When I was growing up, my mom wrote stories. Many of them were never finished. I remember one such story about a boy with a lisp who never stopped talking about his Nerf football. I loved listening to the few stories she shared; she had a way of entertaining me with them. Mom’s dream of becoming a writer was part of what inspired me to become a writer.
Mom was full of imagination—and it served her well in this difficult world. She struggled often, but rarely complained. She sustained herself with a rich inner life that translated into a creative outer life. My mom loved The Chronicles of Narnia by C.S. Lewis.
If you’ve ever visited my mom’s apartment, you’ve seen THE LION, a large painting. It was, to her, Aslan, king of all Narnia. When she felt God’s love through people, she called it “God with skin on.” But The Lion was, to her, an icon: a window to heaven, to God. She once confided in me that as she was at home alone in her wheelchair creating things, The Lion nearby was of great comfort. Her lion breathed love upon her.Mom raised my older sister and me only one block from Ross Park Zoo. There lived a huge, manned lion. Though he appeared diminished with age, he would roar every few months. There never seemed to be a season for the roars—it was just time to claim his kingdom on the south side of Binghamton, NY.
Now if you ever have the good fortune to hear a lion roar, you will know why they are the kings of the jungle. You will never forget the sound. Though the cage was almost a half-mile away, the roar ripped through our neighborhood with the force of a derailed freight train. People would come out of their homes to share in the event…It was untamed; it was royal; it was otherworldly. My mother’s lion roars.
My mother brought much lightness to the world, and she carried much heaviness. She shined light, but we might have missed her light had she not known so much darkness.My mother had a huge, generous spirit. She made gifts for everyone she knew and loved. Her love was tangible in the gifts she gave. While we hurried about in our busy lives, she sat at home with her lion, trying to heal, slowly creating, every stitch was full of her thoughts about the soon-to-be receiver....
...My sister accompanied my mom along her final journey while I was far away in California. She told me that the night before mom died, mom raised her hands and head in a worshipful way, the way she had always done in church. She was unconscious at the time. We believe that mom was visited by God, who was drawing near to her.
Perhaps it was her Lion, who bent low in the grass, my mother raising her hands to praise him. Perhaps he waited with her as she prepared for the journey. Then she climbed up onto his back, and Aslan took his imaginative little girl back to Narnia.
Picture found at: http://7art-screensavers.com/screenshots/animals/lion-and-the-lamb.jpg
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