My Mother’s Simons

With permission, I’ve shared details of my mother’s journey through my own reflections, here’s another. My mom had a vision of Jesus carrying his cross and her following with a cross of her own. Jesus was giant-sized, she half his size. Helping her were tiny figures. She looked closely and saw that they were people who’ve sent cards or texts or otherwise offered encouragement. (That would include readers of my posts, as well.) The faces of Jesus and her are both blank.

My mom hopes it was a vision, not a dream or a hallucination. To me, the difference isn’t central. She’s accessing deep mythological themes that are comforting her. It’s bound to her specific religious beliefs but pushing deeper. She and Jesus are faceless. I interpret that as moving past the personification to that mystery beyond all human comprehension. The image of God is the final obstruction to the religious experience of interfacing with the transcendent.

We require models to show us how to die, which are really models to show us how to live knowing we’ll die. That’s the real human struggle. After all, dying’s no trouble. Dying isn’t even an action event. We have trouble with this concept, of course, and its inevitability isn’t necessarily comforting. In the Bible, Jesus died on the cross for our sins. What sins? The sin we’re born into the world with, well that makes no sense to me, personally. Considering the same story, I interpret the crucifixion, as I mention in Little Book of Thou, which I’ve excerpted here, as God becoming so immersed in the role of Jesus as a human being that Jesus didn’t know he was God and had to die a human life with only the same faith in what came next that every other human dies with. (What that is being unique to each individual)

We’re all on this journey but my mom is on it with a heightened awareness, because she’s terminally ill. She’s carrying her cross, now, and being helped by her Simons, but she’s also helping her Simons. She’s providing a beautiful, courageous model for accepting the passing of this life she knows and treasures. In some ways, it would be easier not to know what’s coming, but we’re all, those who love her, her Simons, following her lead and choosing to value the knowing and treat this ending leg of the journey as a gift.

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One thought on “My Mother’s Simons

  1. Pingback: Love You Mom! | Greg Metcalf

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