received a letter from my foster child in Colombia. Sometimes, it means pictures of the nine year old computer and football fanatic I've never met, but who calls me "Madrina". Sometimes it means a hand drawn picture of his village, or even him. This time, though, it wasn't any of those things. While the letter bore good news, it was the sort of good news that heralded a change. My foster child's village had become self-sufficient. A victory for Ricardo, his mother and the people of their village; it was, for me, the end of something.
I remember the day I received the first news of my foster child. There was a picture. He and his mother, Lydia, stood solemnly together, his mother's arm wrapped around his small shoulders. He wore a Mickey Mouse t-shirt and gazed out at me with large, brown, reticent eyes. He was only five then and seemed so tiny. As the years went by, I saw this serious little boy bloom, each picture resonating with the echo of the man he was becoming. He filled out and grew taller and I marveled that I could make any difference at all in the life of a family so far away. Reading the good news of the renewal that had come to his small world: the improved health services, the resources now available in his school, I couldn't help but mourn the loss of a little friend I'd come to hold dear, now matter how remote our friendship had been, in terms of geography. Who would I have to call me "Madrina", now? Despite the wonder of seeing hopelessness turn to hope, despite the liberation from dependency of this small point on the map, I couldn't help but think of myself. It was my victory too; but the loss was somehow closer to the heart. There was a telephone number in the letter from Fosters Parents. I thought about calling it. I even resolved to call. Then I realized that my Spanish was the stuff of Latin American nightmares, polite, uncomprehending smiles and secret giggles. What would I say to him? “Hasta la vista, baby!” didn’t seem to cut it, somehow. It took me several days to adjust to the idea that I wouldn’t be hearing from Ricardo again, but the thought of his village moving on into a future upheld by the work and hope of its own people overtook my sadness, turning it to joy in the process.
The news of Ricardo's liberation from sponsorship had come shortly after the death of my father. His was not a sudden death, in some ways. Beset by a myriad of ills for at least a decade (among them cancer and clogged arteries), my father had soldiered on, regardless. He was nothing, if not tough. But when his beloved wife began to show signs of Alzheimer's, my father's toughness began to crack. In the space of four years, she went from being the bright, exotic flower at the centre of his life to an intractable and confused child. All the while, dad struggled to maintain the happy equilibrium they'd enjoyed for more than 30 years. He cooked for her and cleaned their home. He sat and did word puzzles with her, against the encroaching darkness of her ever more distant mind. He went about their home, turning off the stove and unplugging the kettle when she'd forgotten about them. In the end, it all became too much for a man in his seventies, weakened by illness. And so, the love of my father's life was put in a home. Each day, he would get behind the wheel of his car (an increasingly perilous proposition, as age and sadness took their toll) and drive to the extended care facility she lived in. It was a ritual he kept until the beginning of this year, when his wife reached the point at which she no longer knew who he was.
It was then that his death became sudden. A fall, a cardiac arrest, the hospital and suddenly this robust lover of life was a frail, elderly man with sunken cheeks and a tube in his nose. He hadn't eaten properly for a long time, despite everyone's best efforts to ensure he did. The cancer was back. He was eighty (but only fifty, yesterday). His partner, travel companion, fellow bon vivant and best buddy didn't even know his name. He decided it was time to move on, whether we were ready for him to do that, or not.
In the final week of his life I saw more of my father than I had for a number of years, living as he did on Vancouver Island, in a community a little off the beaten track. He had thought it would be good for his wife; quiet and pastoral as it was. The loneliness of the place and his devotion to a woman that was becoming a stranger, disappearing into a land within, became almost monastic, though. While he welcomed visits, he didn’t solicit them. That last week was different. I told him jokes. I combed his hair. I stroked his forehead. Finally, on the last day I saw him in this life, when he could no longer speak, he flailed with the one arm that would still obey him and grasped my hand. Gazing at me with his fierce, black eyes, he willed me to remember him as the man he was. The next day, he moved on.
