Some people are convinced that time is an illusion…that everything that happens is happening here and now. There’s no past or future, just memories of what once was and dreams of our tomorrows. But I’m not convinced that time is mere myth or make believe. I think it’s a trick.
When I was 15, I thought I was immortal. I would never have said such a thing or assented to such a belief, but I lived my life as if, functionally, I was timeless. I was unafraid of a fall. Never fearful of what toll illness might exact. I never worried about the past or the future. I had my family. I had my friends. I had my faith. Time crept along at a snail’s pace and I savored every second.
At 15, it felt like I’d lived an eternity with my mom, my dad, and my younger brother. In fact, 15 was roughly the age that I began to look forward to the days of adulthood. Of driving where I wanted to go. Of moving away from what I knew to figure out life on my own. I’d had 15 full years–a relative eternity, mind you–to soak in the warmth of my family. 15 years of my dad’s calm assurances. 15 years of my mom bandaging my wounds and kissing my forehead. 15 years of playing, laughing, fighting, and protecting my little brother. And 15 years, at least back then, was a long, long time.
Today marks 15 years since my mother’s passing, and I’ve become all-too-aware of time’s trick on my senses. Because, friends, it feels like just yesterday that she was here, chastising me over one bone-headed decision or another. Not more than a few days since she laughed her infectious laugh that soon took over the room and everyone in it. Surely no more than a week has gone by since I saw her smile, felt her kiss on my cheek, ate her pot roast, helped her carry the groceries in. She can’t really have been gone for 15 years.
Before her death, we lost my dad. He had been sick such a long while that, as hard as it was, it was also grace. For him to be free of his pain and sickness…to be at home with the Lord…was not as heavy a thing as it might have been. We missed him greatly, but he had fought so hard for so long to stay with us, we understood it was time for him to rest. He had more than earned it.
But Mom was always healthy and vivacious, as full of life and laughter as she was strength and resolve. None that knew her had any clue that her time was almost up…that she’d be reunited with Dad just a year and a half after he left us. Her death hit everyone hard.
Time still plays its tricks. Some days, my memories of her are as light as a feather drifting through the back of my mind. Others, she is so near to me that her absence is pronounced…a wound that, while not fresh, hasn’t fully healed. I laugh at something I just know she would have found funny and there’s a twinge of pain buried in my laugh, and tears I never expected make it catch in my throat. Or my children, who carry bits of her in their DNA, say something with her smirk or her twinkle in their eyes…and I feel her so near but never, ever near enough. It hurts. Still.
15 years was once forever. Now it goes by so incredibly fast. I’m edging 50 and still miss her. And my dad. And my brother. Time is a trick and a cruel one at that. But I had 34 years with my mom. 33 with my dad. Nearly 35 with my brother. No matter how much pain I carry from their loss, it is only because I was given them to love. And, oh, how they loved me in return! My time with them seemed, at least back then, an eternity…and for that, I am forever grateful.
Someday, on a distant shore, I’ll see them again and time will, at long last, cease its trickery. It will finally be the illusion that so many hope it is. Forever will be all that remains…and the Lord will be our light.
