On Life and Death

My dear child,
We’re going to see you on Tuesday. I am so, so excited. Even though it’ll be via ultrasound; even though  I won’t be able to touch you or hold you. I’m so excited.

Sometimes, I dream about you. On Sunday, I dreamed you had green eyes, like my cousin. On Tuesday I dreamed I was making you dinner (olas). Yesterday I dreamt my Mum was holding you in her arms, bouncing you on her feet, singing songs to you in Arabic.

I wish you could meet her, hear her laugh. I wish you could hear her pray for you on your birthday, as the candles burn low.
She had rough hands, with deep wrinkles, but they were soothing and gentle, and stroked so deep as to warm your heart.
Her hair was streaked grey, but every time I see photos, I’m awed by just how much of it was grey. Maybe it’s better described as streaked black. Her favourite perfume was called, I think, Never Die. She had a little bottle, and would pour drops of it on her wrists, before she would rub them together.
Her arms were soft, like cushions. When I was scared at night, they would envelop me and carry me away.

She was a good Mum. She worked hard managing the household, providing our needs, teaching us about God, supporting Gedu. But sometimes I wish she worked less – let the housework slide by, miss a dinner here or there, so she could enjoy us more (or so I could feel like she enjoyed me more).
I thought she was brilliant at maths – she used to help me with my homework and keep the accounts for Church.

It is odd that as I await your birth, the joy of new life, I consider her death.
I hope you discover, later than I did, that death is ugly. It is hideous, it is traumatic, it is scarring. But it is part of life.

Death, in its finality and darkness, is somehow a part of the beginning and light of life. But, my dear child, know that  death is not final. It has been conquered, it has been overcome, and in Christ we can live on.
Death is but a doorway, an entrance into something more beautiful than this life we know. And yes, in death we’ll see those who’ve gone before, like your Teta, but more importantly, we’ll see the face of God and worship Him forever.

My dear child, one day you will lose me as I lost my Mum. You will cry (you better!) and miss me forever. But, that is life on this earth. And while my body may be buried, it will one day be resurrected.

I hope you will join me one day, in the new Life. There will be no more mourning or death in that life, but there will be joy and celebration. I will be standing, shoulder to shoulder, with my Mum, and she will be perfect and greater than I remember, and we will worship God together.