I awoke on the morning of my birthday to the text message every son and daughter dreads. It was from my dad. “Son, your mom may not make it through the day.”
The end has been near for two months, but my mom has always been a fighter. Alas, one can only battle the sands of time for so long.
My dad told me to go ahead with my birthday and not to worry — but I couldn’t do that. This was after all the woman who gave birth to me. So, I went to her.
We made a day of it. In my mind, I was getting an opportunity to spend one last birthday with my mom. We had an impromptu party, complete with pizza and a cookie cake. Her grandchildren played with her dog in the backyard while the rest of the family shared memories and told Mom how much she meant to us.
We said our goodbyes, and I know she heard us and knew what was going on. We all cried — even Mom.
Her childhood wasn’t easy. She never said much about it and claimed she couldn’t remember the details — but she carried the scars for her entire life. Her early adulthood also wasn’t easy — until she met my dad. They had their tense moments, and they related to each other through ceaseless banter — but their love story was real and undeniable.
They built a life together that was far from perfect, but it was theirs. And in the middle of all the ordinary days—raising me, paying bills, navigating the ups and downs—she found small pockets of joy that were entirely her own. Reading, collecting shells on the beach, any type of craft that involved a hot glue gun.
At some point in the late 80s and early 90s, my mom drove a blue Corsica. Her favorite thing to do when she started the car was to put in a casette tape of Sandi Patty singing hymns. If that Corsica had 75,000 miles on it, I swear that tape spun 80,000 miles. She’d get in the car, and sing along or conduct the music — a majestic, sweeping orchestra. No matter what had happened to her in her childhood, or on that day, that music always soothed her soul.
You can tell a lot about a person by the music that touches them. You can read an obituary, or listen to what other people say about those who have left us — you can ask a person to tell their story — but the music penetrates deeper. The music tells you the cry of a person’s heart.
On that old tape, were familiar songs like “Because He Lives,” “It is Well With My Soul,” and “What a Friend We Have in Jesus.” Now, when my mom listened to these hymns, I was at the age where hymns weren’t exactly my jam. My mom was being greatly blessed, while I was being annoyed, oblivious to what the songs meant to her.
But in reflecting on those songs, and knowing the person she was, I can see what my mom deeply desired.
Thomas Merton once famously said “I don’t know how to please you Lord, but I think the fact that I want to please you pleases you,” and that was my mom’s story. She wasn’t the most religious person. She wasn’t always a picture of faith — but she wanted to please her God.
The songs she played over and over as she road in that old car reveal the story of a woman with a troubled past who wanted peace — a place she could feel loved and at home. She wanted to be loved unconditionally, she wanted to never be afraid. For her entire life, her greatest longing was to experience what she is experiencing today in — as Sandy Patti so eloquently put it — another time and another place.
B.T. Clark
B.T. Clark is an award-winning journalist and the Publisher of The Georgia Sun. He has 25 years of experience in journalism and served as Managing Editor of Neighbor Newspapers in metro Atlanta for 15 years and Digital Director at Times-Journal Inc. for 8 years. His work has appeared in several newspapers throughout the state including Neighbor Newspapers, The Cherokee Tribune and The Marietta Daily Journal. He is a Georgia native and a fifth-generation Georgian.
