I sit quiet observing…listening.

Her breath is shallow, loud. Then nothing…

one second, two seconds…

nine, ten, eleven…

It’s back again, shallow, loud, piercing the quiet of the night.

Again. And again. Yet again, she breathes. She is not alert. She does not respond. She breathes.

I await. Her reward draws near. Peace is here. Greater peace beckons. My Mother is dying, but she lives. She lives as she has always lived. With contentment.

The little girl in her always remembered the sweet words of the nuns, “Jesus, dear Gladys, follow Jesus.” And she did. She did. In youth. In life. In dying. Until and into greater life.

My mind prays. It hopes, pleads, demands…yes, though I wish otherwise, demands…

“Now? …

Now? …

Now?

Lord? Father? Now?”

And she breathes. Content. Waiting.

My thoughts wander. They remember the poem. By Dylan Thomas.

Do not go gentle into that good night,
old age should burn and rave at close of day;
rage, rage against the dying of the light.
Though wise men at their end know dark is right,
because their words had forked no lightning
they do not go gentle into that good night.
Good men, the last wave by, crying how bright
their frail deeds might have danced in a green bay,
rage, rage against the dying of the light.
Wild men who caught and sang the sun in flight,
and learn, too late, they grieved it on its way,
do not go gentle into that good night.
Grave men, near death, who see with blinding sight
blind eyes could blaze like meteors and be gay,
rage, rage against the dying of the light.
And you, my father, there on the sad height,
curse, bless, me now with your fierce tears, I pray,
do not go gentle into that good night.
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.

And I write:

Walk, run, go gentle into that good night.
Yes, old age could rave at close of day and
rage, rage against the coming of his light.
But wise men at their end know light is right,
because their hope awaits the rising,
they walk, run, go gentle into that good light.
So you, my Mother, there with your glad right,
sing, bless me now with your sweet peace, I pray
walk, run, go into that good light.
Wave, wave facing the coming of his light.

Shorter. Less skilled than Dylan’s. But right.

Her hand lifts ever so slightly…

gentle as always as she waves…

she waves to the coming of his light.

P.S. This was penned in the o’dark thirty hours of Monday morning. At 4:07am Tuesday morning, Mom celebrated in the arms of her Savior. As the Apostle Paul was once moved by the Holy Spirit to say, “Absent from the body is to be present with the Lord.”

Do you share this sweet confidence?