We’re going to come and take you to church this Mother’s Day.   It will likely be crowded, but they will make room and make a fuss.  They always do.   

The pastor will see your wheel chair in the center aisle right next to Dad in the pew.  So even if he hasn’t already made his way back to greet you personally, when he sees you there he will acknowledge you to the congregation and give thanks that you are there.  He always does.   

He comes to the nursing home regularly as he makes his rounds, to offer communion and to check on your well-being.  It is obvious that you are always happy to see him.   He knows that you can’t speak to him... and you can’t read messages and such. The stroke took all of that away, but it made your eyes and facial expressions so much more… expressive.  There is no question about the ends of the emotional spectrum.  You convey joy (or misery) more clearly than ever before.     

He will make it a point to acknowledge Dad and me to the church as well.  He knows it makes my parents proud to have me there.  I only come to assist Dad with the mechanics of the wheel chair as well as the handicapped modifications of your van.  It may not look like it, but pushing your chair up that ramp isn’t the easiest thing to do, and I really don’t want Dad doing it unless it’s absolutely necessary.    

I remember when you had full use of that right leg and your right arm.  The stroke stole them from you as well, so you cannot help with your own care.   

And you really can’t tell us all that is on your mind.  So these days our conversations are richly laden with understanding born of intuition, my own inadequate words, and a lot of touching. 

So I need to take this time to tell you that I love you.  There are some good people and some friends here that will stand surrogate to listen to this for you.     

It would take a long time to explain all that you have done for me and how I feel.  The really hard part… the part that you could never understand right now, is that I don’t want to speak to the woman in the wheel chair.   I don’t want to speak to the severely handicapped parent, who understandably cannot disassociate herself from this terrible thing that has happened to her.   

I just want to talk to my mother.   

You’re still here.  While you are still here, I want you to know how much I love you.   You need to understand how appreciative I am for the things I can do and the capabilities that I have.   I have you and Dad to thank for them in so many ways.  Thank you for that and all tht you have done for me. 

I’ll sit there in church and be a source of pride for you.  People invariably have things to say to me and to Dad … as they are inbound to tell you how wonderful you look, and how happy they are to see you.  They are sincere.  (They remember a very vibrant, active member of their church.  That was another lifetime ago.)    

I was just at the nursing home on Wednesday and I will be there again during the week coming up.  But this will be Mother’s Day.  Your day.  

I will bring you a corsage to wear at church.   

You’ll like that.  You and I will know that it won’t ease your troubles or change anything… but they will see the corsage and know that either your husband or your son bought it for you… and they will know that you are loved.    

You’ll like that.