22, and she died!

There is something about having a living mother, someone who loves you unconditionally, someone who is always there, even if miles separate you.  And no matter how old you grow, there is something about having your mom in your life.  Maybe it is that when she goes, you are the oldest, the one people will need to turn you; the mantle of responsibility is passed on…or maybe it is just that your mom has a good shoulder and she loves you.

I was 22; it was forty some years ago this month that my mother had her final heart attack.  She was 59.  And she was my mom, and whether she is sick or not, there is something about knowing your mother is at the other end of the phone line. I did have an older sister who filled, sort of, that role.  At least, I knew I could call on her for advice, and I knew that she loved me, and I am ever grateful for her.

But for all of these years, there remained an emptiness when other people talked about their mothers and doing things with their mothers.  Twenty-five years ago, we moved to Clarks Summit and BBC and I met a woman who modeled godly motherhood in a very remarkable way. Her name was Eleanor Mosher, and when I moved into the Office for Student Development, her desk was just outside my door.  We were encouraged to pray together as an office, but because of schedule conflicts, generally it was Eleanor and me…then it was just Eleanor and me who prayed most days just before 8:00 am.

Today, every time I get into the elevator at school, I think of Eleanor and the weeks and months we prayed for an elevator at BBC, so people with special needs would feel welcome there and could attend classes.  We prayed for our students’ travels every break, and you know, we never lost one.  We prayed for the sick, and those who needed jobs, and for those with heartbreak.  We prayed for our colleagues in our office and the staff and faculty at BBC, and we prayed for our families and for each other.  We prayed for wisdom and discernment and patience. Praying with Eleanor was like sitting together on a loveseat in the presence of God, talking with someone who loved me to someone who loved me.

Yesterday, she left this life. I knew she was ill, and I had been praying for her and her family, that they would have the grace to walk these days through the end of her life.  I didn’t let myself think about how much of a loss I would feel when she left us.  You see, I knew Eleanor continued to pray for me, that she and her husband e very day prayed for God’s work on the campus of BBC.

And today, I feel that aloneness again.  I am so grateful that we all know where Eleanor is, in the presence of God, without pain, rejoicing, laughing, praising God and singing.  I can hear her, if I let myself.  Nonetheless, her Kenny will miss her terribly, and I will pray for him, as I know she would.  Her children and grandchildren will miss her, and anyone who ever prayed with her will miss her.

Loving someone brings great joy, but it also brings deep pain.  You cannot have the one without the other.  Today, I am happy for Eleanor, and I am happy for the blessed hope we have of seeing her again.  And I sense, mixed in with the grief that we feel, that responsibility to continue to pray, to find her shoes as a prayer warrior and honor her, by trying to walk in them.

picture borrowed from Eleanor's daughter Sharon's facebook post