I now have a new foster child. Her name is Elizabeth and she lives in Ghana. Her picture is even more solemn than Ricardo's. Her mother and sisters and she form a quintet that rivals even "American Gothic" in severity of expression. Elizabeth has eyes the size of chestnuts and hair pulled neatly into four twists that spiral away from her face, out of frame. She is a beauty untouched by artifice of any kind. There is nothing about that beautiful face that God did not design and ordain to be, exactly as the photograph shows it. So I write Elizabeth a letter, telling her how happy I am to know that we are going to be friends. I sketch a representation of her photograph that I know will be on the wall of her schoolroom sometime soon, or maybe in the home she shares with her mother and sisters. I remember Ricardo and think of him learning how to do his math homework on a computer he wouldn't have had access to five years ago. I think of his mother, not having to worry every time he gets a sniffle. I think of them moving on, into a future where hands do the happy work of a community that does for itself.
Recently, on a rainy Saturday, we placed my father’s ashes in the ground. My little nephew Jarrod helped do the honours. As we stood there in the rain, on the wet grass of the Anglican cemetery, I remember my father at his best. I remember his awful puns, his love of travel and the joy he found in exploring the world with someone who knew exactly who he was and loved him for it. I think of the sorrow of the last years of his life, watching his wife retreat into herself, putting dolls to bed, believing them to be her children. I try to imagine the sorrow of watching the one you love drift away, until one morning you walk through the door and you are a stranger. Dad has moved on now, liberated from all the cancer, clogged arteries, mind-robbing dementia, sorrow and loss.
A man has moved on from this life and its many hurts and disappointments, to peace and rest. A boy has moved on from a life of deprivation and dependency to one of hope in a future he could never have imagined. Standing on the ground as they lift off, I’m amazed at how quickly they ascend and how they pull me up with them, despite myself.
PLEASE ENCOURAGE AUTHOR BELOW LEAVE COMMENT ON ARTICLE
The opinions expressed by authors do not necessarily reflect the opinion of FaithWriters.com. This is especially true with articles that
deal with personal healthcare and prophecy. We encourage the reader to make their own decision in consultation with God, His Word, and others as needed.
This article has been read 946 times < Previous | Next >
Read more articles by Jennifer Levy or search for other articles by topic below.
This article has been read 946 times < Previous | Next >
Search for articles on: (e.g. creation; holiness etc.)
Read more by clicking on a link:Free Reprints
Main Site Articles
Most Read Articles
Highly Acclaimed Challenge Articles.
New Release Christian Books for Free for a Simple Review.
NEW - Surprise Me With an Article - Click here for a random URL
God is Not Against You - He Came on an All Out Rescue Mission to Save You
...in Christ God was reconciling the world to himself, not counting their trespasses against them... 2 Cor 5:19
Therefore, my friends, I want you to know that through Jesus the forgiveness of sins is proclaimed to you. Acts 13:38
LEARN & TRUST JESUS HERE
FaithWriters offers Christian reading material for Christian readers. We offer Christian articles, Christian fiction, Christian non-fiction, Christian Bible studies, Christian poems, Christian articles for sale, free use Christian articles, Christian living articles, New Covenant Christian Bible Studies, Christian magazine articles and new Christian articles. We write for Jesus about God, the Bible, salvation, prayer and the word of God.
You reviewed my article, so as is my custom (most of the time), I took a look at yours. I like your writing. Here, one of the few I've seen on this site so far, you know how to write! Evocative too, so descriptive. I loved it!
I struggled a little to see how the part about your Father--though thoughtful in itself--fit into the part about your foster child--until the last few lines. Then, it was clearer. I would try to intimate some of this (set up a pattern) earlier in your article. But, I am going to read more of yours! Great!
I shouldn't have said that about your being one of the few who could write. Truth is, there are a lot of really nice Christians on this site, all of whom are trying to better themselves, and a number of whom can write well. I apologize to any I may offend with that. I have not arrived either! And to you Jennifer, for putting it here. I was happy to come upon your work. RC